All Men Are Liars
Page 8
They never went to see him torear, and they never dared turn on the radio during his absences. The hours passed, and I would either watch them pray or entertain myself looking at picture books until the moment came to return to my place on the balcony to witness his arrival at the end of our street, where the car left him, looking more real, more earthly now, but still as handsome as a count, perhaps with a trace of blood on his cheek, perhaps with a tear in his clothes, but never, thank God—as we had secretly feared—borne home on a stretcher, mortally wounded. He died when I was ten, from a pulmonary embolism, would you believe, of a tiny clot that had formed in some secret place in his veins, and not, as I always imagined, losing streams of blood before his public. That’s life. Look at him and tell me if you’ve ever seen anyone more handsome.
Don’t imagine that Alejandro was like him. He wasn’t, either in looks or temperament. The mere suspicion of blood made Alejandro queasy. He couldn’t bring himself to step on an ant or shoo away a horsefly. I could never talk to him about bullfighting; he went to pieces just at the idea of it. The mere thought of any action that might induce pain made him ill. He could never understand why anyone would want to fight. My father, on the other hand, understood it very well. My father was slender and graceful as a reed. Alejandro, too, was skinny, but he had flesh where it mattered. The first time I saw him at the Martín Fierro, I thought, Jesus, I’d gobble him up under the sheets, and I noticed that Quita wasn’t exactly indifferent to him either. Because although she may have seemed very refined, the señora wasn’t above singling out some refugee or other for her personal consumption. That Tito Gorostiza, for example, with his flowing hair and his black leather shoulder bag—“an Andean hippie,” Berens called him. And that Peruvian—I can’t remember what he was called—who ended up living for a time in the cottage Quita had rented near Cáceres. Listen—I’m not accusing her of anything, all right? I think it’s good for a woman to enjoy herself while she can.
But Alejandro was all mine. I told her that, right at the start, and Quita laughed and said of course, go for it. First we got him settled into Gorostiza’s flat. Because Quita had put the flat in her boyfriend’s name—a neat way of using the other tenants’ rent to keep him, since selling trinkets on Calle Goya never appealed much to our Tito.
Alejandro, on the other hand, never complained about his lot. On the contrary, I would almost say that getting up every morning, gathering up his bracelets and rings, walking to his usual spot, and spreading his wares out on the pavement gave him a certain security, I don’t know—a fixed point in that nomadic life. After all, Alejandro was rather conservative. He liked good bed, good board, all that which can be savored and stroked—indulgences that are hard to come by with your butt in the saddle. Ideally, he would have liked his mornings to follow a routine and his nights to be more adventurous. He would have made a good politician, my Alejandro.
But, what can I say, I’m nothing if not ambitious. To his other qualities I wanted him to add that of “artist.” He may not have been keen to admit it, but Alejandro was so obviously a man of letters. I have a solid knowledge of South American writing—I don’t know if you knew that. Ever since I was little, while my mother was devouring books by Gironella and Casona (come to think of it, Carmen Laforet’s Nada was on her bedside table, too), I sought out authors from the other side of the Atlantic, whose books were sold under the counter by a few dedicated booksellers. Now, I wanted Alejandro to be one of them; I imagined him, undisputed and acclaimed, under one of those pastel-colored covers with daring black letters which were produced at that time in Buenos Aires, standing alphabetically proud between Mario Benedetti and Julio Cortázar.
You know what? I wanted to be a part of that transformation which was slowly beginning to make itself felt throughout Spain, like a change of season, like the end of a long illness. Each one of us, I mean in my generation, experienced it in a different way, at different times. I can tell you that, for me, it was one day at school, at the end of class. I was about to leave the room when the headmistress, a very strict, formal woman, came in and told me to help her. She took one of the gray plastic wastepaper baskets that were in every classroom, and placed it in my hands. Then she lifted a chair onto the platform, pushed it over to the blackboard, unhooked the crucifix that had been hanging on the wall, and put it into the wastepaper basket. We filled two baskets this way. Then we left them in a corner of the school chapel, under the astonished gaze of one of the priests who taught religious education. Sitting at my desk the next day, I felt for the first time freer, less stifled.
I wanted Alejandro to be a part of that wind of change, to be a dazzling new voice, a new discovery. Yes, yes, my Terradillos, I know what you’re thinking: those fotonovelas of his were hardly literature. We had a laugh when he showed me three or four that he had discovered in a pile of old magazines in the Rastro flea market. Worse than soap operas—don’t think I didn’t realize that. I’m not stupid. But Alejandro knew the art of spinning stories. There was something about his tongue (I can see that you have a dirty mind from the way you’re smiling), something in the way he measured words so well, with exactly the right nuances and shading, with more wisdom and delicacy than he ever showed stringing colored beans together. People say that there used to be sorcerers in Andalusia who could make flowers and birds burst forth from the sky simply by naming them. Believe me, it was the same with Alejandro. When he told you something, you found yourself following his stories as if they were taking place in front of your own eyes; you could see it all happening. That was why it came as no surprise to me to learn that he had written a masterpiece.
