Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me (16 page)

“Here you are, sir,” he said, moving in slow motion to place it on the low table by our side, in case he should miscalculate the distance and drop it, smashing the table.

“How are things, Segarra?” Téllez asked him.

“I don’t know, Señor Tello. When you arrived he was still fletcherizing his cereal.”

“He was what?” asked Téllez, terrified (and dropping more threads of tobacco on the floor), although Segarra had said it perfectly naturally and confidently. This must be the waiting room
reserved for dependable or perhaps insignificant visitors (when it came to it, we were all of us servants), he probably gathered them all there together, the way rock stars do with journalists.

Segarra, the steward or seneschal (I am not versed in the different names of the various posts) seemed pleased to have provoked intrigue or alarm and to be able to offer a piece of information which was, at once, useful and eccentric. He had the optimistic, lively eyes of one who has witnessed many unusual things, though without comprehending them, thus preserving intact his capacity for enthusiasm and celebration and surprise, as well as his curiosity.

“ ‘Fletcherizing’, sir,” he said, and this time he placed it in quotation marks at the same time raising one gloved finger. “It’s an old and extremely healthy method of chewing food, it converts solids into liquids, it was invented by a Mr Fletcher, thence its name, and a lot of people nowadays are rediscovering it. The only problem is, it is a bit rough on your gums and rather time-consuming. He only practises it at breakfast, with his cereal and poached egg.”

Téllez looked round for a moment at the court painter, to see if he had pricked up his ears and was listening, but the man in the smock was entirely occupied at that moment trying to reposition on his easel (his arms weren’t quite long enough) the rickety canvas that we could not see. I began to long to have a look at it.

“Do you mean that it’s one’s own jaws that liquefy the food?” asked Téllez, addressing Segarra and, at the same time, pressing down the tobacco with his thumb, the tobacco that he hadn’t spilled. I would have said the tobacco was overly scented with whisky and, perhaps, piquant spices, some effeminate Dutch product.

“Precisely, sir; apparently, it’s much healthier than any mechanical method. They call it anatomical liquefaction, that’s an alternative name for it, as well as the other term I used.” The servant was apologizing for his involuntary acquisition of knowledge.

“I see,” answered Téllez. “Do you think you could go and find out how this fletcherization is going along? Not that we’re in any hurry, but just to get an idea.”

“Of course, Señor Tello, delighted I’m sure. I’ll go at once to see what I can find out.”

With infinitesimal steps (although not quite as infinitesimal as when the weight of the ashtray threatened to bring him low), the lackey Segarra went over to one of the three doors in the rather chilly room (the longer you were in the room the chillier it felt), not of course towards the door through which we had entered, but towards the door nearest him, on the other side of the disused fireplace. (The only wall without a door was filled by a large rectangular landscape window, providing excellent light for painting, for example.) I do not wish to be disrespectful nor to affirm or imply anything, but the fact is that during the long seconds in which the slow figure of Segarra held that door open, I heard the unmistakable clack of someone playing table football in the next room. Téllez, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice, although he may have been slightly hard of hearing when it came to certain noises, either that, or he was simply not familiar with that particular vulgar sound. The painter did hear and he looked up and turned his head twice, like a bird, only to dismiss the sound at once (it didn’t concern him) and position the palette more firmly in his hand, the palette trembled at the least unexpected or ill-prepared movement. It was as if he were the one about to have his portrait painted.

Téllez didn’t seem very interested in me, nor was he particularly impatient. He probably got satisfaction merely from being of service, taking me there, discovering me, finding a recommended candidate and being congratulated if that candidate were found to be acceptable and did the job well, nothing more, and, if necessary, spending the morning at the Palace occupied in that rather uncertain manner. While he lit his pipe with a match, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye, as if to make sure I had not removed my tie or dirtied my trousers during the wait, that was the feeling I got (indeed he leaned forward slightly to inspect my shoes with a critical eye). I had taken great care over my appearance, and may even have overdone all the pressing and ironing, I thought I looked immaculate, almost gift-wrapped.

