Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me

by Javier Marías

  “Did you manage to get the video for him?” I asked Anita suddenly.

  “Who for? What video?” she replied and her surprise or confusion seemed genuine.

  “For your boss. That film we talked about, don’t you remember? He was telling us about the sleepless night he’d had about a month earlier, he’d been watching television, he saw a film that had already begun, Chimes at Midnight, I was the one who told him the title. He had only caught the second half and he said that he’d like to see the whole thing one day, he was very impressed, he watched it to the end, he was telling us about it.”

  “Ah yes.” Anita finally understood what I was talking about. “The fact is I haven’t done anything about it, we’ve been so worried about him not sleeping that we haven’t had time to think about things like that, you know how it is, there are always a thousand and one other matters to deal with, and when he’s feeling down, well, you can imagine, no one even thinks about anything else.” Sometimes she used a plural which was not the royal “we”, but a rather modest “we” into which she dissolved, one that included a lot of people, doubtless the family and Segurola and Segarra, perhaps also the woman with the feather duster and the broom who had slowly traversed the room on her dustered feet, humming, the old banshee. “And he hasn’t asked me about it again either,” she added, as if justifying herself. She remained thoughtful for a moment and then said: “Although he can’t have forgotten about it completely, because, it’s odd, yes, now I remember: that was the first time he mentioned ‘partial sleep’ and he’s often used that expression recently, ‘Our friend partial sleep failed to visit me again last night, Anita,’ he’s said to me on a couple of mornings. How was it in the film, can you remember?”

  “Well, that’s all it was I think. The old King, Henry IV, can’t rest and he inveighs against sleep, who visits so many other places but not his palace, who bestows herself on the humble and the evil and even on animals,” I don’t actually remember that last category, but I thought I might include it since we were at the race track, “and yet refuses to bless his crowned and ailing head. The King is dying and eventually he does die, tormented by his past and by the future in which he will not participate. And that’s what he says to sleep: ‘thou, O partial sleep’. That’s all, as far as I can remember, the fact is I remember more of what your boss said the other day than of the film itself, I saw it years ago.”

  Anita pursed her lips again, biting the inside of her cheek, looking very thoughtful.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, “that may be what it is. It’s probably that film that’s to blame for his present insomnia. Perhaps I should get him the video so that he can see the whole thing, that way he’ll have the whole story and can stop thinking about it, I suppose.”

  “Maybe, who knows. It’s worth a try.”

  “Anyway, thanks for reminding me, it had gone completely out of my head. What did you say it was called?” And she quickly took out of her handbag the same piece of paper on which she had noted down the numbers for her bets. “Can you hold my hat for a moment, please.”

  “I think you wrote it down the other day,” I said, once more taking charge of the infamous hat.

  “God knows where that’s got to. Now what was it again?”

  “Look, it’s Chimes at Midnight.” I repeated again. “It was filmed here in Spain, some of it in Madrid. It won’t be difficult to find, the television company must have a copy of it.”

  “There they go,” shouted Lali and she immediately began to cheer. “Come on, Condesa de Montoro, come on.” It was too long a name to be shouted out, she should have just called it Condesa.

  Señorita Anita hastily stuffed the piece of paper back into her handbag and shut it before she had time to write down the title, then she raised my binoculars to her pretty, painted eyes. She too began to urge on the mare, but she, rather inaccurately, called it Montoro.

  “Come on, Montoro, whip him,” she said. She must be a fan of wrestling or boxing.

  I couldn’t see a thing, but even so I couldn’t not watch the race, not so much because of the amount of money I’d bet on it as out of curiosity: I wanted to know if the friend’s tip was a good one, perhaps she had been given the tip by a rather shady boyfriend of hers, she was just the kind of healthy young woman who often goes for good-for-nothings, a way of balancing her own honest, open character. The four of us stood up, I glanced at Ruibérriz and he made a gesture indicating that he had no idea what was happening either, his binoculars were also in the hands of the fair sex, that’s how men used to refer to women when it offended no one, when there still were things that caused offence. At the beginning of the final straight, I managed to make out the dark red stain of our jockey’s shirt, all the horses were still bunched together, apart from two or three who had dropped back and had no chance of winning, the Condesa wasn’t amongst them. You could see the breath of thousands of spectators, which did nothing to help the already difficult visibility. Suddenly there was a collision and a fall, two riders rolled to the ground and covered their heads as soon as they had come to a stop, their brightly coloured caps sent flying, one of the horses rode on riderless, the other one slipped on the turf with its front legs spreadeagled as if it were skiing over slippery, compacted snow, a third took fright and gave a few hesitantly artistic steps before rearing up like a monster and wheeling round, like that horse in Calle Bailén two and a half years before, when I was out on a night-time walk, thinking about Víctoria and Celia and their carnal commerce, and perhaps my own. Mēre. Mara. The others speeded up so as to leave the collision behind them as quickly as possible and not become entangled in it, at that moment the race was split, every mount rode away from there as fast as it could, some moving away from the rails, others towards them, most lost their impetus or were reined in or held back. The horse bearing the dark red stain on its back was the only one that kept straight on without swerving, a path opened up along which she advanced unopposed, galloping smoothly onwards, the jockey didn’t even have to use the whip. “Come on, Condesa, come on,” I surprised myself thinking, I don’t usually shout in public places.

