It was a very disagreeable feeling, more than that, it was incomprehensible, to discover that I could provoke such fear in someone. It was doubtless by association, by assimilation, after all, I hadn’t even touched him, perhaps De la Garza assumed that we always went around together and was afraid that Tupra might suddenly hove into view behind me. I was, however, alone and had gone there without the knowledge of my boss, who would not have been in the least amused by my visit. ‘Tell him not to phone you to demand an explanation, but to leave you alone, to forget he ever knew you,’ Tupra had told me to tell him, to translate those words to the fallen man, before he abandoned De la Garza, brushing his face with the tail of his armed coat as he left. ‘Tell him to accept that there’s no reason to demand an explanation, that there are no grounds for complaints or protest. Tell him not to talk to anyone, to keep quiet, not even to recount it later as some kind of adventure. But tell him always to remember.’ And Rafita had followed those instructions to the letter, he had invented some tall story to explain his battered state to friends and colleagues. And, of course, he would have remembered, indeed, he would have done little else since then, a bundle of nerves day and night, awake and asleep, night and day, even though he later had the cheek to sing a rap song to Rico and commit other unimaginable acts of nincompoopery. When he saw me there, so close, in the corridor, perhaps, from his point of view, stalking him, he might have been panicked into thinking that I was the one who would never leave him in peace or forget him. ‘He could have been left with no head, he came very close,’ Reresby had added. ‘But since he didn’t lose it, tell him there’s still time, another day, any day, we know where to find him. Tell him never to forget that, tell him the sword will always be there.’ I had omitted those last few words, I hadn’t translated them, I had refused to endorse them, but I had translated the rest. Everything would have remained engraved on De la Garza’s memory, despite his diminished consciousness after the shock of the sharp steel and being hurled against the blunt cylindrical bars: ‘We know where to find you.’ Nothing could be truer, and now I had found him and I was his terror, his threat.
‘He’s absolutely terrified of me,’ I thought fleetingly. ‘But how can that be, I can’t recall having terrified anyone very much before, and yet here’s this man, frozen to the spot and consumed with the horror he feels on seeing me, even though he’s here in his inviolable office, in the Embassy, along with a member of the Spanish Academy, objectively speaking safe and sound, why, all he’d have to do is shout and fellow diplomats and the odd vigilante or guard would be here in a trice. However, his feeling is that they would arrive too late if I had a gun or a sword or a knife and used them on him right away, with no thought for my own fate and without saying a word, that is what he knows intuitively, or perhaps the memory is still all too vivid of that moment when he first glimpsed the double-edged sword and knew there was nothing he could do to save himself: death comes in a second, one moment you’re alive and the next, without realizing it, you’re dead, that’s how it is sometimes and, of course, all the time during wars and bombardments from on high, that widespread practice, which, however customary and accepted it may have become, is always illegitimate and always dishonorable, far more so than the crossbow in the days of Richard Yea and Nay, that changeable Coeur de Lion who was slain by an arrow from a dishonorable crossbow at the end of the twelfth century: you hear the bang and see and hear nothing more, and it won’t be you, but possibly someone else who’s still alive, who will hear the whistle of the bullet that embeds itself in your forehead. Yes, right now, this man would do anything I ordered him to do, his dread of me—or rather of Tupra, whose representative or henchman or symbol I am—is something he not only experienced in reality for a few minutes that would have seemed to him, as they had to me, an eternity, he would also often have anticipated it, asleep and awake: perhaps he saw us striding towards him like two hired assassins come to slice him up, perhaps we had appeared in his nightmares of being chased and caught, then chased and caught again, and perhaps we have sat heavy on his soul since then.’ Because ‘even dreams know that your pursuer usually catches up with you, and they’ve known it since the Iliad,’ as Tupra had said to me that night, somewhat later, the two of us sitting in his car outside the door to my apartment, where he believed someone was waiting for me, but where there was no one, only the lights still on and possibly the dancer opposite.
Then I strode quickly into the room and spoke. I walked into the office and said confidently, almost jovially:
‘So, how are you doing, Rafita? I can see you’ve made an excellent recovery.’ And I added at once, so that he would see I was keen to keep up appearances and that my intentions were not violent or aggressive. ‘Forgive me bursting in like this. Won’t you introduce me?’And I went straight over to Professor Rico, who made not the slightest effort to get up, but merely held out one hand to me, the way grand ladies used to do, reaching out as far as he could without actually moving, he had a most distinguished hand and a most elegant shirt-cuff, by Cupri or Sensatini at the very least, excellent brands, I shook it warmly (his hand that is). And since De la Garza still did not respond or utter a word (he just stared at me, terrified, so afraid that he didn’t even stop me approaching Rico, in fact, he wouldn’t have stopped me doing anything, I could, I realized, do what I liked), I introduced myself: ‘Jacques Deza, Jacobo Deza. You’re Don Francisco Rico, aren’t you? The celebrated scholar.’
It pleased him to be recognized and he deigned to answer, doubtless for that reason alone, for his general attitude revealed no actual interest (whoever I might be, I was, after all, already stigmatized as someone he associated with that rapper-attaché).
