Thus Bad Begins

by Javier Marías

  I could still not bring myself to be like Vidal, though, ready to unfold what I knew from the orient to the drooping west, to tell anyone who would listen. I ought to reserve that particular exclusive for Muriel and so, that same afternoon, I had to dodge Professor Rico’s questions as best I could. He was in such a foul mood after his lunch with the mummies that, initially, he forgot what had happened earlier and that he had ordered me to make detailed notes about why Van Vechten was an utter bastard and to inform him of his crimes.

  ‘What a bloody awful lunch,’ was his first comment. He removed his glasses and breathed on them furiously as if intending, after the fact, to poison his loathsome lunch companions with his breath. Such was his annoyance and frustration that he had dropped in at Calle Velázquez in order to vent his feelings on whoever happened to be there. ‘The three of them behaved like absolute piranhas and did nothing but raise objections and throw past insults in my face, insults I’d heaped on them, you understand; they were like the three witches in Macbeth at their most doom-laden or tricoteuses huddled round the guillotine. It’s true that in certain academic articles I did describe them as inept, superficial, obvious, ill-informed and obtuse, and even called one stupid. Not that I did so directly, mind, but it was implied; the fellow had dared to criticize my conclusions about Lazarillo in an impeccable study of mine that deserved, certainly in his case, open-mouthed reverence. But they’re just hell-bent on getting their own back. These were, in short, mere skirmishes; and since my arguments were unassailable, he immediately clammed up so that I wouldn’t lay into him if he attempted a riposte. Well, what does he expect when I have an unerring eye – or should that be aim? – and always get what I want? Those semi-cadavers know that all they’re good for is correcting exam papers with a chewed red pencil. Érforstrafó.’ – He came out with a possibly rage-fuelled onomatopoiea, longer than usual and with two stresses. He continued to breathe hard on his glasses as if he were a fire-breathing dragon, until the lenses were completely fogged; then, with remarkable dexterity, he removed a lens cloth from his glasses case and unfurled it with a flick of the wrist just as magicians do with their vast handkerchiefs. – ‘They made it clear that they have no intention of voting for me when my sponsors propose me as a candidate. Since they’re a meddlesome trio, I fear they may succeed in convincing some of their duller or dimmer colleagues, of which there are quite a few. They were clearly thrilled at the thought of having their revenge. The most irritating thing was that I could barely remember what it was I’d written that had so put their respective noses out of joint. That’s the trouble with dispensing blind justice, one doesn’t notice who one’s victims are.’ – He applied himself to polishing the lenses with painstaking brio, and they were so damp by then that they were sure to turn out spotless. Then he put the cloth away with a suave gesture (in this respect, he reminded me of Herbert Lom), lit a cigarette, and his gaze grew calmer as he added with jovial optimism (he was not a man to harbour resentments, he got bored too quickly for that): ‘Perhaps it would be best to wait until they kick the bucket before presenting myself as a candidate. I shouldn’t think any of them are going to last very long given the way they were coughing. Several times they came close to choking – it quite put me off my food. I hardly ate so much as a chickpea.’ – And it was then, to drive away this unpleasant thought, that he remembered I owed him a piece of gossip. – ‘Ah yes, what news of the Doctor, young Vera? When I left, that vehement, well-read friend of yours was about to tell you all about his horrendous crimes.’

  ‘Oh, it turned out to be a fuss about nothing, Professor. Hardly worth mentioning. Vidal was exaggerating, he just regaled me with a lot of hospital tittle-tattle and conference gossip. Well, you know what doctors are like, always at each other’s throats.’ – This was completely untrue, or at least I had no evidence to back it up, I knew nothing about their quarrels and rivalries. I imagined, though, that these did exist, as they do in any profession in Spain: even chimneysweeps have their differences, to mention a trade that ceased to exist centuries ago.

  Rico regarded me suspiciously. I could see his eyes perfectly now, not a speck of dust marred the lenses.

