Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me (36 page)

“Open it,” he said to the maid in the same tone in which Roman emperors would once have said to a servant “Taste it” regarding a possibly poisoned delicacy. And once the cellophane and the maid had gone (the latter disappeared carefully folding up the wrapping paper, so that she could use it later) he walked two or three times around the bowl looking at it with as much expectation as distrust. “Anonymous flowers,” he said, “who the devil would send me flowers? Have another look, Victor, are you sure there’s no card? Have a good look amongst the stems. Very strange, very strange indeed.” And he scratched his chin with the end of his extinguished pipe while I scanned the floor in search of something I knew we would not find. He pointed at them with his index finger as I had seen him point to his shoe in the cemetery, the thumb of his other hand cocked in his armpit as if it were a riding crop. He was about to say something, but he was too confused, too overwhelmed. He did not even go near the flowers, then, at last, he planted his swaying body heavily down in a chair, his chest puffed out, his face like a gargoyle, and he stared at the flowers in their bowl on the carpet as if they were a marvel. “It isn’t my birthday, it’s not my saint’s day or any anniversary that I can remember,” he said. “They can’t be from the Palace either, we still haven’t delivered the speech. I wonder if Marta and Luisa have any ideas, perhaps they can come up with a reason, I’m going to call Marta and tell her, sometimes she doesn’t have a class until the evening and, besides, it’s Saturday today, she’s bound to be at home.” He made as if to get up and go over to the phone, but stopped short and slumped into the chair again, leaning his neck against the chairback as if buffeted by an enormous wave or as
if he had received a revelation that had left him drained. Or perhaps he felt dizzy and needed to hold his head back in order to stop the feeling. He realized what he had done immediately and apologized to me, it wasn’t necessary: “I’m not mad, I’m not losing my memory,” he said to me, “it just takes time to get used to it, you see. It’s hard to grasp that someone who did exist doesn’t exist any more.” He paused and then added: “I don’t know why I go on existing when so many have gone before me.” He didn’t say anything more. He stood up again, leaning heavily on the arms of the chair to push himself up, and then again took a few cautious steps around the bowl of flowers. He was always immaculately dressed when at home, as if he were about to go out even when he wasn’t, wearing tie, waistcoat, jacket and his street shoes, one morning he had been railing against tracksuit bottoms, which he found unspeakable. “I can’t understand why politicians allow themselves to be photographed wearing them,” he had said. “More than that, I don’t know how they dare put them on, even if no one’s going to see them. And in summer, they go out without any socks on, the vulgar creatures, such appalling taste.” He was neat and elegant, like a beautifully finished, rather ornate piece of antique furniture. He put his pipe to his mouth and added: “Anyway, about these mysterious flowers, I must make some enquiries, I’ll have to thank whoever sent them. But we’d better get back to work, Víctor, otherwise we won’t finish today, and I always like to keep my promises.” Then, taking me by the arm, he led me back into his study next door, full of books and pictures, jumbled and alive, where I was about to close my portable typewriter that had sat there open all week. He didn’t call Luisa just then, he would do so later, as he would other people, and with a good reason this time. I thought that he would, at least, have some motive to live until Monday, he would go to the Palace to deliver our transient piece of work, his and mine and Only the Lonely’s, under Ruibérriz’s name, although probably only Segurola and Segarra would be there to receive him, Only the Lonely is not often available. Precarious existences rely on the day-to-day, or perhaps all existences do. He could make conjectures about the flowers for a few days more, for a whole week if he was lucky.

The third race was of no interest either, up until then, we hadn’t won anything, our tickets torn up in anger and thrown scornfully to the ground, and Ruibérriz never leaves any game emptyhanded. While we were watching the horses for the next race parading round the paddock – again in a circle, like horses on a merry-go-round – he was busy regaling me with curious and obscene anecdotes about the latest poor sap of a woman to succumb to his Don Juanesque charms and who was currently satisfying his needs, when he turned round at the sound of someone calling out his full name preceded by the word “Señor” (until then, of our acquaintanceship, we had seen only Admiral Admira with his preordained name and his lovely wife, we hadn’t even seen the bearded, bespectacled philosopher who never misses a race, he must have got held up in the fog or perhaps he would only get there for the fifth). He turned round, we turned round, he looked blankly at the woman who had uttered the cry and who was heading straight for me with her hand held out, calling me by his name in that absurd manner, “Señor Ruibérriz de Torres” sounds much too long. It was Señorita Anita, so devoted to the Only One, accompanied by a friend of the same stature and demeanour. The two of them had donned hats as if they were at Ascot, it’s rare nowadays to see someone in a hat, they looked rather common, I could see that Ruibérriz did not approve; but he likes all women on principle, as do I more or less, we’re no different in that respect, although we do differ in approach and method. I lose interest more quickly.

