Your Face Tomorrow. Fever And Spear (13 page)

He rested the end of his walking-stick on the ground, grabbed hold of the banister and, with cigar and handle in the same hand, tried to get up, but couldn't. He remained like that, two arms raised, as if he were hanging from both supports or was caught in a gesture reminiscent of the one people make to proclaim their innocence or to announce that they are carrying no weapons: 'Frisk me, if you like.' Or: 'It wasn't me.'

'You're far too intelligent, Jacobo, for it even to occur to me to think that you could have understood that turn of phrase as anything but metaphorical. Of course I've spread them.' And that convoluted Jamesian gibe and the subsequent defiant affirmation were swiftly followed by the dilution of the latter, or its diminishment or an attempt at a nebulous, partial explanation, as if Wheeler did not want my vision of him to be muddied or spoiled by a misunderstanding or by an unpleasant metaphor. I don't know how he could possibly think that I would take him for a callous swine. 'That was a long time ago,' he said. 'Don't forget, I was born in 1913. Before, can you imagine it, the Great War. It doesn't seem possible, does it, that I should still be alive. Some evenings it doesn't seem possible to me either. In a life like mine there is time for too many things. Well, there's simultaneously not time for anything and, yes, time for too much. My memory is so full that sometimes I can't bear it. I'd like to lose more of it, I'd like to empty it a little. No, that's not true, I would rather it didn't fail me just yet. I just wish it wasn't quite so full. When you're young, as you know, you're in a hurry and always afraid that you're not living enough, that your experiences are not varied enough or rich enough, you feel impatient and try to accelerate events, if you can, and so you load yourself up with them, you stockpile them, the urgency of the young to accumulate scan and to forge a past, it's so odd that sense of urgency. No one should be troubled by that fear, the old should teach them that, although I don't know how, no one listens to the old any more. Because at the end of any reasonably long life, however monotonous it might have been, however anodyne and grey and uneventful, there will always be too many memories and too many contradictions, too many sacrifices and omissions and changes, a lot of retreats, a lot of flags lowered, and a lot of acts of disloyalty, that's for sure. And it's not easy to put all that in order, even to recount it to yourself. Too much accumulation. Too much vague material collected together and yet somehow dispersed as well, too much for one story, even for a story that is only ever thought. Not to mention the infinite number of things that fall within the eye's blind spot, every life is full of episodes that are literally invisible, we don't know what happened because we didn't see it, couldn't see it, much of what affects us and determines us is concealed or, how can I put it, not available for viewing, kept out of sight, out of shot. Life is not recountable, and it seems extraordinary that men have spent all the centuries we know anything about devoted to doing just that, determined to tell what cannot be told, be it in the form of myth, epic poem, chronicle, annals, minutes, legend or
chanson de geste,
ballad or folk-song, gospel, hagiography, history, biography, novel or funeral oration, film, confession, memoir, article, it makes no difference. It is a doomed enterprise, condemned to failure, and one that perhaps does us more harm than good. Sometimes I think it would be best to abandon the custom altogether and simply allow things to happen. And then just leave them be.' He stopped, as if he realised that he had moved a long way away from his planned conversation. But he had not lost sight of Tupra and Beryl, of that there was no doubt, he could allow himself digression upon digression upon digression and still come back to where he wanted to be. He grew defiant again and then immediately moderated that defiant tone: 'Of course I've spread outbreaks of cholera, malaria and plague too. I would remind you that we fought a long war against Germany far fewer years ago than I've been alive, I was already an adult by then. And before that, I was briefly involved in your war too. I was an adult then as well, you can do the calculations yourself.'

I rapidly did the calculations in my head. Wheeler's birthday was on 24 October, and so he wouldn't even have been twenty-three in July 1936, when the Civil War broke out, and in April
1
939. when it ended, he would have been twenty-five. His involvement in the Civil War was a further revelation, he had never mentioned it. 'And before that, I was briefly involved in your war,' he had said, which must mean that he had taken part, had fought or perhaps spied or simply made propaganda, or perhaps he had been a correspondent, or a nurse with the Red Cross, or had driven ambulances. I couldn't believe it. Not the fact itself, but not knowing about it until that night, after we'd known each other all these years.

