The Infatuations (10 page)

I noticed that Díaz-Varela had suddenly gone very silent and serious, and for precisely the same reason that Luisa had taken three steps towards the sofa and sat down on it before even inviting the two men to do so, as if her legs had given way beneath her and she could no longer remain standing. She had gone from the spontaneous laughter of a moment before to an expression of grief, her gaze clouded and her skin pale. Yes, she must have been a very simple mechanism. She raised her hand to her forehead and lowered her eyes, and I feared that she might cry. There was no reason why Professor Rico should have known that her life had been destroyed by a knife that had stabbed and stabbed, perhaps his friend hadn’t told him – although that was strange, because one tends to recount other people’s misfortunes almost without thinking – or if Díaz-Varela had told him, he had quite forgotten about it: he had a (considerable) reputation for retaining information only about the remote past, on which he was a world authority, and for listening to accounts of more recent events politely, but with scant attention. Any crime, any event dating from the Middle Ages or the Golden Age was of far more importance to him than what had happened the day before yesterday.

Looking concerned, Díaz-Varela went over to Luisa, took her hands in his and said softly:

‘It’s all right, it’s all right, don’t worry. I’m so sorry. It hadn’t occurred to me where this nonsense might lead.’ And I thought I sensed in him an impulse to stroke her cheek, as one would when consoling a child for whom one would give one’s very life; in the end, though, he repressed that impulse.

If his murmured comment was audible to me, it was equally so to the Professor.

‘Whatever’s wrong? What did I say? It wasn’t the word “balls”, was it? Well, you are a thin-skinned lot. I could have used something far worse; after all, “balls” is a euphemism. Vulgar and graphic and overused, I agree, but a euphemism nonetheless.’

‘What does “thin-skinned” mean? What are “balls”?’ asked the little boy, who had noticed the Professor’s gesture of pointing towards his groin. Fortunately, everyone ignored him and his question went unanswered.

Luisa recovered at once and realized that she hadn’t yet introduced me. She could not, in fact, remember my surname, because although she gave the full names of the two men (‘Professor Francisco Rico, Javier Díaz-Varela’), she gave only my first name, as she did with the children, and then added my nickname by way of compensation (‘This is my new friend María; Miguel knew her as the Prudent Young Woman when we used to have breakfast most mornings in the same café, but today is the first time we’ve actually spoken’). I thought it only right that I should make up for her faulty memory (‘María Dolz,’ I added). Javier must have been the person she had mentioned earlier, referring to him as ‘one of Miguel’s best friends’. He was, at any rate, the man I had seen that morning at the wheel of what had once been Deverne’s car, the man who had picked up the children from the café, presumably to take them to school, a little later than usual. He was not, therefore, the chauffeur, as I had thought. Perhaps Luisa had felt obliged to dispense with a chauffeur; when someone is widowed, their first step is always to try to reduce expenses, it’s like a reflex reaction of vulnerability and retreat, even if they’ve inherited a fortune. I did not, of course, know the state of her finances, although I imagined she was quite well off, but she
might still have felt her situation to be precarious even if it wasn’t, the whole world seems to totter after the death of someone important to us, nothing seems solid or firm, and the person most closely affected tends to wonder: ‘What’s the point of this and why bother with that, what’s the point of money or a business and all its complications, why a house and a library, why go out to work and make plans, why have children, why anything? Nothing lasts long enough because everything ends and, once it’s over, it was never enough, even if it lasted a hundred years. I only had Miguel with me for a few years, so why should anything he left behind, anything that survives him, last any longer. Not even the money or the house or me or the children. We are all merely in abeyance and under threat.’ And there is also an impulse towards death: ‘I want to be where he is, and the only place where we could coincide is the past, in that place of not being but of having been. He is past, whereas I am still present. If I were also past, at least I would be the same as him in that respect, which would be something, and I would be in no position to miss him or remember him. I would be on the same level as him or in the same dimension, in the same time, and we would not be left alone in this precarious world in which everything familiar is being taken away from us. Nothing more can be taken away from us if we are not here. Nothing more can die on us if we are already dead.’

