‘Honestly. You never learned German,’ he replied with slight paternal scorn, as if not knowing German were an oddity, almost a defect. ‘What kind of education did you have?’ And he went on to explain, out of sympathy for my ignorance and out of enthusiasm for this poem from his youth: ‘The poet sees a bank of white clouds in the middle of the night and these seem to him, as he puts it, like “colossal statues of the gods made out of luminous marble.” Then he realizes that they are the gods, Chronos, Zeus, Hera, Pallas Athene, Aphrodite, Ares, Hermes, Phoebus Apollo, Hephaestus and Hebe, grown old and at the mercy of the elements, cast down and numb with cold in their exile. “No,” exclaims the poet, “these are no clouds!”’And my father began translating the poem for me, drawing it slowly out of his memory. ‘They are the gods of Hellas, the very gods who once so blithely ruled the world, but who now, supplanted and deceased, ride like giant specters the clouds of midnight…’ But the words insisted on coming to him in the German of his childhood, or perhaps he found it wearisome having to translate, and so he lapsed back into German, and, at the time, I understood nothing more.
Later on, after his death, I tried to identify the words I had listened to without understanding them. I searched out a bilingual edition of ‘The Greek Gods,’ in German and English (I couldn’t find one in Spanish), and it was doubtless this verse that he had translated into my language in tentative extempore fashion: ‘Nein, nimmermehr, das sind keine Wolken! Das sind sie selber, die Götter von Hellas, die einst so freudig die Welt beherrschten, doch jetzt, verdrängt und verstorben, als ungeheure Gespenster dahinziehn am mittenächtlichen Himmel …’ I assume he had a good accent. And I also noticed two other brief passages that he must have recited in German that day. In one, the poet addressed Zeus and said to him, more or less: ‘Not even the gods rule eternally, the old gods are driven out and supplanted by the young, just as you yourself once deposed your grey-haired father …’ The other was an image applied to that troop of disoriented deities adrift in the dark, whom he describes as: ‘Dead shadows who wander the night, fragile as the mist that the wind drives away.’ Those words must have come from his lips when I was there with him, even though, at the time, I couldn’t understand them. And I wondered what he would have thought then, as he spoke them.
While he sat, absorbed in his own recitation, I bent down and kissed him again before leaving, this time on the cheek, as if we were bullfighters, and I placed my hand once more on his shoulder for a moment, like a silent farewell, while he was walking into the mist that the wind drives away, or into that exile in which one has to leave even one’s own first name behind.
I had also managed not to think too much about Luisa until I was on the plane, in business class, an Iberia flight, which was, characteristically and infuriatingly, an hour late in leaving. My not thinking about Luisa had been helped by the fact that she didn’t once suggest we have lunch or supper together, and I didn’t insist or protest or express regret; after what I had done, I preferred to avoid such a meeting—I didn’t feel I deserved it, and although I very much wanted to see her, I found it easy enough to resist and to pretend. And so we only met briefly and occasionally at the apartment when I went to pick up or return the children or stayed with them for a while until they went to bed. And once they were in bed, she never offered me a drink or invited me to sit down for a moment to chat. She didn’t eject me with excuses or with words, but by her attitude; she was constantly doing things, going back and forth, cleaning, washing dishes and glasses, answering the phone, tidying, picking up toys and clothes and notebooks and pencils—children always leave everything in a mess and never cease creating chaos—and it wasn’t as it used to be when we lived together, when I would follow her from room to room, talking about something or other or telling or asking her something, as husbands often do trail through the house or apartment after their wives, who are more active physically and tend not to sit still in one place for very long, especially if they are mothers. I no longer felt I had that right, I mean, to go into just any room, not even into the kitchen, even accompanied by her or, rather, following in her footsteps. And so we would simply exchange a few words about the children or about my father’s health, for she always asked after him, adding with feeling, ‘I really must go and see him, I’ll go this week without fail, be sure to give him my love,’ and I would leave, having given her a discreetly affectionate, that is almost friendly, kiss on each cheek, to which she responded passively and rather mechanically, hardly noticing.
