Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me (17 page)

He remained silent for a moment, as if contemplating his own funeral and imagining the future that awaited his various successors. He was still clasping his right knee, but his expression had grown almost nostalgic, perhaps he was feeling a kind of advance nostalgia for himself. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I didn’t want to leave room for any silences either, Téllez had advised me to avoid them. I waited for a while. Then I waited another while. I had a phrase on the tip of my tongue, when Téllez got in before me: “But Your Majesty cannot, for that reason, commit knavish acts or call down misfortunes upon yourself,” he said in a slightly anxious voice. “I mean, Your Majesty cannot deliberately commit
outrages,” he said, swiftly correcting himself, in case “knavish” seemed an inappropriate word.

“Good grief, he really does call him ‘Your Majesty’,” I thought, “he’s clearly a genuine enthusiast.”

“Don’t worry, Juanito, I wasn’t thinking of doing so,” replied the Lone Ranger, gently tapping Téllez’s hand with one of his band-aided fingers: he tapped the limp hand holding the pipe rather too hard, however, and the still-smoking pipe flew through the air. I saw Segarra watch it fly past with a look of unspeakable apprehension (two gloved fingers poised upon his lips), fearful lest it land on Only the Lonely’s head or on his lounge suit (had he been younger he would have tried to catch it on the wing). Luckily, it crashlanded in the ashtray, and there one saw the advantage of the ashtray’s enormous size; the pipe bounced twice and, with great good fortune, did not break, so that Téllez was able merely to pick it up as one might a rebellious ping-pong ball and, without a pause, take out a match and light it again, whilst he and Only You, the young lady and myself, and Segurola and Segarra from a distance, all laughed briefly in unison. The young woman laughed the loudest: her mobile phone nearly leapt out of her jacket pocket with the rather hysterical quakings of her body and I was afraid she might irk the Only One with her rather brusque movements. Then the Only One continued, he was one of those men who never lose the thread, they tend to be rather terrifying: “But that doesn’t mean that on the few occasions when I do address people I don’t want them to get a clearer idea of me, to recognize me. Of course, no one believes that I write those speeches myself, in fact, the whole thing is rather ludicrous: everyone knows that I don’t write them, and yet everyone listens to them and talks about them as if they were my own words and reflected my innermost thoughts. In the newspapers and on television they gaily report that I said such and such and that I neglected to mention such and such and they pretend to lend deep significance and a degree of importance to that, they pretend to read between the lines and to see dark allusions or even reproaches, when they know better than anyone that I am in no way directly or genuinely responsible for any of the things I’ve read out over the years, at most, I’ve given them my approval,
sometimes not even that, sometimes the Palace approves them for me; so all I do is subscribe to or make mine (a mere
nihil obstat
, nothing more) a few words that never are mine, they belong to someone else or to several different people or to that vague thing called the Monarchy, in fact, to no one. All this is a fantastic pretence to which we all adhere, from myself to the politicians and the press to a few readers or viewers, those few citizens innocent and goodhearted enough to pay attention to what they imagine I’m actually saying and thinking.”

Solus paused or, rather, he again fell silent while he meditatively stroked one temple. I noticed that the band-aid on his right index finger was coming unstuck due to those absorbed caresses, and I wondered what would be revealed if it came away: a cut, a burn, a wound, Mercurochrome, a boil, a callus from playing too much table football or pinball? I scolded myself for having such thoughts, you would have to be a real addict of those games to get a callus from them. I myself still find them enjoyable and relaxing, but if
I
don’t have time to do so, how could Solus, always so busy, so institutionalized, in the unlikely event of him actually enjoying such pastimes. I dismissed the irreverent idea, he must have done whatever it was he had done whilst skiing or by shaking too many hands. I again wondered if we should allow such a long silence. But this time it was the young lady who prevented me from falling into temptation (the ladder in her tights was growing, and from looking slightly dissolute, she was now beginning to look positively degenerate): “Well, Your Majesty, I am one of those people who pays attention to anything Your Majesty has to say, whether in the press or on the television news. Even though you don’t actually write those speeches yourself, they have a big impact because it’s Your Majesty giving the speech; I see you every day in private and I know what you do and I know your views on a lot of things, but even I find it hard not to take those words literally when I see Your Majesty on screen, not that I always quite understand what the speech is about.”

She too called him “Your Majesty”, whether that was normal or just Téllez’s temporary influence, I don’t know.

“You’re very good and loyal, Anita,” replied the Only One, without actually taking much notice of what she had said.

“I take an interest too, Your Majesty, and I often record you on video when you appear on television, in order to study Your Majesty’s expressions when Your Majesty is thinking out loud,” said the painter from the punishment corner, imitating the others’ form of address.

