This was not, however, a preventative attitude, not exactly and exclusively, but, rather, and depending on the case and the person, punitive or compensatory, for Tupra saw and judged when dry, with no need to get himself wet — to use Don Quixote's words when he announces to Sancho Panza the mad feats he will perform for Dulcinea's sake even before being provoked into them by grief of jealousy. Or perhaps Tupra understood them - the various cases - even though they were pages as yet unwritten, and perhaps, for that very reason, forever blank. 'Life is not recountable,' Wheeler had also said, 'and it seems extraordinary that men have spent all the centuries we know anything about devoted to doing just that ... It is a doomed enterprise,' he had added, 'and one that perhaps does us more harm than good. Sometimes I think it would be best to abandon the custom altogether and simply allow things to happen. And then just leave them be.' But the blank page is the best of all, the most eternally believable and the most revealing, precisely because it is never finished, on it there is eternally room for everything, even for denials; and, therefore, what the page might or might not say (because in a world of infinite talk - simultaneous, superimposed, contradictory, constant, exhausting and inexhaustible - even when a page says nothing, it is saying something) could be believed at any time, not just during its one time to be believed, which, sometimes, lasts no time at all, a day or only a few fatal hours, and at others for a very long time indeed, a century, even several, and then it is not fatal at all because there is no one to check if the belief is true or false, and, besides, no one cares when everything is balanced out. So even if we abandon the custom altogether, as Wheeler said, even if we give up telling stories altogether, and never tell any ever, we can still not entirely free ourselves from telling. Not even by leaving the page blank. And even if there are things of which no one speaks, even if they do not even happen, they never stay still. 'It's awful,' I thought. 'There's no escape. Even if no one speaks of them. And even if they never actually happen.'
And so I got up and moved my chair slightly to one side and, without making my excuses to Manoia, without a word or a gesture, I set off briskly to the toilets, that was the first thing to do, as Tupra had indicated. The toilets were not that close and I had to walk quite a way to find them, I kept looking to right and left and straight ahead, just in case, en route, my eyes should catch sight of the escaped couple and I could thus complete my task without further delay, except that I was in too much of a hurry and too preoccupied - it quickly became very difficult to walk at all - to spot any one individual among the crowds I was trying to negotiate and who blocked my path, at that hour the disco was jam-packed, with the chic and the not so chic, the night becomes more heterogeneous as it advances, and our area - which included the Spaniards and the semi-fast dance floor - was far less congested, semi-slow music obviously didn't attract so many people (and so wouldn't be played for very much longer), and, on the other hand, the second stage or floor, or whatever they call these things nowadays, was absolutely frenetic, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the crushed and sweating masses a few metres or yards away, I skirted round them rather than plunging in, that would have taken me time and effort, and the urgent thing now was to get to the toilets. Tupra knew that the greatest risks for the two escapees lay there, that is how it is from adolescence onwards, when you smoke on the sly at school.
There was a bit of a queue outside the Ladies, which is not unusual, I don't know why that is, perhaps women take more time because they have to sit down and because each one, each time, gives the cubicle she is about to use a thorough clean; there were two or three women waiting at the door, whereas outside the Gents there was no one, and so I went in there first to have a look, or, rather, to inspect every nook and cranny, I didn't want to let Mr Reresby down, 'Bring her back. Don't linger or delay.' Those clear orders were still ringing in my ears. I saw three men standing up, two of them gravely or sullenly urinating, one beside the other, although they didn't appear to be friends and were not, of course, talking, it was odd that they should be standing so close when there were another six places free, one tends to keep a distance when engaged in such activities; the third man was standing at the mirror, combing his hair and humming to himself. Of the six cubicles, two were occupied, but beneath the truncated doors (given the shortened perspective, I had to lean right down) both revealed their respective pairs of trouser legs duly converted into bellows; I don't know why these doors, in public conveniences I mean, almost never reach the ground or even the ceiling, as if they were saloon doors in the Wild West, well, at least they're not swing doors and not quite so short (they're more raincoats than waistcoats). The urinators eyed me suspiciously, they turned their heads in one synchronised movement and their faces grew still more sullen, I pushed open the other doors to check that the cubicles really were empty, because if someone stands on the toilet bowl, you can't see their feet under the door and the cubicle appears to be empty, although if two people were standing on the bowl they would be in grave danger of falling in, especially if one of them was wearing fierce falsies made of oak or implants made of liquid lead or whatever. The comber, however, did not turn round, he was very carefully parting his hair with a wet comb and continuing his blithe, oblivious humming ('Nanna naranniaro nannara nanniaro', was what it sounded like), it was 'The Bard of Armagh', an Irish song, or 'The Streets of Laredo' if you prefer, which is from the American West (it's the same melody with different words and accompaniment), I recognised it at once, I've heard it hundreds of times in movies and on certain records, and the disco was at least not so unreasonable as to have loudspeakers in the toilets, so the music from the dance floors could be heard only as a distant echo through the double doors of those English toilets, and I immediately picked up that very audible ballad or perhaps lullaby, I knew most of the words of the cowboy version, which is far better known than the Irish original, 'I spied a young cowboy wrapped in white linen, all wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay', it's the very partial story of a dead man talking (although, in fact, it's a denial, a non-story), whose own violent death or, rather, the bad life that led him to that death, he wants to keep hidden from his mother, his sister and his girlfriend, 'I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong', that was one of the lines that surfaced in my memory, singly and in no particular order. He's probably not dead but dying, although in the glum lyrics this remains ambiguous and confused, or perhaps this depends on which version and which singer you hear. But I don't think so. As I remember it, the poor cowboy who speaks is already dead.
