Whenever I saw that he was playing a game, I would usually join in, just as, when I saw that he was enjoying himself, I would try to prolong his enjoyment. So I said what he wanted me to say, even though I knew what his reply would be or simply so that he could give me that reply:
‘Well, I’m asking you now, Peter, urgently. I assure you that nothing in the world could ever be of more interest to me. Go on, tell me now about those mysterious adventures of yours in the Second Peninsular War.’
‘Now don’t exaggerate, we weren’t, alas, quite as involved in it as we were in the First.’ Needless to say, he had got the joke, for in England what we Spanish call the War of Independence is known as the Peninsular War, and the English, unlike us, have written numerous books about the campaign, a campaign they consider to be theirs. It’s interesting how names vary according to the point of view, beginning with the names of conflicts. What is known everywhere as the First World War or the 1914–18 War or even the Great War is, for the Italians, officially known as La Guerra del Quindici-Diciotto, because it wasn’t until 1915 that they entered the fray. ‘No, it’s too late,’ Wheeler was still firmly in exasperating mode, ‘and tomorrow we won’t have time, we have various other matters to discuss. You should have made the most of past opportunities, you see. You have to plan ahead, to anticipate.’ He was still smiling. He tried again to get up and this time managed it, leaning both on his walking-stick and on the banister. He really was very strong for his age, he got up almost without effort or difficulty, quickly, and his socks or knee socks finally succumbed completely, I watched as they slid synchronously down to his ankles. When we were both standing (I too got up from my library steps, I could hardly remain seated, my manners, too, are slightly outmoded), he leaned on the banister and brandished the walking-stick in his left hand, the tip uppermost, as if it were a whip rather than a spear, and suddenly he reminded me of a lion-tamer. ‘But before we say good night,’ he added, ‘as regards Tupra and Beryl, I take it from your remarks, that is, I deduce,’ he pronounced each word slowly now, perhaps he was choosing them with great care, or, more likely, savouring them, together and individually, with mocking cynicism, ‘that I failed to mention that Tupra did not, in the end, come with his new girlfriend, as he had at first told me he would, but with his ex-wife, Beryl. Beryl is his most recent ex-wife, you didn’t know that, did you? Didn’t I tell you? But then, of course, it’s obvious.’
Now I smiled too or perhaps even laughed, I lit another cigarette, more smoke, companionable, friendly smoke, I must admit that sometimes I find barefaced cheek extremely amusing. Of course, it depends entirely on who the perpetrator is, in such minor matters one must learn to be unfair.
‘Come on, Peter, you know perfectly well you didn’t tell me, besides, why on earth would you tell me about such a change, which was no concern of mine, although now I’m beginning to think that perhaps it should have been, for some reason which you know, but which I do not. You just casually mentioned his new girlfriend over the phone, that was all. What are you up to? There seems to me to be nothing very casual about any of this, am I right? What is this, a game, a test, a puzzle, a bet?’ And then I remembered one tiny detail: so that was why Wheeler, always so proper in his introductions, had omitted Beryl’s surname when he introduced us. It wasn’t very improper if it was the same as that of her companion and could be deduced as such. ‘Mr Tupra, whose friendship goes back even further. And this is Beryl,’ he had said, and it was possible to assume that her name was ‘Beryl Tupra’, if that still was her name, and she had not replaced it with another by marrying someone else, for example. If she had been the new girlfriend, Peter would have made a point of finding out her whole name so that he could introduce her properly. He was not an imitator of namby-pamby innovations, indeed I had heard him rail against the current custom, more suited to adolescents, but ingrained now even amongst many silly adults, of depriving people of their surnames when introducing them for the first time, the equivalent of the near universal use of the informal ‘tú’ in my own language.
Needless to say, he did not answer my question. It was late, his schedule had been drawn up, or he had arranged his timetable for that weekend, and he would deal with whatever he wanted to deal with when he wanted to.
