Berta Isla

by Javier Marías

  ‘Goodness, you do have a good memory!’ I said in astonishment. They even remembered my first name, and yet I still had no memory of them at all, and the more I saw and heard them, the more I thought that, if I had talked with them at any length at a reception, I would definitely not have forgotten or erased their faces. The woman’s eyes were almost frightening when fixed, squinting, on nothing at all, as if in a trance, although when glancing from side to side, they seemed oddly ingenuous and defenceless.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said, defending himself. ‘Let’s just say that he, my noble ancestor, was the one who cast off the family. People do sometimes renounce things, even privileges, even happiness, even the very best of things, not to mention a quiet life. There are people who simply head off and never come back, who disappear, go missing, every family has its black sheep, individuals filled with some kind of deep unease, who don’t want to be who they are or are destined to be. They decide to lead a life entirely unsuited to either their birth or upbringing. Sometimes they vanish completely and their relatives say “Good riddance!” Do you know that English expression?’ Again, he pronounced the phrase like a native speaker, so he must have been bilingual. ‘It’s not quite the same as the Spanish saying: A enemigo que huye, puente de plata – literally, “If your enemy flees, build him a silver bridge” – because, for a start, he’s not the enemy, on the contrary, but that’s the general drift. And of course, if, one day, he did become an enemy, there’s no worse enemy than someone of your own blood or a spouse. But forgive me,’ he said, ‘I can be a bit of a chatterbox. Tell me, how is Thomas? I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘He’s in London. He spends quite long periods of time there because of his work.’

  ‘What!’ said Mary Kate, somewhat shocked. ‘He leaves you all alone with this little treasure, this cherub?’ And she coochie-cooed at Guillermo, waving her hands to attract his attention. Her various bracelets tinkled as if we were in a china shop after a visit from a bull. The baby enjoyed the noise, and Mary Kate again gesticulated like a mad thing, once or even twice.

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped. Work comes first. And Tomás is needed over there.’ When I addressed them both, I did so formally as ustedes; after all, Ruiz Kindelán had only addressed me as tú once and had then immediately corrected himself. Since I was very much their junior, I didn’t want to seem overly familiar. ‘But I manage fine. I have a nanny for part of the day and on any nights when I have to go out, and I get help from other people too, my mother, my mother-in-law, my sister and a friend. Children spend the first years of their lives entirely among women, we’re their universe, the one thing they have to hold on to and almost the only thing they feel and see. They depend on us for everything in order to survive. It’s odd how slight a mark that leaves on them, don’t you think? On men, I mean. Perhaps they’re in rebellion against their beginnings, against a world that was so much gentler than the one they discover later on. Perhaps it enrages them to have been at our mercy. I do hope Guillermo won’t turn out like that.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, dear Berta,’ said Mary Kate in her strong, possibly Irish accent. ‘According to the psychologists, the first months and years are the building blocks of the personality, and we women are totally responsible for that. Be in no doubt, we are the civilising force,’ and there she made a grammatical error in Spanish, omitting the irregular subjunctive, which some foreigners never do master, ‘and it doesn’t bear thinking what the coarser boys would be like if they hadn’t been cared for by us initially. They would be little better than animals. You can’t imagine some of the children you meet in Ireland, they’re worse even than in Spain and Italy, and that’s certainly saying something.’

  ‘Filthy little beasts,’ commented Ruiz Kindelán. He quickly realised, though, that his comment was both excessive and uncharitable, and tried to rectify this impression – rather difficult to do in the presence of a new young mother. ‘I mean, you do encounter some very wild, very feral children, especially in small towns. Spanish and Italian children are terribly spoiled and badly brought up, but Irish children are even fiercer. They’re very backward.’ It occurred to me that, in his childhood, assuming he’d spent it in Ireland – or even when he visited as an adult – he had probably been bullied and had stones thrown at him because he was so fat. The obese are always a favourite target of cruel people everywhere. ‘The priests do what they can, but it’s not enough,’ he added to my surprise, since I would have thought that the priests contributed in no small measure to the general backwardness.