  ‘Enough of this namby-pambyism, young Vere. You’re not going to bamboozle me, I’m not your gull.’ – He had resorted once more to his outdated vocabulary, and although I didn’t understand a word, I knew exactly what he meant. – ‘If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t, but I’m sure your friend wasn’t talking about nurse-chasing or plagiarism or stolen accreditations. Nor even groping any female patients who come within range or mothers accompanying their children. It’s as clear as day that the Doctor is an old lecher and we all know it, but that doesn’t make him an utter bastard.’ – He used the same word, ‘lecher’, that Celia had used, although it sounded less damning on his lips; neither of them knew just how right they were. – ‘The country would be full of utter bastards then, well, it is already: you need only look at those three old fossils who’ve just given me the go-by.’ – And he resumed his attack on those ancient academicians.

  This continued to absorb him in the days that followed, hatching plots and inventing insults. However, he did not forget about Van Vechten either, and from time to time would return to the charge: ‘You owe me a salty tale of treachery, young De Viah, and you owe me a verbatim report of it,’ he would say as soon as he saw me. ‘Just when will you deign to keep your promise? If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being in the dark. Not having the foggiest. Not a clue. So be warned.’

  If only Muriel had felt the same mischievous curiosity, for it proved to be a terrible disappointment when, at last, a week later, he eased up slightly on his frantic fund-raising and spent a little time at home. This was in part due to his friend Jack Palance, who immediately agreed to co-star in this new film – if it was new, or had Muriel simply pulled it out of a drawer of old projects that had failed or been delayed or gone astray? He often had difficulty bringing his plans to fruition, and there may well have been as many films in the making as there were actual films. Not that Palance was exactly at the peak of his career, indeed, he was probably at his lowest ebb. If you look at his filmography, you’ll see that from 1981 to 1986 inclusive, he didn’t make a single film, and during four of those years, his sole artistic activity was presenting an American TV series that was never shown outside the States. So it was perhaps not so very strange that he should be happy to participate in a phantom production, be it Spanish or any other nationality; after all, in the 1960s, he had been quite happy to work with Jesús Franco, Isasi-Isasmendi and a handful of insignificant Italians (even though, in that same decade, he had worked with directors like Godard and Brooks, Abel Gance and Fleischer). However, Muriel’s unbounded admiration for Palance meant that his promise to take part in the film calmed Muriel’s spirits and filled him with hope. Not that, at the time, the presence of the great Jack Palance in a cast was any guarantee of financial backing or success, rather the opposite, embarrassing though that may seem now. But Muriel felt it was a good omen being able to count on Palance and possibly also on Richard Widmark, with whom Palance had worked on two feature-length films in 1950 or thereabouts, and whom he had promised to persuade to take on the other leading role. I had and still have no idea what the film was about or even if Muriel ever began shooting it. I only know that Volodymyr Jack Palahniuk – to use Palance’s original Ukrainian name – was already sixty and Widmark would have been about sixty-five.

  I also had the feeling that Muriel was feeling happier because he was in frequent contact with the impresaria Cecilia Alemany. I don’t know how he managed to get her to take an interest or what kind of interest that was exactly, but now they spoke almost daily on the phone and he would always turn away when he received one of those calls and speak in a murmur so as not to be heard by whoever happened to be in the apartment, including me. He also stopped making derisive comments about her inaccessibility. He no longer spoke of her as a demi-goddess, he no longer sai
d things like ‘What a remarkable woman; what a business brain she has; why, compared to her we are mere microbes.’ When we stop exaggerating and stop joking about someone we revere, it’s usually a sign that that someone has finally descended to earth and become less remote. I didn’t dare to think that perhaps they both now chewed gum together or even shared the same piece, but one night when Muriel came home late and I was still up, I noticed that he gave off an intoxicating, almost narcotic whiff of perfume, and he had definitely not applied it himself. I was sure that the owner of the chic boutique no longer addressed him as ‘my dear man’, which Muriel had found simultaneously so humiliating and so amusing at that now far-distant first interview.

