Fever and Spear

by Javier Marías

  'That would be too much like tempting Fate, if you know what I mean. It would be dangerous, it could prove counterproductive, lighting a flame that should never be lit, not even one the size of a match-flame. He mustn't be harmed in any way, we're all quite clear about that, we'll treat him with kid gloves, don't worry, he can't be touched. Otherwise, the support we're counting on would collapse. Not entirely, of course, but partially.'

  I remember that Tupra affected a pitying smile and paused, and that Mulryan didn't dare start asking questions again until he was sure that his superior had once again withdrawn momentarily from the interrogation. And he was right to hold back, because Tupra had not yet moved aside.

  'You don't seem very determined,' he said. 'And in ventures like this, a lack of resolve means that failure is not only probable but guaranteed. As does a lack of hatred, you should know that, sir, either from your studies or from personal experience. In my experience, at least, you always need to be prepared to go further than is necessary, even if you don't go that far in the end, or decide to rein yourself in when the moment comes, or if it simply proves unnecessary. That, however, must be the prevailing spirit, not its opposite. You would agree, would you not, that one cannot impose a limit beforehand, setting the bar below what might prove necessary? If your resolve and your mood are as you say they are, then in my view you should hold back. And I would, for the moment, advise against any support or financial help.'

  This somewhat unconvincing soldier shook his head vehemently while he listened to my Spanish version of Tupra's words, perhaps like someone who cannot believe what he is hearing or despairs over some extremely expensive misunderstanding, but perhaps, also, like someone who realises too late that he has given the wrong answer and, by doing so, has brought about an irremediable disaster, because, depending on the nature of the blunder, any retraction or rectification or clarification will always sound insincere and self-interested — like backing down. That phoney civilian or phoney soldier could well have been thinking: 'Oh, bollocks, what they wanted to hear was that we wouldn't blink an eye if we had to kill him and not, as I thought, that we would save the bastard's skin however difficult he made things for us.' Yes, he could have been thinking that, or something else which I had neither time nor imagination to elaborate in my mind, because as soon as my Spanish stopped, he was quick to protest.

  'No, senores, you've misunderstood me,' he said anxiously and with rather more feeling than he had shown up till then. Or perhaps he didn't, but that's how I remember it, the precise way different Latin Americans speak gets very confused in one's memory and in the retelling too. 'Of course we'd be prepared to get rid of him, if we had no alternative. We certainly don't lack resolve and, as for hatred, well, you can summon up hatred in no time at all, from one moment to the next, all you need is a spark, a few well-chosen phrases and the fire spreads, but it's best not to start out with the flames too high, the fire might burn itself out, better a cool head than hand-to-hand combat, don't you agree? All I meant was that we believe that harming the leader might not be necessary, that it would be most unlikely and preferable for all concerned if we didn't. But, believe me, if he made any difficulties, and we had to kill him in order to keep things on an even keel, then we certainly wouldn't shrink from that. I mean, it's just a matter of a single shot, isn't it, and that's that, it's quick and it's easy, we have a number of men who are used to that kind of thing. And if his supporters complain, too bad, the liberator's gone. They can say what they like, but there's nothing they can do about it, the tyrant's dead, kaput.'

  'It's quick and it's easy,' I thought. 'Don't I know it, there have always been a number of men used to that kind of thing. In the temple, in the ear, in the back of the neck, a gush of blood, but you can always clean that up later.' I translated his words with as much feeling as I could muster, Tupra and Mulryan weren't looking at me while I was doing this, but at him, at the Venezuelan, this was something I was always very struck by, because, normally, people instinctively look at the person emitting the sounds, the person speaking, even though he's only translating, even if he's only the person reproducing and repeating and not the person speaking, but they, on the other hand, invariably fixed their attention on the person originally responsible for uttering the words, even though the latter had to remain silent while his words were transmitted. This, I noticed, tended to make interrogatees nervous, for they always looked at me despite only understanding me by deduction (a fairly easy deduction on their part).