‘It’s interesting, remarkable really, that despite not knowing all that, you were still able to discover the true nature of their relationship, and without having seen them together except at a distance,’ he said, and raised his walking-stick to his shoulder, like the rifle of a soldier on parade or on guard, with the handle as the rifle butt, it was a meditative gesture. ‘Tupra has serious doubts at the moment, or so he told me. They finally separated a year ago, after some big bust-up or after a long decline, then about six months ago, they applied for a divorce by mutual consent. The decree is about to be made absolute, so I don’t think they are yet technically ex-spouses. And as often happens when a change is imminent, one of them, Beryl, has suggested that they get back together, stop the whole process and try again. Despite the new girlfriend (not that she’ll prove crucial, lately Tupra has been getting through girlfriends rather too quickly), and Tupra doesn’t know what to do. After all, he’s a certain age, he’s been married twice already and Beryl was very important to him, enough for him to miss that importance, I mean miss her being important to him, even when, in my view, she isn’t any more. On the one hand, he’s tempted by the thought of going back, but, on the other, he doesn’t really trust it. He knows that she’s not doing brilliantly either romantically or financially, even though she wouldn’t do badly out of the divorce, since he’s hardly opposed a single one of her requests. But Beryl is used to leading a more comfortable life, or used, shall we say, to the unexpected treats, to the pleasant surprises so frequent in Tupra’s profession, to the little extras, paid in kind. And, of course, to not being alone. He’s afraid, that is, he suspects, this is the only reason she wants to come back, out of fear and impatience, rather than out of genuine nostalgia or a stubborn fondness for him, not because she’s reconsidered (let’s not talk about love here), but because her situation hasn’t improved in the last year, probably contrary to her expectations. It seems she hasn’t even made a new life for herself, as they say, and since she’s not as young as she was, she doesn’t know how to wait or to trust, for she suddenly feels time pressing and has forgotten how, because women, you know, only stop being young when they think they’re not young any more, it’s not so much age as self-belief that makes them old, they’re the ones who give up on themselves. So Tupra is testing her out at the moment, he’s left the door ajar, he’s not rejecting her, he ferries her around, gauges her behaviour, they even go out together occasionally. He wants to wait and see. But Tupra is worried that Beryl is just pretending. Playing for time and getting temporary backing until a better substitute, who has not yet appeared, comes along: someone who will take a fancy to her or love her, someone she likes.’
Tupra’s profession. Again it did not escape my notice. But I put it to one side and could not help but be somewhat acerbic. None of this rang true of a man like Mr Tupra, that is, the man I thought I had glimpsed. Anything was possible, of course. It’s a well-known fact that those with most choice almost always choose badly.
‘He must have it really bad,’ I said, ‘he must be completely blind if he’s only “worried”. It stands out a mile that she’s more interested in almost any other possible future than in a present existence spent by his side. Obviously I can’t be sure, but, I don’t know, it was as if from time to time she would suddenly remember that she was supposed to be trying to win back her husband, which, as you say, is her announced intention, and then she would try a bit harder for a while, or, rather, she would apply herself to routinely pleasing or even flattering him, I suppose. But she wasn’t even capable of remembering that reminder or of making that impulse last, it must be too artificial, pure invention, it doesn’t even exist in ghost form, and, as you know, the hardest part about fictions
is not creating, but maintaining them, because, left to their own devices, they tend to fall apart. It takes a superhuman effort to keep them in the air.’ I stopped, perhaps I’d gone too far, I sought solid, prosaic support. ‘I mean, even De la Garza could see that Beryl no le hacía ni puto caso, that’s what he saw and said, he didn’t mince his words. And I think he was right, he had a good look at Beryl because he thought she was pistonuda, that’s what he said, you know. Or perhaps that was what he said about the widowed deaness, but it doesn’t matter: he barely took his eyes off Beryl, especially from the waist down and from the thighs up.’
I shifted into Spanish where I had to: ‘no le hacía ni puto caso’ — she didn’t take the least bit of notice of him — ‘pistonuda’ — fucking gorgeous. Untranslatable really. Or perhaps not, there’s a translation for everything, it’s just a question of working at it, but I wasn’t prepared to do that work then. The reappearance of my language made Wheeler move into it momentarily too.
‘“Pistonuda”? “Pistonuda” did you say?’ He asked this with a degree of confusion as well as annoyance, he didn’t like to discover gaps in his knowledge. ‘I don’t know that term. Although I think I can grasp what it means. Is it the same as “cojonuda”?’
