The Infatuations

by Javier Marías

  ‘Right,’ I said again, like someone determined to doubt, to disbelieve. But I couldn’t keep up that tone. I tried, I did my best, and finally managed to come out with these completely neutral words: ‘And what were those terrible stages?’ – Although that neutrality was a lie; the description of the whole process, of the discovery, terrified me.

  ‘It wasn’t just that there was no cure, given how widely the disease had spread throughout his organism. There was barely any palliative care they could give him, or the treatment that was available was almost worse than the illness itself. Without any treatment, his friend gave him four to five months, and not much more with treatment. A course of extraordinarily aggressive chemotherapy with devastating side effects would gain him a little time, but whether that time would be worth gaining was another matter. There was worse, though: the intraocular melanoma distorts the eye and is hideously painful, the pain is apparently unbearable, according to his cardiologist friend, who, true to his word, kept nothing back. The only way to avoid this would be to remove the eye, that is, take it out, what doctors call “enucleation”, according to Miguel, because of the size of the tumour. Do you understand, María? An enormous tumour inside his eye, which pushes outwards and inwards, I suppose; a protuberant eye, an increasingly bulbous forehead and cheekbone; and then a hollow, an empty socket, and that wouldn’t be the final metamorphosis either, even in the best-case scenario, and it wouldn’t even really help.’ – This brief, graphic description increased my feelings of distrust, it was the first time he had resorted to gruesome, imagined details; up until then, he had spoken very soberly. – ‘The patient’s appearance becomes increasingly horrific, and the progressive deterioration is pitiful to see, and it doesn’t just affect the face, of course, everything begins to collapse with alarming rapidity, and all you achieve with the removal of the eye and that brutal chemotherapy are a few more months of life. If you can call it life, that dead or pre-dead life of suffering and deformity, of no longer being yourself, but an anguished ghost who does nothing but enter and leave hospital. One positive thing was that this transformation in appearance wouldn’t happen immediately: he had a month and a half or two months before the facial symptoms would appear or become visible, before other people would notice anything, so he had that amount of time in which to conceal the truth from the world and to pretend.’ – Díaz-Varela’s voice sounded genuinely affected, but he might have merely been affecting that affect. I have to say that he didn’t seem to be when he added in a bitter, doom-laden voice: ‘A month and a half or two months, that was the deadline he gave me.’

  I more or less knew what the answer would be, but I asked anyway, because some stories need the encouragement of a few rhetorical questions in order to continue. This particular story would have continued anyway, I simply chivvied it along a little, eager for it to be over as soon as possible, despite my personal interest in it. I wanted to hear the whole thing and then go home and stop hearing it.

  ‘Why did he give you a deadline?’ However, I couldn’t resist telling him what I could guess he was about to tell me. – ‘Now you’re going to say that he asked you to do what you did to him as a favour: getting him stabbed to death by some nutcase in the middle of the street, is that right? A somewhat disagreeable, roundabout way of committing suicide, given that there are pills you can take and so many other ways too. And it meant putting you and your friends to an awful lot of trouble.’

  Díaz-Varela shot me an angry, reproving look; my comments clearly struck him as inappropriate.

  ‘Let’s just make one thing clear, María, and listen well. I’m not telling you this because I want you to believe me, I really don’t care if you believe me or not, Luisa’s another matter, of course, and I hope never to have such a conversation with her, and that, in part, will depend on you. The only reason I am telling you is because of what happened earlier, that’s all. I don’t like having to do it, as you can imagine. Ruibérriz and I didn’t like doing what we did, which was tantamount to murder really. Well, technically, that’s what it was, and a judge and jury wouldn’t care two hoots about the real reason we did it, and we couldn’t prove that anyway. They base their judgment on the facts and they are what they are, that’s why we were so alarmed when Canella started to talk about mobile phone calls and the rest. It was bad luck, too, that you overheard us that evening, or, rather, that I was stupid enough to allow it to happen. And on the basis of what you heard, you’ve come up with a false or inexact idea of what happened. Naturally, I don’t like that, why would I, and I want you to know the real facts. That’s why I’m telling you, in a personal capacity, because you’re not a judge, and so that you’ll have a better understanding of what lay behind what we did. Then it’s up to you. You can decide what you do with the information. But if you don’t want me to go on, I won’t, I’m not going to force you to listen. It isn’t up to me whether you believe me or not, so if you want, we can stop this conversation right now. If you think you know it all already and don’t want to hear what else I have to say, there’s the door.’

  But I did want to hear more. As I said, I wanted to know the end, wanted him to finish his story.

  ‘No, no, go on. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Go on, please, everyone has the right to be heard, of course.’ – And I tried to lend a touch of irony to that last ‘of course’. – ‘So why did he give you that deadline?’

