Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me Read online

  There are occasions when the famous man, who always acts and commissions such things through intermediaries (he usually remains a remote figure), wants to meet the ghostwriter to give him direct instructions or to allow the writer to admire or feed off his illustrious personality, but also out of a rather ill-advised curiosity, and this is where Ruibérriz has run into problems. He is aware of his indecorous appearance and he knows that it is not merely a question of clothes or diction or manners, but of style and character, which is, of course, immutable. It isn’t that he dresses badly or has a strange hairdo (a very low parting to conceal baldness, for example) or that he doesn’t wash and therefore smells or has gold chains slung around his neck, nothing like that. It is simply that his essential scoundrel’s nature is written all over his face, is evident in his every gesture, in the way that he walks, in his character and in his irrepressible gift of the gab. No reasonably observant person would ever be fooled by him, not because Ruibérriz lacks the desire or the ability, but because people can see him coming a mile off, even when his intentions are not fraudulent. Fortunately for him, there is never any shortage of scatterbrains and dupes, so he has deceived more than a few men and women in his time, and he hasn’t finished yet; but he knows that he doesn’t stand a chance with someone who errs on the side of suspicion or caution. (He therefore surrounds himself with charming people, perfect victims, proud men and innocent women.) His inability to disguise himself means that he does not even attempt to do so and trusts to his instincts and to the diaphanous nature of his fraudulent aims, and so on the few occasions on which a great man has asked to interview him for the purpose of lecturing or inspecting him or in order to ask him about some particular aspect of a speech or article, the great man has found himself confronted by someone overly groomed and flirtatious, too perfumed and too handsome and too athletic, with a smile that is too cordial and too continuous and full of extremely white, rectangular, healthy teeth, someone with attractive hair, which he wears combed back and wavy at the temples, rather thick but perfectly orthodox, yet his few grey hairs still fail to lend him respectability because they look as if they were dyed (it’s the kind of hair a musician might have), someone amiable and excessively talkative, not in the least modest and uncommonly optimistic, a jovial person whose one aim is to please, someone full of plans and suggestions, constantly coming up with a welter of unasked-for ideas, someone altogether too active, too ebullient and who, inevitably, gives the impression that he is after rather more than he is actually being asked to provide, in short, a troublemaker. He has long, curly eyelashes, a sharp, straight, bony nose, and his top lip curls back when he smiles or laughs (and he laughs and smiles a lot) to reveal the moist inner surface, which lends his face a look of undeniable and apparently spontaneous salaciousness (it’s no surprise that all sorts of women find him attractive). He always stands very erect in order to emphasize his washboard stomach and his well-defined pectorals and, when standing up, he usually folds his arms, his hands on either side gripping his biceps, as if he were stroking them or measuring them. Regardless of what he’s actually wearing, he’s just one of those people you always imagine in a polo shirt and high boots; enough said, I think. The fact is that when eminent people clap eyes on him, they usually react with shock and clutch their heads with their hands: “All, mais non!” a former ambassador in France is said to have exclaimed, a man for whom he was about to write a delicate international speech. “You’ve brought me a marseillais, a rnaquerectu, a Pépéle-Moko, I mean, you want me to put myself in the hands of a pimp!” he said, finally hitting on the exact word. The ambassador wouldn’t listen to reason and refused to read anything Ruibérriz had written, he took the job away from him and punished the intermediary. After receiving him in his office one day, a Director-General of Culture for whom he had done some excellent work (three impeccable speeches, boring and vacuous as is the norm, but full of intriguing quotes from some quite unusual sources) decided not to commission anything else from him. The meeting had lasted only a matter of minutes but Ruibérriz, in order to ingratiate himself, mentioned the writers from whom he tended to quote on his behalf, which irritated the Director-General, because it reminded him that he was not the actual author of those competent speeches, as he had come to believe until that very moment, thanks to a remarkable process of dissociation (that is, despite having his ghostwriter there in front of him), it also meant that he could contribute nothing and was reduced to a few mumbled remarks, since, lacking all curiosity, he still knew absolutely nothing about the writers whose names had been on his lips and whose mention had brought him much applause, especially from his subordinates. Apparently, he remarked later to those same inferiors: “There’s something fishy about that Rui Berry, I think he’s a fraud” (and he pronounced the name “Berry” with an English accent), “I want nothing more to do with him, he’s a namedropper, that’s what he is; he does nothing but talk about obscure, insignificant authors that no one’s heard of, he could be putting anything in those speeches just to make us look foolish. Tell Señor Berri” (and this time he pronounced it as if it were a French word, with an acute accent) “that his services are no longer required or necessary. Pay him enough to make sure that he keeps his mouth shut, and see if you can find me a ghostwriter who looks rather less like a beach boy.” Ruibérriz had to wait for the subsequent removal of that Director-General before he received any further commissions from that particular ministry. He learned his lesson and, for some time now, he has avoided any interviews with his employers, or rather, he agrees to them, when there’s nothing he can do about it, and has me go in his place with the connivance of the intermediaries who understand that a senator or nuncio might feel inhibited or irked to find themselves in the presence of a handsome chap who looks as if he should be wearing a bathrobe or a polo shirt (my appearance is more discreet and not in the least alarming). That is why, sometimes, I have been not only his voice, but also his physical presence, albeit reluctantly, since any encounters with people in power tend to be rather humiliating.