After several minutes of very perfumed pipe-smoking (even more perfumed now that it was lit), Segarra reappeared, his
Roman hairstyle looking slightly dishevelled as if some taller person had lightheartedly ruffled his hair, and this time, when the door opened again and took a while to shut, I heard the instantly identifiable sound of a pinball machine, I know it well from my adolescence and, besides, there are hardly any left, it’s more or less a sound from the past, more fixed and recognizable than sounds that are still current and therefore subject to change. I heard the wild trajectory of a ball, racking up the points, I trusted that the machine was not one that gave the player a bonus game. Instead of delivering his message from the doorway and thus saving himself a journey, Segarra approached slowly – provoking in us the expectation and some concern that he might never reach us at all – and did not speak to us until he was by our side, a dutiful manservant: “Don’t worry, Señor Tello, the process I mentioned was successfully concluded some time ago,” he said. “He had to receive a group of trade unionists, but they’re leaving now and he’ll be here any moment, he’s on his way.”

And indeed, Segarra had barely finished speaking when the third door opened and Solitaire strode energetically in, followed by a young woman struggling to keep up, her short, tight skirt forcing her to break into a run, her feet slightly turned out and her high heels scratching the doubtless, fine, wooden floor encrusted with tiny, rectangular pieces of marble, real or imitation. I got up at once, much more quickly than the heavily-built Téllez, whose shoelace (I noticed just at that moment) had again come untied, and his daughter wasn’t there to tie it up for him. The painter was already standing up, but when he saw the Lone Ranger come in, he reached out his arms like a hysterical fifteen-year-old at the appearance of her idol (or perhaps – a more virile image – like a wrestler in his corner placing himself on guard), that only made him look even more like a person engaged on some artistic endeavour. I was the first to greet the Lone Ranger, mumbling my false name (and adding clumsily and insincerely: “at your service”) and so could not imitate Téllez as I had planned, and, of course, I forgot to make the recommended bow; Téllez, on the other hand, once he was up, bowed as low as his voluminous chest would allow and, with great reverence, he clasped one of Only the
Lonely’s hands in his, despite the fact that his left hand was still holding his lit pipe, and narrowly missed burning him. It would clearly not have mattered very much, though, for one of the first things I noticed was that Only You had band-aids on each of his index fingers, a blister from a burn would merely have spoiled the symmetry. These effusions very nearly did for Segarra, who found himself caught in the middle, as he was beginning his retreat with his usual paralytic slowness. Only You sat down on my right-hand side, in an armchair, as did the young lady, who sat between us but on the same sofa as myself (in her hands she carried a notebook, a pencil and a pocket calculator, and a portable phone peeked out of her jacket pocket); Téllez, after swaying around for a moment, dropped down heavily into the armchair he had chosen before, opposite me and almost with his back to the painter, whom Only You greeted from afar with a wave of the hand, saying: “How are you, Segurola?”, but not waiting for a reply: he must see him every day, he probably found the painter irritating and did his best to keep him at a distance. Solus had very long, thin legs which he confidently crossed (the young woman immediately crossed hers in imitation, she had a ladder in one stocking that gave her a rather dissolute air, perhaps it had happened while struggling with the trade unionists or partnering Solus at table football); I noticed that he was wearing so-called executive socks, too transparent for my taste, you can see the hairs on the legs flattened against the calves: otherwise, he was dressed like any other man of the world, his trousers a little creased around the thighs.

“Juanito,” he said to Téllez, “one of your shoelaces has come untied.” And he pointed to the shoe with one band-aided finger.

Téllez looked straight down – again his head looked like that of a gargoyle – first horrified and then resigned, like someone finding himself before an insoluble problem. He bit on his pipe stem.

“I’ll tie it up later on, when I get up. As long as I’m sitting down, there’s no risk of my tripping over it.”

Solitaire leaned towards him, then, to whisper something – resting his whole chest on the arm of the chair, I was afraid it might give way – but he didn’t lower his voice quite enough or else the distance was insufficient for me not to hear.

“Tell me, who
is
this?” he asked, indicating me with the slightest lift of his eyebrows and wriggling two restless fingers in the air – “I’ve completely forgotten why it is you’ve come today.”

“It’s Ruibérriz de Torres: the new speech,” muttered my patron, biting even harder on his pipe stem.

“Ah yes, Ruibérriz de Torres,” said the Lone Ranger calmly, this time out loud; and he turned towards me. “Now I wonder what you’re going to write for me, you’d better watch your step.”

There was nothing threatening about his tone of voice, rather a tendency to jokiness. He addressed me using the informal “
tú
”, it being the prerogative of Only the Lonely to address anyone he meets in this way, even if he doesn’t know that person and independent of their age, condition or title, rank or sex. The fact is it creates a very bad impression and, if I were him, I would give up that particular privilege. I had decided to address him using the formal “
usted
”. That seemed to me sufficiently respectful and that way I wouldn’t get confused, I really didn’t care if Téllez told me off afterwards.

