Javier Marias - While the Women are Sleeping

Lawson stood up and went over to them, still keeping to his side of the glass. Perhaps they would go away if they saw him watching them from inside. He folded his arms and fixed them with his blue eyes. He knew that one glance from those cold, blue, unfriendly eyes had often proved an effective deterrent in the past, one which he intended to deploy now to intimidate those three beggars. But the beggars were still embroiled in their argument, taking not the slightest notice of him, or else his presence, closer now, remained a matter of complete indifference to them. Now and then, the first beggar would again point at the window and Lawson was certain now that the focus of his interest was the Epigram. Lawson could stand it no longer. He opened the door and addressed them from the threshold:

‘Can I be of any assistance?’

The beggar with the reddish beard looked Lawson up and down, as if he were an intruder. He was considerably taller than Lawson, indeed, despite his years and his wretched appearance, he was very solidly built. The man could easily have knocked him to the ground, thought Lawson, or else the other two could have held him down whilst the first beggar grabbed and made off with the Epigram or, worse still, with the typescript of Watt worth £50,000. He regretted having opened the door. He was exposing himself to attack.

‘Yes, yes, you can,’ said the beggar after a pause of a few seconds. ‘Tell my two friends here who the King of Redonda was. You must know.’

Lawson looked at him, perplexed. Hardly anyone knew anything about the King of Redonda, only a handful of bibliophiles and scholars, people of great learning, experts. He saw no reason, however, not to reply.

‘His name was John Gawsworth, although in fact his real name was Armstrong. Quite by chance, he inherited the title of King of Redonda or Redundo, an uninhabited island in the Antilles, of which he never actually took possession. He did, however, set about creating an aristocracy, bestowing a few fictitious titles on friends, like this one given to the poet Dylan Thomas,’ explained Lawson, indicating the pamphlet to his left. ‘He was only a very minor writer. Why are you interested in him?’

‘You see, isn’t that what I told you? How else could I possibly know all that?’ said the tall beggar, turning to the other two. Then to Lawson he said: ‘How much are you selling the Epigram for?’

‘I’m not sure you could afford it,’ said Lawson in paternalistic tones, feigning hesitancy. ‘It’s worth £500.’

The jockey with the domed cranium jibed: ‘Yeah, £500 that won’t be coming your way. Why don’t you give us a few of your other books and we can sell them all to this gentleman?’

‘Shut up, you idiot, I’m telling you the truth. That pamphlet was mine once and the loyalty expressed in it was dedicated to me.’ And turning to Lawson again, the man with the beard added: ‘Do you know what became of John Gawsworth?’

Lawson was growing weary of the conversation.

‘I don’t actually. I think he died. He’s an obscure figure.’ And Lawson looked at the typescript of Watt, fortunately still there (no one inside the store, none of the other employees, had stolen it while he, like a fool, was standing at the door with these three beggars).

‘No, sir, there you’re wrong,’ said the beggar. ‘You’re right about him being a minor writer and an obscure figure, but he isn’t dead. Though these two fellows here won’t believe me, I am John Gawsworth. I am the King of Redonda.’

‘Oh, come now,’ said Lawson impatiently. ‘Stop cluttering up the pavement and move away from this window. You’re drunk, the lot of you, and if you stumbled against the glass, you could break it and injure yourselves. Be off with you.’ And with a rapid movement he slipped back into the store and bolted the door.

He returned to his desk and sat down. The beggar was looking at him coldly now from the other side of the glass. He seemed offended. He was angry. His brown eyes were genuinely cool, unfriendly, intimidating, more so than Lawson’s own cool, blue, intimidating eyes. The other two beggars were laughing and jostling the tall beggar as if to say: ‘Come on, let’s go’ (though Lawson could hear nothing). The first beggar, however, remained quite still, as if rooted to the pavement, staring at Lawson coldly, threateningly. Lawson could not hold his gaze. He looked down and tried to immerse himself once more in the compilation of the next catalogue, the 251st since the founding of Rota, the discriminating bookstore of which he was manager. That way perhaps he’ll disappear again, he thought. If I don’t look at him, don’t see him, he’ll disappear, the way he did before. Although, of course, then he came back.

He kept his eyes lowered until he noticed a change in the light. Only then did he dare to look up to see that the window was clear. He got to his feet and went over to check the display again. On the pavement lay a shattered beer bottle. But there, safe and sound, awaiting their distinguished bibliophile purchasers, were Salmagundi , £350, Oliver Twist, £300, La Chute , £600, Room , £2,000, Epigram of Fealty , £500, and to, £50,000. He gave a sigh of relief, picked up the typescript of Watt and clasped it to him. It had been typed by Beckett himself, who had never trusted anyone else with the task. Perhaps he should withdraw it from display, it was after all worth £50,000. He carried it back to his desk to consider the matter and there, for a moment, allowed himself an absurd thought. A copy of An Epigram of Fealty bearing John Gawsworth’s signature would be worth twice as much. A thousand pounds, he thought. Lawson looked up, but the window was still empty.

(1989)

It is quite possible that the main aim of ghosts, if they still exist, is to thwart the desires of mortal tenants, appearing if their presence is unwelcome and hiding away if it is expected or demanded. There have, however, been instances of pacts made between ghosts and mortals, as we know from various documents collected by Lord Halifax and Lord Rymer in England and by Don Alejandro de la Cruz in Mexico.

One of the most modest and touching of these cases is that of an old lady living in Veracruz, around 1920, when she was not an old lady, but a young girl who knew nothing of such visitations and waitings — or are they perhaps a kind of nostalgia? In her youth, this old lady had been the companion of a wealthy widow of advancing years, to whom, among other services rendered, she used to read in order to ease the tedium of her mistress’s lack of visible needs and preoccupations, and of a premature widowhood for which there was no remedy: for, according to people in that port city, Señora Suárez Alday had suffered the occasional illicit disappointment in love after her brief marriage, and it was probably this — rather than the death of her slightly or entirely unmemorable husband — that had made her seem curt and withdrawn at an age when such characteristics in a woman are no longer considered intriguing or charming or a fit topic for teasing. Boredom made her so lazy that she was barely able to read by herself, in silence and alone, so she had her companion read out loud to her details of affairs and feelings which, with each day that passed — and they passed very quickly and monotonously — seemed more and more alien to that house. The lady always listened very intently, utterly absorbed, and only occasionally asked her companion (Elena Vera by name) to repeat a passage or a piece of dialogue to which she did not wish to bid farewell forever without, first, making some attempt to hold on to it. When Elena finished reading, her only remark was: ‘Elena, you have a lovely voice. You will find love with that voice.’