  The following morning, he was, I suppose, in such a good mood that he summoned me to his office and, with one thumb tucked under his armpit and in the other hand his pipe, which he pointed at me as if he were Sherlock Holmes or, perhaps, Walter Pidgeon, who sometimes sported a moustache like his, he said:

  ‘Young De Vere, now that it seems things have taken a turn for the better, and the new project appears to be going ahead, forget what I said to you. If you haven’t taken on another job and prefer to stay here, I think I can find you something useful to do. The script, once it’s ready, will need to be translated.’ And he added with a kind of prematurely compensatory pride: ‘I can’t wait for Towers and a few others to hear the news.’

  I had become accustomed to his changes of mind, to his commands and countermands, as well as to his variable moods. And so it occurred to me that this was perhaps not a bad day to see if his position regarding Van Vechten had changed at all.

  ‘Thank you, Eduardo, for your confidence in me. Working for you is, as you know, a pleasure, although I’m not sure I’m always that useful. Could you give me a little time to think it over? I’d got used to the idea of moving on in September.’

  As I mentioned earlier, I was beginning to find the atmosphere in the apartment somewhat troubling, not to say troublesome on occasions. Beatriz was now going about her business in a relatively normal fashion, but during the hours she spent at home, the music-less, insistent tick-tock of the metronome had returned, and it seemed to me more ominous than ever, as if she were always doing a slow-motion countdown to an end that never arrived or that only she could see in her personal fog. I imagined her sitting staring at the piano keys, mechanically counting the black keys and the white and noting the time passing, letting it tick on without filling it with a single chord or melody, and unfilled time tends to be accompanied by static, repetitive thoughts, for example: ‘Not yet, not yet, not yet, it’s not yet the right moment.’ And she also seemed more depressed; even though Muriel and she barely exchanged a word, she must have noticed his sudden good humour and might perhaps even, from a distance, have smelled that distinctive perfume. As far as I knew, she no longer made any nocturnal incursions or stood guard outside his bedroom door, as if she had finally abandoned all hope. As for me, although she and I continued to treat each other with the same deference and affection as before, as if there had never been any kind of intimacy between us, I still felt guilty and so uncomfortable sometimes that I blushed, and my impulse was to leave the apartment and allow my transgression to dissipate; I couldn’t help thinking that I had behaved indecently, as regards Muriel, I mean. And I didn’t quite trust Beatriz or myself either, fearing that one day she or I might be tempted to reoffend. As everyone knows, what happened once can easily happen again; however, fewer of us seem to be aware that precedents are, in fact, of no importance: what has never happened before is just as likely to occur.

  ‘Yes, you decide,’ he said. ‘You’re under no obligation either way. I told you that you could take your time leaving, well, you can also take your time deciding whether or not to stay. Let me know when you’ve made your decision. The offer is there and will remain open. So keep me posted.’

  I looked at the eye that was speaking and saw in it an expression of affection. Then I looked at the silent eye, and, as so often before, felt an urge to drum on the patch with my fingers, and felt, too, the attraction of that affection. I would miss him a lot when I left, that much I knew.

  ‘As it happens, there is something I’d like to tell you about, Eduardo, if you don’t mind. Some things don’t matter so much to me, but I don’t like to leave unfinished any commission or order you gave me. Now, I know you revoked your commission regarding the Doctor’ – I think I chose that pedantic word ‘revoked’ to give my words a more solemn tone – ‘but I feel you should know what I’ve found out recently. It chimes so completely with your own information, with your suspicions, that I really have to tell you –’

  Muriel raised the hand holding the pipe and brought me up short, an imperious, prohibitive gesture. He pointed the bowl at me, I could see the glowing embers: as if he were showing me a red light.

  ‘Stop right there, young De Vere. What did I also say? I said that I couldn’t prevent you from continuing your investigations on your own account, if that’s what you wanted. I was wrong to reveal my doubts to you and alert you to them, that was a weakness on my part, and then, once activated, there’s no way of deactivating that alert. But I warned you that if you did continue, then you mustn’t come telling me or anyone else what you had learned. If the Doctor has confessed to you or you’ve discovered something on your own account, keep it to yourself. And best take it to the grave with you, although that, I realize, is a lot to ask. With me at least, though, keep schtum. I refuse to hear it. I don’t want to know.’