Look, Terradillos. Compare him to anyone else. To Berens, let’s say. Have you read any Berens, did you ever hear him reciting his stuff—before he went crazy, I mean? A prize for his first book, some other prize for the second. Here in Spain they loved him, because he was like a modern Bécquer. Even before the days when it became fashionable to award prizes to friends or because of publishing politics, everyone knew that the autumn wouldn’t go by without Berens getting an award. But he was nothing compared to Alejandro.
I let him stay at Gorostiza’s flat just for a couple of months, to get him acclimatized to Madrid. Because this was still, for the most part, a fearful city, cloaked, mute, drawn in on itself, not wanting to see anyone. When I was a young girl, I found it hard to believe that anything could ever bring down the great mountain of filth, of fetid candles and rotten vegetables, bestowed on us by that dwarf, our Franco. I told myself that if Alejandro could cope with all that in a shared flat, my house was going to seem like paradise to him. That was how, one holiday weekend, I brought him back to live with me.
No doubt you’ve heard about how I found the manuscript. On several occasions I’d asked Alejandro to show me something that he had written, for I knew he must have written something; he had poetry in his blood. He always said no, that he wasn’t a writer and I should leave him alone. I bought him a typewriter, hoping to tempt him. I left him on his own, gave him space, to see if solitude would stoke his inspiration. Nothing. He didn’t take the typewriter out even once, and solitude seemed not to inspire him—at least not to write. In fact I once came home earlier than I had said I would and found him in bed with the geisha from the flat next door (who I knew was a slut the day I saw her open the door with her kimono undone and her tits hanging out). Obviously I forgave him.
The thing is (forgive this digression), Alejandro had a vocation to share everything: food, readings, ideas, sex. If you put a plate of food in front of him, he insisted you try a little, too. If he was reading a thriller, he’d call you over and read aloud some paragaph he liked. If an idea occurred to him in the middle of the night, some piece of nonsense, he’d wake you up to tell you about it. And, as far as he was concerned, a bed was not a place in which to sleep alone. He said that only selfish people masturbate.
One morning, when Alejandro had gone to his spot on Calle Goya, I found an old bag full of what loo
ked like dirty laundry. I opened it. There it was. In Praise of Lying, in clear, handwritten characters. There was no name on the title page, but I knew straightaway what this was. I read it all the way through. It was hours later that I finished the last page, with tears in my eyes, I swear on the memory of my father, God bless his soul. There was something there, formed of vowels and consonants, to which the word literature scarcely does any justice. Even when you give it a capital L.
I put all the things back as they had been and set off for the office with the manuscript. I called Urquieta, who must have thought that I wanted something else. I told him that I had to see him. He arranged to meet me in his café.
When I arrived, nervous and out of breath, Urquieta was already there, looking spruce in his hairpiece, and with a ready smile. He patted my wrist and insisted I tell him everything. I don’t know if you ever spoke to Urquieta, but his voice was fatherly and measured, like a matinee idol’s. It soothed me.
“I want to know what you think of this,” I said, placing the novel under his nose.
“Is it yours?”
“It’s a friend’s”
“A friend. I see.” And he smiled again.
“Read it,” I answered sternly. “Please. Read it.”
“You’re not asking me to whip through it now, in one sitting . . .”
“Make a start,” I insisted, unflinching. “Later you can tell me what you think.”
Perhaps he hoped to make a conquest; perhaps the role of wise counselor appealed to him, or perhaps it was simply that he was an experienced reader who guessed that this effort would pay off. Urquieta obeyed. He placed his spectacles over his chubby nose, inspected the title page, commented on the calligraphy and color of ink, looked, in vain, for the name of the author, discreetly adjusted his wig, turned the page, and began to read.
No question about it: the man was a professional.
I didn’t say a word. The waiter brought one coffee after another. Nearly an hour later, Urquieta looked up.
“Who wrote this?” he asked.
“First things first—what’s your opinion?”
“Remarkable. From what I’ve read so far, very good. Excellent.”
“A masterpiece—don’t you think?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t finished it. And I’d have to read it at least once more.”
“Señor Urquieta, I know that it is. I merely need you to confirm the fact.”
“My dear, I need more information. Who is the author? How did this come into your hands?”
“Señor Urquieta, I can’t tell you more than this. In Praise of Lying—I know that you don’t doubt it—is a unique work, important, magical. We have to publish it. I mean, you have to publish it. You can give it the exposure it needs. You can give it the reputation it deserves. Do it—for the love of art, Señor Urquieta!” I let my voice grow sweet. “Future generations will thank you for it.”
For some reason, Urquieta’s eyes always appeared rather moist, as though he were constantly finding something funny or sad, and they also looked naked without the frame of eyelashes or eyebrows, like the eyes of certain old sheepdogs. Slowly, in the manner of a cautious buyer, he let his eyes run over the contours of my face, my neck, the curves of my blouse—and his imagination took care of the rest. It was well known that Urquieta liked to turn even the most banal or practical conversations into strategies of seduction, without much thought to the outcome. It was the chase he loved. If he found his companion even minimally attractive, Urquieta let his voice and gaze fondle her with lecherous impunity. Any discomfort this might cause didn’t bother him in the least.