  ‘More backward than in the villages here?’

  He thought about this for a second.

  ‘No, you’re right. You get some terrible bullies in Spanish villages too, and they’ll doubtless grow up to be complete oafs.’

  ‘Are you Irish?’ I asked. ‘Do you have children?’ Up until then, they had only told me their names, and no surname in the case of Mary Kate. I didn’t know what work they did nor why we’d met at that cocktail party at the embassy. The embassy wasn’t particularly choosy who they invited, but nor did it open its doors to just anyone. By then, they had sat down beside me on my bench, and I’d had to shift up to make room for them; it was distinctly cramped. They were invasive people, albeit pleasant and friendly.

  Mary Kate was Irish, and before she married, her name had been Mary Kate O’Riada (‘Like the composer, may he rest in peace,’ she said. ‘Some people pronounce it O’Reidy, others don’t.’ I had no idea who this composer was). Ruiz Kindelán was Spanish, but had lived part of his life in Dublin and travelled all over Ireland, which he knew like the back of his hand. They both worked at the Irish embassy, which is how they knew Tomás, and the reason why they were occasionally invited to parties and diplomatic suppers. No, they had no children. And now it was getting rather late for that.

  ‘Not that we’ve really tried. We’ve always been too busy.’ And Mary Kate squinted across at a pair of young ducks swimming in the lake, as if they reminded her of the children she hadn’t had, or perhaps as though children were no different from a few foolish creatures demanding to be fed. ‘We devote ourselves to each other,’ she added blandly. ‘Miguel looks after me, and I look after Miguel. We’re not just a married couple, we’re a team and almost always together. Until death do us part, and, with luck, death will take us both at the same time, isn’t that so, Miguel?’

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely.’

  In the four or five weeks that followed – which is how long that whole episode lasted, if I can continue to call it an episode, when it was probably more like fear and panic – I had the sense that they really did form a team and were always together. I never saw one without the other. Their appearances in the park became more frequent (they may have been there before, but I’d never noticed them), or they would find me in other parts of the neighbourhood, for they claimed to live close by, without ever specifying where, sometimes pointing vaguely in the direction of Paseo del Pintor Rosales. As befits a certain type of childless couple, they ‘adopted’ me very easily, even with alacrity. They seemed cheerful and amiable, protective and concerned, offering to help me in any way they could, even babysitting were that necessary (it wasn’t, and I would never have entrusted Guillermo to such recent acquaintances, ones who had introduced themselves, however affectionate they were, however unconditional they declared themselves to be). Up to a point, I allowed myself to be courted. I did sometimes feel very alone when Guillermo was still too small to let him out of my sight for a moment; initially, it’s terribly difficult to be away from a child for an instant, not to have him permanently in your arms, smelling his skin and wanting the world to stop right there, wanting him never to grow up and for everything else to be placed permanently on pause and for that situation to continue for ever, me and him, him and me, and for everything else to disappear. Nevertheless, it can be very isolating, and it was pleasant to have that gift of company and conversation, to feel protected by those parentally inclined ne
ighbours to whom I could turn in case of difficulty. They gave me their telephone number, and I gave them mine, and, from then on, they began to call me often, as if we were old friends, to find out how everything was going or if I needed anything, if they could run an errand for me or do me some other favour or service, if they could bring me something I’d forgotten or been unable to buy. I sometimes found it odd that they weren’t at the embassy in the morning, precisely when people are usually at their busiest; that was why, during the day, I couldn’t count on my mother, my mother-in-law, my sister or any of my friends, all of whom were busy women with things to do. One day, I asked them about this, and when they explained that they had a very flexible timetable, I gave the matter no further thought.

  During one of Tomás’s infrequent and always hurried phone calls, I mentioned them to him and told him how we’d met, and asked if he remembered them, given the familiar way in which the fat man had referred to him as Thomas, as had Mary Kate, although she was perhaps merely imitating her husband.