  The civilian or fake soldier was no exception when it came to nervousness (though this was, admittedly, only my first experience), but possibly what upset him most, more than the four eyes trained on him while I emulated his words, was Tupra's immediate response:

  'You must realise that if you shoot him, you'll have to shoot quite a lot of your fellow countrymen too, whether you hate them or not, in the heat of the moment and in cold blood, in combat and, who knows, in executions, which are also quick but not so easy. And nobody's going to like that, least of all the people outside, including us. With such a high risk of carnage, and with no guarantee that it will have the desired result, my opinion is that you really shouldn't try it. And I'm afraid that, for now, I'll have to advise against any support or financial aid.'

  The Venezuelan crumpled his agile eyebrows into a frown, took a long, deep breath so that his chest puffed out even more, like that of a frog or a toad, he made as if to undo his tie (not just loosen it this time), hid his green boots under the armchair like someone moving them smartly out of the reach of some biting creature, or, more symbolically, like someone beating an instinctive retreat, overcome by confusion. I thought he might be thinking: 'What are these sons-of-British-bitches playing at? They don't want this, they don't want that, what do they want me to say, the stupid bastards?'

  'What is it you want?' he said after a few seconds, like someone who has grown tired of guessing and gives up, it didn't even sound like a question.

  It was Tupra again who replied:

  'Just tell us the truth, that's all, without trying to read our minds and without trying to please us.'

  The soldier's response was instantaneous, and I translated it as precisely as I could, although it wasn't easy:

  'Oh, the truth. The truth is what happens, the truth is when it happens, how can you expect me to tell you that now? Until it happens, nobody knows.'

  Tupra seemed somewhat surprised and amused by this reply, half-philosophical, half-crass, or perhaps he was just confused by it. He did not waver in his demand though. Instead, he smiled, and made sure he had the final word:

  'And often not even afterwards either. And sometimes it doesn't happen at all. It just doesn't. Nevertheless, that is what we want, you see: we're asking you for the impossible, according to you. And if, at the moment, you're not in a position to satisfy that demand, if you want to consult with your colleagues to see if that impossibility could become a possibility,' he paused, 'feel free. I understand that you will be staying a few more days in London. We will phone you before you leave, to see if you have achieved it — the great deed, the impossible. We have your number. Mulryan, would you be so kind as to show the gentleman out.' Then he turned to me, and without changing his tone and with barely a pause, said: 'Mr Deza, would you mind staying behind for a moment, please?'

  The fake or real soldier got up, smoothed tie, jacket and trousers, made the unnecessary gesture of tucking in his shirt, picked up from the floor a briefcase he had placed next to his armchair and which he had not had the chance either to take up or open. He shook Tupra's hand and mine in a distracted, preoccupied, absent way (a soft, rather limp hand, perhaps because he was preoccupied). He said:

  'I don't believe I have your number.'

  'No, I don't believe you have,' was Tupra's response. 'Goodbye.'

  'Sir?' murmured Mulryan before disappearing, while, with both hands, he drew shut the two leaves of the door of that very unbureaucratic office, it was more reminiscent of the roo
ms of the various Oxford dons I had known, Wheeler's, Cromer-Blake's, Clare Bayes's, full of shelves overflowing with books, with a globe that looked like a genuine antique, the whole room was dominated by wood and paper, I saw no base materials, not even metal, I saw no filing cabinets, no computer. Mulryan murmured the word as if he were asking, in the manner of a major-domo, 'Anything else, sir?', but he looked more as if he was standing to attention (there was, however, no click of the heels). He was clearly devoted to his superior.

  And it was then, when we were alone, with Tupra seated behind his ample desk and me sitting opposite him, that, for the first time, he required of me something similar to what subsequently became my main task during the period that I remained in his employ, and which was related, too, in a way, to what Wheeler had half-explained to me on that Sunday in Oxford, in the morning and during lunch. Tupra ran a hand over his cheeks the colour of barley, always so close-shaven and smelling always of after-shave as if the lotion impregnated his skin or as if he were constantly, secretly, applying more, he smiled again, took out a cigarette which he placed loosely between his threatening lips (as if they were always pursed, ready to inhale), but he didn't light it for the moment, and so I didn't dare light mine either.

