Javier Marias - While the Women are Sleeping

It was on the first Friday when he was called upon to perform this new duty that Mr Bayo revived in his memory — with the same nonchalance that had made an astonished Lilburn wonder if this earnest man with his irreproachable manners was really capable of such an outrageous assertion — that initial warning which, when he’d first arrived, had produced in him a certain feeling of unease.

‘Now tonight,’ Mr Bayo said to him during break-time, ‘as I explained to you once before, don’t worry about the ghost. I believe I mentioned it briefly when you joined us, but I thought I’d better remind you just in case you’d forgotten, since it’s your turn to be on duty and you might be startled by the noises Señor de Santiesteban makes. At a quarter to nine, you’ll hear a door burst open, then seven footsteps in one direction and, after a pause, eight footsteps back. The door that opened will then close, more quietly this time. There’s no need to be frightened or to take any notice of it. This is something that has been happening since who knows when, certainly for as long as the Institute has had its headquarters in this building. It has nothing whatsoever to do with us and, as you can imagine, we’re more than used to it; as, of course, is poor Fabián, who’s usually the only person to hear it. Just one thing, given that you will have the keys over the weekend and will, therefore, be the first to arrive on Monday morning to open up, please don’t forget to remove his letter of resignation from the bulletin board opposite my office. Be sure to do this as soon as you come in. Although everyone knows of Señor de Santiesteban’s existence (we don’t hide it from anyone, I can assure you, and no one is troubled or upset by his presence, which is, besides, most discreet), we do nevertheless try not to let it intrude too much on the lives of the students, who, being children, are more sensitive than we are to such inexplicable events. So please do remember to remove the letter. And, of course, simply throw it in the nearest wastepaper basket. Imagine what it would be like if we kept them! By now we’d have a whole roomful of them. When I think about it, it all seems utterly ridiculous! Night after night, at the same hour, the same identical letter, with not a single word or syllable different. That, you’ll agree, is what you’d call perseverance.’

Young Lilburn responded only with a nod.

But as night fell and he was sitting in the library marking papers until it was time to lock up the building and go home, he heard a door being flung open so violently that it rattled the glass panes, then a few firm, resolute — not to say mutinous — steps, followed by a brief silence that lasted only seconds, then more steps, calmer this time, returning and, finally, the same door (one presumes) gently closing. Lilburn looked at the clock hanging on one wall and saw that it was eight forty-six. Feeling more irritated than surprised or alarmed, he got up and left the library. In the corridor, he stopped and listened, expecting to hear new noises, but there was nothing. Then he scoured the building in search of some laggardly student or joker to whom he would try to demonstrate, more than anything, the pointlessness of his prank, but he found no one. Nine o’clock struck and he decided to leave and give the matter no further thought; however, just as he was about to leave, he remembered another of Mr Bayo’s instructions, possibly the one that had most stuck in his mind: he went up to the second floor to inspect the bulletin board in the corridor, immediately opposite his superior’s office. All he saw there, affixed with four thumb tacks, was an already much-read leaflet announcing a series of talks on George Darley and other minor romantic poets that was due to be given by a visiting lecturer from Brasenose College, beginning in April. But there was absolutely nothing remotely resembling a letter of resignation. Feeling calmer and also rather pleased, he set off towards Calle de Orellana and thought no more about the episode until on Monday, around mid-morning, Miss Ferris came up to him after one of his classes and informed him that Mr Bayo wished to see him in his office.

‘Mr Lilburn,’ said the old history teacher when he went in, ‘don’t you remember my urging you, before you did anything else this morning, to remove Señor de Santiesteban’s resignation letters from the bulletin board outside?’

‘Yes, sir, I remember perfectly. But on Friday night, after I’d heard the footsteps you warned me about, I went up to do exactly that, but found no such letters on the board. Should I have looked again this morning?’

