Your Face Tomorrow 1: Fever and Spear

by Javier Marías

  'Beryl?' I said, caught slightly unawares, I hadn't imagined he would ask me about her, but rather about his friend Bertram, if he was a friend, and about whom he had forewarned me. 'Well, we barely spoke really, she seemed to take very little notice of anyone else, and she didn't appear to be enjoying herself much either, as if she was here out of duty. But she's got very good legs, and she knows she has and makes the most of them. She's got rather too many teeth and too big a jaw, but she's still rather pretty. Her smell is the most attractive thing about her, her best feature: an unusual, pleasant, very sexual smell.'

  Wheeler shot me a glance that was a mixture of reproof and mockery, although his eyes seemed amused. He fiddled with his walking-stick, but without picking it up, he merely gripped the handle. Sometimes he treated me as if I were one of his students, and although I never had been, in a sense I was. I was a pupil, an apprentice to his vision and style, as I had been to Toby in his day. But with Wheeler I was jokier. Or perhaps not, perhaps it is just that what fades and returns only in memories becomes greatly attenuated and diminished, I had joked with both men, as I had with Cromer-Blake, another colleague from my time in Oxford, more my own age and outstandingly intelligent, not that this got him very far, for he died of Aids four months after the end of my stay there and my departure, and no one in the Oxford community said then (or afterwards, these are people who gossip about trivia, but are discreet when it comes to anything really serious) what his illness was. I visited him when he was ill and when he had recovered and when he was even worse, and never once asked him the origin of his malaise. And I had always joked a lot with Luisa, perhaps that is my principal and unsatisfactory way of showing affection. Problems arise, I think, when there is more than affection.

  'As I've told you before, you're far too alone down there in London. That isn't what I meant at all. I would never have dared even to ask myself if you had or hadn't found Beryl's animal humours stimulating, you'll have to forgive my lack of curiosity about your proclivities in that area. I meant regarding Tupra, what impression did you have about her in relation to him, in her relation to him now. That's what I want to know, not if you were aroused by her…', he paused for a moment, 'by her secretions. What do you take me for?'

  And having said this, he stretched out his arm and pointed with his index finger at some imprecise place in the living-room, doubtless indicating to me that I should fetch something for him. Since I needed an ashtray for my cigarette, I did not hesitate and fetched one for me and another for him and his cigar, the ash of which was growing perilously long. He took it and placed it on the stair beside him, but he still failed to make long overdue use of it, instead, he shook his head and continued pointing in the same vague direction with his now tremulous finger. His lips were pressed tight shut, as if they had suddenly become glued together and he could not open them. His face, however, remained unchanged.

  'A port? Do you fancy a last glass of port, Peter?' I suggested, the various bottles with their little chains and medals were still there. He again shook his head, as if the word in question eluded him, a slip, a blockage, perhaps old age however well borne (old age mocked) occasionally plays these tricks. 'A chocolate? A truffle?' The respective trays had not been removed from the living-room. He again shook his head, but kept his finger outstretched, moving it up and down. 'Do you want me to bring you a scarf? Are you cold?' – No, that wasn't it, he shook his head, his elegant tie was keeping his neck perfectly warm. 'A cushion?' – He nodded at last with relief and then raised his middle finger too, he wanted two cushions.

  'Of course, "cushion", honestly, I don't know what's wrong with me, but sometimes the most stupid words just get stuck, and then I can't get another word out until I've said the one I can't remember, like a kind of momentary aphasia.'

  'Have you seen a doctor about it?'

  'No, no, it's not a physiological thing, I know that. It only lasts a moment, it's like a sudden withdrawal of my will. It's like a warning, a kind of prescience…' He did not go on. 'Yes, get them for me, will you, they would greatly ease my lower back.'

  I took two from one of the sofas and gave them to him, he positioned them behind his back, I asked if he would prefer us to go and sit in the living-room, but he made a negative gesture with the hand holding the cigar (the ash fell at last on to the carpet), as if to indicate that it wasn't worth it, that he wouldn't delay me much longer (with the side of his hand he rolled the still intact ash safely into the ashtray, which he had placed at the foot of the stained stair), I returned to my place, but first fetched a small ladder of five or six steps that was kept in the study for getting books down from the higher shelves, placed it in the doorway and sat down on that at the same distance from him as before.

