2
Spear
We never know when we have entirely won someone’s trust, still less when we have lost it. I mean the trust of someone who would never speak of such things or make protestations of friendship or offer reproaches, or ever use those words — distrust, friendship, enmity, trust — or only as a mocking element in their normal representations and dialogues, as echoes or quotations of speeches and scenes from times past which always seem so ingenuous to us, just as today will seem tomorrow for whoever comes after, and only those who know this can save themselves the quickening pulse and the sharp intake of breath, and so not submit their veins to any unpleasant shocks. Yet it is hard to accept or to see this, and so hearts continue their somersaults, mouths their drynesses and inhalations, and legs their tremblings, how was I or how could I have been — men say to themselves — so stupid, so clever, so smug, so credulous, so dim, so sceptical, the trusting person is not necessarily more ingenuous than the wary, the cynic no less ingenuous than the person who surrenders unconditionally and places himself in our hands and offers us his neck for the last or the first blow, or his chest so that we can pierce it with our sharpest spear. Even the most suspicious and astute and the most cunning turn out to be slightly ingenuous when expelled from time, once they have passed and their story is known (it’s on everyone’s lips, which is how, ultimately, it takes shape). Perhaps that’s all it is, the ending and knowing the ending, knowing what happened and how things turned out, who was in for a surprise and who was behind the deception, who came off well or badly or who came out even or who did not bet at all and so ran no risk, who — nevertheless — came out the loser because he was dragged along by the current of the broad, rushing river, which is always crowded with gamblers, so many that eventually they manage to get all the passengers involved, even the most passive, even the indifferent, the scornful and the disapproving, the hostile and the reluctant; as well as those who live along the banks of the river itself. It doesn’t seem possible to remain apart, on the margins, to shut oneself up in one’s house, knowing nothing and wanting nothing — not even wanting to want anything, that’s not much use — never opening the mailbox, never answering the phone, never drawing back the bolt however loudly they knock, even if they seem about to break the door down, it doesn’t seem possible to pretend that no one lives there or that the person who did has died and doesn’t hear you, to be invisible at will and when one chooses, it isn’t possible to be silent and to eternally hold your breath while still alive, it’s not even entirely possible when you believe that you inhabit this earth no longer and have abandoned your name. It simply isn’t that easy, it isn’t that easy to erase everything and to erase yourself and for not a trace to remain, not even the last rim or the last remnant of a rim, it’s not easy simply to be like the bloodstain that can be washed and scrubbed and suppressed and then … then one can begin to doubt that it ever existed. And each vestige always drags behind it the shadow of a story, perhaps not complete, doubtless incomplete, full of lacunae, ghostly, hieroglyphic, cadaverous or fragmentary, like bits of a gravestone or like ruined pediments with fractured inscriptions, and sometimes it’s not even possible to know how a story really ended, as in the case of Andreu Nin and of my uncle Alfonso and his young friend with a bullet in her neck and no name at all, as in the case of so many others about whom I know nothing and about whom no one speaks. But the form is one thing and quite another the actual ending, which is always known: just as time is one thing and its content another, never repeated, infinitely variable, while time itself is homogeneous, unalterable. And it is that known ending which allows us to dub everyone ingenuous and futile, the clever and the stupid, the totally committed as well as the slippery and the evasive, the unwary, the cautious and those who hatched plots and set traps, the victims and the executioners and the fugitives, the innocuous and the malicious, from the position of false superiority — time will see it off, it will be time, time that will cure it — of those who have not yet reached their end and are still groping their way uncertainly forwards or walking lightly with shield and spear, or slowly and wearily with shield all battered and spear blunt and dull, without even realising that we will soon be with them, with those who have been expelled and those who have passed and then … then even our sharpest, most sympathetic judgements will be dubbed futile and ingenuous, why did she do that, they will say of you, why so much fuss and why the quickening pulse, why the trembling, why the somersaulting heart; and of me they will say: why did he speak or not speak, why did he wait so long and so faithfully, why that dizziness, those doubts, that torment, why did he take those particular steps and why so many? And of us both they will say: why all that conflict and struggle, why did they fight instead of just looking and staying still, why were they unable to meet or to go on seeing each other, and why so much sleep, so many dreams, and why that scratch, my fever, my word, your pain, and all those doubts, all that torment?