“What would you know, Segurola?” replied the Lone Ranger, but he said it under his breath and the painter did not quite hear: in fact, he cupped his ear with one hand, forgetting that he had a brush in that hand, smearing his ear slightly with paint and having to wipe it off with a dirty rag. We all tittered, apart from him, but we did so surreptitiously this time. He obviously drove his model mad. “Anyway, as I was saying: I have nothing against this whole, doubtless necessary farce; it has always been like that and now it’s even more so, when people with a high public profile have the eyes and ears of the world trained on them all the time, multiplied by a thousand cameras and microphones, apparent and concealed, it’s a real nightmare, I don’t know why we don’t all just commit suicide. Sometimes I feel like a … what’s that thing called, Juanito? You know, those things you see under the microscope.” And he made a tiny circle with his thumb and index finger and bent over it, peering through it at the ashtray full of matches and strands of tobacco.

“A strand of something?” said Téllez, not using his imagination at all.

“No, no, that’s what I’m looking at now.”

“An insect?” Téllez tried again.

“No, what do you mean, ‘an insect’?”

“A molecule?” ventured Señorita Anita.

“Similar, but not quite.”

“A virus?” said the majordomo Segarra from his post by the fireplace. He had respectfully raised one white glove.

“No, not that either.”

“A hair?” offered Segurola from his easel, doubtless dredging up memories of childhood.

“What do you mean ‘a hair’? Honestly.”

“A bacterium?” I finally dared to speak.

Only the Lonely hesitated, but he seemed wearied by our ineptitude.

“Well, that might be it. Like a bacterium under a microscope, it doesn’t matter. And that’s what’s so paradoxical, that despite all this vigilance and study, they still don’t really know me, my personality is still as vague as ever; and since it’s all such a farce anyway, I don’t see why we shouldn’t try to influence it a little more and make it more to our taste, and present to the current generation some clearer and more recognizable qualities, qualities that will prove memorable to future generations too” – I wondered if now he was using the royal “we” or if, in a friendly manner, he was including us in his words and in his plans: any doubts were soon dispelled – “I still have no idea how people perceive me, what their predominant image of me is, which means, alas, let’s not kid ourselves, that I simply do not have an image. How can I put it, I have no artistic image and, again, let us not deceive ourselves, that is the image that counts, in life too, yes, in life too. Anyway, an initial step in that direction could be through my speeches, I don’t see why the vague and vacuous things which, institutionally, I am obliged to say could not, nonetheless, be said in a more personal manner, how can I put it, yes, in a less bureaucratic and more artistic manner, a manner that would make people sit up and take notice, that would surprise them, and that would give them a sense that behind it all there is a good deal going on, I mean, that there’s a man who also has his problems, a slightly tormented man, acting out his own drama, even though that drama is hidden. Let’s be quite frank, there’s no drama in my current public image, and I want people at least to glimpse that, a bit of artistic enigma. That, I think, is what I want, do you understand, Ruibérriz? That’s how I see it.”

Now I was absolutely certain that it was my turn to speak, he had addressed me by my name which was also not my name.

“I think I do, sir,” I said. “And what image would you like to have or to reveal? What image, if I may ask, would you choose?”

I saw a slight look of censure in Téllez’s pale eyes, doubtless due to my use of a mere “sir” which, after the “Your Majesty” used by the others, even grated a little on me, we are so easily influenced, we can be convinced of anything. The pipe Téllez was smoking seemed eternal, as if the burned tobacco regenerated itself and was consumed several times.

“I don’t quite know,” replied Only You, stroking his other temple now. “What do you think, Juanito? There are so many to choose from, I’d prefer this farce of ours to have at least a degree of authenticity, I mean a certain correspondence with my true character and deeds. For example, few people know how full of doubts I am. I have a lot of doubts about everything, as you well know, Anita. I often feel glad that most decisions are made for me, in another time, my life would have been all hesitation, all confusion, my spirits in a state of perpetual flux. I even doubt the justice of the institution I represent, not, I’m sure, that anyone would suspect it.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” I couldn’t help but ask, in my eagerness not to allow any silences, that is, in order to get in before Téllez, who probably disapproved of my last question: indeed, he sat up in his chair and bit harder on his poor pipe.

