Thus Bad Begins

by Javier Marías

  He unfolded his arms and retreated a few steps, as if he had finished his lesson or his warning. I couldn’t force what I knew on him. Well, I could, I only had to say a few words, spoken in wretched haste: ‘The Doctor abused various women and blackmailed their husbands or fathers, he threatened to send them to prison or the firing squad if they didn’t agree to his demands.’ You can’t help but hear, and auditory stains cannot be cleaned up, unlike sexual stains, which can all be washed away. I was so emboldened by the situation that I was even tempted, for a fraction of a second, to say the unthinkable: ‘Did you know that, for quite some time now, the Doctor has been screwing Beatriz?’ (That disrespectful verb would once again have escaped my lips, because it was the right word to use.) I had done the same thing, although it had only been once and, besides, and this I will never know, it might not have bothered Muriel that I had screwed her or that she’d been screwed by Van Vechten or Arranz or who knows who else, perhaps someone outside Madrid. And I could have let slip other equally swift words, to lend more weight to the information: ‘They meet in an ultra-Catholic place, which apparently has links to Pinochet and his followers.’ But you don’t say such puerile things, not even when you’re twenty-three. Not to someone you admire and respect and are fond of, not to someone who has, moreover, forbidden you to tell him anything and insists that he doesn’t want to know, someone who has resolved to renounce all passing curiosity. And so I asked two questions, one after the other, and understood from his response that he considered these puerile too:

  ‘But what about justice, Eduardo? What about what actually happened, what took place?’ He had probably forgotten the comments he had made to me once about that last expression.

  ‘Justice?’ he retorted, quick as a flash. ‘Justice doesn’t exist. Or only as an exception, just a few stern lessons to keep up appearances, but only in the case of individual crimes. And woe betide those who receive those lessons. But for collective or national crimes, there is no justice, not even an attempt at it. Justice is always terrified by the magnitude of those crimes, overwhelmed by their superabundance, inhibited by the sheer quantity, paralysed and frightened. It’s naive of us to appeal to justice after a dictatorship or a war, even after a mere lynching in some one-horse town, because there are always too many people involved. How many people do you think committed crimes or were accomplices to crimes in Germany, and how many were punished? I don’t mean tried and sentenced, because that was even rarer, but something easier and more feasible: how many were punished socially or on a personal level? How many found themselves marginalized or excluded, how many found themselves rejected, as you are asking me to do now with the Doctor because of what you’ve found out about him? A tiny, insignificant proportion. And it’s the same in Italy, in Hungary, Croatia, Poland, France, everywhere. A whole country is never brought to justice, not even half or even a portion of the population. (All right, this does happen in dictatorships, but who wants to go back to that?) And just supposing that we could do it here, what sense is there now in putting those people on trial, which is neither possible nor appropriate, and on that we pretty much all agree – but ostracizing the majority of the population? You can be quite sure that we, the foolish avenging angels, would be the ones to end up spurned and isolated. No one denounces his peers, no one accuses someone who is like himself.’ Muriel paused and sat down on the sofa, but I still didn’t dare follow suit. He looked up at the painting by Casanova’s brother, of which he never tired. He turned his one eye on me again and added: ‘Look, young De Vere, Spain is full of bastards large and small, individuals who oppressed and plundered, who flourished and took advantage of others, or who, at best, were merely accommodating. And you want me to turn against a friend because he might once have done something similar? Come on. Yes, I did involve you in the matter and, yes, I did have my doubts, it’s true: remnants of another age, of the person I once was; remnants of rectitude. But frankly, the way things are going here in Spain, I’m not about to be the one idiot who harms himself by dispensing his own personal justice.’ He drummed with his fingers on his eyepatch as if he had guessed that this was precisely what I was then tempted to do (I had to content myself with that pleasing sound) and he concluded with a half-smile and an unexpected lightness of tone. ‘Because that doesn’t exist either, Juan, disinterested, personal justice.’

  It was those two things that annoyed me, both his denial that personal justice existed and the light, even paternalistic tone in which he spoke. Not that I found the latter unacceptable in him, on the contrary, it was understandable that Muriel should treat me like that, given that he exceeded me in age, knowledge and government, and then there was also the unconditional loyalty I felt for him. This had perhaps diminished a little, for no enthusiasm, however fervent, can survive continuous contact and proximity, being a witness to how someone conducts his personal life, which is rarely spoken of because such tales are so tenuous, so similar to other tales, that the more ambitious storytellers tend to scorn them and barely pay them any attention at all. I had paid attention to the atmosphere in that apartment, possibly more than I should have done. And perhaps that’s what angered me.

  ‘Really, Don Eduardo?’ I sometimes reverted to addressing him as ‘Don’, the form of address I had early on and rather reluctantly abandoned; but this time I did so on purpose. ‘So personal justice doesn’t exist either? And you, of all people, are telling me that?’