That’s how it is and will always be, Tupra more or less said as much to me on one occasion, and Wheeler said so quite clearly the following morning and over lunch. And if Tupra said it less clearly it was doubtless because he would never talk about such things or use words like ‘distrust’, ‘friendship’, ‘enmity’ or ‘trust’, at least not seriously, not in relation to himself, as if none of those words could apply to him or touch him or have any place in his experiences. ‘It’s the way of the world,’ he would say sometimes, as if that really was all one could say on the subject, and as if everything else were mere ornament and possibly unnecessary torment. I don’t think he expected anything, either loyalty or treachery, and if he came across one or the other, he didn’t seem particularly surprised, nor did he take any precautions other than sensible practical ones. He didn’t expect admiration or affection, but neither did he expect ill will or malice, even though he knew full well that the earth is infested with both the former and the latter, and that sometimes individuals can avoid neither and, indeed, choose not to, because these are the fuse and the fuel for their own combustion, as well as their reason and their igniting spark. And they do not require a motive or a goal for any of this, neither aim nor cause, neither gratitude nor insult, or at least not always, according to Wheeler, who was more explicit: ‘they carry their probabilities in their veins, and time, temptation and circumstance will lead them at last to their fulfilment’.
So I never knew if I ever did win Tupra’s trust, nor if I lost it or when, perhaps there was no one moment for either of those two phases or changes of mind, or perhaps one could not have given it a name, or not those names, of winning or losing. He didn’t talk about such things, in fact, there was almost nothing about which he did speak clearly and directly, and had it not been for Wheeler’s preliminary explanations on that Sunday in Oxford, it is quite possible that I would have known nothing either precise or imprecise about my duties, and that I would not even have guessed at their sense or their object. Not, of course, that I ever knew or understood this entirely: what was done with my rulings or reports or impressions, for whom they were ultimately intended or what purpose they served exactly, what consequences they would bring or, indeed, if they had any consequences, or belonged, on the contrary, to that category of task and activity which certain organisations and institutions carry out simply because they always have, and because no one can remember why these things were done in the first place or cares to question why they should continue. Sometimes I thought perhaps they simply filed them away, just in case. A strange expression, but one which justifies everything: just in case. Even the most absurd things. I don’t think it happens any more, but any traveller visiting the United States used to be asked whether he or she had any intention of making an attempt on the life of the American President. As you can imagine, no one ever replied in the affirmative — it was a declaration made under oath — unless they wanted to make a joke, which could prove very costly on that stern, uncompromising border — least of all the hypothetical assassin or jackal wh
o had disembarked with precisely that aim or mission in mind. The thinking behind this absurd question was, it seems, that should a foreigner take it into his or her head to assassinate Eisenhower or Kennedy or Lyndon Johnson or Nixon, then perjury could be added to the main charge; in other words, they asked the question in order to catch people out — just in case. I never understood, however, the relevance or advantage of that extra aggravating factor when used against someone accused of bumping off or trying to bump off the highest-ranking person in the land, a crime which would, one imagines, be of a gravity difficult to surpass. But that is the way with things that are done just in case. They anticipate the most unlikely and improbable events and are drawn up on that basis, and almost always in vain, since those events almost never happen. They perform fruitless or superfluous tasks that probably never serve any purpose or are never even used, they are based on eventualities and imaginings and hypotheses, on nothing, on the non-existent, on what never happens and has never happened. Just in case.
Initially, I was summoned three times in the short space of about ten days to act as interpreter, although they doubtless could have used others paid by the hour or some semipermanent member of staff like Pérez Nuix, the young woman whom I met later on. On two of those occasions I barely had to do anything, for the two Chileans and the three Mexicans with whom Tupra and his subordinate Mulryan shared two rapid lunches — all five were dull men engaged on dull business, vaguely diplomatic, vaguely legislative and parliamentary — spoke reasonable, utilitarian English, and my presence in the restaurant was only necessary to clear up the occasional lexical doubt and so that the final terms of the draft agreements they apparently reached were clear to both parties and left no room for subsequent misunderstandings, voluntary or involuntary. In fact, all I had to do was to summarise. I didn’t understand much of what they were talking about, as happens in any language when I’m not really interested in what my ears are hearing. I mean that while I did, of course, understand the words and the phrases and had no problem converting them and reproducing them and transmitting them too, I understood neither the subjects discussed nor their respective backgrounds, they simply didn’t interest me.
The third occasion was much odder and more amusing, and I had to do more to earn my money, because I was summoned to Tupra’s office where I had to translate what seemed to me to be some sort of interrogation. Not that of a detainee or a prisoner or even a suspect, but possibly — shall we say — of an infiltrator or a turncoat or an informer whom Tupra and Mulryan did not as yet quite trust, both of them asked questions (but Mulryan more often, Tupra held back) which I repeated in Spanish to a tall, burly, middle-aged Venezuelan, dressed in civilian clothes and looking somewhat uncomfortable, or, rather, uneasy and unnatural, as if the clothes were borrowed and temporary and recently acquired, as if he felt insecure and a bit of a fraud without the more than probable uniform to which he was doubtless accustomed. With his stiff moustache and his broad, tanned face, his agile eyebrows separated only by two coppery brushstrokes that flanked the brief space between the eyebrows like two tiny tufts of hair transported from chin to forehead, with his convex chest perfect for showing off rows of medals and yet far too bulky to be contained by a simple white shirt, dark tie and pale double-breasted suit (an odd sight in London, he looked as if he was about to burst out of it, the three buttons firmly done up like a reminder of his army jacket), I had not the slightest difficulty in imagining him wearing the peaked cap of a Latin American military man, in fact, the thick, wiry, grizzled hair that grew too low down on his forehead cried out for a patent leather peak that would provide a focus of attention and would hide or disguise that overly invasive hairline.