‘Well, yes, pretty much. But don’t worry, Peter. I can’t really explain it to you now, but I’m sure you’ve understood it perfectly.’
Wheeler scratched himself just above one sideburn. Not that he wore them long or carefully sculpted, not at all, but he was, in his own way, elegant; he didn’t lack sideburns either, certainly not, he wasn’t one of those obscene men who do not frame their faces with hair, faces that look fat even when they’re not. They are bad people in my experience (with, in my experience, one major exception, there’s always one, which is awkward and disconcerting, it really throws you), almost as bad as someone who sports a chin-tuft, a newgate frill, an imperial. (Proper goatee beards are another matter.)
‘I assume it has something to do with pistons,’ he muttered, suddenly deep in thought. ‘Although I can’t really see the connection, unless it’s like that other expression “de traca”, which I do know, I learned it a few months ago. Do you use “de traca”? Or is it very vulgar?’
‘It’s the kind of thing young people say.’
‘I really should visit Spain more often. I’ve visited so rarely in the last twenty years that I’ll be incapable of reading and understanding a newspaper soon, colloquial language changes all the time. Don’t do yourself down, though. Rafita may not be quite as imbecilic as we thought, and if so, I’d be very pleased for his good father’s sake. But his perceptive powers are nothing in comparison with yours, you can be quite sure about that, so don’t delude yourself.’
I noticed that he looked suddenly tired. A few minutes before he had been jolly, smiling vivaciously, now he seemed worn out, sunk in himself. And then I noticed my own tiredness too. For a man his age, such a long, busy day must have been utterly exhausting, with all the preparations, the fuss, the waiters, the party, the cigarette smoke and the clever comments, lots of drink and lots of talk. Perhaps the final surrender of his socks had been the limit, or the cause.
‘Peter,’ I said, perhaps out of superstition, and showing a definite lack of prudence, ‘I don’t know if you realise, but your socks have slipped down.’ And I managed to point with one timid finger at his ankles.
He immediately pulled himself together, blinked away his fatigue and had sufficient presence of mind not to look down and check. Perhaps he’d already noticed, perhaps he knew and didn’t care. His gaze had grown sombre or dull now, his eyes were two newly extinguished match-heads. He smiled again, but feebly this time, or with fatherly compassion. And he reverted to English, it was less of an effort for him, as it is for me to speak in my own language.
‘Another time I would have been infinitely grateful to you for pointing that out, Jacobo. But it’s of little importance now. I’m going to get straight into bed and I’ll be sure to take them off first. We’d both better get some sleep if we’re to be fresh in the morning, we have a lot of unfinished business to deal with. Thanks for telling me, though. Good night.’ He turned and started up the stairs that lay between him and the second floor, where he had his bedroom, the guest room that I would occupy and had occupied on other occasions was on the third and penultimate floor. As he turned, Wheeler accidentally kicked the ashtray, which was still there along with the corpse of his cigar. It rolled away, without breaking, its fall cushioned by the carpeted area on which the ash fell like snow, I hurried to pick it up when it was still spinning. Wheeler heard and identified the noise, but did not turn round. Still with his back to me, he said, unconcernedly: ‘Don’t bother cleaning it up. Mrs Berry will restore order tomorrow. She can’t stand dirt. Good night.’ And with the aid of his walking-stick and the banister, he began the ascent, overwhelmed once more by exhaustion, as if a great wave had suddenly broken over him, leaving him soaked and shaken, a suddenly dislocated figure, slightly shrunken despite his great size, as if he were shivering, his steps hesitant, each stair a struggle, his lovely new shiny shoes seeming to weigh heavily, his walking-stick merely a stick now. I listened, I could hear very clearly the quiet or patient or languid murmur of the river. It seemed to be talking, calmly or indifferently, almost indolently, a thread. A thread of continuity, the River Cherwell, between the dead and the living with all their similarities, between the dead Rylands and the living Wheeler.
‘Sorry, Peter, can I just delay you a second longer? I wanted to ask you …’
‘Yes?’ said Wheeler, stopping, but still not turning round.
‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get to sleep straight away. I imagine you’ve got Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia and Thomas’s history of the Spanish Civil War somewhere. I’d like to have a quick look at them, to check something before I go to bed, if you don’t mind, that is. If you wouldn’t mind lending them to me, and if they’re more or less to hand.’