‘Deza, Deza … Aren’t you a friend or acquaintance or student … or, er, whatever … of Sir Peter Wheeler? Your name rings a bell.’ Both men were great scholarly figures, and I was aware that they knew and admired each other.
‘Yes, I’m a very good friend of his, Professor.’
‘I knew the name rang a bell. I recognized it. He must have mentioned you to me once, although I’ve no idea why. But it definitely rang a bell,’ he said, pleased with his own retentive memory.
De la Garza wasn’t listening to this superficial exchange. He had moved away from me and was now standing behind his desk as if his desk would protect him and so that he could run away if necessary.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he asked suddenly, but despite the expletive, his tone was neither hostile nor ill-tempered, but imploring, as if all he wanted was for me to magically disappear (for the terrible vision, the bad dream to go away) and wishing with all his might that I would reply: ‘I’m off now. I don’t want anything. I was never here.’
‘Nothing, Rafita, I just wanted to reassure myself that you’d recovered from your accident, that there weren’t any aftereffects. I happened to be passing and it occurred to me to pop in and ask you, I’ve been worried. It’s a purely friendly visit, I won’t stay long, so don’t get uptight about it. So, are you all right? Completely better? I’m really sorry about what happened, I mean it.’ ‘What happened? What accident?’ asked Rico skeptically. ‘Having seen what I’ve seen and heard what I’ve heard, no accident could possibly be serious enough,’ he added under his breath, but perfectly audibly.
Rafita, however, paid no attention to this harsh comment, he had relegated the Professor and his annoyance to the background, he was too preoccupied with me, alert and tense, as if he feared that at any moment, I would leap at his throat like a tiger. This was an odd sensation for me, almost amusing at first, because I knew myself to be incapable of harming him and had no wish to do so. I knew that, but he did not and contrary to what teachers believe, knowledge is not transmissible; one can only persuade. I found the gulf between his perception and my knowledge almost funny, and yet, at the same time, it was distressing to have someone see me that way, as a danger, as someone threatening and violent. De la Garza was almost beside himself, on tenterhooks.
&n
bsp; ‘Believe me, I just wanted to find out how you are,’ I said, trying to calm him, convince him. ‘I know you made a real nuisance of yourself and really put your foot in it, but I certainly didn’t expect my boss to react like that, and I’m sorry. It took me completely by surprise and was totally disproportionate. I had no idea what he was planning and could do nothing to avoid it.’
‘What boss? Sir Peter, you mean? I’m completely lost, what are you talking about, élgar. If he did turn nasty, I’m not surprised, Sir Peter’s far too old for such imbecilities.’ Rico returned to the charge, not so much because the matter interested him, but because he was bored. He appeared to be the sort of man who cannot bear his brain to be inactive for a moment, because if you don’t understand something immediately, you soon will if you wait, but such waiting is unbearable for people who are constantly thinking. That ‘élgar’ denoted a need to know.
‘Look, go away, just go away,’ said the nincompoop childishly. He took no notice of what I was saying, he wouldn’t listen to reason, he probably hadn’t even heard me. He’d lost his nerve completely and so very quickly that it reaffirmed me in my view that Tupra and I must often have strolled through his nightmares, in which we were probably inseparable. ‘Please leave, I beg you, leave me alone, shit, what more do you want, I haven’t said anything, I haven’t told anyone the truth, surely that’s enough.’
Rico lit another cigarette, having realized that this obscure conflict was a matter exclusively and perhaps pathologically between De la Garza and me, and that he was not going to glean anything more. He made a dismissive gesture, indicating that he was happy to abandon any further attempts at clarification, and he gave vent to one more of his varied repertoire of onomatopoeia.
‘Esh,’ he said. It sounded to me exactly like: ‘To hell with these two idiots, I’m going to think my own thoughts and not waste any more time on them.’
I saw how shaken Rafita was—his clenched fists still held close to his body (not as a weapon, but as a shield), his eyes wild, his breathing agitated—gripped by a panic that he was now reliving and which he had perhaps been dreading for months, he had also developed an intermittent cough, which, when the fit took him, proved uncontrollable. That cloud of perpetual fear would last for some time yet, it wouldn’t be quick to clear. He must have suffered greatly that night, because one is always instantly aware when there is any real danger of death, even if, in the end, it turns out to be something that merely frightened one half to death. It was pointless trying to talk to him. I wondered what state he would have been in if it had been Reresby and not me who had appeared unexpectedly at the door of his office. He would have fainted, had a seizure, a heart attack. I had gone there out of consideration for him (insofar as that was possible), and there was no sense in making him suffer further with my continued presence. On the other hand, I could leave with a clear conscience. He looked fine physically. He might still suffer some pain or other damage, but he had, on the whole, fully recovered. His present and future feelings of insecurity were, however, quite another thing, and they would stay with him for a long time. He would feel uncomfortable in the world, with the added inconvenience of fear and a permanent sense of unease. Not that this would prevent him spouting nonsense, but it would have dealt a fatal blow to his sense of pride at its deepest level.