  “Come on, Montoro, come on,” Anita was yelling at the top of her voice. “Yes, yes, yes,” she repeated excitedly. I reckoned there would be no disqualifications, despite that fall and possible irregularities. If the race was fixed, it had been done in an extremely risky manner.

  The young women were leaping joyfully in the air, they embraced each other three times, they shouted “Hooray for number 9!” Lali dropped Ruibérriz’s binoculars and didn’t even realize she had, he picked them up ruefully, one lens was broken. He didn’t say anything, though, he was obviously overjoyed, he never leaves any game emptyhanded, and today was no exception. In the distance, I saw the Admiral tearing up his tickets with obvious annoyance, as was the incredulous philosopher who had arrived by then, everyone was tearing up their tickets. But not us, I was pretty much set up for that month, especially as I was unlikely to be paid for the speech.

  “Right, goodbye then, we’re off now, we’re in a bit of a hurry. Nice to see you, Señor Ruibérriz de Torres, Señor Francés. And thanks for your company,” said Señorita Anita, hastily saying goodbye to us both at the same time. They were in a hurry to get their money, I imagine that for that amount of money, they’d need to show some proof of identity, I don’t know, I’ve never won that much. Perhaps they wouldn’t even stay for the fifth race, the friend or good-for-nothing would be waiting for them in order to celebrate their win. We weren’t of any interest to them now. She gave me back my binoculars, I returned her hat which was the same colour as the winning jockey’s shirt. I watched her walk away, watched her nice legs with their plump thighs, her short skirt revealed where they began, she had sustained no runs in her tights at the races. She hadn’t, in the end, written down the name of the film, she would forget again, the Only One wouldn’t get to see it all the way through and so would keep remembering it, and continue to be bothered by vexatious bouts of inso
mnia.

  “What a pair,” said Ruibérriz, tugging on his trouser belt with both hands and filling out his chest as they disappeared amongst the moving mass. And that was all he said by way of farewell.

  We decided to go and collect our money later, we were really interested in the fifth race, we wanted to go straight to the paddock to study the best horses at close quarters, we could watch the race without worrying about the outcome now, we would emerge with a profit anyway, thanks to that pair, to the girls. We got a good place at the bar from which we could see when the horses left the starting post. The race track, by then, was packed, whatever happened they wouldn’t dare to cancel the fifth race, visibility didn’t matter.

  “Did you see that wad of notes?” I said to Ruibérriz.

  “I should say, an absolute fortune, where do you think she got that? And they were new notes too, weren’t they?”

  “Brand new, I’d say.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  I don’t know if he was going to say anything further, he didn’t get the chance, because, just opposite us on the other side of the bar, we suddenly saw that a guy with a scarlet face and bulging veins had smashed a bottle and had grasped it by the neck, he was brandishing it in the air, the foam from the beer gushing out like urine. We just had time to see another man in a camel coat advancing on him with a knife clasped in his hand, those poisonous steps, we hadn’t heard the verbal part of the argument, in Madrid everyone talks so loudly anyway, the man with the knife tried to plunge it into the chest of the man with the bottle, an upward movement, he missed, nothing was torn, the jagged edge of the glass aimed at the throat or neck missed too, each caught hold of the other’s armed hand with their free hand, other men took advantage of the struggle to hurl themselves upon them and separate them and immobilize them (doubtless some pickpocket took advantage of the melee), then some policemen intervened, they would ask for documentation from every living soul on that side of the bar, the two rivals were hauled off, they were beaten with truncheons, their heads bleeding, we saw it, Ruibérriz and I went on taking sips of our beer, one sip, then another and another, it all happened very fast and the mist was growing thicker.

  EVERYTHING HAPPENED very fast on Monday and on Tuesday too, the way everything seems to when it finally happens, then you have the feeling that it has all happened in a rush and is over in a flash and that the run-up to it was much too short, that it could easily have happened even later; everything seems as nothing to us, everything becomes compressed and seems as nothing to us once it is over, then we always feel that we were not given enough time, that it did not last long enough (we were still considering, still hesitating, how few letters and photographs and memories remain to me), when things come to an end, they are countable, they have a number, although what has happened to me is not yet over and may perhaps never be over until I am over and, on meeting death, I find rest and contribute to death’s salvation, like all the other centuries that have played their part, that monstrous riddle of 1914. And meanwhile, another day, how dreadful, another day, how fortunate. Only then will I cease to be the thread of continuity, the silken thread without a guide, when my weary will grows tired and withdraws and no longer wants to want or wants anything, and when what prevails is no longer “not yet, not yet” but “I can’t take any more of this”, when I interrupt myself and I travel along the reverse side of time, or along its dark back where there will be no room for scruples or error or effort.