Now he did turn round. He raised his walking-stick and with it indicated a place above my head, moving the stick gently from side to side to his left, that is, to my right, like a pointer. His muscles had slackened, his skin, like tree bark or damp earth, seemed suddenly terribly worn.
‘Almost everything about the Spanish Civil War is in there, in the study, behind you. The west bookshelf.’ Then, irritated, he said in scolding tones: ‘“I imagine”, he says. “I imagine.” Of course I’ve got them. I am a Hispanist, remember. And although I’ve written about centuries of greater interest and momentum, the twentieth century is still my period too, you know, the one I’ve lived through. And yours too, by the way. Even though you’ve got a lot of the next century to live through as well.’
‘Yes, sorry, Peter, and thanks. I’ll go and find them now, if that’s all right. Sleep well. Good night.’
He turned his back on me again, he only had a few more stairs to climb. He knew I wouldn’t take my eyes off him until I saw that he’d reached the top, safe and sound, I feared those too-smooth soles. And doubtless knowing this, he didn’t even turn his head when he spoke to me again for the last time that night, but continued to present me with the back of his neck as the obscure origin of his words. With its wavy white hair, the back of his neck was the same as Rylands’s, like a carved capital grown blurred over time. From behind they were even more alike, the two friends, the similarities even more marked. From behind they were identical.
‘If you’re thinking of looking me up in the index of names, to see if I appear and to find out what I did in the Civil War, don’t lose a minute’s sleep over it. I don’t think Orwell’s book even has that kind of index. Bear in mind, too, that in Spain my name wasn’t Wheeler.’
I couldn’t see his face, but I was sure that he’d recovered his vivacious smile while he was saying this. I didn’t know whether to reply or not. I did:
‘I see. So what did you call yourself then?’
I saw that he was tempted to turn round again, b
ut each time he did so was something of an effort, at least it was that night, at that late hour.
‘That’s asking an awful lot, Jacobo. Tonight anyway. Perhaps another time. But as I say, don’t waste your time, you’ll never find me in those indices of names. Not in those of that period.’
‘Don’t worry, Peter, I won’t,’ I said. ‘Actually, that isn’t what I wanted to look up, honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to me. I wanted to check something else.’ I fell silent. He did not move. He did not speak. He still did not move. He still did not speak. I added quickly, anxious not to slight him, ‘It’s an excellent idea though.’
Wheeler had just climbed to the top of the stairs in silence. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him there. Then he again placed his walking-stick on his shoulder, he again turned it into a spear, and, flattered, he mumbled, without looking back at me, while he turned to the left and disappeared from view:
‘An excellent idea, indeed!’
Books speak in the middle of the night just as the river speaks, quietly and reluctantly, or perhaps the reluctance stems from our own weariness or our own somnambulism and our own dreams, even though we are or believe ourselves to be wide awake. Our contribution is minimal, or so we think, we have the feeling of understanding almost effortlessly and without needing to pay much attention, the words slip by gently or indolently, and without the obstacle of the alert reader, or of vehemence, they are absorbed passively, as if they were a gift, and they resemble something easy and incalculable that brings no advantage, their murmur, too, is tranquil or patient or languid, those words are a connecting thread between the living and the dead, when the author being read is already deceased, or perhaps not, but who interprets or relates past events that show no sign of life and yet can be modified or denied, can be seen as vile deeds or heroic exploits, which is their way of remaining alive and continuing to trouble us, never allowing us to rest. And it is in the middle of the night that we ourselves most resemble those events and those times, which can no longer contradict what is said about them or the stories or analyses or speculations of which they are the object, just like the defenceless dead, even more defenceless than when they were alive and over a longer period of time too, for posterity lasts infinitely longer than the few, evil days of any one man. Even then, when they were still in the world, few could undo misunderstandings or refute calumnies, often they didn’t have time, or didn’t even have the chance to try because they knew nothing about them, because such things always happened behind their backs. ‘Everything has its moment to be believed, even the craziest, most unlikely things,’ Tupra had said casually. ‘Sometimes that moment lasts only a matter of days, but sometimes it lasts forever.’
Your Face Tomorrow: Fever and Spear Page 11