Thus Bad Begins

by Javier Marías

  And so, for Alberto Augusto Roy, it was a pleasure and an honour to make himself available to the maestro’s wife, and she would, I imagine, turn to him when there was no more fascinating or enjoyable company on offer. As I said, Roy was quite short (strikingly so when Beatriz wore high heels, which she usually did), but by no means weedy, indeed, he was well built and in proportion to his height, and he had a nice face too when he took off the large, pale tortoise-shell spectacles that made his greenish eyes seem smaller and covered most of his face and made it seem more uniform and more seriously myopic; they also gave him a slightly professorial air, which did not fit well with his very tanned complexion, the same colour as his thick, almost brown lips, as though both complexion and lips were part of a continuum of tones and had both, since birth, been left exposed to a powerful, perpetual sun. Sometimes – in an attack of ill-judged coquetry – he would let his hair grow very long and comb it back so that it lay plastered to his head and coiled over his collar in a few brazen curls, whether deliberately or naturally I couldn’t tell; this quite ruined that professorial air and made him look instead half like an aspiring, ageing, greasy rich kid and half like a strange, bespectacled flamenco singer. Until, that is, Muriel called him to order, holding his fingers as if they were the barrel of a gun and wagging them at the offending area: ‘Alberto Augusto, that curly endive of yours has sprouted again, making you resemble nothing so much as a swarthy, small-time crook or an ex-franquista nostalgic for the good old days. What will people think if we’re seen together?’ Alarmed, Roy would raise one hand to the back of his neck; he would stroke the curls in a farewell gesture and head straight to the barber’s to have them cut off and his hair unplastered from his head. Anything to avoid getting told off by Muriel.

  He always seemed contented, or else he was one of those people who, precisely because their lives are so empty, have no difficulty in finding reasons to be happy, I mean, they pass lightly from one day to the next, buoyed up by the most modest of promises, which they transform into thrilling prospects (although basically that’s what we all do, however few or many demands we have on our time), from the premiere of some particularly appetizing film – in his case – to an imminent supper with an old, often seen friend or – in his case – a cousin from Málaga, who visited every four to six weeks – oddly enough, Roy always referred to his cousin by his two family names, Baringo Roy – and whom Roy admired for his busy sex life and his prowess in that field, about which he would occasionally tell us (Rico would sometimes mischievously pump him for details) and while these tales always sounded to us like pure invention, he believed every word; dazzled and deliciously scandalized, he wasn’t going to give up a titillating pleasure like that, far less a fantasy. And, of course, equally vital to his happiness was being part of Muriel’s circle, if it could be called that, even though it wasn’t a circle at all, but a random amalgam. There was a very kind, generous, magnanimous side to Muriel, for he never prevented or inhibited the people around him from forming friendships among themselves or establishing ties other than with him. He had no sense of ownership or precedence, nor did he fear what others might be plotting when he wasn’t looking. He was not one of those agglutinative individuals who wants to control and supervise all contact between those closest to him and who happen to have met through his mediation, and to be kept abreast of any alliance or rapprochement or encounter that might occur, no, he was very hands-off in that respect and even took pleasure in seeing his friends get on well together and develop their own friendships. And in keeping with that, he had no objections to each of his friends forming whatever kind of relationship with Beatriz they chose and to which she was agreeable; on the contrary, this was, I think, a boon and a relief to him. And so Rico and Roy, for example, despite being so different and even opposite, were also fond of each other, amused each other, chatted and joked together, as, to a greater or lesser extent and with the occasional inevitable exception, they did with the other regulars.

  I was among those regulars, as were Dr Van Vechten and Beatriz’s two troubling female friends, but not the others so much or not at all. I even suspected some promiscuity – real or purely hypothetical or merely hanging in the air – between one or other of them and some of our habitual visitors, perhaps not behind Beatriz’s back (it seemed to me that the three women told each other everything, even too much), but probably behind Muriel’s back, although he initially gave the impression that he knew nothing, more out of choice than because he couldn’t or hadn’t noticed, as if he had long ago decided that he really didn’t care about other people’s entanglements and the passions that provoked them, their infatuations and suspicions and susceptibilities; as if he’d decided that he had quite enough of such feelings to deal with in his own past, feelings that don’t always vanish when they cease, but continue to accumulate and to weigh on one.