He was a very calm fellow, Javier Díaz-Varela, virile and handsome. Even though he was clean-shaven, there was still a hint of beard, a slight bluish shadow, especially on his square chin, like that of a comic-book hero (depending on the angle and on the light, he had or didn’t have a cleft chin). A little chest hair was visible above his shirt, which he wore with the top button undone, because, unlike Desvern, he wasn’t wearing a tie, Desvern always used to wear one, but his friend was slightly younger. He had delicate features, almond eyes with a vaguely myopic or abstracted expression, rather long lashes and a full, fleshy, shapely mouth, so much so that his lips looked like those of a woman transplanted on to a man’s face, it was very difficult not to notice them, I mean, not to keep staring at them, they were like a magnet for the eyes, both when speaking and when silent. It made you feel like kissing them or touching them or using your finger to trace their outline – which looked as if it had been drawn with a fine pencil – and then, with your fingertip, pressing the fleshy part, at once firm and soft. He was discreet too, allowing Professor Rico to hold forth at will without attempting to compete with him or outshine him (not that this would have been possible). He also had a sense of humour, because he knew how to play along with the Professor and act to some extent as his straight man, allowing him to show off before these strangers or semi-strangers, for it was clear at
once that the Professor was a flirtatious man, the sort who sets his theoretical cap at a woman in almost any circumstance. By ‘theoretical’ I mean that his flirtatiousness lacked any real intention and was not seriously aimed at seducing anyone (certainly not me or Luisa), he wished merely to arouse the flirtee’s curiosity or, if possible, to dazzle her, even if he was never going to see the dazzled party again. Díaz-Varela was amused by his friend’s puerile exhibitionism and allowed or even encouraged him to expatiate, as if he were unafraid of any competition or else had a definite, long-awaited goal of his own, which he did not doubt for a moment he would attain sooner or later, overcoming all eventualities or threats.

I didn’t stay long, well, I had no part to play at that meeting, which was improvised as far as Rico was concerned and probably customary as regards Díaz-Varela, who gave the impression of being a habitual, almost continuous presence in that house or in that life, that of Luisa the widow. It was the second time he had appeared in one day, as far as I knew, and that must have been the case almost every day, because when he arrived with Rico, the children had greeted him with a naturalness bordering on indifference, as if they took for granted his evening visit (his ‘dropping by’). Of course, they had already seen him that morning, and the three had made a brief journey together in the car. He seemed to be more involved in Luisa’s life than anyone else, more than her own family, because I knew she had at least one brother, she had mentioned him in the same sentence as Javier and the lawyer. And it seemed to me that this was how Luisa saw him, as an additional or adopted brother, someone who comes and goes, enters and leaves, someone who helps out with the children or with any other unforeseen event, on whom you can count for almost anything and without asking first and who you automatically go to for advice, who keeps you company without your even noticing,
neither him nor his company, who offers his help spontaneously and for free, someone who doesn’t need to phone before coming round, and who slowly, imperceptibly, ends up sharing the whole territory and making himself indispensable. Someone whom one barely notices is there, but who would be missed immeasurably if he were to withdraw or disappear. That could happen with Díaz-Varela at any moment, because he wasn’t a devoted, unconditional brother who is never going to leave for good, but a friend of her dead husband, and friendship is not transferable. Although it can sometimes be usurped. Perhaps he was one of those bosom pals of whom, in a moment of weakness or dark foreboding, one asks a favour or from whom one exacts a promise:

‘If anything bad were to happen to me and I was no longer here,’ Deverne might have said one day, ‘I’m counting on you to take care of Luisa and the kids.’

‘What do you mean? What are you talking about? Why do you say that? You’re not ill, are you?’ Díaz-Varela would have replied, anxious and taken aback.