  It all happened very fast because not everyone is aware that the recent present can suddenly seem like the remote past: Deán was not aware of this and he doubtless considered that he had already spent far too much time waiting to know what he finally learned from his sister-in-law Luisa on the agreed or stipulated day, she was kind enough to phone me on Monday evening – or perhaps it was already night, the blurring mist of the previous days continued – to confirm that she had spoken to him, she had just done so, she had unmasked me and for Deán I had become somebody in all respects, that is, someone with a face and a name who had confessed to certain deeds, or to warn me of that other phone call from the husband or widower which would come very soon, she thought, that same night, the moment we hung up and my line was free, or the next day at the latest, if Deán decided to spend his sleeping hours coming to terms with or pondering his newly acquired knowledge. I realized that Luisa had dialled my number immediately after giving it to him, perhaps to protect me for a few more minutes, perhaps to stop him making use of it the moment he had the number. She had been at the apartment in Conde de la Cimera talking to him, they had seen each other as they did almost every day about something or other to do with the child, now she was talking to me from the Russophile bar downstairs, where she had gone immediately after leaving the apartment. At least Deán had not rushed to the phone while she was coming down in the lift and turning the corner of the building and getting out her card or coins to warn me, if I wanted, she said protectively, I could leave the answering machine on all night, if I wasn’t yet ready to confront that voice, to confront Deán.

  “How did he take it?” I asked.

  “I think he was surprised, but he concealed it very well. He must have been thinking it was someone else. But listen,” she said, “I didn’t say anything to him about Vicente Mena, it suddenly felt too much, too many useless revelations, he’s a friend of his, I don’t know, what does it matter what happened if nothing can possibly happen now. I’m telling you this so that you don’t feel you have to tell him either, if you don’t want to.” She remained silent for a second, then she added in a detached way: “Although you’ll probably have to tell him, I don’t know, see what happens, it doesn’t really matter what he thinks of Marta any more. In fact, I don’t know if I should worry about her good name, one doesn’t really know quite what to do with the dead, I just feel terribly confused.”

  “People used to venerate them or at least their memory, and they would go and visit their graves with flowers, and their portraits would preside over their homes,” I thought, “people spent a period in mourning and everything stopped for a while or slowed down, the death of someone affected the whole of life, the dead person really did take with them a part of the lives of their loved ones and, consequently, there wasn’t such a separation between the two states, they were related and they were less frightening. Now people forget the dead as if the dead were plague victims, sometimes they use them as shields or dunghills in order to blame them and make them responsible for the terrible situation in which they have left us, often they are loathed or they receive only acrimony and reproaches from their heirs, they departed too soon or too late without preparing the ground for us or without leaving us free, they continue being names but not faces, names to which all manner of villainies and cowardices and horrors are imputed, that’s the current tendency, and thus they do not find rest even in oblivion.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to him about Vicente if that’s what you want, I trust your judgement and I’ve no objection to keeping it quiet,” I said. “I didn’t know of his existence when I went to supper with your sister, I might not have known about it when I left, it would have made no difference. One of these days, I’ll throw the tape away, I’ll throw it away today, it’s of no help or benefit to anyone. Anyway, don’t worry about me, somebody’s possible anger doesn’t mean that there has to be a culprit, nor does somebody’s possible pain, no one does anything convinced that what they’re doing is wrong, it’s just that often one simply can’t take other people into account, we would be unable to do anything, sometimes you can only think about yourself and about the moment, not about what comes afterwards.” In fact, I was feeling nervous and rather frightened. Perhaps I didn’t know what I was saying, we often speak without knowing what we’re saying, merely because it’s our turn, impelled into speech by the silence, as happens in dialogues in plays, except that we are constantly improvising.

  There was a silence at the other end of the line, but I d
idn’t go on, I was patient enough to wait. “Other people,” I thought, “other people have never quite done,” I thought while I was waiting.

  “Just one thing,” Luisa said at last, “if he suggests to you that you should meet tonight, I would say no, if I were you. It would be better if you met during the day and, if possible, when the boy isn’t there, if he wants you to meet at his place. My sister-in-law María will pick him up in the morning and won’t be back until the evening, it’s her turn tomorrow. As I said before, what Eduardo wants most of all is to tell you something, but even so I think it would be best if the situation were as different as possible to the one you experienced, the one he now knows about. I gave him a fairly faithful account of what you told me, and I gave him your version of events. He hardly said a word, he just listened, but I think what he finds hardest to understand is why you didn’t tell him about it, why you didn’t tell anyone. The fact is I really don’t what state he’ll be in.” Luisa paused and then added, “Will you tell me how it went?” She sounded a bit frightened, we’re always afraid when we’ve set something in motion. She was giving me advice and was worried about me, perhaps because she saw that she owed it to me, I was the one who would have to listen to any reproaches and to bear someone’s anger and to be called to account. Marta wasn’t there to share it.

  “He’ll tell you about it himself, I imagine.”