  Wheeler had said the last few words in English, we spoke more in that language because it was the language of the country we were in and the one we heard and used with other people all day, but we alternated it with Spanish when we were alone, and passed from one to the other according to necessity, convenience or caprice, all it took was for one of us to slip in a couple of words from one or other language for us to shift automatically into the language thus introduced, his Spanish was excellent, accented, but only slightly, fluent and quite fast – although, naturally, much slower than my rapid-fire native Spanish, full of strings of crude elisions which he avoided – too precise in his choice of words, too careful perhaps to be a native speaker. He had used the word 'prescience', a literary word in English, but not as uncommon as 'prescienda' is in Spanish, Spaniards never say it and almost no one writes it and very few even know it, we tend to prefer 'premonition' or 'presentimiento' or even 'corazonada', all of which have more to do with the senses, a feeling, 'un palpito' – we use that too in colloquial speech – more to do with the emotions than with the intelligence and with certainty, none of them implies a knowledge of future events, which is what 'prescience' and, indeed, 'prescienda' mean, a knowledge of what does not yet exist and has not yet happened (though it has nothing to do with prophecies or auguries or divinations or predictions, still less with what modern-day quacks call 'clairvoyance', all of which are incompatible with the very notion of 'science'), 'it's like a warning, a kind of prescience, a foreknowledge of that withdrawal of the will,' I thought Wheeler had been about to say, had he completed the sentence. Or perhaps he would have been still clearer in his thought, which he would have completed by saying: 'it's like a warning, a kind of prescience, a foreknowledge of what it's like to be dead.' I remembered something that Rylands had said to me about Cromer-Blake once, when we were both very worried about that unmentionable illness of his. 'To whom does the will of a sick man belong?' he had said beside the same river, the Cherwell, that could be heard now nearby in the darkness during the silences, when we were trying to understand the way our sick friend had been behaving. 'To the patient? To the illness, to the doctors, to the medicines, to the sense of unease, to pain, to fear? To old age, to times past? To the person we no longer are and who carried off our will when he left?' ('How strange not to go on wanting,' I paraphrased to myself, 'and, even stranger, not to want to want. Or perhaps not,' I immediately corrected myself, 'perhaps that isn't so very strange.') But Wheeler wasn't ill, he was just old, and almost all his times were now past, and he had had ample opportunity not to be the person he had been, or any of the various possible selves he might have gone on to be. (He had even, early on, abandoned his own name.) He had not even said 'prefiguration', he was used to that, to the prior representation of all the things and scenes and dialogues in which he intervened, he had probably prefigured and even planned the conversation we were having, the two of us sitting on our respective steps after the party, when everyone else had gone and Mrs Berry was upstairs, tossing and turning in her sheets, unable, unusually for her, to get to sleep, going over all her tasks and preparations, tormented perhaps by some mistake that only she would have noticed. This conversation was probably evolving according to Wheeler's criterion and design, doubtle
ss he was directing it, but that didn't really matter to me in principle, it intrigued and amused me, and I never begrudged him these pleasures. Peter had used the word 'prescience', a Latin word that has reached our languages almost unchanged from the original praescientia, a rare, unusual word and, therefore, a difficult concept to grasp.

  'Like a warning of what, Peter? What kind of prescience? You didn't finish what you were saying.'

  Neither he nor I was the sort to allow ourselves to be distracted or tricked or to lose sight of our objective or of what interested us. We were not the sort to let go of our prey. I knew this about him and he about me, though I was still unsure as to the extent of his knowledge, I would have a clearer idea the following day. Perhaps that is why he laughed quietly, as if he had caught me out, and the smoke escaped from between his teeth, not this time indicating a paragraph break.

  'Don't ask a question to which you already know the answer, Jacobo, it's not your style,' he replied, still smiling. He was also not the sort to allow himself to be easily cornered or trapped, he was the kind who would say only what he had set out to communicate or confess. He was the kind who called me Jacobo; others, like Luisa, called me Jaime, it's the same name, but neither of them was mine exactly (perhaps, aware of this, my own wife would sometimes call me by my surname). I was the one who introduced myself using one or the other or the more authentic name, depending on people, place and what seemed appropriate, depending on which country I was in and which language was being spoken. Wheeler liked what was possibly the most pretentious form, or the most artificially historical, being familiar with the old Spanish tradition of translating the names of the Stuart King Jameses in this way.

  'How long has this been going on? As far as I can recall, it's never happened before when I've been with you.'

  'Oh, it must have started about six months ago, possibly more. But it doesn't happen often, just now and then, otherwise it would be grotesque. And, as you saw, it only lasts a moment, it's not really surprising that you haven't seen it before, it would be odd or sheer bad luck if you had. But let's not waste any more time on that, you still haven't told me what you thought of Beryl, apart from her thighs and her jaw: as regards Tupra, what impression did they make on you as a couple?' He would not let go of his prey, he was forcing me to answer the question he wanted to have answered. And when he was insistent about something, I never resisted.

  I noticed that his socks, knee rather than ankle socks, were beginning to slide down, due perhaps to his youthful posture on the stairs, his legs more bent than they would be if he were sitting in an armchair or a kitchen chair, his knees higher. They looked wrinkled, suddenly loose, in contrast now with his spotless, gleaming shoes with their too-smooth soles (an accident waiting to happen, Mrs Berry had been rather inattentive there), if his socks continued on their downward path, his shins would be left uncovered. And if that happened, I might have to point it out to him, he would be displeased at this unnoticed fault, he who was always so particular, so impeccably dressed, even though I was the sole witness and the only one who could point it out.

