Your Face Tomorrow Page 5

  And so I have often felt an impulse to repay them at once, by being sensitive, patient or prepared to hear them out; by attending meekly to their woes or engaging with their chatter; by watching over their unfamiliar sleep or bestowing on them inappropriate caresses that certainly didn’t come from the heart, but which I dredged up from somewhere; by thinking up complicated excuses so that I could leave their house before dawn, like a vampire, or leave my own house in the early hours, thus letting it be understood that they couldn’t stay overnight and that they had to get dressed and go downstairs with me and pick up their car or get a taxi (with me having paid the driver in advance), instead of admitting to them that I could no longer stand seeing them, listening to them or even lying breathing sleepily by their side. And sometimes my impulse has been to reward them, symbolically and ridiculously, and then I’ve improvised a gift or prepared them a good breakfast if it was that time of the morning and we were still together, or I’ve bowed to some wish that it was within my power to grant and which they had expressed not to me but to the air, or agreed to some implicit and unformulated request, made long enough ago for the two things not to be connected or only if there was a stubborn insistence on bringing together word and flesh. Not, on the other hand, if the request was made explicitly and immediately after the event, because then I’ve never been able to shake off the unpleasant feeling that some sort of transaction or exchange has taken place, which falsifies what has happened and makes it seem somehow sordid or, indeed, glossed over, as if it had never happened.

  Perhaps that’s why Pérez Nuix asked me for the favor early on, when it still hadn’t even occurred to me that by the end of the night we would get so close and even reach the morning without entirely letting go of each other. Well, actually the idea had crossed my mind, not as a possible possibility but as a hypothetical improbability (a strange idea in the back of the mind, acknowledging to yourself that you would accept something that is clearly never going to happen), and the first time had been while she was repeatedly zipping and unzipping her boots and drying herself on my towel and there was a snag in one of her stockings that degenerated into a long, wide run, and she had blithely revealed her thighs to me and thus indicated that she did not exclude me. ‘She doesn’t rule me out, but that’s as far as it goes,’ I had thought. ‘Nothing more, that’s all, I am the one who notices and bears it in mind. In reality, though, it’s nothing.’And: ‘There’s a great gulf between feeling desire and not entirely rejecting someone, between affirmation and the unknown, between willingness and the simple absence of any plan, between a “Yes” and a “Possibly,” between a “Fine” and a “We’ll see” or even less than that, an “Anyway” or an “Hmm, right” or something which doesn’t even formulate itself as a thought, a limbo, a space, a void, it’s not something I’ve ever considered, it hadn’t even occurred to me, it hadn’t even crossed my mind.’ I was still invisible to her when she asked me the favor, and perhaps I remained so throughout the night and even into the morning. Except perhaps for that brief moment when she cupped my face with her open hands as if professing some affection for me, the two of us, by then, lying in my bed ready to go to sleep, her soft hands; when she looked into my eyes and smiled at me and laughed and delicately held my face, just as Luisa sometimes used to do when her bed was still mine and we were not yet sleepy, or not enough to say goodnight and turn our backs on each other until the morning.

  But that came later. And as almost always happens when you ask a string of questions one after the other, young Pérez Nuix began by answering the last one. ‘You still haven’t asked me the favor, what is it exactly, I still don’t know. And which private private individuals do you mean?’ had been my two questions, repeating the expression she had used ‘private private individuals.’

