I waited for a few minutes more to see if a window opened, telling me what floor he lived on and confirming that he was home. There, however, I was out of luck. I walked down the steps, crossed the two streets that Luisa perhaps also often crossed, if, that is, she visited him much-she couldn't ever spend the night there-wondered briefly whether I should get a taxi back up to the Palace Hotel, but seeing none free, started to walk. When I reached Plaza de la Villa, I stopped to have a better look at the statue he had looked at, Don Alvaro de Bazan or Marques de Santa Cruz, possibly the least ugly of the statues I had encountered. I walked round it and found an inscription at the back of the pedestal: 'I was the scourge of the Turk at Lepanto, the Frenchman at Terceira, the Englishman o'er all the seas. The King I served and the country I honored know best who I am by the Cross in my name and the cross-hilt of my sword.' 'We Spaniards are always such braggarts,' I thought, still feeling distinctly foreign, 'I should learn from them and convince myself that my enemies will all flee before me, saying: "I go, victorious Spaniard of lightning and fire, I leave you. I leave you too, sweet lands, I leave Spain and tremble as I go…" Spaniards are always boasting like that, even when confronted by a compatriot who will not be so easily frightened off. And Custardoy and I are compatriots.' The Admiral had one arm raised and was holding something in his hand. I couldn't quite see what it was, it could have been a rolled up map or, more likely, a General's baton. His other hand, the left one, was gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword, rather as the lone Count was in his portrait. 'What a lot of swords there are in these old streets too,' I thought.
7 Farewell
Sometimes we know what we want to do or have to do or even what we're thinking of doing or are almost certain we will do, but we also need it to be spoken about or confirmed or discussed or approved, a maneuver which is, after a fashion, a way of shuffling off a little of the responsibility, of diffusing or sharing it, even if only fictitiously, because what we do we do alone, regardless of who convinces or persuades or encourages or gives us the green light, or even orders or commissions the deed. On occasion, we disguise this maneuver as doubt or perplexity, we go to someone and play a trick on them by asking their opinion or advice-by asking or requesting something of them-and thus, at the very least, we ensure that the next time we speak, that person will enquire about the matter, ask what happened, how it all turned out, what we finally decided to do, whether their advice had been of any help, whether we took notice of their words. That person is then involved, entangled, drawn in. We have forced them to become a participant, even if only as a listener, and to consider the situation and to ask how it ended; we have foisted our story on them and they will never be able to forget or erase it; we have also given them a certain right, or perhaps duty, to question us about it later: 'So what did you do in the end, how did you resolve the problem?' they will ask us next time we meet, and it would seem odd, would show a lack of interest or politeness, not to refer to the case we'd laid out before them and to which we've obliged them to contribute with words or, if they declined to offer a view or to say anything, to listen to our doubts, I have no idea, I can't and shouldn't give an opinion, in fact, I really don't want to know about it,' they might well say, and yet they have still said something; with that response they have told us that they find the whole thing distasteful, poisonous or murky, that they want no part in it, even as a passive witness, that they would prefer to remain in the dark, and that they like none of the possible options, that it would be best if we did nothing and simply let it go or removed ourselves from the situation; and that we should certainly spare them the details. Even if you say 'I don't know' or 'I don't want to hear about it,' you've already said too much, and when you're asked that question, there's no easy way out, not even holding back or keeping silent is safe, because silence is in itself reproving or discouraging, and does not, as the saying goes, mean consent. Let us hope that no one ever asks us for anything, or even inquires, not for advice or a favor or a loan, not even for the loan of our attention. But that never happens, it's an entirely vain wish. There's always one almost final question, some laggardly request. Now it was my turn to do the asking, now I was going to make a request, one that would have proved compromising to anyone, except perhaps to the person who was about to hear it. I still had much to learn from him, a fact I found most troubling and that would perhaps bring me misfortune.
That evening, I phoned Tupra from my hotel room, for only he could advise me and, I hoped, give me instructions, make recommendations and serve as my guide, indeed, he was the ideal man to ask about matters in which talk was not enough; he was also the most suitable person, that is, the one I could rely on to confirm that I should do what I thought I should do or who would at least not dissuade me. I guessed that he would be at home at that hour, even though England was one hour behind, unless it was one of his convivial, festive days and he had recruited everyone, including Branshaw and Jane Treves, to go out together en masse. I dialed his home number and a woman answered, doubtless she of the attractive, old-fashioned silhouette (with her almost hourglass figure), whom I had seen at the end of that night of videos, outlined against the light of a corridor, at the door of his small study; if it was his wife or exwife, if it was Beryl, he would be able to understand my plight even better.
'How are you, Jack? How nice of you to call and keep me posted. Or were you calling to inquire about me and the others? That would be even nicer of you, especially in the middle of your holiday'
There was a touch of irony in his voice, of course, but I noticed too a certain pleasure to hear from me, or was it amusement, for he still found me amusing. After the initial exchange of greetings, I preferred not to pretend or to deceive him.