I left the Gents before the other three or possibly five men who were already in there, I was very quick. There was still one woman waiting to go into the Ladies, there was a lot of coming and going, so I went into the Disabled toilet - painted on the door was the bizarre image of a hook, perhaps a wheelchair would have been too prosaic and sordid for such a posh place - or the toilet for cripples as Tupra had called it (I very nearly became one myself when I slipped on the ramp, which can be lethal to the still able-bodied) although he certainly did not do so out of any lack of respect, but because he must have thought that Manoia would be less likely to know the word 'cripple'. It was much bigger, positively spacious in fact, and strangely empty. Not that I thought it strange to find no handicapped person in there: the toilet was a courtesy, a considerate gesture or merely a hypocritical measure, or perhaps one made obligatory by the regulations for discos in these insistently demagogic times of ours. It is not the norm in these places for there to be an abundance of wheelchairs and crutches or even hooks. What I found odd, especially viewing the situation with the Spanish gaze I have never lost, was that other people did not just swan in there as cool and sans facon as you like and make use of the lavish facilities as if they were intended for them as well, especially if there were queues outside the other toilet. In my country no one would have taken the slightest notice of the sign on the door: they wouldn't even have seen it (I mean, no one would; we are an uncivilised race). I didn't understand the
purpose of the cylindrical metal bars on the walls, perhaps they were supports for someone unsteady on their feet or barely able to walk, I touched them, there were four of them, solid rather than hollow and cold, one was fixed and the others could be moved to the right and the left, and so could be pushed out of the way against the elegant fake wall tiles, they weren't towel rails because there were no towels, however, I didn't have time to speculate further about them or to lie across one of them on my stomach (an exercise referred to by sports writers, I believe, as a 'front hip circle') as if they were exercise bars, to find out how much weight they would bear: they weren't very high, just shoulder-height. I had still not found De la Garza or Flavia, I had taken all these steps very swiftly, but my sense of urgency was growing with each second that passed without my sighting them. I had a good look, just in case, and I searched every corner of this luxury toilet for the disabled, and then I left, it was time to arm myself with determination and audacity and -there was nothing else for it - venture into the Ladies, I couldn't risk the bold duo having taken refuge in there in order to surrender themselves to lust ('It's not possible') and for me not to have found them there merely because I was too embarrassed. 'But please not one word of all this shall you mention, when others should ask for my story to hear,' said another two lines from the song I had suddenly remembered, and which was now installed in my head, even if only in fragments, and despite the surrounding din. I hoped that I would not see anything that might displease me, that I would not be asked to hear any stories; I hoped that there would be nothing that I could or should recount later.