  He noticed the sarcasm, if it went that far; for I never entirely lost my respect for him.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I? What do you mean, young De Vere?’ For the moment, he didn’t feel offended, only intrigued.

  ‘I’ve spent long enough here, Don Eduardo, I mean, Eduardo, to see that you’re subjecting Beatriz to something that seems very like a kind of personal justice. Or rather, a punishment, a personal punishment. You tell me you’re not prepared to lose a friend because of something he did years ago, that you won’t even alter or modify your relationship with him one iota; and now you won’t even hear what I’ve found out about him. On the other hand, you’ve spent years, at least I assume it’s been years, making your wife pay for some past misdemeanour. I know that, in principle, it’s none of my business, as you’ve occasionally informed me yourself when I’ve asked you other questions, not that I ever asked with any ill intent, just out of normal curiosity. But when I’ve had to witness certain unpleasant scenes and sharp remarks, then it begins to be my business, wouldn’t you agree? One can’t remain indifferent to what’s there before one’s eyes, nor, in my opinion, should one; and you certainly don’t hold back. Forgive my boldness, but I’ve heard you say quite a lot of things that are, to be blunt, unbecoming to you. Things about Beatriz. You don’t exactly keep your feelings to yourself.’

  His expression hardened. That hardness, though, was not yet directed at me, but perhaps at what had happened in the past, at what had one day led him to take against his wife and send her into permanent exile, if not from his affections (it was clear that the embers, or more than that, still glowed) then from conjugal life.

  ‘You pride yourself on your attentive and retentive abilities, Juan, and yet you’re missing out an important part of what I’ve just said. I said that disinterested, personal justice doesn’t exist.’ And he stressed that first adjective, which I had, indeed, omitted. ‘There’s a fundamental difference between what the Doctor may have done and what Beatriz did, however worthy of censure his actions may be; however systematic, repeated and despicable and on quite another scale, it doesn’t matter. At the time, you asked if it constituted a betrayal of me, and I told you that what I’d heard about him was unrelated to me, had nothing to do with me, and didn’t directly affect our friendship. – ‘And what I saw from the top of a tree in the Sanctuary of Darmstadt,’ I thought, and in my thoughts I addressed him familiarly as tú, ‘and that you also wouldn’t let me tell you about – not that I would tell you – would you consider that to be a betrayal?’ – ‘Whatever the Doctor
did he certainly didn’t do to me. Beatriz, on the other hand, did. She did it to me, she changed the course of my life, she determined it and ruined it; and ruined the life of another person too. The accusations I heard against Jorge were unpleasant. Most distasteful. And I did wonder about them. But now I can see (all the more so when I look around me) that I needn’t worry about the thousands of filthy things people have done over the decades out there. Or, rather, here. I don’t have to take steps, still less against someone to whom I feel indebted, and even more so now.’ – ‘What you don’t know is that you might also feel yourself to be his creditor,’ I thought, ‘or perhaps not, perhaps you simply don’t care.’ – ‘I’ve no wish to sit in judgement on the past, no one does, as we’ve seen on a daily basis since Franco died. Not even the professional judges want to do that. Everyone is furious and resentful about what was done to them or to their loved ones or their forebears, but not about what was done “in general”. Tackling “the general” would be a mammoth and absurd task, one that no age and no nation has ever undertaken. One fit for the idle or for fanatics, self-obsessed individuals longing to find a mission in life. Let’s not deceive ourselves, we are all concerned solely with our own affairs; we want our revenge or our compensation, we each have our own personal grudges, and have neither thought nor time for those of others, unless joining together with those others is of some benefit to our cause and our plight. And yet, even in those strategic unions, deep down we’re thinking only of ourselves, each of us is in pursuit only of our own redress, the success of our particular suit. Only a few weirdos are prepared to set themselves up as the policemen or judges of other people’s misdemeanours, of what is wrong per se.’ – ‘According to Muriel, Vidal would be one such person,’ was my first response, ‘and yet he doesn’t seem weird to me at all, but very normal.’ Then I thought again and corrected myself: ‘Ah, no. Vidal isn’t entirely disinterested either, there’s his Aunt Carmen, whom both doctors screwed, Van Vechten and Arranz; so perhaps Muriel is right.’ – ‘What’s more they’re always very pretentious and self-important. There’s a megalomaniac quality about that inability to tolerate impunity in matters that have nothing to do with us, don’t you think? Those avenging angels hang a medal round their neck, look at themselves in the mirror and say: “I’m incorruptible, I’m implacable, I will not allow any injustice to go unpunished, whether it affects me or not.” ’ – I didn’t think Vidal was like that at all; he was equally angry with the Catalan painter and the ugly, bald philosopher, neither of whom had affronted him personally; he simply chose not to keep silent in private about what he knew, but he had no desire to dispense justice or take anyone to court or expose him or her to the public gaze: conversations over a few drinks or at the hospital, advice and warnings given to an inexperienced friend, tales told while sharing a beer or two, that was all. But I let it pass. His family had been directly affected. Not irreversibly, because his father had become a wealthy man, although he had, admittedly, had to make his fortune abroad. But perhaps that first factor was enough for Vidal’s anger to be impersonal, all-embracing. – ‘I myself succumbed to the temptation of behaving like that, so it’s not that I don’t understand the attitude. The younger you are, the more likely you are to suffer those attacks of “objective” indignation. That’s why, on a juvenile impulse, a resurgence of my former self, if you like, that’s why I asked you to do what I asked you to do. But one isn’t young any more; those youthful remnants don’t last, they fade with each day that passes … And then one considers and thinks: What has that got to do with me? Did he ever hurt me? No. The Doctor has never harmed me in any way.’