  I was standing up, since he hadn’t asked me to take a seat. By then, it’s true, I didn’t need to be asked, because I was perfectly at home there. But he had probably only summoned me to inform me that I could keep my job, not to chat or to discourse on anything. I decided to insist; one always does when faced by a refusal, at least once. A regrettable habit shared by most of us.

  ‘But you did want to know at the time, enough to get me involved. You were tormented by uncertainty and unable simply to ignore the matter, as I suggested you should. I remember you saying to me: “I need either to have in my possession or to acquire some clue … some way of orienting myself that will allow me to say: ‘That’s a downright lie’ or ‘Oh dear, it must be true’.” You found the accusations so disturbing, so discouraging, base and stupid. “More incongruous than grave,” you said. Well, it turns out that what I’ve learned is both those things. And not just in the past either, there may be some murky business in the present too. You can’t ignore it now, just when I’ve found the clue that will give you the orientation you wanted.’

  Muriel got up and came over to me. He folded his arms sternly as he had when he opened his bedroom door to Beatriz, when he appeared in the doorway in his white pyjamas and dark dressing gown. He looked at me, too, rather as he’d looked at her, the poor woman standing there in her nightdress. Any affection he may have felt for me had vanished from his blue eye; now there was only irritation, a little festering anger and even a slight hint of scorn, the scorn due to anyone who tries to impose his will. I realized that I wouldn’t be able to tell him what I knew.

  ‘Of course I can ignore it, why shouldn’t I? So what if, at one point, I sought your involvement? I’ve told you already, I’ve changed my mind. I owe the Doctor a great deal and he has just saved Beatriz yet again. He’s a very old friend and I don’t want to lose him, nor for my view of him to become further tarnished, it was tarnished enough by what that other person told me. I wish she never had. I can still pretend it never happened and, as you suggested, ignore what she said. I don’t need orientation, I don’t need any clues, because when I cancelled your mission, I’d already decided to tell myself: “It’s a lie or should be.” We lose far too many people in a lifetime, they either drift away or die, and it doesn’t make sense to get rid of those who are left. So what if he committed some vile deed in the past or took advantage of someone or other? Here, during a very long dictatorship, almost everyone did at some point. So what? We just ha
ve to accept that this is a grubby country, very grubby. For decades we’ve rubbed along together, what else could we do, and we’ve been obliged to get to know each other. Many of those who behaved badly then, behaved well in other circumstances. Things can change a lot over the years, it’s very hard to behave badly all the time, as it is to behave well. Who hasn’t committed some vile deed (not political, but personal), and who hasn’t also performed acts of great kindness? It wasn’t like that forty years ago, there were no half-measures then. But this is 1980, and those forty years have mixed everything up far more than we think, and you can’t go back to those long-lost days. Contrary to what some may think, time didn’t stop then, but continued to flow, however hard the franquistas tried to make it stop. Anyone who was a bastard in 1940 probably remained a bastard, but he also had the chance to temper his bastardly nature and to become something more. Revenge has its sell-by date, evil grows wearisome, hatred gets boring after a while, except among the real fanatics, and even then … We all need a break from those things. People go to the bar and talk and joke, and in the midst of the laughter none of us feels or believes ourselves to be evil, even if we’re telling the sort of cruel jokes we Spaniards tend to tell. No one is seamless or all of a piece, or very few of us are: even Franco loved the cinema, just like you and me; he probably genuinely empathized with the characters’ many vicissitudes. While he was watching a film, he probably stopped making decisions and stopped plotting; he was perhaps completely engrossed during those ninety minutes, in a parenthesis from normal life. Needless to say, that’s the worst possible example, but I’ve only seen the Doctor in normal life, and that’s all I know of him. I’ve seen him curing my children and saving Beatriz and being kind and attentive to me. I’ve seen him laughing, having fun, joking. So I don’t care what he did or didn’t do all those years ago before I knew him. He has been and still is something more than that to me, Juan. That’s all I have to say.’