There was still one woman, a different one from before, waiting to enter the busy toilet reserved for women and, who knows, possibly for transvestites too (I had seen a couple of them around, and I'm not sure which toilets they're supposed to use when out in public). I walked past her so quickly and with such resolve that she could only have noticed my contravention of the rules when the first door was already closing behind me. 'Hey, you,' I heard her begin to exclaim, the second word almost abandoned as if she had suddenly run out of steam — so it was not an exclamation — and she certainly wouldn't follow me in. I pushed out my chest, took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and with the same apparent sangfroid (a complete act) opened the second door, -the door that gave directly onto the toilet area and a sudden vision of a host of ladies standing before the mirrors or near them awaiting their turn or taking advantage of a space between two manes of hair to primp themselves from a distance; a kind of half-silence fell, there was a movement of heads turned in my direction, I caught the occasional perplexed or amused or frightened or even appreciative eye. I took the safe option of muttering several times the absurd word 'Security' and each time I tugged at or lifted one lapel of my jacket as if it bore an insignia which was not there: not that it matters, what matters is the gesture or the drawing of attention to something even if there's nothing to draw attention to, as when one points with one finger at the sky and everyone looks up, at the blue and the clouds, as empty and tranquil as they were a moment before; I had no idea if that repeated word 'Security' was plausible in English or if it would sound even more foolish than it did in Spanish, or if that was what a British policeman or hitman would say when pursuing someone or when engaged on some urgent mission.
I had a quick look round at the mainly attractive faces, if Rafita and Mrs Manoia had gone in there, they were not only stupid, they were imbeciles (he, of course, was a complete imbecile anyway, but not even he would be that imbecilic: in a crowded Ladies' loo, when there was a deserted toilet for the crippled right next door); but now that I was there, I had to make sure, so I strode over to the cubicles with the firm step of an inspector or a hired gun (following orders, doing something on someone else's say-so and not in your own interest or on your own initiative helps, it exempts you from responsibility, rendering a service to someone instils ease and thoughtlessness and even cruelty); there were eight cubicles, all, of course, occupied as was only to be expected given the permanent queue outside. I cast a panoramic eye over what was revealed below the abbreviated doors, two pairs of concertinaed trousers and six skirts, no - the skirts would be pulled up and therefore invisible - six pairs of legs festooned with tights and knickers (there was the odd thong and one of the women wasn't wearing tights at all, which is unusual in England, even in summer; she must have been a foreigner. 'What a palaver,' I thought, 'what a lot of minor complications, we men have it much easier'), there was nothing odd about any of the eight, the eight pairs of legs, I mean, they all appeared to be in the same normal posture, the expected, ordinary posture. It took only a moment, at most two, that sliding glance, but I couldn't help recalling the imagined image from a story my mother used to tell me when I was a child: one of the seven tests that a hero had to pass in order to rescue his beloved — a country girl or a kidnapped princess, I'm not sure which, imprisoned in a castle - consisted in recognising her by her legs alone, the rest of her body and face were hidden behind a long screen or a similarly truncated door, as were those of the six or thirteen or twenty other women lined up, an identity parade like the ones they hold in police stations except that the aim in the story was liberation rather than accusation and involved only legs, not sitting down like those in the cubicles, but standing up, the hero was thus able to see only the six, thirteen or twenty pairs of calves and thighs, and he had to guess which belonged to his shepherdess or damsel; if I remember rightly there was some trick, some detail — not a scar, too obvious even for the imagination of a child - that would lead him to give the right answer and so pass the test, even if that meant being set another far more difficult one. My mother was no longer in the world for me to ask her what that clue to recognition had been, and my father certainly wouldn't remember the tale, he might never even have heard it or asked for it since he was not her son but her husband, perhaps my sister or my two brothers would, although that was unlikely, I generally had a better memory for childhood things, and if even I couldn't remember . . . 'I'll never know, not that it really matters, most people fail to realise that not knowing everything doesn't matter in the least, because even then we always know too much, so much so that, unwittingly or deliberately, we forget most of what we know, but without worrying about it or regretting it, even if finding it out in the first place may have cost us tears and sweat and toil and blood.'
So there it was, that line of legs, and it seemed to me that Flavia's were not among those sixteen much younger legs, almost all of whose feet were very well shod - that I did notice: they were wearing party shoes -I was particularly struck by the elegant high heels of the woman who was not wearing tights or had taken them off along with her knickers before sitting down — there was nothing around her ankles, they were bare — obviously I only had a very quick look, the women by the mirrors were not protesting or hurtling out of the door, I sensed behind me more expectation or curiosity than indignation or alarm, the opportunistic people who govern us have made people so afraid that we have rapidly grown docile, especially when confronted by someone wielding the terrifying, omnipresent word - 'Security' - that justifies everything, even supposedly ironic uses and abuses of it and humiliations that pretend not to be humiliations, but, how can I put it, purely functional.
Your Face Tomorrow 2 Page 11