  ‘Strange though it may seem to us today, Jaime, with our nerves constantly on edge and with everyone in a permanent state of panic over terrorism,’ she said, ‘there was a period of a few years, quite recently in fact, although it seems a long time ago to us now, when MI5 and MI6, shall we say, lacked work. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, their duties diminished as did their concerns, and the budgets they had at their disposal collapsed, which, as we now know, was a great mistake. For example, the budget for MI5 went from £900 million in 1994 to less than £700 million in 1998. Then it gradually started creeping up again, but until the attack on the Twin Towers in 2001, which set all the alarm bells ringing and provoked much breast-beating and many dismissals from the ranks of middle management, there were about seven or eight years when a large part of the world’s Intelligence Service, and, of course, our own, felt almost useless and superfluous, how can I put it, unoccupied, unnecessary, idle and, worse, bored. Many of the people who had spent decades studying the Soviet Union found themselves not unemployed exactly, but surplus to requirements, with a sense that they had not only wasted their time, but also a large portion of their lives, which were abruptly coming to an end. A sense that they had become the past. Those who knew German, Bulgarian, Hungarian, Polish and Czech were called on less frequently, and even Russian experts lost prominence and work. Suddenly, there was a kind of unacknowledged superfluity, suddenly, people who had been of fundamental importance were no longer needed, or only for minor matters. The situation was so depressing that even the department heads realized how demoralizing it was, and I can assure you that in any job anywhere, they are always the least likely to notice their subordinates’ problems. Anyway, the fact is that they did finally cotton on, incredibly late—and only a few days before September 11th, if I remember rightly, the press, The Independent, I believe, reported that MI5, through the then Director General, Sir Stephen Lander, was preparing to offer its espionage services to the major companies of the land, like British Telecom, Allied Domecq, Cadbury Schweppes and others, whom it could provide with very useful information about their foreign competitors. Apparently, it was the agency that approached the companies, and not the other way round, in the course of a seminar held at their headquarters in Millbank, the very first time, if I’m not mistaken, that representatives from industry and the financial world, both from the public and the private sectors, had been invited there. The reason given was that it was just as important and as patriotic to help the British economy and make it more competitive in the world, as well as shielding our large companies from the foreign spies who doubtless exist, as it was to protect the nation from dangers and threats to its security, be they internal or external, political, military or terrorist. The idea was basically to commercialize the activities of the SIS’—I remembered this acronym, I’d heard Tupra and Wheeler use it: the Secret Intelligence Service, she said the acronym in English, s, i, s, or to Spanish ears, es, ai, es, even though we were speaking Spanish—‘to win lucrative contracts, which was tantamount to a partial privatizion of the agency, to reap immediate large rewards and rescue from boredom a good number of the idle and depressed by sending them to work more or less directly for these companies. And that, of course, brought with it a real risk of dividing their loyalties. Lander roundly denied this through a spokesman, who stated that offering to spy for private companies in exchange for remuneration would go beyond the competence of MI 5 and that such a proposal would be illegal. He admitted that MI 5 had, for some time, been mounting operations with a view to uncovering foreign spies in British companies, and that they provided free advice mainly to the defense industry and to those developing new technologies when they were preparing to sign large contracts or if there was any suspicion of computer fraud. The spokesman added, however, that Lander’s controversial paper at the seminar, whose theme had been ‘Secret Work in an Open Society,’ had dealt only with the growing threat from hackers, and that he had offered advice, with no mention of money, to public and private companies on the best ways of guarding against hackers and of combating software piracy. Several of the invited guests, however, acknowledged in private that Lander’s initiative had been quite different, and that he had promise
d to aid them in their business dealings with a constant stream of privileged information about companies and individuals, ‘if they asked for it.’

  Young Pérez Nuix paused and now she did accept my offer of a drink, her mouth must have been getting dry after her long speech, a mouth with attractive firm red lips, like Capitán Trueno’s Viking lady love, Sigrid, or some other character out of a children’s comic, one always looks at the lips of anyone who talks for any length of time, students look at their teachers’ lips, audiences look at actors’ lips, spectators at the lips of speakers and politicians (the latter always make a bad impression). I got up, went into the kitchen, and from there (not very far away, my apartment was not that big) I called out to her what I had in the house, only Coca-Cola, beer, wine and water, I was perhaps a less than perfect host because in London I wasn’t in the habit of being one, almost everyone who came to see me, and they were very few, came to do just that, to be only briefly occupied with me. I also offered her a black coffee, perhaps a glass of milk, or a white coffee if she preferred something warm and comforting, and she replied that she’d like wine as long as it was white and chilled. I remembered that I had six unopened bottles of Sangre y Trabajadero sent to me by a kind, long-standing friend from Cádiz, but I couldn’t be bothered to set about opening a crate at that hour.