‘No, I don’t foresee any problems, nothing imminent or even impending, nothing concrete, my health’s fine. But for those of us who think about death and pause to observe the effect it has on the living, we can’t help but ask ourselves sometimes what will happen after our own death, how will it leave the people to whom we matter, how far will it affect them. I don’t mean the financial side of things, that’s more or less sorted out, but everything else. I imagine that the children will have a rough time of it for a while, and that Carolina’s memory of me will last for the rest of her life, growing ever vaguer and more diffuse, which means that she might begin to idealize me, because we can do what we like with the vague and the diffuse and manipulate it at will, transforming it into a lost paradise, into a
golden age when everything was in its proper place and no one lacked for anything. But she’s too young really not to be able to let go of that eventually and to get on with her life and nurture other kinds of hopes, the hopes appropriate to each age as she reaches it. She’ll be a perfectly normal girl, with just an occasional trace of melancholy. She’ll tend to take refuge in my memory whenever she experiences an upset or things turn out badly, but that’s what we all do to a greater or lesser extent, seeking refuge in what once existed, but no longer does. Nevertheless, it would help her to have some living person who could take my place, insofar as that’s possible, someone she could talk to. Having a father-figure close by, someone she saw often and was used to. And I can’t think of anyone who could fulfil the role of substitute father better than you. I worry less about Nicolás; he’s very young and is sure to forget me. But it would still be useful if you could be around to sort out his problems, because he’s the kind of boy who’ll attract quite a few problems. It’s Luisa who will feel most lost and vulnerable. Obviously, she might marry again, but I don’t think that’s very likely, nor, of course, that she would remarry in haste, and the older she gets, the more difficult remarriage will become. I imagine that once she has got over her initial despair and grief, both of which last a long time, she probably couldn’t be bothered with the whole process, you know, meeting someone new, giving him a potted version of her life story, allowing herself to be courted or accepting someone’s advances, being encouraging and interested, showing herself in the best possible light, explaining herself and listening to the other person explaining himself, overcoming any residual distrust, getting used to someone else and having that other person get used to her, overlooking any little things she might dislike. She would find all that really tedious, well, who wouldn’t? It’s a tiring business, and there’s inevitably something repetitious
and stale about the whole process, I know I wouldn’t want to go through all that at my age. It might not seem so, but it takes a lot of hard work before you can finally settle down again with someone. I find it difficult to imagine her feeling the slightest curiosity or interest, because she’s not by nature restless or discontented. If she were, after some time had passed following my death, she might start to see some advantage or compensation in that loss. Without thinking of it as such, of course, but she would. Bringing one story to an end and starting over again, if you have to, isn’t in the long run such a bad thing. Even if you were happy with what has just ended. I’ve known inconsolable widows and widowers who, for a long time, thought they would never get back on their feet again. And yet, later, once they’ve recovered and found another partner, they have a sense that he or she is the real one, the best one, and they’re secretly glad that their former partner disappeared, leaving the field clear for this new relationship they’ve built. That is the awful power of the present, which crushes the past more easily as the past recedes, and falsifies it too without the past getting a chance to speak, protest, contradict or refute anything. Not to mention the husbands or wives who daren’t or don’t know how to leave their partner or who feel that they couldn’t possibly inflict such pain on them: they secretly want the other person to die, preferring their death to having to confront the problem and find some sensible solution. It’s absurd, but that’s how it is: it’s not that they don’t wish them ill and are eager to preserve them from all ills by dint of their personal sacrifice and enforced silence (because in order to be rid of them, they
do
wish them ill – the worst and most irreversible of all ills) it’s just that they aren’t prepared to be the cause of those ills, they don’t want to feel responsible for someone else’s unhappiness, not even for the unhappiness of the person whose mere existence by their side is a torment to them, the
tie that binds and which they could cut if they were brave. But, since they are not brave, they fantasize or dream about something as radical as another person’s death. “It would be an easy solution and an enormous relief,” they think, “and I would have nothing to do with it, I wouldn’t have to cause him any pain or sadness, he wouldn’t have to suffer because of me, it could be an accident, a devastating illness, a misfortune in which I would play no part; on the contrary, in the eyes of the world and in my own eyes too, I would be the victim, both victim and beneficiary. And I would be free.” But Luisa isn’t like that. She is fully installed and settled in our marriage and can conceive of no other life than the one she has chosen to live. She only wants more of the same, with no changes. One identical day after another, with nothing added or subtracted. So much so that what crosses my mind would never cross hers, that is, our possible death, mine or hers, that simply isn’t on her horizon, there’s no room for it. I feel the same about her death, I can hardly bear to think of it and barely consider it as a possibility. But I do consider my own death sometimes, now and then, well, we each have to struggle with our own vulnerability, not with that of other people, however much we love them. I don’t know quite how to put it, but there are times when I can very easily imagine the world without me. So if something were to happen to me one day, Javier, something final, you must be there as a back-up. I know that’s a very pragmatic, rather undignified word, but it’s the right one. Don’t misunderstand me, don’t be alarmed. I’m not, of course, asking you to marry her or anything. You have your bachelor lifestyle and your many women, which you wouldn’t give up for the world, still less to do a posthumous favour for a friend who can no longer call you to account or reproach you, who will be safely silent in the unprotesting past. But, please, stay close to her if ever I’m not here. Don’t withdraw because of my
absence, on the contrary: keep her company, offer her support and conversation and consolation, go and spend a little time with her every day and call her as often as you can even if there’s no need to, but so that it becomes a natural part of her day-to-day life. Be a kind of unhusbandly husband, an extension of me. I don’t think Luisa could cope without some daily contact like that, without someone to share her thoughts with and talk to about her day, without a replacement for what she has with me now, at least in some respects. She’s known you for ages, and she wouldn’t feel as inhibited as she would with a stranger. You could even entertain her by telling her about your adventures and allow her to experience vicariously what it will seem to her impossible ever to experience again on her own account. I know it’s a lot to ask, and you wouldn’t get much out of it, it would be more of a burden really, but Luisa could, in turn, be a partial replacement for me, she could be an extension of me, as far as you’re concerned, I mean. Our loved ones are always extensions of us in a way, and they recognize each other and come together through the dead person, as if their past contact with him made them members of a brotherhood or a caste. That way you wouldn’t lose me completely, a little of me would be preserved in her. You’re always surrounded by your various women, but you don’t have that many male friends. You would miss me, you know. And, for example, she and I share the same sense of humour. And you and I have been joking around with each other on a daily basis for years now.’