'You never told me you were involved in the Spanish War, Peter.' I used the expression 'the Spanish War', in excessive obedience to the language I was speaking, for that is how it is occasionally referred to in English.  'You've never even mentioned it.' I really couldn't believe it. 'How is that possible? You've never even so much as hinted at it.'

'No, I don't think I have,' Wheeler agreed gravely, as if he had no intention of adding anything further now either. And then his face lit up with a smile of undisguised delight which made him look still younger, he loved to get me all intrigued and then leave me dangling, I assume he did it with everyone if the opportunity arose, in that respect, too, he resembled Toby Rylands, who would often hint at deplorable events in his past, or remote, semi-clandestine activities, or unexpected or clearly inappropriate friendships for an academic, and yet never told a single one of those stories in its entirety. He would insinuate something and then fall silent, he would fire the imagination, but not stir or feed it, and if he did begin a story, it was as if it were only his memory and not his will — his memory talking out loud — that led him to do so, and he would immediately stop, pull himself up short, so that he never told the whole story of those possibly testing or adventurous times, he allowed only glimpses. They belonged to the same school and to the same past era, he and Wheeler, it wasn't surprising that they'd been friends for such a long time, he, the still-living, must miss his dead friend very much, immensely. 'But I didn't conceal it from you either,' Wheeler added with a broad grin, as he finally stubbed out his cigar, pressing it hard down in the ashtray, in one vertical movement, as if it were an undesirable insect to be crushed, if you'd ever asked me about it . . .' And, still more amused, he took great pleasure in saying to me reproachfully: 'But you've never shown the slightest interest in the subject. You've shown no curiosity at all about my peninsular adventures.'

Whenever I saw that he was playing a game, I would usually join in, just as, when I saw that he was enjoying himself, I would try to prolong his enjoyment. So I said what he wanted me to say, even though I knew what his reply would be or simply so that he could give me that reply:

'Well, I'm asking you now, Peter, urgently. I assure you that nothing in the world could ever be of more interest to me. Go on, tell me now about those mysterious adventures of yours in the Second Peninsular War.'

'Now don't exaggerate, we weren't, alas, quite as involved in it as we were in the First.' Needless to say, he had got the joke, for in England what we Spanish call the War of Independence is known as the Peninsular War, and the English, unlike us, have written numerous books about the campaign, a campaign they consider to be theirs. It's interesting how names vary according to the point of view, beginning with the names of conflicts. What is known everywhere as the First World War or the 1914-18 War or even the Great War is, for the Italians, officially known as
La Guerra del Quindici-Diciotto,
because it wasn't until 1915 that they entered the fray. 'No, it's too late,' Wheeler was still firmly in exasperating mode, 'and tomorrow we won't have time, we have various other matters to discuss. You should have made the most of past opportunities, you see. You have to plan ahead, to anticipate.' He was still smiling. He tried again to get up and this time managed it, leaning both on his walking-stick and on the banister. He really was very strong for his age, he got up almost without effort or difficulty, quickly, and his socks or knee socks finally succumbed completely, I watched as they slid synchronously down to his ankles. When we were both standing (I too got up from my library steps, I could hardly remain seated, my manners, too, are slightly outmoded), he leaned on the banister and brandished the walking-stick in his left hand, the tip uppermost, as if it were a whip rather than a spear, and suddenly he reminded me of a lion-tamer. 'But before we say good night,' he added, 'as regards Tupra and Beryl, I take it from your remarks, that is, I deduce,' he pronounced each word slowly now, perhaps he was choosing them with great care, or, more likely, savouring them, together and individually, with mocking cynicism, 'that I failed to mention that Tupra did not, in the end, come with his new girlfriend, as he had at first told me he would, but with his ex-wife, Beryl. Beryl is his most recent ex-wife, you didn't know that, did you? Did I not tell you? But then, of course, it's obvious.'