  ‘Here you are. It’s cold enough for me, but it may not be for you,’ I said, placing before her knees, on two coasters (I’m a clean fellow) the bottle of Ruländer that I opened there and then (I don’t know much about wine) and a not entirely suitable glass, which she allowed me to fill almost to the brim. ‘If she’s drinking because she’s thirsty, she’ll be drunk in no time,’ I thought when she didn’t raise her hand to stop me. The run in her stockings kept growing each time she made a movement, however slight or delicate, or when she crossed her legs, and she crossed and uncrossed them often, with the consequent upward movement of her skirt, this was only minimal with each crossing and uncrossing, but her skirt was gradually creeping up (until she tugged it down again). She still hadn’t noticed the damage being wrought, when perhaps she should have. Given the nature of runs, it didn’t look out of place on her leg, although it did seem destined to reduce her tights to tatters if our conversation lasted long enough, and she had, it seemed, completely forgotten that, in her words, ‘it’ll only take a moment,’ and, in part, forgotten about me too. I realized that, after the initial surprise and my sense that the visit would only be a brief one, I was in fact enjoying her prolonged presence there, especially with the dog at her feet, for dogs, when they are still, do make one feel calmer, even comfortable. The creature, which had apparently dried off considerably, was still dozing with one eye open, lying close to his mistress. (‘Sleep with one eye open, when you slumber,’ I sometimes sing or repeat to myself.) He seemed kindly and ingenuous and honest, the very opposite of a joker or a trickster.

  ‘Aren’t you having anything?’ Pérez Nuix asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not going to join me. It’s embarrassing drinking alone.’ And she immediately overcame any embarrassment by emptying the glass as if she were Lord Rymer the Flask in one of his greedier moments. She was probably thirsty, which was perfectly normal after that walk in the rain, what was odd was that she hadn’t asked me for a drink earlier. I refilled her glass, not quite to the top this time.

  ‘Later, in a few minutes,’ I replied. ‘Go on.’ And so that this did not sound like an order, I leaned down and again stroked the dog’s head and back, felt his thin bones. This time he didn’t even lift his neck, he must have got used to my presence and simply took no notice of me, he was very dignified that pointer. Everyone thinks it makes you look like a nicer person if you behave affectionately towards animals, and that was the effect I wanted then. (If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s writers, and there are hundreds of them, who have themselves photographed with their dogs or cats in order to project a more amiable image when, in fact, they just come across as affected and twee.) I took advantage of my friendly bowed position to take a long look at Pérez Nuix’s thighs from close up, I will not deny that they continued to attract me. I suppose she pretended not to notice, she certainly didn’t cover them up or move them a fraction of an inch. At that point, I did feel as puerile as De la Garza, but then the sexual admiration that precedes sex is always puerile, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

  ‘I don’t know what happened to those measures, they may have gone ahead, but under cover and with much less fuss than planned,’ she went on, having, without a pause, downed half of her second glass of wine: I hoped that her speech wouldn’t start to become slurred. ‘Because shortly after came September 11th and from that day on no one was entirely superfluous. However, those measures, especially if they were genuine, came too late and were, anyway, hardly original, they simply made official what had been going on for years without the intervention and almost without the knowledge of the high-ranking officers in the service, well, they half-knew about it, but that knowledge was accompanied by a degree of passivity, a lot of turning a blind eye, little curiosity and a desire not to cramp anyone’s style. The agents with the least to do, once they’d got over the long period of confusion that followed the fall of the Berlin Wall, had started looking for external clients, both occasional and otherwise, according to their respective fields and possibilities. Some, who felt sidelined, actually resigned, those who could simply left (depending on how much responsibility you’ve been given, that isn’t easy and sometimes impossible). The majority, though, didn’t manage to do so or simply didn’t want to, and although still employed by the State, started getting other work here and there, which meant they were serving different masters. They offered their skills to the highest bidder or accepted the best-paid commissions. And what kind of people or private institutions were or are interested in employing agents? Well, some were given work more suited to private detectives, confirming an infidelity, investigating cases of embezzlement or misappropriation of funds, collecting money from debtors in arrears; or working as bodyguards to protect show-business types or tycoons at public events, things like that. Others gave a hand or two to those ex-colleagues of theirs who had become mercenaries, of whom there were quite a few, and there’s never any shortage of that kind of work in Africa. The range of jobs kept widening, and eventually the lower-ranking field agents began to suggest and supply such work to the middle-ranking officials and I imagine that, by 2001, the latter had convinced the higher-ranking officials of the advantages of not working solely for the State. The fact is that during those seven or eight years, during that long interval without a principal enemy, a parallel network of diverse clients of every kind was created. More than once, members of MI 5 and MI6, whether knowingly or not, or preferring not to know but sensing it, would doubtless have worked for criminals or even criminal organizations, and perhaps, at the darker, more remote end of the chain, for foreign governments. It’s possible, no one knows and no one’s going to try to find out, for at this point in time nothing’s very clear and everything’s very muddled. You get used to not asking who is paying the bill, and besides, almost everything is dealt with and discussed by intermediaries and front men. If you first had to carry out an investigation to discover who was behind each commission, you’d never finish and never start, and any deal would be worthless.’