Mr Bayo struck his forehead like someone who has suddenly understood something and replied:

‘Of course, it’s my fault for not having warned you. Yes, Mr Lilburn, you need only look at the bulletin board in the morning. Not that it matters, this is hardly the first time it’s happened. But next Friday, remember: the letter only appears at dawn, even though one would imagine that Señor de Santiesteban would pin it to the noticeboard at a quarter to nine. Yes, I know it’s inexplicable, but then so is the very presence of the gentleman himself, is it not? Well, that was all I wanted to say, Mr Lilburn, but don’t worry, the children will have calmed down by this afternoon.’

‘The children?’

‘Yes, it was the juniors who alerted me to the fact that the letters were still there. I heard them talking excitedly in the corridor, went out to see what was going on and found the boys, all very worked up, handing round the three sheets of paper.’ Lilburn made an exasperated gesture and said: ‘I don’t understand a word, Mr Bayo. I really would be most grateful if you could give me a detailed and coherent account of the facts. What is all this about three letters, for example? What is the story behind this ghost, if he really exists? You keep talking about letters of resignation, but I still don’t know what the devil it is that this Señor de Santiesteban fellow resigns from each night. I’m totally bewildered and don’t know what to think.’

Mr Bayo gave a faint, melancholy smile and said: ‘Nor do I, Mr Lilburn, and, believe me, after all my years here, I, too, would like to know the details of Señor de Santiesteban’s doubtless sad story. But we know absolutely nothing about him. His name tells us nothing, nor, of course, does it appear in any yearbooks, dictionaries or encyclopaedias of any kind: he wasn’t famous or, rather, he did nothing in his life worthy of mention. Perhaps he was in some way linked to the former owner of the building, the man who had it built around 1930—I can’t remember the exact date now: he was an immensely wealthy man, interested in the arts and in politics; he was a kind of patron of left-wing intellectuals during the time of the Second Republic, and he died bankrupt. But we don’t know for sure, nor, indeed, do we have any concrete information that allows us to assume any connection. Then again, it could be that his close association with the building stems from his acquaintance, friendship or professional involvement with the architect, who was an equally interesting character: his ideas were quite advanced for the time, but he committed suicide, jumping overboard during an Atlantic crossing when he was still relatively young. Again, there’s no way of finding out. All of this is mere supposition, Mr Lilburn, mere hypothesising that I don’t even dare to formulate in its entirety because there are so few facts.’

‘It’s all very strange, very curious,’ remarked Lilburn.

‘It certainly is,’ said Mr Bayo. And I have to say that a long time ago, when I was only a little older than you are now and had just started work at the Institute, Señor de Santiesteban’s mysterious footsteps aroused my curiosity and even robbed me of my sleep for some months; I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that they came close to becoming an obsession. I neglected my work and devoted myself to making enquiries. I visited the relatives of the former owner and of the architect and asked them about a possible friendship between either of those two men and one Leandro P. de Santiesteban, but they had never heard of him; I consulted old telephone books in search of someone called Pérez de Santiesteban, for example (because I still don’t know what the P stands for: perhaps the first part of a double-barrelled last name, perhaps simply Pedro, Patricio, Placido, I don’t know), but I found none; in my overwhelming desire to know the ghost’s story, I went to the registry office in the hope that I might find a birth certificate that would at least give me a trail to follow, even if it was a false one: a similar last name so that I could at least focus my investigations on something; but I got no positive results, only problems with various bureaucrats, who took me for a madman, and with the police, because my behaviour, in those alarmist times, seemed very suspicious indeed; finally, I went to visit all the Santiestebans in the city, and there are quite a few. But those I spoke with told me there had never been anyone called Leandro in their family, while others refused to even talk to me. In short, it was all in vain and finally I had to abandon my search, with the disagreeable feeling of having wasted my time and made a complete fool of myself. Now, like everyone else who works at the Institute, I simply accept the ghost’s undeniable existence and pay him not the slightest heed, because I know there’s no point and that taking any interest at all brings only trouble and discontent. And so I’m very sorry, Mr Lilburn, but I can’t answer your questions. I would only advise you to ignore Señor de Santiesteban, like everyone else. Don’t worry, he’s not dangerous; he simply leaves a resignation letter each night and we remove it the following day.’