I let his eyes travel over me and watched him in turn, to see who would last longer. When pronouncing Ts and Ls, the old man let his tongue linger on his upper lip a fraction longer than was necessary, and there was an exaggerated pause before he answered my questions, fixing his gaze on some part of my body, as though staking claim to a territory. Several moments passed this way.
“For the love of art. Very well. Let’s see. Leave the manuscript with me. Let’s meet here again in three days. I’ll give you my answer then.”
Two days later I received a message at the Martín Fierro. It was Urquieta, summoning me back to the café.
His first words were: “We’ll bring it out in three months. I’ll send a copy to the eight people who count. I thought about having a launch in one of the cafés, the Lyon or the Ballena Alegre. But now I’ve thought of something better. A bookshop. We’ll invite them to the Antonio Machado. We’ll have a presentation like they do in Paris—make it a proper event. It’s going to set the world on fire.”
He put his hand on my arm. I don’t mind confessing that I was genuinely grateful.
“You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.” And I added: “But I must warn you—the author knows nothing about this.”
“He doesn’t know that you’ve submitted it to me?”
“No.”
“But then how will we do the contract? Who’s going to sign it?”
“I’ll sign it. I’ll take responsibility.”
“I don’t like the sound of this. Why not let him know? Who is this elusive Pimpernel? What if he turns against us?”
But I also have my strategies. I knew that his bureaucratic instinct was no match for my charm.
“I know that you’re not afraid of anyone,” I said, smiling.
“Then I’m going to need your help.”
“You can count on me,” I said, with relief.
“Day and night,” he said, smiling.
“Day and night,” I agreed.
“And now tell me. Who is the author?”
“Bevilacqua. Alejandro Bevilacqua.”
“The Argentinian? The one who shared a flat with Berens?”
“The very same. Now he shares mine.”
“I see. And why does he not want his name to be known? We’ll have to put it on the cover.”
“Yes, of course—publish it, and he can find out about it then. But at the moment he doesn’t even know that I’ve read it. The poor man was really traumatized by what he went through in Argentina. He insists that he isn’t a writer, and yet here you have proof to the contrary. In Praise of Lying is going to give him a new start, I’m sure of it. A new life.”
“Very well,” concluded Urquieta. “We shall be the midwives at the birth.”
Urquieta might be a vulture, but he was an intellectual, too. Birth was the right word. Birth of the book, birth of the real, the secret Alejandro. I swear I was so happy, I almost threw myself on him, although Urquieta never needed any encouragement and he had already progressed from fondling my arm to slipping his fingers inside my sleeve and up between my dress and my armpit. But I didn’t care. Alejandro was the writer I had always believed him to be.
Do you understand what I’m telling you, Terradillos, my inquisitive friend? He was a writer, a writer to the core, not like those others who passed through the Martín Fierro taking advantage of Quita’s literary soft spot. They never were in the same league. I’ve been to countless poetry evenings, you know, when you had to keep an eye on the door, and also make sure that your poet didn’t come out with some embarrassing remark or forbidden name—nothing that had a whiff of the Reds or Mother Russia. And even so, everyone would be waiting for some daring, blazing verse that would shine a light on us on those dark evenings. To no avail. God! To think of the times I must have listened to Berens—the most regular performer, of course, standing up on that little stage, in his imported suit, with his short, thin tie like a lizard’s tongue pointing toward his navel, reciting his poems with a smile, as if he knew what they were about, while we, poor fools . . . Urquieta understood the difference perfectly. And he knew straightaway that this was the real thing, a true fighting bull.
I’ll spare you the technical details, the sealed bids, the hushed telephone conversations, Quita demanding to know what was going on (because nothing escaped that woman), Quita gossiping with G
orostiza, who was another curious creature, Quita swearing on Saint Christopher not to tell anyone anything, Berens finding out (I don’t know how), more swearing, more devious plans, more secret meetings. And then, all the arguments about design, about the print runs, the cover—which was one of the first designed by the artist Max. And finally the proofs, the reality of the printed page, the title In Praise of Lying and the author’s name, Alejandro Bevilacqua.
I remember that it was raining on the afternoon that Urquieta arranged to meet me, to hand over the first finished copy, wrapped in brown paper. I was shaking. The following morning, after serving Alejandro his coffee, I set the little packet down in front of him. Alejandro opened it, took out the book, looked at me, looked at the cover, opened the book, closed it, opened it again, closed it again, wrapped it back up in the paper, and leaving it on the table, picked up his things and went, without saying a word.
That day was the launch, and you already know what happened. Manguel was all over me, like a bad rash, and I had to let him take me to a café and then home, just to get him to leave me alone. Alejandro hadn’t come home. I waited for him all that night and the following day.
It was Sunday. That day everyone filed through my house. Quita, with the excuse that she had lost the key to the till, Urquieta, fatherly and solicitous. I told them time and again what I knew: why, how, where. Finally, at midday, I got rid of all of them and locked the door. A little later, Inspector Mendieta came to see me. It was he who broke the news to me.