  One of those female friends was related to Muriel by marriage, being the widow of an older brother, who had died in a car crash near Ávila, on a snowy day in deepest winter and in circumstances that were not at all flattering to her: the police found two bodies, his and that of a pretty, blonde Frenchwoman, much younger than him and unknown to the family – Muriel included – or so they all said. However, she didn’t look like a professional prostitute, given the quality of the clothes she was wearing (unless she was a very high-class whore with excellent taste) and which barely covered her: her elegant jacket was unbuttoned – revealing a skimpy bra – and her skirt was up to her navel, despite the low temperatures; this could have been caused by the impact when they hit a truck coming towards them in the opposite lane, into which the couple had strayed while making a foolish, reckless attempt to overtake, but it was rather too much of a coincidence that the brother had his flies open – a buttoned fly as it happened not a zip. One could not help thinking that the laborious business of unbuttoning had been the main cause of the crash, especially if they had each been responsible for undoing the other’s buttons, which would inevitably be highly distracting and might well create the illusion – the pressing prospect of future pleasure – of invulnerability. Muriel told me all this later on, when we were chatting one day – he revealed various details of his life unthinkingly and liberally, as if he didn’t care or it didn’t matter, and yet, on the other hand, was very reserved and guarded when asked a direct question, as happened when I inquired about his eyepatch – to explain why his sister-in-law Gloria disliked him so much.

  She had remained calm during the period of mourning, then carried out her own investigation, doubtless with the help of an under-employed detective, and discovered that the Frenchwoman had played a few minor roles in films made in France, in 99 Women by the omnipresent Franco and Towers (they can’t have been very fussy about who they picked, assuming the content matched the title) as well as in a few Spaghetti Westerns shot in Spain, and had auditioned for a larger part in one of Muriel’s projects. And although the woman hadn’t been chosen, Gloria insisted on suspecting that her brother-in-law, contrary to what he said, knew who she was and, not only that, had probably introduced her to his brother, or perhaps offered or leased her to him. Or, at the very least, had told him where and when the auditions for attractive young supporting actresses would be taking place, so that he could cast an eye over all the candidates and then make his own arrangements. Muriel swore he had no memory of the woman (‘How can I possibly remember the faces of all the women who audition for a part and are rejected?’) nor if, by ill luck, his brother Roberto had come to see him at the studio on that particular day and met the poor and now deceased and almost bare-breasted actress. The fact is that Gloria blamed him totally for both misfortunes (and it wasn’t at all clear which she most regretted or which most tormented her), for her husband’s infidelity – fleeting or permanent, there was no way of knowing – as well as for the accident and her loss. ‘You and your films and your actresses,’ she had said reproachfully to him on more than one occasion. ‘Roberto was so envious, he would have thou
ght he’d died and gone to heaven if he’d had your job, and now, of course, he has died, and died making a complete fool of himself.’ Muriel did not respond, so as not to get drawn in, however irritating he found her accusations. He was just grateful that Gloria refrained from giving expression, at least in his presence, to the tormenting sense of her own absurdity that must have assailed her on many nights, for, like so many elegant, frivolous, fairly cultivated ladies, behind her undeniably worldly appearance lay a woman of basic religious beliefs, because even now in Spain one continues to come across such surprises; she made no public display of her beliefs, aware that they belonged in the most private of domains, but she probably thought with horror that, as well as making a complete fool of himself, Roberto had died in mortal sin (or almost). Muriel was convinced that she must often wonder how far the couple had got before the crash, and it must have comforted her to know that he would not have had time to ejaculate while still at the wheel. Or so Muriel would say with a bitter laugh. Or perhaps someone had informed him of his sister-in-law’s casuistic-cum-spiritual preoccupations.