  Young Pérez Nuix paused and finished off the second half of her second glass of wine. I hesitated, but, out of courtesy, made a very slight move as if to refill it, without actually touching the bottle. Up until then, I had noticed no hesitancy or difficulty in speaking on her part, but if she carried on at the same rate, this might well happen at any moment, or if not that, incoherence or somnolence, and now I wanted to hear everything she had to say. There were, however, no signs of any such symptoms, she must have been accustomed to drinking wine. Even her vocabulary was select and precise, that of a well-read person, she used unusual words, such as ‘arrumbados’ for ‘sidelined,’ ’ encomienda’ for ‘
commission,’ ‘rasos’ for ‘non-commissioned.’ Perhaps, despite her ancestry on her father’s side, she was like certain English people who have learned my language more from books than from speaking it, and whose Spanish therefore seems rather bookish. And so I got up and, before she could say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to my hint of an interrogative gesture, announced:

  ‘I’m going to get a glass for myself, I’m ready for a drink now too.’ And I then ventured the following warning or caution: ‘Do you think it’s wise to drink three glasses one after the other like that? That’s drinking English-fashion, not like a Spaniard. Anyway, I’ll bring a few snacks just in case.’

  When I came back with my glass and a few olives and chips in their respective bowls, I caught her inspecting the run in her tights. In the corridor, before going into the room and almost hidden from view—I stopped and spied on her for a few seconds: one, two, three; and four—I saw her looking at it and carefully running her index finger over it (a finger moistened with saliva perhaps or a drop of nail varnish, which is what women used to apply to a catch in their stockings in order to stop a run, to see if the stocking would stay decent at least until they got home; although it was too late now to stop anything). When I rejoined her, she, with arms and legs crossed now, made no reference to this imperfection in her apparel, which was odd: it would have been the moment to express surprise and regret and, if she so chose, to apologize for the theoretically scruffy appearance the run conferred upon her, although it didn’t displease me in the least or trouble me, I found it rather entertaining being able discreetly to observe its progress. I wondered how much longer she would keep up the fiction that she hadn’t yet noticed, and why, since it was beyond concealment now. And for the first time that evening—for the first time ever—it occurred to me that not only did she not exclude me, but that, without a word or a touch or a look—although she looked straight at me when she spoke, as if there were nothing more to that look than her explanatory, neutral remarks—she was telling me that what did finally occur could occur, quite a lot later and when I was no longer expecting it, despite our insistent nearness in my bed, which was not that big: the opening of silk or nylon as a simile or promise or sign, its steadily growing length and width, the fact that she did not try to stop or remedy it by going to the bathroom and taking off her tights and even changing them (I know women who always carry a spare pair in their bag, Luisa is one of them), allowing the run to continue to grow and expose an ever larger expanse of thigh and soon, possibly, the front part of the calf, for which I’ve never known the name, if it has one, perhaps shank or shinbone, but neither word seems quite right; that area, of course, was covered by her boots, although her boots had opened fleetingly too, been unzipped, as soon as their drenched owner had arrived and sat down; yes, the run in her tights was like a zipper without teeth, uncivilized and autonomous and uncontrollable, with the added rogue element of being a thing that can be torn, except that this was a tear in which neither my hand nor anyone else’s was intervening, the cloth was coming apart of its own accord, while still clinging to the leg, covering and uncovering at the same time and pointing up the contrast, the unveiled flesh advancing in both directions, down and up, and we men know what lies hidden at the top of a long female thigh. (I would accidentally see it myself—a dark triangle—in the ladies’ toilet of a disco, where a woman would say to me with great self-confidence: ‘You come and see.’)