  In the light of Díaz-Varela’s pained, offended tone, I noticed the faintest of doubts creeping into my mind, even though that is one of the easiest tones to put on or imitate, and the one that almost anyone guilty of anything immediately resorts to. As do the innocent. I realized that the more he told me, the more doubts I would have, and that I certainly wouldn’t leave there with no doubts at all, that’s the problem with letting people talk and explain, which is why we so often try to stop them, in order to preserve our certainties and leave no room for doubts, that is, for lies. Or, needless to say, for the truth. He took a while to answer or to resume speaking, and when he did, he returned to his previous tone of voice, one of sorrow and retrospective despair, which he hadn’t, in fact, completely abandoned, merely adding to it, for a moment, the tone of someone deeply wounded.

  ‘Miguel had few qualms about dying, if one can say such a thing of a man whose life was going well, who had small children and a wife he loved, or, rather, with whom he was in love. Of course it was a tragedy, as it would be for anyone. But he was always very aware that the fact we are here at all is entirely thanks to an improbable coming-together of various chance events, and when that coming-together ceases, we cannot really complain. People think they have a right to life. Indeed, religions and most countries’ legal systems, even their constitutions, say the same thing, and yet he didn’t see it like that. How can you have a right to something that you neither built nor earned, he used to say. No one can complain about not having been born or not having been in the world before or not having always been in the world, so why should anyone complain about dying or not being in the world hereafter or not remaining in it for ever? He found both points of view equally absurd. We don’t object to our date of birth, so why object to our date of death, which is just as much a matter of chance. Even violent deaths, even suicides, depend on chance. And since we were all once denizens of the void or enjoying a state of non-existence, what is so strange or terrible about returning to that state, even though we now have something to compare it with and the capacity to miss what went before? When he found out what was wrong with him, when he knew he was about to die, he was devastated and cursed his ill luck as roundly as the next man, but he also remembered how many others had disappeared at a much younger age than him; how they had been eliminated b
y that second chance event of their lives, with barely enough time or opportunity to experience anything: young men and women, children, newborns who were never even given a name … In that respect, he showed great integrity and didn’t fall to pieces. What he couldn’t bear, though, what demoralized him and drove him mad, was the manner of his death, the whole dreadful process, the slowness contained within the swift encroachment of the disease, the deterioration, the pain and the deformity, everything, in short, that his doctor friend had warned him about. He wasn’t prepared to go through all that, still less allow his children and Luisa to witness it. Or anyone else, for that matter. He accepted the idea that he would cease to be, but not the senseless torment, the months of suffering for no reason and no reward, the thought of leaving behind him the image of a defenceless, disfigured, one-eyed man. He didn’t see the point, and he did rebel against that, he did protest and rail at fate. It wasn’t in his power to remain in the world, but he could leave it in a more elegant manner than the one in prospect, he would simply have to depart a little early.’ – ‘A case,’ I thought, ‘in which it would be inappropriate to say: “He should have died hereafter,” because that “hereafter” would mean something far worse, involving more suffering and humiliation, less dignity and more horror for his nearest and dearest, so it’s not always desirable for everything to last a little longer, a year, a few months, a few weeks, a few hours, it isn’t always true that we will think it too soon to put an end to things or people, nor is it true that there is never an opportune moment, for there may come a time when we ourselves say: “That’s fine. That’s enough. What comes next will be worse, an abasement, a denigration, a stain,” when we will be brave enough to acknowledge: “This time is over, even though it’s our time.” And even if the ending of things did lie in our hands, everything would go on indefinitely, becoming grubby and contaminated, with no living creature ever dying. We must not only allow the dead to leave when they try to linger or when we hold on to them, we must also let go of the living sometimes.’ And I realized that in thinking this, I was, momentarily and against my will, believing the story that Díaz-Varela was telling me now. We do tend to believe things while we’re hearing or reading them. Afterwards, it’s another matter, when the book is closed and the voice stops speaking.

  ‘Why didn’t he just commit suicide?’

  Díaz-Varela again looked at me as if I were a child, that is, as if I were an innocent.

  ‘What kind of question is that!’ he said. ‘Like most people, he was incapable of committing suicide. He didn’t dare, he couldn’t bring himself to decide the “when”: why today and not tomorrow, if today I see no further changes in myself and feel quite well? If that decision were left up to each individual, hardly anyone would ever find the right moment. He wanted to die before the effects of the illness took hold, but there was no way he could put a date on that “before”: as I said, he had a month and a half or two months, possibly a little longer, no one could tell. And, again like most people, he didn’t want to know for certain beforehand when that would happen, he didn’t want to wake up one morning and say to himself: “This is my last day. I won’t see another night.” Even if he got others to help him, he would still know what was going to happen, what they were up to, he would still know the date in advance. His friend mentioned a serious-minded organization in Switzerland called Dignitas, which is run by doctors and is, of course, totally legal (well, legal there), and people from any country can apply to them for an assisted suicide, always assuming there’s sufficient reason, a decision taken by the doctors, not by the person involved. The applicant has to submit an up-to-date medical record, and its accuracy and authenticity are then checked; apparently, except in cases of extreme urgency, they put you through a meticulous preparatory process and, initially, try to persuade you to remain alive with the help of palliative care, if that’s available but for some reason hasn’t already been offered; they make sure you’re in full possession of your mental faculties and aren’t merely suffering a temporary depression, it’s a really excellent place, Miguel told me. Despite all these requirements, his friend didn’t think there would be any objections in his case. He spoke to him about this place as a possible solution, as a lesser evil, but Miguel still felt unable to contemplate it, he just didn’t dare. He wanted to die, but without knowing how or when it was going to happen, not at least with any exactitude.’