  ‘No, the name doesn’t ring a bell, not that I remember,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I saw their faces … But there’s nothing very odd about not remembering them. In my line of work, I go to so many cocktail parties and meetings and get-togethers of all kinds that, by the time the year is out, I’ll probably have spoken to hundreds of people. You talk to a person for a few minutes and instantly forget them, unless, of course, they happen to be particularly important or dazzling or make a big impression on you.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say they were dazzling exactly, but once seen, never forgotten; that’s why I find it so odd that I have no recollection of them. He’s enormously fat and she has a squint. She’s a very attractive woman, but that squint can be rather troubling.’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve no idea, perhaps I met them at some event organised by the AHGBI. Anyway, I’ve got to go now. I don’t have much time.’

  ‘The AHGBI?’ He had said those initials in English. ‘You never have much time, do you? What is it they make you do over there?’

  ‘The Association of Hispanists of Great Britain and Ireland. We organise events with them, and when any of their members visit Spain, they usually take the opportunity to drop in at the British Council or the embassy, especially if there’s a drinks do on. There have always been a lot of Irish visitors ever since Starkie was in charge, because, of course, he himself is Irish and very proud of having been the first professor of Spanish at Trinity College Dublin, and of having Samuel Beckett as a pupil. If you’re curious, ask him. He’s sure to know them.’

  Walter Starkie had been the founder and director of the British Institute, where Tomás had studied before transferring to my school. He was a good friend of my father-in-law, Jack, and had been a huge help to Tomás, and was, I imagine, partly responsible for his swift appointment to his current post. Now, after a long spell teaching in California, Starkie was coming back to live in Madrid, although he would die only a few months later, following a fatal asthma attack.

  ‘No, I don’t want to bother him, he’s very old now. And I’m not that curious. The fact is, they’re very kind to me. They make a huge fuss over Guillermo. The other day they dropped in and brought him all sorts of little presents. They’re really very pleasant and considerate.’

  I should have been more curious, that might have saved me from that whole episode, from the fear and the panic. Although it did also allow me to find out something more about Tomás.

  Miguel and Mary Kate often asked about him (we were soon on first-name terms and addressing each other as tú, because, already in the Spain of 1976, it was becoming difficult to maintain the more formal usted), and they did so with a somewhat insistent interest, which I took for deference, an attempt to console me, to show their solidarity with and concern for me.

  ‘What news of Thomas? Have you heard from him at all? What’s he up to in London? Or is he somewhere else now? Depending on what his job is, he’ll probably have to travel. What does he do exactly at the Foreign Office? Which department does he work for? And who’s his boss? We know various people there. He probably works with Reggie, a good friend of ours. Ask him if he knows Reggie Gathorne. He spends far too much time away from you, don’t you think? If he’s working with them on a temporary basis, it’s not really temporary enough, I’d say. They should bear in mind his family circumstances, because there’s really no justification for him being away so much when his son is still so young. Not that I wish to criticise him, you understand, and work is work, but he really should spend more time at home, because the first year in a child’s life is the most difficult, the one that requires most trouble and effort. I can see how exhausted you are, even though you have help. Besides, he’s missing out, young children change so quickly, from one day to the next. May I ask why he’s in such demand there? When does he think he’ll be back? What’s keeping him? It must be a very complicated job or mission or whatever. And he must miss you both enormously. He’ll be longing to see the two of you, especially you.’

  I couldn’t really answer their questions either precisely or imprecisely. The truth was that I knew almost nothing, not even the date of his return. I’d never heard him mention Reggie Gathorne and I’d never got a complete picture of his day-to-day life in London. Telling me about it seemed to bore him when he did come home, and it would have bored me to hear about it. I’ve never been the inquisitive sort, and even from when he was very young – from the time we first met as adolescents – there had always been an element of opacity about him, which had only grown over the years. The one sphere we truly shared – which was the largest and most essential, the one that really counted and on which every couple should count – was home, bed and the baby, the sphere of laughter and kisses and conversations containing no information or tedious details about work, the sphere of sheer pleasure in each other’s company, in going out together and being at each other’s side, face to face, or on top, or aware of each other’s breathing from behind. I suppose someone less modest would say ‘the sphere of our love’. And yes, I did miss him enormously and imagined that he missed me too. But what someone else feels always belongs to the world of the imagination. You never know for certain, you cannot even know if the most passionate declarations are true or mere interpretation or convention, if they are deeply felt or merely what the other person feels he or she should feel and is prepared to put into words. I really did long to see him, but whether he longed to see me, I have no idea. As I said, a silent weight kept him at a distance, whatever the weight was that he’d placed on his shoulders when he completed his studies at Oxford, the weight that had chosen him. Desires wane and fall asleep when the die is cast and one can no longer choose freely. In a way, there’s no room for them any more, or they seem mere chimeras, mere daydreams, and are fated to be discarded after a few moments of weakness.

