Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me

by Javier Marías

  What a disgrace it is to me to remember your name, though I may not know your face tomorrow, the face that we will one day cease to see will, meanwhile, betray itself and betray us in the time allotted to it, in the time remaining, it will distance itself from our fixed image of it in order to lead a life of its own during our voluntary or unhappy absence. The faces of those who have gone for ever because we did not hold on to them or because they have died will grow vaguer in our memory, which is not a visual faculty, although sometimes we deceive ourselves and think we can still see what we no longer have before us and which we can only evoke swathed in mists, the vague figure conjured up by our illusions or our nostalgia or, occasionally, our ill luck is called the inner eye, or the mind’s eye. I could easily believe that I had never met you if I did not know your name, which remains immutable, unaltered, its brilliance undimmed, and so it will be even if you disappear completely, even if you die. It is what remains and there is no difference between the living name and the dead name, not only that, it is the only thing by which we can recognize ourselves, with which we can hold on to our sanity, because if someone denies our name and says to us: “I may be able to see you, but you are not you, even though you look like you,” then we would effectively cease to be ourselves in the eyes of the person saying that and denying us, and we would not become ourselves again until they returned to us the name that has hitherto accompanied us as surely as the air. “I know you not, old man,” said Prince Hal to his friend Falstaff, the moment he became Henry V, “I know not who you are, nor have I ever seen you before, do not come asking favours or calling me sweet names. I have turned away my former self. When you hear that I am as I have been, approach, and you will be as you were.” And if that happened to us, we would think, horrified: “How is it possible that he doesn’t recognize me and call me by my name?” But sometimes we might also think with some relief: “Thank heavens he doesn’t call me by my name now or recognize me, that he doesn’t admit that I am the person doing or saying these terrible things, and that precisely because he sees these things happening and hears me saying them and cannot deny them, he charitably denies knowing me so that I can continue to be the person I once was in his eyes, and so saves me.”

  Something similar happened to me one night some time ago, long before I knew the names of Marta Téllez and of her father and of Deán and Luisa and Eugenio, and, on that occasion, the denial was mutual, if that is what it was, if there was a moment of recognition. I was driving home late in my car, when I saw a woman standing in Hermanos Bécquer, a short road that curves steeply uphill and emerges into the Paseo de la Castellana, so curved and steep is it that it seems like two separate streets set on different levels at right angles to each other, as if the upper section were a partial bridge connected to the lower section, it’s a very posh street along which prostitutes and transvestites often take up their posts, though normally only one man or woman at a time, usually a lone woman waiting on the corner at the bottom of the hill, while a few streets away in either direction, on the other side of the Castellana and beyond María de Molina, the numbers proliferate, the prostitutes stick together more and keep each other company and make each other jealous while they wait in their flimsy clothes that belie the winter and the autumn too. There’s always a different woman on that corner, a corner I often pass, at least it never seems to be the same one, and she has the look of an explorer or an exile, or perhaps they draw lots for that place each night because, while it’s discreet and isolated, there’s also a fair amount of traffic and there are security guards nearby (the American embassy is close at hand), a good place for her itinerant clientele. That night I stopped at the traffic lights as usual and, from my car, I looked across at the prostitute with the mixture of curiosity and fantasy and superiority and pity with which we men who don’t frequent prostitutes always look at them – or perhaps that’s just bravado. And when the lights changed, instead of driving on, I continued looking at her through my car window, because – I saw at once that she really was a woman and not some artful simulacrum – I thought I knew her name. She was wearing a short raincoat that revealed half of her black-stockinged thighs, she had her arms folded against the still bearable cold, and when she saw that my car had remained where it was when the lights changed, she perked up and uncrossed her arms to let me have a better look – to let the driver have a better look, she couldn’t yet see me – at her skirt which was even shorter than the raincoat and at the body she was wearing – that’s what they’re called, bodies – doubtless to emphasize her breasts. She took her hands out of her pockets and thus opened or half-opened her raincoat in a lacklustre gesture of exhibitionism. I stayed there, leaving enough space to my right for any cars that might be coming from the same direction I had come from, but without actually having to move, without having to mount the pavement, that would have been too definite a step and would have shown an evident interest that would have obliged me to talk to her, or at least exchange a few words. And the fact is that although, during a matter of seconds, my interest had grown to enormous, indeed, alarming proportions, I wasn’t sure if I did want to speak to her or get a better look at her, because I was afraid that I knew her name and recognized her, and the name I thought I knew was Celia, Celia Ruiz Comendador, because she used her whole name, including both her family names, and that was the name I had married some years before and from which I had later separated and, not long since, divorced.