  There was something else that only increased her resentment: his treatment of Beatriz – which had been going on for who knows how long: ‘I didn’t bore you then, and our relationship wasn’t exactly languishing’ – Gloria probably saw in this a prolongation or repetition or variant of what her husband had perhaps dished out to her in the latter years of his life. This led her to feel or, rather, display an ostentatious, delighted solidarity with her sister-in-law and friend – although this was possibly more lip-service than anything, because, as I said, Beatriz’s curvaceous, vigorous appearance elicited little solidarity from her own sex or compassion from the opposite sex – and to take every jibe or repudiation from Muriel – about which she was doubtless instantly informed – or every suspected or rumoured flirtation on his part, as a personal insult and betrayal; and even to see the evil or cruelty of those two brothers as genetic. That is how Muriel interpreted it, and the truth is that when I overheard snippets of conversation between the two women (or three if her other great friend, Marcela, was there), while my boss was out and I was working on those chronological lists of authors, searching out and filling in dates of birth and death, or on the English translation of a script or a synopsis, or checking facts or whatever, what I heard were seditious, provocative words and phrases, intended to incite Beatriz to revolt, things like ‘I don’t know how you let him get away with it’, ‘All that sarcasm is just intended to humiliate and denigrate you’, ‘I can’t understand why you didn’t just slap him there and then’ or ‘Threaten him with divorce, because it’s sure to be made legal soon, although they’re certainly taking their time.’ I remember once hearing Beatriz’s response to that last remark and, feeling curious and in order to hear better, I looked up from my work. I was in my or Muriel’s area, and they were in Beatriz’s, with the doors open as if I didn’t exist or didn’t count, the sound of the typewriter a guarantee of my indifference, I suppose. I sometimes felt like an old-fashioned servant, the kind who would see everything and say nothing, as though they were statues in the trusting imaginations of their masters, who got some very nasty surprises later on, when they discovered that the statues had tongues.

  ‘Yes, it’s been about to be made legal since 1977, but it never happens, thanks to those priests of yours and their political allies determined to keep it off the statute book. Besides, what kind of threat would that be, when it’s clearly what he most wants. As soon as it does become law, I’ll be preparing myself to be left alone with the children and to lose him for ever. That’s what will happen. And then there’ll be no hope.’

  It was very difficult to incite Beatriz or rouse her to rebellion. She always seemed more sad than angry, more afflicted than indignant, at least when she was with him, but also when he was the main topic of conversation. She was calm and long-suffering, not so much because she hoped her patience would make him change his attitude towards her as because she was sure that any show of impatience would only make matters worse, that shouting, raging, rebelling, returning his insults and making a scene would only strengthen his case and make him more splenetic, thus ensuring that he would be forever incapable of uttering a momentarily gentle, grieving, almost mournful word, like the words I’d heard him say: ‘I’ll grant you that.’ I don’t know, but it was as if Beatriz loved Muriel so much and felt so deeply in his debt that she found it as hard to face up to him as to tear him to pieces behind his back, but that she found relief in talking about him and complaining, without the need to spit venom or get overly worked up. Yet when she wasn’t with him and wasn’t talking about him, Beatriz didn’t just lie doggo like some pitiful victim. She led a separate, independent life, as if she didn’t care about her husband or had formally renounced him.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Gloria responded, ‘it could cost him an arm and a leg, so he’d think long and hard before asking for a divorce. We don’t know what the terms of the law will be, but the spouse with the least money is sure to come out well. Especially if the children stay with her.’ She took it for granted that all wives would earn less than their husbands and that the children would automatically stay with them, which is how it usually was in 1980, and as it still is now with a few exceptions, nothing much has changed really. ‘As far as we know, he has no other stable relationship. No woman pressurizing him to marry her. Besides, do you really see him marrying again? I don’t. He couldn’t stand being close to anyone else, and new wives tend to be jealous and clinging, and he couldn’t bear having someone asking him all the time where he was off to and keeping a note of his various trips. Basically, he’s very comfortable with the way things are, however much he spurns you and hates the sight of you. Threatening him with the new divorce bill will scare the pants off him. He’ll moderate his behaviour then and stop all the insults, well, the worst ones. Sometimes I find it hard to believe the things he says to you, but I’m sure you’re not inventing it. You shouldn’t have to put up with it, no one should. And you’ll soon find someone else to take you in.’