  ‘Who is this doctor friend?’ it occurred to me to ask, forcing myself to suspend the belief that tends gradually to invade us when we listen to someone else’s story.

  Díaz-Varela didn’t seem overly surprised, well, perhaps just a little.

  ‘Do you mean his name? Dr Vidal.’

  ‘Vidal? But which Vidal? That’s not exactly telling me much. There are loads of Vidals.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Do you want to check up on him? Do you want to go to him and have him confirm my version of events? Go ahead, he’s a really friendly, helpful guy. I’ve met him a couple of times. His name is Dr Vidal Secanell. José Manuel Vidal Secanell. He’ll be easy enough to find, you just have to look him up on the register of the Medical Association or whatever it’s called, it’s bound to be on the Internet.’

  ‘And what about the ophthalmologist and the consultant?’

  ‘That I don’t know. Miguel never mentioned them by name, or if he did I’ve forgotten. I know Vidal because, as I say, he was a childhood friend of Miguel’s. But I don’t know the others. Nevertheless, I shouldn’t imagine it would be that difficult to find out who his ophthalmologist was, if you really want to. Are you going to turn detective? Best not ask Luisa directly, though, unless you’re prepared to tell her the whole story, to tell her the rest. She knew nothing about the melanoma or anything else, that was how Miguel wanted it.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? You’d think it would be less traumatic for her to find out about his illness than see him stabbed to death and bleeding on the ground. You’d think it would be harder to recover from such a violent, vicious death. Or to move on, as people say nowadays.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Díaz-Varela. ‘But although that was an important consideration, it was a secondary one at the time. What horrified Miguel was having to go through the phases Vidal had described to him, and having Luisa see him in that state, although, admittedly, that thought wasn’t uppermost in his mind, it was a minor consideration by comparison. When you know your time has come, you tend to be very sunk in yourself and have little thought for other people, even those closest to you, even those you most love, however much you try not to ignore them and not to lose sight of them in the midst of your own tribulations. The knowledge that you’re the only one who’ll be leaving and that they’ll be staying can give rise to a certain degree of annoyance, almost resentment, as if they were somehow removed from and indifferent to it all. So, yes, while he wanted to save Luisa from being a witness to his death, more than that, he wanted to save himself from it. Bear in mind, too, that he didn’t know what form his sudden death would take. He left that to me. He didn’t even know for sure that he would meet a sudden death or would, instead, have no option but to endure the evolution of his illness until the end, or hope that he might get up the courage to throw himself out of a window when he got worse and began to notice his face becoming deformed and to experience terrible pain. I never guaranteed him anything, I never said Yes.’

  ‘Said Yes to what? Never said Yes to what?’

  Díaz-Varela gave me his usual hard look, which somehow never felt hard, but, rather, drew one in. I thought I caught a glimmer of irritation in his eyes, but, like all glimmers, it didn’t last, because he answered me at once and, as he did so, that hard look van
ished.

  ‘What do you think? To his request. “Get rid of me,” he said. “Don’t tell me how or when or where, let it be a surprise, we have a month and a half or two months, find a way and do it. I don’t care what method you use. The quicker the better. The less suffering and pain the better. The sooner the better. Do what you like, hire someone to shoot me, or to run me down as I’m crossing the street, or have a wall collapse on top of me or make my brakes fail or my lights, I don’t know, I don’t want to know or think about it, you do the thinking, whatever you like, whatever you can, whatever occurs to you. You must do me this favour, you must save me from what awaits me otherwise. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m incapable of killing myself or flying to some place in Switzerland knowing that I’m going there in order to die among strangers, I mean, who could possibly agree to such a grim journey, travelling towards your own execution, it would be like dying over and over while you were on the plane and while you were there. I prefer to wake up here each morning with at least a semblance of normality and to carry on with my life while I can, but always with the fear and the hope that this day will be my last. With the uncertainty too, that above all, because uncertainty is the only thing that can help me; and I know I can bear that. What I can’t bear is knowing that it all depends on me. It has to depend on you. Get rid of me before it’s too late, you must grant me this favour.” That, more or less, was what he said to me. He was desperate and terribly afraid too. But he wasn’t out of control. He had thought about it a lot. Almost, you might say, coldly. And he could see no other solution. He really couldn’t.’