Her mind was elsewhere and I knew where. She seemed rather subdued on the last few occasions I saw her. I thought: ‘She’s heard that she won’t be seeing Custardoy for a while, a great disappointment that’s caught her unawares and which she’s still trying to absorb, so there’s one less incentive now, probably the biggest incentive, the one that helped her to get through the day, to wake up filled with hope and go to bed contented, but that incentive will be missing from her life for good—that’s something she doesn’t yet know, nor that she will never see the man again or only if they happen to meet by chance; that knowledge will come later, gradually, whole weeks will pass, or possibly even more, before she fully understands that it’s all over, that this isn’t just an extended absence, but a final separation, like the one she has been inflicting on me for a long time now. And then she will look out the window as I sometimes look out of mine at the lazy London night and across the square, its pale darkness barely lit by those white streetlights that imitate the always thrifty light of the moon, and a little further off, at the lights of the elegant hotel and of the houses that shelter families or men and women on their own, each enclosed behind a protective yellow rectangle, as Luisa and I would seem to be to anyone watching us; and beyond the trees and the statue at my carefree, dancing neighbor, who, from now on, will always remind me of Custardoy, because these resemblances and affinities work reciprocally, and no one is immune to them: I will no longer like that happy dancing individual quite so much: he may unwittingly have saved a life, but, in doing so, has become contaminated by that same life. And neither Luisa nor I will dare to think, when alone: “I’ll be more myself,” not now that we’ve seen each other again and brought each other a new sadness, although she doesn’t know that her current sadness comes from me.’
Strangely, given that I was the cause of the newly begun solitude that would gradually grow, I allowed myself to feel slightly sorry, seeing her like that, in such low spirits, lethargic, apathetic, possibly in the early stages of a lasting period of languor and decline, the loss of someone we love marks us very deeply, much more than that of someone who loved us, and I was sure now that for Luisa, Custardoy belonged in the first category. At least I was not so cynical as to tell myself it was for her own good, although it certainly would be in the long term: I knew now that it was, above all, for my good, for my relative tranquility, my peace of mind while I was far away, so that I wouldn’t have to worry too much about her or about my children, and so that I need not give up the fanciful hopes I still clung on to, despite all the time that had elapsed. And that was something I did think about in the plane with a clarity I had so far avoided: that I had been selfish and abusive and inconsiderate, that I had meddled in her life in the worst possible way, behind her back, without her knowledge, not just without consulting her on what could or should be done, but without her even having spoken to me about a problem that she didn’t see as a problem, but possibly as a solution. I had acted like some nineteenth-century father with regard to his daughter, I had gone over her head as if she were a minor, not by approaching the lowlife in question and paying him to disappear, as had perhaps been the tradition of wealthy authoritarian fathers in that century, but by threatening him with death and by injuring him. I began to find the whole thing unbelievable, that I should have behaved like that, without a flicker of conscience, like a savage or as if I were a believer in the pragmatic idea that if something needs to be done then it’s best just to do it, so that regardless of what
happens next, the deed is done and there’s no going back (‘I have done the deed’). Officially, I knew nothing about Custardoy, at least not as far as Luisa knew, or indeed anyone else, apart from her sister Cristina, whom I would have to warn, by phone again from London, as soon as she was back from her few days away—I couldn’t remember if she’d said it would be a week or longer, I had already tried phoning each day during what remained of my stay in Madrid, just in case, but without success—I hadn’t even been able to speak to her husband; and I kept calling during the first few days after my return, trying different times until I finally found her in.
‘Cristina, it’s Jacques, your brother-in-law, Jaime,’ I said when she answered the phone, on my twentieth attempt. ‘I’m back in London, but I wanted to bring you up to date on an important matter. Have you spoken to Luisa?’
‘No, not yet, I’ve only just gotten home, my trip lasted longer than expected. Why? Has something happened?’
‘Nothing bad, no. During my stay in Madrid I sorted out that business between Custardoy and her, at least I think I did, we’ll probably have to wait a bit to be sure.’
‘Really?’ she replied, and there was curiosity and undoubted approval in her voice. ‘How? What did you do? Did you speak to him? Or to her? Tell me.’