'I have a matter to resolve here, Bertie. I'd like to know what you think or what, in your view, you think I should do.' I called him Bertie to please him, to put him in a good mood, even though he was sure to see through this, and then, without further ado, I summarized the situation: 'There's a guy here in Madrid,' I said. 'I think he's beating up my wife, or my ex-wife-or whatever-given that we're still not divorced-anyway, they've been going out for a while, I don't know how long, probably a few months. She denies it, but right now she has a black eye, and this isn't the first time she's accidentally-according to her, of course-banged into something. Her sister told me this, and she, quite independently, has reached the same conclusion. I really don't like the idea of my children running the slightest risk of losing their mother, because you never know how these things will end, so you have to nip them in the bud, don't you agree? Anyway, I haven't got many more days in which to sort it out. I'd like to have it all settled before I come back, anxiety is unbearable at a distance and very distracting if you're working. But neither would I want her to find out about my intervention, whatever form it takes. Mind you, she's bound to suspect something if-as I hope-the whole scene changes and that change coincides with my stay in Madrid. There would be no point in just talking to him about it, he would simply deny it. Besides, he doesn't seem the timid pusillanimous type, not at all; he's certainly no De la Garza. It would be equally pointless my trying to make her admit it, I know how stubborn she is. And even if I did get her to admit it, the situation wouldn't, in essence, be any different; after all, she's still with him despite what's happened.' I stopped. What I had to say next was more difficult: 'She must be really crazy about him, although they haven't been together long enough for that, I mean for her to be really crazy about the guy. That doesn't happen in a few months, feelings like that need time to take root. I suppose it's the novelty, the excitement of being with someone else, the first man she's been with since we split up, and the feeling won't last. But while it lasts it lasts, if you know what I mean. And it's lasting now.'
Tupra remained silent for a few seconds. Then he said, without irony this time, but not very seriously either, for he still spoke in a slightly frivolous tone of voice, as if my problem didn't seem that serious or as if he didn't see it as
particularly hard to resolve.
'And you're asking me what you should do? Or what is it you're asking? What I would do in your place? Well, you know perfectly well by now, Jack, what I would do. I imagine the question is purely rhetorical and that you merely want me to reassure you. Fine, consider yourself reassured. If you want to get rid of the problem, do so.'
'I'm not sure I understand you, Bertie. I've already said that talking to him would get me nowhere-' But he didn't let me finish my sentence. Perhaps he was in a hurry or irritated by my slowness (he could have said to me as he did once before: 'Don't linger or delay, just do it'). Perhaps I had caught him in bed with Beryl, or whoever the woman was by his side, which is why she had answered the phone, because she was nearer, above or below, on her front or her back, I had probably interrupted them while they were screwing, we never know what is going on at the other end, or rather, what was going on just before the phone rang. I wondered how many times when I'd called Luisa from London she would have just got back from seeing Custardoy in his studio or how many times he would have been there in her bedroom, in my home, watching as she sat, half-undressed, talking to me, waiting impatiently for us to finish our conversation. If, that is, he visited her. It might be that he didn't or only at night because of the children. I hadn't asked them, but neither had they mentioned it spontaneously, in fact, they hadn't mentioned anyone new or anyone I didn't know.
'Look, Jack, just deal with him,' Tupra said. 'Just make sure he's out of the picture.' Those were his exact words in English, and I deeply regretted then that it wasn't my first language, because I don't know how they would strike a native English speaker, but to me they seemed too ambiguous, I couldn't grasp their meaning as clearly as I would have wanted; if he had said to me 'Just get rid of him' or 'Dispose of him,' that would have been clearer although, again, not entirely; there are a lot of ways of getting rid of someone, not all of which involve killing; or perhaps it would have been clearer to me if he had said 'Just make sure you get him off her back' or 'off your backs,' but I would still not have felt able to translate that expression into concrete unequivocal action, because there are also lots of ways of getting someone off your back. If only he had said 'Just scare him away, scare him to death,' then I would have understood that he was telling me to do what he'd done with De la Garza, nothing more, and to transform myself into Sir Punishment and Sir Thrashing, but not into Sir Death or Sir Cruelty. However, the words that emerged from his lips were: 'Just deal with him. Just make sure he's out of the picture,' and that word 'picture' could mean many things: a painting or a portrait, a panorama or a scene or even a photo or a film, although it was the first meaning of painting that I opted for, I had to remove Custardoy from the picture, to erase or exclude him, just like the Count of San Secondo in the Prado, who was cut off from his family, isolated, and would never ever be close to his wife or his children again. If I had heard that advice as a brief bit of dialogue in an episode of The Sopranos or in The Godfather, I would have understood perfectly that he was urging me to bump him off. But perhaps the mafiosi use pre-established codes, just in case they're being bugged, allowing them to be very laconic in the orders they issue and yet still be sure that their orders will be interpreted correctly and at once. Besides, this wasn't a dialogue in a film and we weren't mafiosi, nor was I receiving an order, as I had on previous occasions from Tupra or Reresby or Ure or Dundas, I was merely being given a little guidance, the advice I'd asked him for. Language, though, is difficult when you're uncertain as to what to do and need to know exactly what is meant, because language is almost always metaphorical or figurative. There can't be many people in the world who would say openly 'Kill him,' or in Spanish 'Mátalo.'