“May I introduce Víctor Francés,” I said, referring to Ruibérriz. “Señorita Anita.”

“Anita Pérez-Antón,” she said. “This is Lali, a friend of mine.” She did not honour her friend with a surname, just as Solitaire had neglected to do with her, in fact he hadn’t introduced her at all, not only did he address everyone informally as “tú”, he didn’t mind his manners generally.

“I hope you don’t have any problems with your tights today,” I said as a joke, to see how she would take it, she seemed jollier than when she was at work. She took it extraordinarily well, and said: “Oh, that was
so
embarrassing!” And she raised her hand to her mouth when she laughed, and added, explaining more for her
friend’s benefit than for the real Ruibérriz: “Can you believe it, I got this huge ladder in my tights and I didn’t have time to change before meeting this gentleman who had an appointment with the boss. The gentleman was going to write a speech for him. Anyway, it just got worse and worse during the meeting, they were almost hanging off me by the end of it.” And she made a gesture with her hands indicating the hem of her skirt, which again was very short and tight. Ruibérriz couldn’t fail to notice this gesture, doubtless imagining something smutty. “I was absolutely mortified, there I was with my tights in shreds and no one saying a word, talk about sang-froid.”

“Sang-froid” was rather an old-fashioned term, but then she worked in a place that was, by definition, old-fashioned. More and more words are falling into disuse, they get discarded more and more rapidly. I drew her aside a little and said: “By the way, I’ve finished the speech, Señor Téllez will take it to him tomorrow.” Ruibérriz heard and understood, I imagine that this only increased his interest in the young women, not that he needs much incentive, the older he gets the more readily he runs after any woman with a bit of charm. But if the four of us were to stay together, one thing was certain, he would have to pair off with Lali (possibly an orphan with no surname). Besides, it was unlikely that we would find their company amusing for more than one or two races, until the fifth. The same went for them. It would be better to arrange to meet one night, the four of us together, two or four.

“What do you mean tomorrow?” said Señorita Anita, recovering her professional air for a moment. She looked awful in that red hat. “Didn’t anyone tell you that the Strasbourg thing’s been cancelled? I gave orders for them to phone Señor Téllez and warn him. Don’t tell me they didn’t do it.”

“We were working on it until yesterday, he didn’t say anything to me,” I replied, after a few seconds’ pause. “Perhaps Señor Téllez forgot to tell me, he is getting on a bit, after all.” I felt sorry for Téllez, at first, for his wasted Monday at the Palace, then it occurred to me that perhaps he had known and hadn’t said anything to me in order to detain me there for a few more days, keeping him company at home. That speech would end up in
a drawer and stay there for good, they’re written for specific occasions. I didn’t like the idea, even if I was only a ghostwriter. I thought: “Poor old man, he certainly knows how to look after himself, how to get by from day to day.”

The four of us headed for the tote, I cupped Señorita Anita’s elbow lightly in my hand, a protective gesture, Ruibérriz was a little behind me, obliged now to talk to Lali, whose hat had even less to recommend it.

“I’m sorry you did all that work for nothing,” said Anita. “But you’ll get paid, you’ll get paid anyway, make sure you send us your bill.” “It’s just like the scripts I write that never come to anything,” I thought, “more wastage. At least people give me work, though, at least I’m not unemployed like so many others.” Señorita Anita dropped her programme, I crouched down to pick it up and she crouched down too, more slowly, and, as I stood up, I deliberately brushed against her bent head (again she was slower than me, her skirt rather too short for such endeavours) and managed to knock her hat off. I crouched down again to pick it up, furtively wiping it on the ground in order to be able to regret it having got so dirty. “Oh, shit,” she said. I don’t know if she would dare say such a thing at the Palace.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s absolutely filthy now, the ground here’s disgusting. Don’t worry, I’ll hold on to it until we can get something to clean it with, the race is just about to start. Anyway you look prettier without your hat.” It was true, she did, she had a pleasantly rounded face and nice dark hair, but, basically, I just couldn’t bear that hat, there are some things I get quite obsessive about.