‘That’s what I wanted to say, that it’s best if you don’t know and absolutely essential that Luisa doesn’t. I mean she must never even find out that I knew anything, or that you told me anything. That story’s over now, or very nearly. What I absolutely don’t want is for her ever to suspect that I had anything to do with it. As far as she’s concerned I don’t even know of Custardoy’s existence, she never once mentioned him to me, and I want her to continue believing that. Now and always. If, one day, you were to mention our conversation, even if it’s in ten years’ time, she might still put two and two together and never speak to me again, despite the kids. She might never speak to you again either. I may have been the one who did the deed, but she would probably think that you were part of it too, that you had provoked or prompted me to act. You understand, don’t you? If you betray me, I’d have no qualms about betraying you too.’
Cristina clearly did understand, but she was still curious.
‘You are keeping your cards close to your chest. Whatever did you do to him? You needn’t worry, if you’ve managed to get rid of him, I’ll be the first to celebrate and safeguard your achievement. But surely if were both going to keep quiet about it, it hardly matters if I know everything. What did you say to the guy? What did you do to him? Come on, tell me, given that it was all done at my instigation.’
‘As I said, it’s best not to talk about it. I prefer him to be the only one who knows, so that if by some stroke of bad luck they should meet later on and she should corner him, he’d be the only one who could tell Luisa what happened, not that I think he would, it wouldn’t be worth his while and it would merely be his word against mine, with no way of corroborating the facts. It’s not that I don’t trust you, now, I mean. But you never know. One day, you might be angry with me for some reason and want to harm me. If something is best not known, then it’s best that no one knows about it, not even your accomplice. Why else do you think criminals are always bumping people off?’
Cristina took this well, she laughed and didn’t press me further. She said only:
‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to Luisa. I hope you’re right and that this story is over. I’ll act surprised if she mentions it, the break-up I mean. She might be having a rough time and want to get it off her chest or just talk to someone. And if something has happened to Custardoy, I’ll be bound to find out somehow, you know how people gossip.’
‘No, I don’t think you will find out. He’s not in Madrid at the moment and he won’t be around for several weeks at least. And when he does come back, he’ll invent some tale, if, that is, he still bears the marks of our encounter. A garage door perhaps, or a bollard.’ I realized that I had already said too much, it’s so easy to let your tongue run away with you, especially when you’re boasting, and I was boasting a little, even though several days had passed: I did feel slightly proud of my exploit, pistol in hand, and had no problem forgetting that the word ‘exploit’ is entirely misplaced when the other party was unarmed. I knew perfectly well that such private bragging was unforgivable, especially after what I discovered on my arrival in London, or just before. And yet that’s how it was, and I couldn’t help myself; I imagine it must happen to any otherwise nonviolent person who, when forced to use violence, meets with success. And so I added: ‘Not that I’m saying I did anything to him, or that anything happened to him. Anything bad, I mean.’ (In that brief conversation I had trotted out some of the classic lines recommending denial, ignorance and silence, appropriate to espionage and conspiracies and criminality, to the clandestine and the underhand: ‘It’s best if you know nothing; then, if they interrogate you, you’ll be telling the truth when you say you know nothing, the truth is easy, it has more force, it’s more believable, the truth persuades.’ And: ‘If you know only about your part of the job, even if they catch you or you fail, the plan can still go ahead.’ Not to mention: ‘Your ignorance will be your protection, so don’t ask any more questions, don’t ask, it will be your salvation and your guarantee of safety.’ And even: ‘You know the score, I’ve never spoken to you or said anything. This conversation and this phone call never took place, you haven’t even heard these words because I didn’t say them. And even though you can hear the words now, I’m not saying them.’)
Cristina laughed again, perhaps because she was glad to think that her sister was now out of danger.
‘You sound very mysterious and a touch threatening,’ she said, half-serious and half-joking. ‘This isn’t the Jaime I know. It would seem that London and being alone there suits you. Just one thing, whatever you’ve done, I’m not your accomplice. So there’s no need to bump me off.’
All this happened days later, when I was back in London again, and feeling more anxious and that the situation had changed for the worse. What I was thinking about on that return flight was that Luisa had still said nothing about herself right up until the last moment. On the final day, on the eve of my departure, I had gone to the hotel to change after visiting my father and then to Luisa’s apartment to say goodbye to the children and, in passing, to her.