  When the couple came to our apartment one day, in the middle of the morning, about a month had passed since my first meeting with them. Guillermo had been feverish all night, and I preferred to keep him in, not to expose him to anything. So they came to us instead, to see how Guillermo was doing. His temperature had gone down in the early hours, but he still seemed sleepy and tired, because he had cried a lot and not slept enough. I had barely slept a wink myself.

  For the first few minutes, Miguel, who was usually a jokey, animated, talkative fellow, seemed rather silent and irritated. They sat down on the sofa, and I sat in an armchair to their left, having brought in Guillermo’s cradle so that I could keep an eye on him; he lay at our feet between us. In those days, people smoked even in the presence of babies, and they were both smoking. Not heavily, but they were smoking nonetheless, just as Tomás and I did, for I had resumed the habit after having stopped for nine or ten months. Ruiz Kindelán took a cigarette from his leather cigarette case, but did not yet light it, passing it instead from hand to hand, or even placing it behind his ear like a mechanic or an old-fashioned shopkeeper.

  ‘Berta, there’s some
thing we need to talk about,’ he said suddenly, putting an end to the earlier small talk. He also set aside his rather irritated expression and attempted a smile, showing his small, square teeth, like miniature piano keys, trying to be his usual cordial, pleasant self, and speaking in a light tone so as not to worry me, even though those preliminary words never bode well, promising only misfortunes and abandonings and conflicts and bad news.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Well, there are two things really. One is that, with profound regret, we’ve come to say goodbye. Can you imagine, we’re being transferred. After all this time here in Madrid. It’s most unfair. You gradually build a life in one place, become fond of it, and suddenly you have to leave and start another life somewhere completely different. In our profession, as you know, it can happen at any moment; we’ve been dreading it for a while now, but the years have passed and we’ve managed to avoid it. Our luck has run out, though, and who knows when we’ll be able to come back or if we’ll be able to come back. At least they’ll be sending us to wherever it is together. We couldn’t possibly be separated. And that was always a danger. Remote perhaps, but a danger nonetheless.’

  ‘Miguel looks after me, and I look after Miguel,’ Mary Kate said, repeating the same words she’d spoken on that first day.

  ‘Well, I’m really sorry, for you and for me. It’s most unfortunate.’ I really did feel sorry, we so quickly get used to people who take our side, who are protective and helpful. ‘So you don’t know where they’re sending you yet?’

  ‘There are a couple of possibilities,’ said Ruiz Kindelán. ‘Sometimes they don’t tell you until the very last minute and then organise the transfer in great haste. It could be Italy, where we’ve been before, but it could also be Turkey, and we wouldn’t like that at all. They’re not Catholics, or even Christians, or only a handful of them are. The language is fiendishly difficult, appropriately enough, and not like any other. They say it’s vaguely like Hungarian, but that’s hardly a consolation. At least in Hungary we would be among Christians, although, apparently, there are quite a lot of Jews there too, if, that is, they managed to come back.’ They had never spoken openly about religion, but I had already gleaned, from passing remarks, that it was of great importance to them. They went to mass on Sundays, which they mentioned openly, and perhaps not only on Sundays. ‘We won’t be of much use in Ankara, but they’re short of personnel there, and we have to do what our bosses tell us, which isn’t to say that they’re right, of course. Anyway, the transfer is definitely imminent.’