I decided to press him a little, even though this might annoy him. Or rather, I got my question in quickly before he could put the phone down, because those last two utterances of his had sounded distinctly conclusive, dismissive almost, as if, after that, he had nothing more to add. Or as if he were bored with my inquiry, my little story.
'Could you tell me how, Bertie?' I said. 'I'm not as used as you are to frightening people.'
First, I heard his paternalistic laughter, brief and slightly scornful, it wasn't the sort of laughter we could have shared, it wasn't the kind that creates a disinterested bond between men or between women or the kind that establishes a bond between women and men that can prove an even stronger, tighter link, a profounder, more complex, more dangerous and more lasting link, or one, at least, with more hope of enduring, perhaps Luisa and Custardoy were joined by the bond of spontaneous, unexpected, simultaneous laughter, given that he seemed to be able to make people laugh so easily. Tupra's laugh, as I myself had occasion to notice, always sounded slightly disappointed and impatient and revealed small bright teeth. Then he said: 'If you really don't know how, Jack, that means you can't do it. Best not to try and just let events take their course-leave it be, don't try to change things, let your wife sort things out, it's her business, after all. But I think you do know how. We all know, even if we're not used to the idea or can't imagine ourselves doing it. It's a question of imagination. But I have to leave you now. Good luck.' And with that he brought to a close a conversation that I had managed to prolong only very slightly.
I didn't dare phone him back, I would have to make do with what I had. 'Let your wife sort things out, it's her business, after all,' those words had sounded like a reproach or a veiled criticism, as if what he'd really said was: 'You're going to abandon her to her fate, perhaps allow her to be killed one day and leave your children orphans.' Some other words of his had hit home too: it's a question of imagination.' What he probably meant by this was that the only way of imagining yourself doing something you have never imagined yourself doing is to do it, and then you have no trouble at all imagining it.
Next I called an old friend, well, a Madrid-style friend, namely, a fellow madrileño whom I had known superficially years ago and hadn't seen since: if there has been no friction or quarrel or dispute between you and such a friend, then, nominally, he can still be considered a friend, even though you might never have had a conversation alone with him, outside of the broad and ever-changing group of people that brought you together in that increasingly remote past. This friend was a bullfighter with a fanatical following, the sort of torero who retires, then returns to the ring every few years only to retire again-it wouldn't be long now before he would have to cut off his pigtail for good-and whom I had known slightly during one particular period of my life, with Comendador (who moved in all kinds of circles and had introduced me to him) and later on again, too, at the late-night card games that went on into the small hours and which the Maestro held at his house for members of his team, the odd colleague and all kinds of hangers-on like me; some bullfighters never spend a minute alone and will welcome anyone, as long as they come recommended by some trustworthy person, even at third hand: the friend of a friend of the person who really is a friend and not just a Madrid-style friend. He was a very amiable, affectionate fellow, and sentimental about anything to do with his past life, and when I asked if I could come and see him, he not only raised no objections or sounded remotely suspicious after that decade or more of silence between us, he even urged me to visit as soon as possible:
'Come today. There's a game tonight.'
'Would tomorrow morning suit you?' I asked. 'I'm only here for a few days. I live in London now, and I'd arranged to go and see my father today. He's getting on a bit and hasn't been too well.'
'Of course, say no more. Tomorrow it is then. But make it around one o'clock, for a drink before lunch. Tonight's game is sure to run late.'
'I want to ask you a favor,' I said, preferring to give him due warning. 'I need a loan, but not of money, don't worry. I have no problems in that department.'
'"Don't worry," he says,' he replied, laughing. 'You would never give me cause to worry, Jacobito.' He was one of the people who called me Jacobo, I can't remember why. 'Ask me for anything you li
ke. As long as it's not my suit of lights.' I didn't really follow the bullfighting scene, certainly not from London, but I assumed from his comment that he was currently active. I had better find out before going to visit him, so as not to seem rude.
'You're getting warm,' I said. 'I'll explain tomorrow.'
'Just have a look around when you get here and take whatever you want.' These weren't mere empty words, he really was a very generous man. His name was Miguel Yanes Troyano, nicknamed 'Miquelin,' and he was the son of a banderillero.
The following morning, up to date now on his latest triumphs, thanks to the Internet, and bearing a gift, I arrived at his vast apartment in the area which, in my childhood, was known as 'Costa Fleming,' rather closer to Real Madrid's Chamartin stadium-which I prefer to call by its old name-than to Las Ventas, the bull ring through whose gates he had often been borne shoulder high. I would have preferred to speak to him alone, but that was impossible since he always had company. However, having been forewarned that I was going to ask him for a favor or a loan, he had been considerate enough not to embarrass me with too many witnesses, apart, that is, from his lifelong manager, who was always there, a discreet taciturn man of about the same age, and whom I scarcely knew at all even though I had known him since forever.
Your Face Tomorrow 3: Poison, Shadow and Farewell Page 36
