As I advanced – six, seven, eight, skirting round the odd table and avoiding the pell-mell Chinese waiters, it wasn’t a straightforward trajectory – I could see them better, and they looked very calm and happy, immersed in their conversation, pretty much oblivious to anyone else but them. At one point, I felt for Luisa something resembling happiness or perhaps acceptance or was it relief? The last time I had seen her, all those months ago, I had felt real pity for her. She had spoken to me about the hatred she could not feel for the gorrilla: ‘No, hating him serves no purpose, it doesn’t console or give me strength,’ she had said. And about the hatred she couldn’t have felt either for some newly arrived, abstract hit man, had he been the one hired to kill Deverne. ‘But I could hate the instigators,’ she had added, and then read me part of the definition of ‘envidia’ or ‘envy’ in Covarrubias, dated 1611, regretting that she couldn’t even blame the death of her husband on that: ‘Unfortunately, this poison is often engendered in the breasts of those who are and who we believe to be our closest friends, in whom we trust; they are far more dangerous than our declared enemies.’ And just after that, she had said: ‘I miss him all the time, you see. I miss him when I wake up and when I go to bed and when I dream and throughout the whole of the intervening day, it’s as if I carried him with me all the time, as if he were part of my body.’ And then I thought, as I approached – nine, ten: ‘She won’t feel like that now, she will have freed herself from his corpse, from her dead husband, his ghost, who has been kind enough not to come back. She has someone there before her now, and they can use each other to hide their own fate, as lovers do, according to a line I vaguely remember, a line of poetry I read in my adolescence. Her bed will no longer be sad or woeful, a living body will enter it each night, a body whose weight I know well and once greatly enjoyed.’
I saw them turn to look at me as I approached and they sensed my shape or my shadow – eleven, twelve and thirteen – he with horror, as if asking himself: ‘What’s she doing here? Where did she spring from? And why is she coming over? To unmask me?’ But I didn’t see that expression on her face, she was already looking at me with great sympathy, with an open smile, wide and warm, as if she had recognized me instantly. And she had, for she exclaimed:
‘The Prudent Young Woman!’ She had doubtless forgotten my name.
She stood up at once to kiss me on both cheeks and almost embrace me, and her friendliness stopped in its tracks any intention I might have had of saying anything to Díaz-Varela that might turn Luisa against him or cause her to view him with mistrust or stupefaction or disgust or, as she had said, to hate the instigator; nothing that would ruin his life and therefore ruin hers as well – again – and thus ruin their marriage, as it had occurred to me to do only shortly before. ‘Who am I to disturb the universe,’ I thought. ‘Even though others might do it, like this man here, pretending not to know me even though I loved him well and have never done him any harm. The fact that others disrupt and buffet and generally maltreat the universe doesn’t mean that I should follow their example, not even on the pretext that, unlike them, I would be righting a wrong and punishing a possibly guilty man and imposing justice.’ As I said, I cared nothing for justice or injustice. What business were they of mine, for if Díaz-Varela had been right about one thing, as had the lawyer Derville in his fictional world and in his time that does not pass and stays quite still, it was this: ‘Far more crimes go unpunished than punished, not to speak of those we know nothing about or that remain hidden, for there must inevitably be more hidden crimes than crimes that are known about and recorded.’ And perhaps also when he said: ‘The worst thing is that so many disparate individuals in every age and every country, each on his own account and at his own risk, and not, in principle, subject to mutual contagion, separated from each other by kilometres or years or centuries, each with his own thoughts and particular aims, should all choose the same methods of robbery, deception, murder or betrayal against the friends, colleagues, brothers, sisters, parents, children, husbands, wives or lovers whom they once loved the most. Crimes committed in ordinary life are more scattered, more spaced out, one here, another there; and because they only trickle into our consciousness, they cause less outrage and tend not to provoke waves of protest, however incessantly they occur: how could it be any other way, given that society lives alongside them and has been impregnated with their very nature since time immemorial.’ Why should I intervene, or perhaps I should say contravene? If I did, what difference would that make to the order of the universe? Why should I denounce a single crime, which I’m not even sure was a crime, nothing was quite certain, the truth is always a tangled mess. And if it was a premeditated, cold-blooded murder, whose sole aim was to occupy a place already occupied by another, at least the person who caused that death took it upon himself to console the widow, namely the surviving victim, the widow of Miguel Desvern, businessman, whom she will no longer miss quite so much: not when she wakes up or goes to bed or when she dreams or throughout the whole of the intervening day. Fortunately or unfortunately, the dead are as fixed as paintings, they don’t move, they don’t add anything, they don’t speak and never respond. And they are wrong to come back, those who can. Deverne could not, and that was just as well.