“I certainly will, sir,” I said. “I will follow to the letter any instructions you care to give me. You have only to say the word.” I had said this, I thought, in a fairly serene, circumspect manner, although he seemed neither pompous nor particularly ceremonious. I could, I thought, perhaps have omitted the last two remarks, they grated on me, they were too explicit.

Only You sat more upright in his chair (he had remained leaning to one side after whispering to his courtier), as if he had, at last, managed to focus on what it was we were there to discuss. He interlaced his fingers and clasped his crossed knees (he had no difficulty in doing this, for he had very long arms) and he said thoughtfully, though cheerfully: “Look, Ruibérriz, let’s get straight to the point: the thing is I’m tired of the fact that, after twenty years, people still don’t know who I am. Not that I think people read or pay much attention to my speeches, but you have to start somewhere, there aren’t many other ways I can get myself known without making a fool of myself, most other methods are barred to me. The fact is that, for yonks now, I’ve been aware that people just can’t stick the speeches I give and, frankly, I don’t blame them, they even make
me yawn.” He used the expression “for yonks” which certainly didn’t strike me as being particularly highflown; I suppose “stick”, on the other hand, was a word that one could stick when spoken by him. “The government are always very willing, so are the writers, too willing, really, and when they do a job for me they clothe themselves in royalty, or what they imagine to be royalty, like peacocks. Some take their inspiration from others, when they take on the job, they all ask to see a few of the previous speeches and so they create, what’s that expression, Juanito?”

“A vicious circle?” suggested Téllez.

“No, no, that’s not a phrase I’d be likely to forget,” replied the Only One. “There’s another expression. What’s that thing that spins repeatedly on its own axis, but always returns to its original position.”

“The eternal return? A ship’s compass?” suggested Téllez, more doubtfully this time.

“A gyro compass?” put in the young lady, rather opportunistically. We had not been introduced. She had nice legs with plump thighs, one of them adorned with a tiny ladder, though, with legs like that, it was hardly surprising her stockings should ladder.

“No, what are you talking about, not that, what possible relevance could that have? Something else, something that turns right round and leaves us back where we started.”

I saw that the painter Segurola had raised the same arm he was holding his brush in, like a good student in class who knows the answer. That meant that he was listening now, perhaps because he was staring intently and fixedly at the Only One – a look of fire – inspired, one hopes, only by a desire to paint him. Solus saw him too and tilted his chin towards him with a look of tedium and with little confidence, as if to say: “All right, let’s hear it, what’s your contribution?”

“The wheel of fortune?” Segurola said hopefully, in a slightly Renaissance vein.

Solitaire sliced the air with one hand, giving up the artist as a lost cause. “Yes, of course, and Russian roulette, and satellites, but the thing I mean …” he began, “oh well, it doesn’t matter, now where was I? I realize that people don’t know what kind of person I am, what I’m like, and maybe that’s the way it will have to stay
as long as Pm alive; but while I’m alive, I can’t help thinking that the way things are, I’m going to pass into history with no personal attributes at all, or worse, without even one attribute, which is tantamount to saying with no character, with no clear, recognizable image. I wouldn’t want people to talk about me using phrases like “He was terribly decent” or “He did a lot for the country”, though that would be no bad thing, I’m not complaining, a lot of others never even got that, and I hope I still deserve those words of praise when my time comes. But it isn’t enough if there’s some way I could change it, I’ve been pondering the matter for some time now and I don’t really know what to do, it’s not easy after all these years. I wouldn’t want to blot my copybook, as people used to say, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that those who are remembered are those who were most riven with indecision or who were traitors, those who committed crimes or were cruel, those who suffered from delusions or led dissolute lives, those who were endlessly tolerant or out-and-out tyrants, those who abused their power and behaved outrageously and those who were wretched, crazed, even those who were cowardly, even the Bluebeards. In short, all the ones who were complete and utter bastards.” That was the word he used, but it wasn’t, in fact, shocking in context and was actually rather convincing, rhetorically speaking. “It’s the same everywhere, you just have to look at the histories of different countries: the more reviled the person, the more memorable they are. I wouldn’t want to be seen merely as a focus for nostalgia, I couldn’t possibly play a dirty trick like that on those who come after.”