‘Anyway, I’ll go now, so don’t upset yourself. I can see that you’re fine, although not perhaps at this precise moment. It’s my fault, I suppose. You seemed in pretty good form while you were singing your rhyming couplets. I’ll come and see you again some other time.’ I realized that these last innocent words had terrified him still more. From his point of view it was the equivalent of a threat. I let it go, however, I didn’t try to put him right, he wouldn’t have listened, and I didn’t really care. In a moment of weakness and guilt I had chosen to visit him and had paid the price for both weakness and guilt. ‘Goodbye, Professor. It’s been an honor to meet you. I’m only sorry it was so brief and so … odd.’
‘Everything about young De la Garza is odd,’ he said scornfully, playing down the importance of the episode, he had probably seen worse; and he stood up, not in order to shake my hand, but to leave. His anger had passed, the situation had nothing to do with him, and his mind was already wandering pastures new. ‘Wait, I’m leaving too. I’ll see you this evening, Rafita. I doubt I’ll have the good fortune of you missing my lecture.’
And there we left De la Garza, still barricaded behind his desk, not daring even to sit down. He didn’t say goodbye, he obviously still wasn’t capable of articulating any civilized words. And while we, the Professor and I, walked back along those slightly labyrinthine corridors towards the exit, I couldn’t help at least attempting an apology:
‘You see we had a bit of a falling-out and he still hasn’t got over it.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You should feel very pleased with yourself: you had him scared shitless. You’re lucky you can keep him at arm’s length like that. He’s terribly clinging. I’m vaguely friendly with his father, which is why I put up with the son. Only from time to time, fortunately, and only when I come to London for one of these dull official dos.’
Once we were out in the street and we went our separate ways, I noticed (strangely enough, I hadn’t noticed before) that Rafita’s fear had cast me in a rather flattering light. Imposing respect, instilling fear, seeing oneself as a danger had its pleasurable side. It made one feel more confident, more optimistic, stronger. It made one feel important and—how can I put it—masterful. But before I hailed a taxi, there was time for me to find this unexpected vanity repugnant too. Not that the latter feeling drove out conceit, they lived alongside each other. The two things were mingled, until they dissipated and were forgotten.
When you haven’t been back for some time to a place you know well, even if it’s the city you were born in, the city to which you’re most accustomed, where you’ve lived for the longest time and which is still home to your children and your father and your siblings and home even to the love that stood firm for many years (even if that place is as familiar to you as the air you breathe), there comes a moment when it begins to fade and your recollection of it dims, as if your memory were suddenly afflicted by myopia and—how can I put it—by cinematography: the different eras become juxtaposed and you start to feel unsure as to which of those cities you left or departed from when you last set off, the city of your childhood or your youth or the city of your manhood or maturity, when where you live dwindles in importance, and, hard though it is to admit, the truth is you’d be happy enough with your own little corner almost anywhere in the world.
That’s how I’d come to see Madrid during my now prolonged absence: faded and dim, accumulative, oscillating, a stage-set that concerned me very little despite having invested so much in it—so much of my past and so much of my present, albeit at a distance—and, more to the point, one that could get along without me quite happily (it had, after all, dismissed me, expelled me from its modest production). Of course any city can do without anyone, we’re not essential anywhere, not even to the few people who say they miss our presence or claim they couldn’t live without us, because everyone seeks substitutes and, sooner or later, finds them, or else ends up resigned to our absence and feels so comfortable in that mood of resignation that they no longer wish to introduce any changes, not even to allow the lost or much-mourned person to return, not even to take us in again … Who knows who will replace us, we know only that we will be replaced, on all occasions and in all circumstances and in every role, and the void or gap we believed we left or really did leave is of no importance, regardless of how we disappeared or died, whether far too young or after a long life, whether violently or peacefully: it’s the same with love and friendship, with work and influence, with machinations and with fear, with domination and even longing itself, with hatred, which also wearies of us in the end, and with the desire for vengeance, which darkens and changes its objective when it lingers and delays, as T
upra had urged me not to do; with the houses we inhabit, with the rooms we grew up in and the cities that accept us, with the corridors we raced madly along as children and the windows we gazed dreamily out of as adolescents, with the telephones that persuade and patiently listen to us and laugh in our ear or murmur agreement, at work and at play, in shops and in offices, at our counters and our desks, playing card games or chess, with the childhood landscape we thought was ours alone and with the streets that grow exhausted from seeing so many fade away, generation after generation, all meeting the same sad end; with restaurants and walks and pleasant parks and fields, on balconies and belvederes from which we watched the passing of so many moons they grew bored with looking at us, and with our armchairs and chairs and sheets, until not a trace, not a vestige of our smell remains and they’re torn up to make rags or cloths, and even our kisses are replaced and the person left behind closes her eyes when she kisses the easier to forget us (if the pillow is still the same, or so that we don’t reappear in some sudden, treacherous, irrepressible mental vision); with memories and thoughts and daydreams and with everything, and so we are all of us like snow on shoulders, slippery and docile, and the snow always stops …
Your Face Tomorrow Page 25