My visit to their table was brief, we exchanged a few words, Luisa invited me to join them for a moment, I declined, saying that my guests needed me, which was a pure lie, of course, except when it came to paying the bill. She introduced me to her new husband, forgetting that, in theory, he and I had met at her house, because, then, he still only existed in the shadows. Neither of us refreshed her memory, what did it matter, what would be the point? Díaz-Varela had stood up almost at the same time as her, we kissed each other on both cheeks as is the custom in Spain when a man and a woman are first introduced. He had lost the look of horror when he saw that I was being discreet and was prepared to play my part in the pantomime. And then he, too, regarded me with sympathy, in silence, with his almond eyes, so hazy and enveloping and indecipherable. They regarded me with sympathy, but they did not miss me in the least. I won’t deny that I was tempted to linger, despite all, so as not to lose sight of him just yet, but to palely loiter. It wasn’t right, though, the longer I spent in their company, the more likely it was that Luisa would detect some trace, some remnant, some still-warm ember in my gaze: my eyes were drawn as always to his lips, it was inevitable and, of course, involuntary, and I didn’t want to harm either him or Luisa.
‘We must get together some time, give me a call, I’m still living at the same address,’ she said with genuine warmth and not a hint of suspicion. It’s one of those things people come out with when they say goodbye and which they forget once the goodbyes have been said. I would not reappear in her memory, I was just a prudent young woman whom she knew largely by sight and who belonged now to another life. I wasn’t even that young any more.
I preferred not to go over to his side of the table again. So after exchanging the obligatory farewell kisses with her, I took two steps towards my own table, still looking back at her as I gave her my answer (‘Yes, I’ll call you. I’m so pleased that everything’s worked out for you’), so as to gain a little distance, and then I waved goodbye. In Luisa’s eyes, I was saying goodbye to both of them, but I was really saying goodbye to Javier, properly this time, definitively and for real, because now he had his wife beside him. And as I walked back to the idiotic world of publishing I had left only a few minutes before – minutes that seemed suddenly very long – I thought, in order to justify myself: ‘No, I don’t want to be an accursèd fleur-de-lys on his shoulder, which betrays him and points the finger and prevents even the most ancient of crimes from disappearing; let t
he past be purely dumb matter and let things simply fade and hide themselves away, let them keep silence and neither recount nor bring with them new misfortunes. Nor do I want to be like the wretched books among which I spend my life, whose time stands still and waits inside, trapped and watching, begging to be opened so that it can flow freely again and retell its old and oft-repeated story. I don’t want to be like those written voices that so often sound like muffled sighs, groans uttered in a world of corpses in the middle of which we all lie, if we drop our guard for a moment. It doesn’t matter that some, if not most, civilian acts go unrecorded, ignored, as is the norm. Men, however, tend to strive to achieve quite the opposite effect, although they often fail: to leave branded on the skin a fleur-de-lys that perpetuates and accuses and condemns, and possibly unleashes more crimes. That would probably have been my intention with anyone else, or with him too, had I not fallen stupidly and silently in love, and if I did not still love him a little, I suppose, despite all, and that “all” is no small thing. It will pass, it already is passing, that’s why I don’t mind acknowledging it. In my defence, I have just seen him when I did not expect to, looking well and happy.’ And I continued to think as I turned my back on him, and my steps and my shape and my shadow were moving away from him for ever: ‘Yes, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that. No one is going to judge me, there are no witnesses to my thoughts. It’s true that when we get caught in the spider’s web – between the first chance event and the second – we fantasize endlessly and are, at the same time, willing to make do with the tiniest crumb, with hearing him – as if he were the time itself that exists between those two chance events – smelling him, glimpsing him, sensing his presence, knowing that he is still on our horizon, from which he has not entirely vanished, and that we cannot yet see, in the distance, the dust from his fleeing feet.’
He just wanted a decent book to read ...
Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company – and change the world.
We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it’
Sir Allen Lane, 1902–1970, founder of Penguin Books
The quality paperback had arrived – and not just in bookshops. Lane was adamant that his Penguins should appear in chain stores and tobacconists, and should cost no more than a packet of cigarettes.
Reading habits (and cigarette prices) have changed since 1935, but Penguin still believes in publishing the best books for everybody to enjoy. We still believe that good design costs no more than bad design, and we still believe that quality books published passionately and responsibly make the world a better place.
So wherever you see the little bird – whether it’s on a piece of prize-winning literary fiction or a celebrity autobiography, political tour de force or historical masterpiece, a serial-killer thriller, reference book, world classic or a piece of pure escapism – you can bet that it represents the very best that the genre has to offer.
Whatever you like to read – trust Penguin.
www.penguin.co.uk
Join the conversation:
Twitter Facebook
HAMISH HAMILTON
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
www.penguin.com
First published in Spanish as Los Enamoramientos in 2011
This translation first published 2013
Copyright © Javier Marías, 2011
Translation copyright © Margaret Jull Costa, 2013
The moral right of the author and of the translator has been asserted
Cover image © Elliott Erwitt / Magnum Photos.
All rights reserved
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk, Stirlingshire
ISBN: 978-0-241-95850-6
The Infatuations Page 33