  'Well, if you must know, I wouldn't hold out any hope for that couple at all, things seem distinctly unpromising for your friend Tupra. The last thing she looks like is someone's latest girlfriend. On the contrary, it's as if she was with him out of laziness or routine or because she had nothing better or worse to do, which seems a very strange attitude to take if theirs is a new relationship. The impression I had was precisely one of over-familiarity and lassitude, as if they were old flames,' I said, 'who are still on good terms, but who know everything there is to know about each other and very soon reach saturation point, although they put up with each other and still feel a flicker of reciprocal nostalgia, which has more to do with their roles as representatives of their respective past lives. It was as if, how can I put it, Tupra had turned to her so as not to have to come to the party alone, you know the kind of arrangement. And that strikes me as odd in someone of his appearance and style, you wouldn't think he was a man who would have difficulty finding company, and very beautiful company at that. And if he was the one doing her a favour by taking her out, it still doesn't make sense, since, as I said, Beryl was clearly bored, almost as if she had been obliged to come, as part of an agreement, perhaps, yes, almost as if she had been forced to be here. She didn't even seem bothered about making a good impression on his friends, assuming those people are his friends. In the early stages of a relationship, you seek the approval of the other person's cat, or their canary, or their chiropodist, even the milkman. You make a continual effort to get on with your beloved's entire circle of friends, however repugnant her world might be. And I didn't see her making the slightest effort. She wasn't even trying.'

  Wheeler studied the fit end of his cigar, holding it very close to his eyes, whose metallic gleam was brighter than the burning ember; he blew on it to stir it into life, his cigar wasn't drawing well or so he pretended; and without looking at me, feigning an indifference he doubtless did not feel, he urged me to continue. But although he kept his eyes from me, I saw his very white, smooth eyebrows pucker with pleasure, and in his voice I noticed a contained excitement and disquiet, the feelings of someone putting another person to the test and who can see, as the test proceeds, that the person is likely to acquit themselves well (though he still waits with fingers crossed, not yet daring to claim victory).

  'Really,' he said, not quite making that word into a question. 'Like old flames, eh? And she came here velis nolis, you think.' He really liked those Latin tags. 'Go on, tell me what else you noticed.'

  'I don't know that I can tell you much more, Peter, I didn't talk much to either of them, and I spoke to both of them separately, just the usual formalities with her and a few minutes spent talking to him, I didn't see them together. Why all this interest? Actually I have a few questions of my own to ask about Tupra, you still haven't explained why you talked to me about him for so long on the phone the other day. Did you know that he's offered me a job if I get fed up with the BBC? I don't even know what he does. He suggested I talk to you, by the way. That I consult with you. I assume you know about it. And presumably you'll tell me when you're ready to, Peter. At first sight, though, he seems a very pleasant fellow. With the ability to…' I hesitated: it wasn't an ability to seduce, or to intimidate, or to proselytise, although he was capable of doing all those things, 'to dominate, don't you think? What does he do, what's his field?'

  'We'll talk about Tupra tomorrow over breakfast. And possibly about that job.' Wheeler wasn't being bossy, but his tone of voice did not really allow for objection or protest. 'Tell me more about Beryl, about her and Tupra. Go on.' And he indicated the idea on which I should focus. 'Old flames, well, well…' We were talking in English and he was pointing the way ahead, as if urging me on ('you're getting warmer') in the middle of deciphering a riddle. 'Representatives of their respective past lives, you say. Of their respective pasts.'

  I was sure now that Wheeler was putting me through a test, but I had no idea why, or what the test was, I didn't know either if I wanted to pass the test, whatever it was. Confronted by that feeling of being examined, however, we all instinctively feel a need to pass, simply because it's a challenge, and still more if the person assessing and judging us is someone we admire. But I felt uneasy working in the dark. It obviously had to do with Tupra and with Beryl, and probably with the informal or hypothetical offer of work that Tupra had made me when he said goodbye, I had taken the offer as a kindness on his part or as a last-minute desire to make himself seem important, although such vain boasts didn't really fit with Tupra, he didn't seem to need them, that was more in De la Garza's line. In the mouth of Rafita the attaché – the great dolt, the great dunderhead, the berk – they would doubtless have been mere empty words. I couldn't fathom Wheeler's ins and outs and meanderings, unless they were simply intended to amuse him and to intrigue me, he could, after all, speak openly to me. I understood that he was going to do so the foll
owing morning during breakfast, to each thing its chosen or allotted time, he would make a decision based on the crumbling, dwindling time of his old age, but then again whose time is not dwindling? So I obliged him, I let myself be drawn out, although I really didn't have much else to add: I invented a little, embellishing and elaborating on what I had already said, dragging things out, I possibly invented too much. I noticed that Wheeler's socks or knee socks (they had started out below the knee, like the socks I wear) had slid a little further down, from where I was sitting I could already see a narrow band of brown skin, now that I thought of it, his colour and complexion were more southern than English. He was holding his walking-stick with his two clenched fists one above the other, as if it were definitely a spear, he had placed his still smouldering cigar in the ashtray, and had it not been for the pleased expression on his face, I would have said he was on pins and needles, albeit rather blunt ones, which would never have inflicted much pain.