The four of us placed our bets, they bet small, amateurish sums, we bet higher, they must have thought we were rich, in today’s terms we are in a way, I’m richer than Ruibérriz, I work harder and I don’t live off someone else. He gave advice to poor, disinherited Lali while I passed a hot tip on to Anita the courtier. We returned to the grandstand with our tickets, they kept theirs clutched in their hands as if they were objects of great value which they were afraid to lose. We put ours in the breast pocket of our jackets, the one intended for a handkerchief, worn, of course, with just a corner showing, I never have a handkerchief in mine,
Ruibérriz always does, brightly coloured ones, he had unbuttoned his raincoat to show off his pectorals. He was reverting to his polo-shirted self, we had removed our gloves. They hadn’t brought any binoculars with them and, out of gallantry, we had to lend them ours, we would certainly have to divest ourselves of their company by the fifth and most important race, we didn’t want to have to guess at the result of that one. What with the mist and now deprived of our binoculars, we couldn’t see a thing, we had no idea what was going on, Lali got confused and declared that a horse had won when, in fact, it hadn’t, she wanted her horse to win at all costs, the horse on which she had pinned her penury. We all lost, we immediately tore up our tickets with the appropriate mixture of scorn and rage, they held out a little longer, hoping for a late and unlikely disqualification that would benefit them. Now it was time to go to the bar by the paddock, the same steps repeated again and again after each of the six races, that’s the charm of it, the half-hour wait between each race, and then they’re over in a moment, but occasionally they’re memorable.

“How come Strasbourg was cancelled?” I asked Anita who now had a Coca-Cola in her hand. I was still hanging on to her hat, it was a real nuisance. “I thought it was supposed to be important, and I imagine your boss’s diary is arranged a long time in advance and must be pretty well immutable.”

“Yes, it is in principle, but he’s so exhausted, the poor thing, that sometimes we have no option but to cancel something at one fell stroke, just like that.” (I imagine she was confusing “at a stroke” and “at one fell swoop”.) “Better that than just postpone it and mess everything up or try to come up with some compromise, that really would be a muddle.”

“Surely the people affected protest,” I said. “They must feel they’ve been victimized, discriminated against. Aren’t there diplomatic incidents over such things?”

She looked at me impatiently, disapprovingly (she pursed her painted lips) and replied loftily: “Well, tough shit, he already does much more than he should. He’s in demand from all over, it’s just outrageous. What they don’t bloody well realize is that there’s only one of him.” She was distinctly foulmouthed, but then these days everyone is.

“Is that why they call him the Only One?” I asked. “Do you call him that, when you talk about him, I mean?”

She was touchy about that question, she obviously didn’t like the fact that other people knew the nicknames used by the inner circle.

“That, Señor Ruibérriz de Torres, would be telling,” she said. The real Ruibérriz, standing a little further along the bar, couldn’t help but crane his neck slightly when he heard his name. He wasn’t getting anywhere, friend Lali was positively verbose, a regular chatterbox.

“I do hope the cancellation of the speech doesn’t mean that your boss has had some mishap.”

Señorita Anita was more reserved regarding her own feelings than regarding the life and customs of the Lone Ranger. She replied to this question without hesitation: “No, nothing like that, touch wood.” And she lightly tapped the toothpicks in the little porcelain jar on the bar. “He’s just completely worn out, he doesn’t pace himself, and people won’t leave him alone, he wants to please everyone, and he’s not been sleeping well lately. He’s never had that problem before. And obviously it affects him badly, he’s feeling very low, he’s a bit of a wreck actually. He may get over it, this last week has been particularly bad. He says that he starts thinking just as he’s going to sleep and that the thoughts stop him drifting off. Or else he goes on having the thoughts while he’s asleep and then they wake him up.”