Mulryan’s questions, plus the occasional one from Tupra, were polite, but quick and very much to the point (both of them seemed always to go straight to the point, in their conversations with jurists and senators too, or with Chilean and Mexican diplomats, they weren’t prepared to spend any longer than was necessary, they were clearly trained and experienced negotiators, and didn’t mind if they seemed somewhat abrupt), and I realised that they expected the same from my translations, that I should exactly reproduce not just the words but also the sense of haste and the rather sharp tone, and when I hesitated a couple of times because such an absolute lack of preambles and circumlocutions does not always sit well in my language, Mulryan, on both occasions, made a gentle but unequivocal gesture with two fingers together, indicating that I should hurry up and not bother inventing my own formulations. The Venezuelan military man did not know a word of English, but he paid as much attention to the voices of the two British men while they were asking their questions as he did to mine when I was providing him with the meaning of their interrogations, although, inevitably, when he gave his replies, he looked at me and spoke to me, even though I was merely the messenger, all too aware that I was the only one who would immediately understand him. Not that I understood a great deal more of what was talked about, or understood with any great precision the background to the matters discussed, but my curiosity was definitely more aroused than during the two lunches, which were truly soporific and whose subject-matter had proved far more abstruse for a layman. I remember translating questions for that disguised, ill-at-ease military man about what forces could be rallied by him and his colleagues, whoever they were, the guaranteed and the probable numbers, and that he replied that nothing was ever guaranteed in Venezuela, that anything guaranteed was only ever probable, and that the probable was always a complete unknown. And I remember that this answer irritated Mulryan, who tended to the absolutely specific and precise, and provoked one of Tupra’s interventions, Tupra being perhaps more used to vagueness and evasion from his years of possible adventures abroad, and his various jobs and missions in the field, and from agreements he had brokered with insurrectionists, or so I thought, having constructed this past for him the moment I met him at Wheeler’s house. ‘Tell me the probable numbers then,’ he said, thus dealing with both the interrogatee’s reservations and Mulryan’s bad temper. He also asked about the logistical support guaranteed ‘from abroad’, which I translated as ‘desde el extranjero’, adding ‘exterior, de fuera, just so that there would be no misunderstandings. He doubtless understood, as I did, that this was a euphemism referring to one specific source of support, the United States. He replied that this depended in large measure on the result and popularity of the first phase of operations, that ‘people from outside’ always waited until the last moment before taking part in any enterprise and committing themselves fully, ‘lock, stock and barrel’, that was the expression he used, perhaps here in both the literal and figurative sense. However, seeing Mulryan’s visible and growing irritation, he added that ‘el Ambásador’ — that’s what he called him, in English but with a strong Spanish accent, thus clearing up any possible doubt as to who he meant — had promised them immediate official recognition if there were little opposition or if this remained, from the start, ‘emburbujada’ — ‘enbubbled’ — I had never heard this ridiculous word in Spanish before, but I had no problem understanding it. The term struck me as distinctly unmartial, more suited to some foolish, smooth-talking politician or some equally foolish top executive, the modern equivalents of snake-oil salesmen.
‘And do you think that’s likely, that there will be no resistance or that it will be reduced to a few isolated pockets?’ Mulryan asked (that is how I had translated the absurd word, faithfulness here would have been not only difficult but embarrassing). And he added: ‘That hardly seems feasible with such a stubborn, argumentative leader, one who was idolised in his day, I mean, I imagine he still has a lot of loyal supporters. And if there’s strong resistance, the people from outside won’t lift a finger or recognise anyone until they see that the situation has gone one way or the other, and that could take time. They’ll await events, but I imagine they’ve told you as much already.’
‘Well, yes, that’s possible, and that is, perhaps, how we should understand
their advice. But if we don’t touch the leader, don’t harm him physically I mean, I doubt that many units would risk their lives defending his office, nor would many Venezuelan citizens. The current widespread discontent would work in our favour, and, as long as we promise early elections, the full support of the traditional political class is guaranteed.’
Your Face Tomorrow: Fever and Spear Page 19