  Besides, I had heard something and I had heard it from someone who knows everything and whose information is usually reliable and exact when he is not in the business of trying to deceive someone or commit a fraud: I had heard it from Ruibérriz de Torres, although at the time I didn’t believe him. My marriage, while it lasted, didn’t do too badly, given the impatient times we live in, and it lasted three years, which is quite a long time for such a young bride, eleven years younger than me when she donned a bridal gown, perhaps less now, for certain facts and certain ways of looking at things can alter and confound ages. She was twenty-two and I was thirty-three when we got married on her insistence, the insistence of someone who is not thinking much beyond two or three years when she says “for ever” or, if you prefer, “for good” (and it therefore seems to her a desirable and friendly thing to do) childhood being still too recent for her to be able to imagine a future that is any different from the present, genuine impetuosity has deeper roots, doubtless a personal characteristic. I agreed, in a moment of weakness or enthusiasm, both of which prevailed during the first year, I find it hard to remember now; the young woman made me laugh, which is all one requires of a young woman and is therefore more than sufficient; later, I merely tolerated her and soon we simply found each other irritating, we had to sit out the storms in silence before the kisses could begin again, warm, sexual reconciliations are very useful where possible, even necessary sometimes: they prolong a relationship that is already over, but not for ever. As usually happens, I was the one who left the matrimonial home, about three years ago, and I came to live where I still live now. Being so much younger than me, her feelings of irritation were more transient and she tended not to let them fester, they simply dissolved, for her, each minor irritation was no more serious or onerous than the first, she was quite devoid of malice and her continual re-offences were not intended to offend, they had to be pointed out to her and even explained before she realized what she had done. I had to provide glosses for her. I, on the other hand, did let my feelings of irritation fester and I was as impatient as the times we live in. I mean that she did not understand and so grew desperate and opposed my wishes, which was why it ended badly later on, after we had called a halt to our life together. During a temporary truce, we decided or chose not to see each other, at least for a few months, to wait until we could see each other slightly differently, different in all but name that is. I gave her money via a monthly cheque delivered by courier (we both saw his face, but not each other’s), not only because I was the one who had left and had
the larger salary, but because the more experienced partner tends to feel responsible for the less experienced one, even when they are apart, they still fear for them. Now I still send her a cheque, legally, and I sometimes give her money in person, a helping hand when she needs it, like someone giving pocket money to a child, though she may not need it for very much longer. I don’t usually like talking about Celia.

  I found out what one usually finds out in a city in which everyone meets everyone else and in which phones ring at all hours, phone calls in the middle of the night are commonplace, and there is a section of the population that does not sleep and will not allow those trying to sleep to sleep either. Someone would tell me that they had seen Celia here or there with such and such a person, either someone quite predictable or a stranger, she did not lack for admirers. From this information I deduced that she was not really using her imagination and was merely going through the motions expected of abandoned lovers in the big city: she went out a lot and stayed up late, she drank and pretended to be enjoying herself, she danced, she got bored, she didn’t want to go home to bed and sometimes she would burst into tears at the end of the evening or perhaps even in the early hours; she made sure that this news reached my ears and she would ask after me like someone asking after a distant acquaintance, I’ve done it myself, your lips tremble and betray you, your voice falters. My phone would sometimes ring at odd hours and when I picked it up, no one was there, she just wanted to know if I was home, or perhaps her aim was less ignoble, perhaps she just wanted to hear my voice, even for a moment, even if all she heard was a question repeated back at her. Once, before going to sleep, while I was sitting at the foot of the bed getting undressed, I dialled my old number, but I didn’t say anything when she answered, for it suddenly occurred to me that she might not be alone. And another time, Celia left me three messages one after the other on my answering machine, she said a lot of things, feverish and grotesque and sarcastic and threatening, but before the tape ran out for the last message, she began pleading with me, saying: “Please … please … please …” I had heard that before, years before, on my own tape. I didn’t dare return her call. It was best not to.