  It was Ruibérriz, then, whom I asked about Juan Téllez Orati, since he is in the know about everything and everyone. Unfortunately, he didn’t know him personally, but he did know who he was, that is, he gave me the rundown on him:

  “He’s an academician in the Academy of Fine Arts and of History too, I think,” he said, “that’s where the excelentísimo comes from, although he could have got the title for other reasons too, I suppose, indeed, before he dies, he may well be given some minor title of nobility, he has contacts at the Palace. He long ago retired, but they still use him, he’s a good courtier, the way courtiers used to be twenty or more years ago. He hasn’t written very much, I mean in the way of books, but he is or was fairly influential and still publishes the occasional article in a journal on some obscure, pedantic topic. With his other activities dwindling away, I imagine that he never misses a meeting at either of his Academies. He’s on his way out, but, doubtless, like most people, he’s a most reluctant has-been. What keeps him going is his contact with the Palace; from what I’ve heard, they’d give him pretty much anything he asked for, within reason. That’s all I can tell you, is that enough? Why do you want to know?”

  That’s what Ruibérriz told me, when the two of us were sitting in a bar, the day after Marta Téllez’s funeral. I made no mention of the death, it didn’t seem appropriate. Given what he had told me, I was surprised that there had been only thirty or so people at the funeral and that I had seen no one whose face was familiar from the television or from the press. Perhaps, given the rather embarrassing circumstances of her death, the family had wanted a private ceremony, but, on the other hand, they had published a death notice, true, only on the morning of the service itself, people rarely read the newspaper in the morning and certainly not first thing: perhaps that way they felt they had done their social duty and, at the same time, avoided any potentially inquisitive or intrusive onlookers at the funeral itself.

  “It�
��s nothing I need tell you about now,” I said. Not enough time had passed for my death to have become a mere anecdote (it was, of course, Marta’s death and mine only in the sense that I had witnessed it, which is reason enough to make it mine, although much less of a reason than having caused it) and although I know that Ruibérriz is a loyal friend to his friends, I still can’t entirely trust him. He has a pleasant face and I like him more and more as the years pass, but he still makes me feel uneasy, apprehensive: like everyone else, whatever clothes he has on, he always looks to me as if he were wearing a polo shirt. That’s how I saw him on that particular day, even though we were both dressed for winter, perched uncomfortably on stools at the bar, his favourite place in cafes and bars, as if sitting there were a sign of continued youthfulness, it’s also a way of keeping tabs on a place and, if necessary, can facilitate a fast getaway. I can just imagine him beating a hasty retreat from some dive or gambling den, in the early hours of the morning, with a flower in his lapel. Or even with a flower between his teeth. “And what about Deán? Do you know anything about him? Eduardo Deán.” I noticed that Ruibérriz started as if it wasn’t the first time he had heard the name. “Eduardo Deán Ballesteros,” I said, giving him Deán’s full name.