  I sensed a certain malicious edge to those words ‘take you in’, as if, when Beatriz divorced, she would inevitably fall into the void or be cast out into the wilderness, and would need another man to protect her from the nothingness or the cold. Beatriz ignored her comments and did not respond, probably inured to her friends’ smiling sideswipes.

  ‘I don’t know how you, a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic, can advise me to get a divorce, and as soon as possible too, the moment the bill is passed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gloria, ‘but I’m perhaps not as dyed-in-the-wool as all that, besides you don’t want to be the only one to lose out. If divorce is made legal, you can bet your boots it won’t be only agnostics and atheists taking advantage of it. Do you really think that the people who are so fiercely opposed to it now won’t end up embracing it too? They fight it because they have to, but we all know how open to interpretation God is and that he’ll understand if we just explain properly and provide him with some solid arguments. They’ll each make their peace with him, don’t you worry. After all, that’s what we’ve been doing all our lives: pacts and compromises, bargains and pay-offs. God is more than used to that, at least with the people he knows best, namely, religious folk.’

  ‘That makes him sound like some stallholder desperate to sell his wares,’ said Beatriz with a little laugh. ‘Don’t tell me you would have divorced Roberto, because I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Sadly, I haven’t had to consider it, I only wish he were still alive. But yes, if he had carried on as he was, I would have felt justified in doing so. It would have been his fault, not mine. And his initiative too, which is what really matters. I might have been the one to start divorce proceedings, but he would have sown the seed. Oh, I’d have given him a second chance, I’d have waited. But that Ávila business, assuming it had been a serious affair, would have provided me with sufficient grounds. But I’ll never know for sure now, and no
t knowing is a real curse, believe me. Not knowing if your husband died because he was seriously in love, the kind of love that would have left you sidelined, or because of some mad, insignificant fling. He would probably never have seen her again. Or even thought about her. What a waste!’ ‘That Ávila business’ was how she used to refer to her husband’s death and its circumstances. And she added: ‘Just as in your case, the fault lies with Eduardo, not with you. Whatever you did afterwards is another matter, you could hardly be expected to sit on your hands for ever.’

  There was a long silence, as if Beatriz were thinking or hesitating. I hadn’t typed anything for a while, and I was afraid they had noticed and prudently fallen silent, imagining that if I was typing I wouldn’t hear their voices clearly. I typed a few more lines to inspire them with confidence, even if only at a subconscious level, as people used to say then. Not that it mattered, they had clearly forgotten I was even there.

  ‘It’s odd,’ Beatriz said at last. ‘It’s odd that for me, a non-believer, the bond is stronger than it is for you, a believer, albeit a rather flexible, rather lax one, luckily for you. I could never get divorced or even separated, not on my initiative; blaming him for it wouldn’t help at all, because I would be the one starting the proceedings and setting it all in motion. It would be quite different if Eduardo began proceedings, then I would just have to lump it. I don’t care what he does or doesn’t do to me, what he says, I don’t care that he avoids me like the plague, that the mere sight of me, at best, irritates him and, at worst, fills him with despair and rage, because there was a time when it wasn’t like that, and as long as I hang on to that memory, I can also hang on to the hope that things will go back to the way they once were, and permanently too. Of course I care how he treats me, it’s dreadful, I can feel myself shrivelling up, and every night I go to bed in such a state of anxiety I can barely sleep; but I still won’t leave. You can’t just erase memories at will, and as long as those memories last, the person you shared the good times with continues to be the person closest to them, the person who best embodies them. He’s both their representative and their witness, if you see what I mean, as well as being the only person capable of bringing those good times back, the only person who can possibly restore them to me. I wouldn’t want a new life with another man. I want the life I had for quite a number of years and with the same man. I don’t want to forget or get over it or move on, as they say, but to carry on in exactly the same way, like a prolongation of what was. I was never dissatisfied, I never longed for change, I was never one of those women who gets bored and requires movement, variety, arguments and reconciliations, moments of euphoria and terrible shocks. I would have been happy for everything to have stayed eternally the same. Some people are content and satisfied, and hope only for each day to be the same as the previous day and the next. I was one of those people. Until everything went wrong. If I distanced myself from him now, if I left or threw him out, then I really would be giving up what I most want, and that would be the end of me, the final sentence.’