Now I smiled too or perhaps even laughed, I lit another cigarette, more smoke, companionable, friendly smoke, I must admit that sometimes I find barefaced cheek extremely amusing. Of course, it depends entirely on who the perpetrator is, in such minor matters one must learn to be unfair.

'Come on, Peter, you know perfectly well you didn't tell me, besides, why on earth would you tell me about such a change, which was no concern of mine, although now I'm beginning to think that perhaps — it should have been, for some reason which you know, but which I do not. You just casually mentioned his new girlfriend over the phone, that was all. What are you up to? There seems to me to be nothing very casual about any of this, am I right? What is this, a game, a test, a puzzle, a bet?' And then I remembered one tiny detail: so that was why Wheeler, always so proper in his introductions, had omitted Beryl's surname when he introduced us. It wasn't very improper if it was the same as that of her companion and could be deduced as such. 'Mr Tupra, whose friendship goes back even further. And this is Beryl,' he had said, and it was possible to assume that her name was 'Beryl Tupra', if that still was her name, and she had not replaced it with another by marrying someone else, for example. If she had been the new girlfriend, Peter would have made a point of finding out her whole name so that he could introduce her properly. He was not an imitator of namby-pamby innovations, indeed I had heard him rail against the current custom, more suited to adolescents, but ingrained now even amongst many silly adults, of depriving people of their surnames when introducing them for the first time, the equivalent of the near universal use of the informal
'tú'
in my own language.

Needless to say, he did not answer my question. It was late, his schedule had been drawn up, or he had arranged his timetable for that weekend, and he would deal with whatever he wanted to deal with when he wanted to.

'It's interesting, remarkable really, that despite not knowing all that, you were still able to discover the true nature of their relationship, and without having seen them together except at a distance,' he said, and raised his walking-stick to his shoulder, like the rifle of a soldier on parade or on guard, with the handle as the rifle butt, it was a meditative gesture. 'Tupra has serious doubts at the moment, or so he told me. They finally separated a year ago, after some big bust-up or after a long decline, then about six months ago, they applied for a divorce by mutual consent. The decree is about to be made absolute, so I don't think they are yet technically ex-spouses. And as often happens when a change is imminent, one of them, Beryl, has suggested that they get back together, stop the whole process and try again. Despite the new girlfriend (not that she'll prove crucial, lately Tupra has been getting through girlfriends rather too quickly), and Tupra doesn't know what to do. After all, he's a certain age, he's been married twice already and Beryl was very important to him, enough for him to miss that importance, I mean miss her being important to him, even when, in my view, she isn't any more. On the one hand, he's tempted by the thought of going back, but, on the other, he doesn't really trust it. He knows that she's not doing brilliantly either romantically or financially, even though she wouldn't do badly out of the divorce, since he's hardly opposed a single one of her requests. But Beryl is used to leading a more comfortable life, or used, shall we say, to the unexpected treats, to the pleasant surprises so frequent in Tupra's profession, to the little extras, paid in kind. And, of course, to not being alone. He's afraid, that is, he suspects, this is the only reason she wants to come back, out of fear and impatience, rather than out of genuine nostalgia or a stubborn fondness for him, not because she's reconsidered (let's not talk about love here), but because her situation hasn't improved in the last year, probably contrary to her expectations. It seems she hasn't even made a new life for herself, as they say, and since she's not as young as she was, she doesn't know how to wait or to trust, for she suddenly feels time pressing and has forgotten how, because women, you know, only stop being young when they think they're not young any more, it's not so much age as self-belief that makes them old, they're the ones who give up on themselves. So Tupra is testing her out at the moment, he's left the door ajar, he's not rejecting her, he ferries her around, gauges her behaviour, they even go out together occasionally. He wants to wait and see. But Tupra is worried that Beryl is just pretending. Playing for time and getting temporary backing until a better substitute, who has not yet appeared, comes along: someone who will take a fancy to her or love her, someone she likes.'

Tupra's profession. Again it did not escape my notice. But I put it to one side and could not help but be somewhat acerbic. None of this rang true of a man like Mr Tupra, that is, the man I thought I had glimpsed. Anything was possible, of course. It's a well-known fact that those with most choice almost always choose badly.