‘So, when will you be back again?’ Guillermo had demanded in accusing tones, even as Marina was insisting that I take her with me, up in the air.
‘This time,’ I had lied, unaware then that I wasn’t lying, ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise.’ And I had likewise promised Marina that, on my next trip, I would take her with me to that large island, knowing full well that small children barely remember what’s said to them from one day to the next, one of their many privileges.
That was the sole occasion when Luisa seemed about to invite me to sit down in the living room for a while, as if she had suddenly realized that we wouldn’t see each other again for some time and that we hadn’t had a single proper conversation; that she hadn’t asked me about my life in London or about my work, my habits, my prospects or my general state of mind or about my friendships or possible lovers (on that last point I could have declined to answer, just as she had done), not even about the slovenly, dirty, drunken or crazy—and definitely pantyless—women who had possibly dripped blood in my house or in Wheeler’s house and who had caused her such amusement. Her lack of curiosity, her lack of interest in me, had been very marked during my brief stay, and were it not for what I had done behind her back, for my brutal interference in her life—in a way I had ruined or torn down the life she was trying to rebuild—and for my consequent feeling that I was in her debt, such indifference would have been more than enough reason for me to feel offended and to mutter darkly to myself about it. She, however, was so distracted and doubtless so immersed in her own story that she didn’t even find it odd, my apparent resignation to the situation or my excessively di
screet behavior. She knew me well, probably better than anyone. She knew I was respectful and certainly not inclined to make a nuisance of myself, that I accepted what was given willingly and did not fight for what was denied to me, that my pride kept me from pestering anyone and that I acted in a roundabout way to achieve my ends, lingering and delaying for however long it took. Whichever way you looked at it, though, it was very strange that with time to spare I hadn’t made more of an effort to see her alone, that I’d left all the initiative to her and taken a back seat, that I’d let the days pass without making myself a more obvious or visible presence and without demanding that we meet alone. All of these things should have made her suspicious, and yet they didn’t. Her mind was otherwise occupied, doubtless with Custardoy, first with the incomprehensible excitement he aroused in her, and perhaps, too, with the tension she felt between desire and distrust—she must have seen that choosing a man like him would always, at least in part, be inadvisable—then with her disquiet at his abrupt and unexpected departure with barely a word of explanation, with her growing unease over his delay in phoning her, for he had perhaps not yet, as I had ordered, given any sign of life since his disappearance. (‘While you’re away, only call her now and then, and make those calls less and less frequent’), and when you wait in vain for something it does take on a degree of urgency and occupies all your time and fills up every space: you expect the doorbell to ring at any moment and each moment becomes intensely long and oppressive, like a knee digging into your chest, like lead upon the soul, until exhaustion overwhelms you and gives you a slight respite.
Perhaps it was precisely that kind of truce brought on by weariness that allowed her to look around for an instant and to see me, to remember who I was and to realize that I’d be gone the next day, and that she would have allowed me to pass through without—so to speak—making the most of me; that I was still there that night and could serve as a way of killing time and diverting her for a few minutes—with my stories about London, with comments or anecdotes about a world of which she knew nothing—from her obsessive thoughts that continued unabated. She would probably only have listened to me with half an ear, not even a whole one, like someone vaguely aware of the murmur of a steady comfortable rain, so strong and sustained that, when he does finally look up, it alone seems to light up the night with its continuous threads like flexible metal bars or endless spears; or like someone sleeping with one eye open who thinks he can hear and connect with the languid murmur of the river that speaks calmly or indifferently, or perhaps the indifference comes from his own weariness and his own sleeplessness and his dreams that are just beginning, even if he believes himself to be wide awake; or like someone who allows himself to be infected and drawn in by an insignificant humming that reaches him from afar, across a courtyard or a square, or when he happens to go into a public toilet and hears a happy man humming as he carefully parts his hair with a wet comb (‘Nanna naranniaro nannara nanniaro,’ and then he can’t help but add meaning and words to that catchy tune, if he knows it: ‘For I’m a poor cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.’)
Your Face Tomorrow Page 45