  Ruibérriz passed his tongue briefly over his top lip, the one that curls back when he smiles (only now he was thoughtful). Then he shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’ve never heard of him. For a moment, I thought I had, the name sounded familiar, but no, or if I do know him, I can’t remember where from. Sometimes a name rings a bell simply because someone has just mentioned it and, for a second, the recent present seems like the remote past. I think that’s what happened to me just then. Who is he?”

  Ruibérriz couldn’t resist asking the question. He did so less out of genuine indiscretion or historical curiosity as out of familiarity, knowing that if I didn’t want to answer him, I wouldn’t, and that I would make that clear, as again I did.

  “I’m not sure, I only know his name.” And that was true, I knew that he had been married and was now a widower, but I didn’t know what he did for a living, Marta had – naturally and irritatingly – mentioned his first name several times, but only in the context of that conjugal, domestic world. She hadn’t told me anything about him on the other two occasions either, as if she didn’t want to hide the fact that she was married (she didn’t), but nor did she want to make it too important either. “Do you know any of the other members of the family? Luisa Téllez? Guillermo Téllez?”

  “He must be the son of William Tell, he’s probably got an apple on his head with an arrow through it.” Ruibérriz couldn’t resist the joke. He jovially slapped the knee of one of his crossed legs. He never could resist making jokes, good or bad, even in the company of people who didn’t appreciate them, and then they fell horribly flat, that was one of his problems. He waited for me to acknowledge the joke with a smile before going on. “There’s a bloke on the radio,” he added, “but his name’s not Guillermo. Who are they, Téllez Orati’s children?”

  “Yes, they are.” And I was about to add “his surviving children” but I didn’t, that would only have provoked more questions from my friend. “Is there any way I could get to meet the father?”

  Ruibérriz burst out laughing, with his lip curled back and his teeth flashing. He looked at me mockingly. He seized the ends of his scarf with both hands, despite being indoors in a heated environment, he had left the scarf on by way of adornment. (He grabbed it in order to check his short burst of laughter.) The scarf matched his trousers, both were cream-coloured: a nice colour, but more appropriate for the spring. The long, black leather coat he sometimes wears was draped over a nearby stool, the coat makes him look as if he had stepped out of a film about the SS, he enjoys that kind of nonchalant flamboyance.

  “Why would you be interested in getting in touch with that old fogey? Don’t tell me you’ve got business at the Palace.”

  “No, of course I haven’t, I knew nothing about that until you told me just now,” I said. “I’m not even sure if or why I do want to meet him; but he’s the only one of the whole family that I know anything about. It may be that I want to meet his children, or the daughter, and the father could be a means to that end.”

  “And what about Deán, where does he fit in?” asked Ruibérriz.

  “Could you get me an introduction to Téllez?” I asked, trying to extract an answer from him whilst, at the same time, avoiding replying to his question.

  Ruibérriz likes doing people favours or, at least, showing that he is prepared to do so, that pleases everyone, he enjoys pondering, hesitating and then saying: “I’ll see what I can do” or “I’ll have a think about it,” or “I’ll sort something out for you,” or “Leave it with me.” He did ponder, but only for a few seconds (he’s a man of action who thinks quickly or barely thinks at all), then he ordered another beer from the barman (Ruibérriz is one of the few men who can still get away with clapping his hands or clicking his fingers in bars or open-air cafes and I’ve never yet seen a waiter get angry with him or take offence, as if Ruibérriz had some sort of dispensation that allowed him to continue the abusive practices of the 1950s – things imitated and learned in childhood – and that his right to do this was so clearly irrefutable that the gesture seemed perfectly comprehensible. He snapped his fingers twice: middle finger and thumb, thumb and middle finger). He uncrossed his legs and stood up, that way he was taller than me; he turned towards me with his dazzling smile and a fresh glass of beer in his right hand.