  'Tell me what you thought of him.' And with a lift of his head, he gestured towards the double doors. 'What did you learn about him?' And when I hesitated (I wasn't sure what he meant, he hadn't asked me anything about the Chileans or the Mexicans), he added: 'Say anything, whatever comes into your head, go on.' He usually withstood silence very well, except when it went against his own wishes or decisions; then his permanent state of vehemence and tension seemed to demand that he keep time filled up with things palpable, recognisable or countable. It was a different matter if the silence came from him.

  'Well,' I said, 'I don't know quite what this Venezuelan gentleman wants from you. Support and financial help, I assume. I suppose he's preparing for, or considering the possibility of a coup against President Hugo Chavez, that much I gleaned. He was in plain clothes, but judging by his appearance and by what he said, he could be a military man. Or, rather, I assume he's presented himself to you as such.'

  'What else? Anyone in your place and in your role could have deduced that, Mr Deza.'

  'What do you mean "what else", Mr Tupra?'

  'What makes you think he was a military man? Have you ever seen a Venezuelan military man?'

  'No. Well, only on television, like everyone else. Chavez is a military man, he calls himself Comandante, or Major, doesn't he, or Sub-Lieutenant, or perhaps Parachutist-in-Chief, I don't know. But naturally I can't be sure that this gentleman was a military man. I'm just saying that he probably presented himself to you as that. Or so I imagine.'

  'We'll come back to that later. What do you think of the plot, the threat of a coup against a government elected by a popular vote, more than that, by popular acclaim?'

  'I think it's terrible, the worst possible thing that could happen. Remember that my country suffered for forty years because of just such a coup. Three years of romantic war perhaps (romantic at least to English eyes), followed by thirty-seven years of destruction and oppression. But leaving theory aside, that is, leaving aside principles, I wouldn't really care in this particular case. Chavez led an attempted coup once, if I remember rightly. He conspired with his troops and rose up against an elected civilian government. True, it may have been a corrupt and thieving government, but then what government isn't nowadays, they handle far too much money and are more like businesses than governments, and businessmen want their profits. So he couldn't really complain if he was ousted. The Venezuelan people are another matter. They might. Except that there seem to have been quite a few complaints already about this leader whom they elected by popular acclaim. Being elected doesn't immunise a leader against becoming a dictator.'

  'You seem very well informed.'

  'I read the newspapers, I watch television. That's all.'

  'Tell me more. Tell me if the Venezuelan gentleman was telling the truth.'

  'About what?'

  'Generally. For example, as to whether, if it came to it, they would touch the Comandante or not.'

  'He said two different things about that.'

  Tupra looked slightly irritated, but only slightly. He gave me the impression that he was enjoying himself, that he liked this conversation and my quickness, once I had got over my initial hesitancy and once stimulated by his questioning, Tupra was a great one for asking questions, he never forgot what people had said in reply and so was able to return to that reply when the interrogatee least expected it and had forgotten about it, we forget what we say much more than what we hear, what we write much more than what we read, what we send much more than what we receive, that is why we barely count the insults we hand out to others, unlike those dealt out to us, which is why almost everyone harbours some grudge against someone.

  'I know that, Mr Deza. I'm asking you if either of those two things is true. In your opinion. Please.'

  That 'please' worried me. Later on, I learned that he always resorted to such formulae, 'if you would be so kind', 'if you wouldn't mind' when he was about to get really annoyed. On that occasion, I merely sensed this and so hastened to respond, without giving much thought to what I said and having given it no previous thought at all.

  'In my opinion, one was not true at all. The other was, but the context in which it was given wasn't.'