  Later on, I was given some information which I ignored at first, even though it was Ruibérriz de Torres who took it on himself to tell me, first through hints and as if sounding me out, then more bluntly. One day, he asked me if I knew what Celia had been up to lately, and when I said that I hadn’t heard anything from her for some months, he affected a look of concern, for I could see that, deep down, he found it all faintly amusing. “Perhaps you should take more of an interest in her life, keep an eye on her from time to time,” he said. “No, it’s best if I don’t,” I said, “I need to let more time pass, I don’t want her to get back into the habit of relying on me to solve all her problems or to listen to them and give her advice. That always establishes a link and a good excuse and it’s been hard enough breaking off all communication with her, apart, that is, from the cheques I send her.” “Well, perhaps you should make that communication more frequent or more generous,” he replied. And when I asked why, or what it was that he knew, he told me rather primly and almost gleefully something that struck me at the time as absurd: someone had seen Celia in a late-night bar frequented by prostitutes, with two rather unusual drinking companions, men who looked like ordinary businessmen from Bilbao or Barcelona or Valencia, people passing through, people who weren’t at all her type and with whom it seemed unlikely she would have arrived. “So what? What conclusions do you draw from that?” I said rather angrily. “Well, it just looks odd. It is a bit worrying, don’t you think? If I were you, I’d have a word with her.” “Don’t be stupid,” I replied, “Celia has always enjoyed going out and about, the more exotic and bizarre the place the better, it makes her feel adventurous, she’s very young. When she was married to me, she went to a lesbian bar a couple of times with some girlfriends, but that didn’t make me think she was a lesbian.” “All right, all right,” said Ruibérriz, “but this is different.” “Why is it different?” “One, she’s no longer married to you; two, she wasn’t with any girlfriends; three, she’s been seen there more than once and in two different bars that are known haunts for prostitutes,” and, as he counted, Ruibérriz held out first, the little finger, then, the ring finger and, finally, the middle finger of his right hand. “Well, your friends certainly get around,” I replied, “they must be awfully keen on prostitutes to go to these places all the time. Have they also seen her stuffing money down her cleavage? People invent the weirdest things. Celia goes through phases: suddenly she finds a certain kind of person amusing and she goes out with them all the time, or she goes to one or two places every night on the trot, then, after a fortnight, she’s sick to death both of them and of her new friends and, for the next fortnight, she stays at home. That’s what she was like when I met her and that’s what she’ll continue to be like until she finds some stability and can put her life in order. Besides, I send her quite enough money and I’m sure her parents in Santander help her out too. She gets jobs occasionally, I don’t think she’s got any money problems.” “Whether or not the money you give her is enough depends on her needs and the kind of life she leads, it depends on how she spends it. She goes out a lot. She’s probably on something.” “No, she’s always been terrified of drugs, apart from alcohol and tobacco, she’s never even wanted to try marihuana; and plenty of people have asked her when she’s been out,” I replied, “but, you know, there’s a big difference between that and becoming a prostitute. Why are you telling me these ridiculous, malicious stories?” Ruibérriz fell silent for a moment and, with one hand, smoothed back his wavy, musician’s hair, while he stared down at the floor, as if he wasn’t sure whether to provide still further proof or to leave it be. “Well, it’s up to you,” he said, “I’ve told you what other people have seen and told me, I thought you should know.” “All right, what else have they seen, tell me everything, what else do you know?” I said impatiently. He couldn’t help smiling, flashing his white teeth, his upper lip curled back to reveal his gums, like someone amused to have been caught out. “There isn’t anything else, that’s it. It seems quite enough to me, but you think it’s just a rumour. Anyway, let’s forget it, I don’t want you getting angry with me.” A suspicion suddenly crossed my mind. “Have you seen her?” I asked. “Have you seen her with your own eyes?” He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest, perhaps like someone taking a breath in order to lie more fluently without his voice giving him away (but I didn’t think that then, only three weeks later, when I stopped at the traffic lights in Hermanos Bécquer, at the bottom of the lower section which is, in fact, the beginning of General Oraa, as I realized when I saw the street name, but which I have always seen as being part of Hermanos Bécquer, as do taxi drivers and other people in Madrid). “No, if I’d seen her, I would have said so, in order to convince you that you should, at least, talk to her. You might as well check out whether or not it’s true, talk to her.”

  I didn’t talk to her, I didn’t believe what he had told me, I didn’t want to phone Celia and break the silence that had been built up so slowly and tenaciously and which needed to last a while longer. But I did speak to a friend of hers who used to see her and I told her what I had learned through Ruibérriz. I was going to ask her to talk to Celia and find out the possible motive or origin of that malicious rumour, but I didn’t need to. Before I could ask her, she said exactly what I had said and that made me think that there probably was no motive or origin: “What a stupid, horrible thing to say, haven’t people got anything better to do than invent vile rumours like that? Poor Celia.” I asked her not to tell Celia that I had called, but I imagine I asked in vain, alliances between girlfriends always prevail, they tell each other everything that might be of interest, although perhaps on that occasion she didn’t in the end tell her, not because of me, but to save her any unpleasantness. Anyway, I felt reassured, I did nothing further and I forgot about it.
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