  Muriel had forgotten the purpose of his speech, his riposte or defence. This happened more and more often. It wasn’t his age, he was only in his fifties after all. Sometimes he spoke at length and, at others, was brusque and laconic, and this had been so since I first met him. But the two tendencies had become more marked: when he spoke at length he spoke for longer and when he was brusque he was even brusquer. Now he stopped, as if disoriented, as though asking himself: ‘Why the devil are we talking about this?’ And I took advantage of this pause to try to lead him in the direction I wanted:

  ‘But Beatriz did harm you,’ I said. ‘Beatriz did something unforgivable to you.’ His eye flashed into life, as if he were shooting an arrow at me, albeit not as yet a very sharp one. ‘You see, Eduardo, while you were in Barcelona, Beatriz and I talked more than usual; that was my role, I was here as her companion, her guardian, her protector.’ – ‘Don’t let your tongue run away with you,’ I thought, ‘and be careful what you reveal, you don’t want to betray yourself: Muriel has seen far too much cinema.’ – ‘Since I came to work here … well, I can see you feel a kind of retrospective affection for her, I don’t know how else to put it. For old times’ sake. She remembers them as having been very good times, or more than that, she holds them close and clings to them, as you well know. And I saw how alarmed you were that night at the Hotel Wellington, your panic at the possibility that she might have killed herself. But I also see that you find her unbearable. You almost always treat her badly, very badly. Perhaps you have good reason, but I don’t know that reason, and it’s really not at all pleasant to see.’

  Muriel’s eye softened, now it was only sarcastic. With two rapid movements, he rolled up his sleeves still further; the sun was getting higher and it was beginning to get hot.

  ‘And did she not tell you the reason during one of your long chats? The lady of the house complaining to the innocent boy, with her as the poor victim.’

  ‘No. She said she was ashamed to tell me, because it was so ridiculous. That it would be better if you told me yourself and then I would see how disproportionate your reaction had been. All I could get out of her was that she once told you a lie that you took very much to heart. Something really stupid, a childish thing, was how she described it. She never imagined you would react in such a violent, exaggerated fashion.’

  ‘And you believed her?’

  ‘How can I believe anything when I still don’t know the facts? But unlike you with regard to the Doctor, I would like to find out what lies behind what I’ve witnessed. Don’t worry, you’ve made it quite clear that whatever the Doctor did doesn’t affect you in any way; if it happened, you weren’t there to witness it, so why should it interest you? Don’t worry, I won’t insist. But in exchange for my silence, why don’t you tell me once and for all? I think I’ve been very respectful of your reserve since I’ve been working here. I’ve asked you very few questions. But all reserve has its limits, as does all respect. Forgive me for being so direct, but what exactly did Beatriz do to you?’

  Muriel did not respond at once. He was, it seemed to me, pondering my words. Then he looked at his watch, tapped its face with his finger, as I had seen him do on other occasions and as if he were calculating whether or not he could afford to devote a little time to me, time that had not been part of his plan for that morning. His eye changed again: it again looked at me with a certain fondness or understanding or patience; perhaps also with a degree of interest. I assumed that he had heard my request and accepted it, that he understood my curiosity and did not reproach me for it. Perhaps he realized that he had kept me too much in the dark. By bringing someone into your home, you are inevitably obliging him to be a witness to your life. And while there’s no reason why you should have to explain anything to him if he’s being paid to work for you, inevitably the employee will silently pass judgement and ask questions, it happens with even the most invisible and sporadic and insignificant of employees. He would never know to what extent I had become established and involved in his world, and I hoped he never would. But he did know that I had served him as spy and vigilante and had saved his wife from death, although not as purely by chance as he believed, for he knew nothing about my unseemly habit of secretly following her on some or quite a number of afternoons, a habit I had since abandoned. Perhaps Muriel had never stopped to think that I might have mad
e any silent judgements or had questions that remained unasked. Now he was discovering that I had both and perhaps discovering, too, that they were not a matter of indifference to him, but of some importance, and that he needed to give me his version of events in order to influence those judgements, those questions, that it was no longer appropriate to answer me brusquely: ‘Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t employ you to ask me questions about matters that are none of your business.’ That time had gone or been replaced, but he hadn’t noticed until I voiced my discontent, until that moment.