“Yes, you see, I do not entirely believe in its raison d’ětre, perhaps I used the word ‘justice’ too lightly, it’s such a difficult concept, and utterly subjective, depending on what you want or intend, and, of course, justice never prevails, not in this world anyway, for that to happen the man sentenced by justice would have to be in absolute accord with his own sentence, and that rarely happens, except in extreme, rather unconvincing cases of contrition and repentance. I would even go so far as to say that when it does happen, it is because the condemned man has abdicated his own idea of justice, he has been convinced by threats or arguments or whatever, and has been persuaded to adopt the other’s point of view, that of his opponent, that favoured by the judge’s ruling or, rather, the common view, that of the society of his time and, let us not deceive ourselves, society’s view is never that of the individual, it is only the view of the time: the point of view common to everyone, or to the majority, is never an individual point of view, at least only insofar as the individuals in the group give in to the group view because they do not want to become marginalized. Let us say that it is merely a concession to subjectivity, a sop. No condemned man is going to exclaim with relief and satisfaction: ‘Justice has prevailed.’ That always means: ‘Justice agrees with me and with my views.’ The most a condemned man would say is: ‘I abide by the sentence,’ or ‘I accept
the verdict.’ But that isn’t the same as being fully in accord, indeed, if such a thing as objective justice really existed, there would be no need for judgements, the condemned men themselves would demand to be sentenced, in fact, there would be no crime. Crimes would not be committed or, rather, the concept of crime would not exist, there would be no such thing, because no one does anything convinced of its injustice, not, at least, at the moment of doing it, our idea of justice changes according to our needs, and we always think that what we need is equivalent to what is just. And that, however strange that may sound to you, is how I see it.”

I had to agree with what the real Ruibérriz de Torres had told me: the One and Only did have ideas, but he found it hard to put them in any kind of order. I had followed his argument up until his penultimate sentences but there he had lost me.

“Hmm, Your Majesty,” said Téllez, taking advantage of the breathing space, he was probably going to say more, but Solo went on talking, without a pause now, he seemed to have hit his stride, and though everyone else present had lost the thread, he had not: “But, as I was saying, I’m not convinced that a man or woman should have their profession fixed from birth and from even before that, or their destiny if you prefer, I have no objection to using that word” – now it was clear that he was addressing all of us – “I don’t think it’s fair to him, and certainly not to the citizens who, normally, have no say in the matter. That doesn’t concern me quite so much, those same citizens can, if they want to and if they insist, cut off our heads, there’s nothing to stop them. It’s true that no one is asked whether or not they want to be born, people have no option but to be born. It’s true that no one asks us if we want to belong to the country we’re born in, or if we want to speak the language we speak, or to go to school, or to have the brothers and sisters and parents that fate gives us. Everyone has things imposed on them right from the start and, until a relatively advanced age, people are interpreted by other people, mothers, in particular, are constantly interpreting the needs and wants of their small children and, for years, they decide things for them according to their own interpretative criterion” – “Who will be doing the
interpreting for Eugenio now, who will decide things for him,” the thought came to me in a flash – “That’s all very well, that’s all perfectly normal, because that’s the way things are and there’s nothing one can do about it, we aren’t born with an opinion, although we are born with desires, or so it seems (primary desires, I mean). But I wonder if, beyond that, anyone can map out another person’s life, especially in extreme cases like ours. It’s a serious business, you know. Representing this institution implies, first off, an enormous loss of personal liberty, and, secondly, an even greater loss, the time one could spend thinking about things one isn’t obliged to think about, and being able to think about things one isn’t obliged to think about is crucial to anyone’s life, whoever they may be, at least I find it so, to be able to think about irrelevancies, just to let one’s thoughts drift. It means, too, becoming the main target for gangs of murderers and solitary assassins, who want to kill one because of one’s position, just like that, in the abstract, and not because of anything one has done or failed to do; and that, quite apart from the risk, to which one becomes accustomed, seems to me a real personal calamity: it doesn’t matter what one does and how one does it and the amount of care one puts into doing it, there will always be someone who wants to kill one, some megalomaniac, some madman, some hired killer, people who don’t even bear us any particular grudge perhaps. To die like that, an undeserved, unwarranted death, simply because of one’s name, that would be a ridiculous death.” – Solus’s face had grown sombre, although he hadn’t changed his posture, he was still clasping one crossed leg, merely raising his hand now and again to stroke his temples, first one then the other, his poor temples – “The dying man’s scorn for his own death,” the thought flared up in my mind. The lines on his forehead were growing deeper – “It also means that one is continually surrounded by a group of potential homicides who, more because you pay them than out of any loyalty or conviction, will do their best to protect your life instead of making an attempt on it, and they may kill others in their well-remunerated mission, it will be our life against the lives of others, but sometimes those who guard us act precipitately, they have orders to do so and they can always justify it. It also means that one cannot choose with
whom one deals and with whom one does not, it means having to shake hands with people who fill one with disgust, having to reach agreements with them and feign ignorance about what they have done or what they propose to do with their governments or with their equals. It means having to forgive the unforgivable. And having to pretend, of course, all the time: and while one is pretending one has to shake hands that are stained with blood and thus ours become a little stained too, if they were not already stained from the beginning, from our birth and even before that. I don’t know if, in certain positions of power, it is possible for one not to have bloodstained hands, sometimes I think it isn’t, throughout history there hasn’t been a single governor or king who has not been responsible for at least some deaths, mostly they have been directly responsible, but also indirectly, it has always been like that, everywhere. Sometimes it has simply been a case of not having tried hard enough to prevent those deaths or of having chosen not to know about them. But that is not enough to save one.”