  'Explain that, will you?' He had still not lit the dangling cigarette, which, despite having a filter, would surely be getting soggy, I was familiar with the extravagant brand, Rameses II, Egyptian cigarettes made from slightly spicy-tasting Turkish tobacco, the lavish red packet on the desk looked like a drawing from Tintin, they would be very expensive nowadays, he must have bought them from Davidoff or Marcovitch or in Smith & Sons (if the last two still exist), I didn't recall him smoking them at Wheeler's house, perhaps he only smoked them in private. I didn't apply a match to my more commonplace cigarette either, although mine was still dry, my lips are not moist.

  I merely improvised, that's all. I had nothing to lose. Nor to gain either, I had been summoned to act as translator and had performed that role. Remaining there was a courtesy on my part, although Tupra did not make me feel this to be the case, rather, perhaps, the opposite, for he was one of those rare individuals who can ask for a loan and manage to make the person giving the loan feel that he is the debtor.

  'It didn't ring true to me at all that they were prepared to shoot the Lord High Parachutist, even if the success or failure of the operation depended on it. I did, therefore, believe him when he said that they wouldn't cause him any physical harm at all, if it turned out they couldn't get rid of him.'

  'And what was the untrue context for this truth?'

  'Well, as I say, I don't know why this gentleman came to see you, or what he wants to get out of you . . .'

  'Oh, nothing from me, or from us, we have nothing to give,' broke in Tupra. 'They sent him to us merely so that we could pass judgement, that is, give our opinion on how convincing or truthful he is. That's why I'm interested to know your views, you speak the same language, or perhaps it isn't the same any more. I mean, I can't understand half the dialogue in some American films, they'll have to start adding subtitles soon when they show them over here, maybe it's the same with Latin American Spanish. There are subtleties of vocabulary, expressions I can't recognise or appreciate in translation. Other sorts of subtlety I can, precisely because I can't understand what someone is saying, and that sometimes proves very useful. Words distract sometimes, you see, and hearing only the melody, the music, is often fundamental. Now tell me what you think.'

  Armed with boldness and indifference, I decided to improvise some more. I could hold out no longer, though, and finally lit a cigarette, not mine, however, but an expensive Rameses II, to which I asked his permission to help myself (he agreed of course, and didn't seem at all put out, although each cigarette must have cost around
fifty pence).

  'My impression is that there are no serious plans for a coup d'état. Or if there are, then this man will play no part in it or will have very little say in the matter. I assume you've checked his identity. If he's a soldier in exile or no longer in the army, or retired, an opponent with contacts in the country, but who acts from outside, then it's likely that his task is to raise funds based on nothing or based only on the vaguest of plans and on very tenuous information. And his own pockets may be the final destination for whatever money he does collect, after all, people tend not to ask questions or provide answers about money spent on abortive clandestine operations. If, on the other hand, he still is a soldier and has some authority, and is living in the country, and presents himself to us as someone regretfully betraying his leader for the good of the nation, then it's not impossible that the Comandante himself has sent him, to put out some feelers, to get in early, to make some enquiries, to be forewarned, and, if the opportunity arises, to raise funds from abroad that will doubtless end up in Chavez's own pockets, quite a clever move really. I also think that he might be neither one nor the other, that is, that he may not be and may never have been a military man. Anyway, I don't think he's behind anything serious, anything that would actually happen. As he himself said, the truth is what happens, which is a rough-and-ready way of saying just that. I would guess that this plan of his is never going to come to anything, with or without support, with or without financial help, internal, external or interplanetary.' I had got carried away by my own boldness, I stopped. I wondered if Tupra would say something now, even if only about the title under which the Venezuelan had presented himself to him (I had deliberately said 'presents himself to us', seeing that I was now included). 'If he doesn't,' I thought, 'he's obviously one of those people who is impossible to draw out, and who only says what he really means or what he knows he can safely reveal.' 'All this is pure speculation, of course,' I added. 'Impressions, intuitions. You did ask me for my impressions.'