Javier Marias - While the Women are Sleeping

She, as usual, was mostly at home, more than she would have liked, and yet she never went into the baby’s room, not even with her husband to say goodnight to her, well, hardly ever. He used to, though, on his own, before retiring to bed. I would go with him and stand on the threshold, my white hand holding the door open so as to let in a little light from the corridor; he didn’t dare turn on the light in the room, probably so as not to wake her, but also, I think, so that he would only just see her in the half-dark. But at least he saw her. He would go and stand by the crib, although not too close, a few feet away, and from there he would watch her and listen to her breathing, just for a while, a minute or less, enough to say goodnight. When he left, I would stand to one side, I would push open the door for him with my gloved hand and watch him walk to his bedroom, where she would be waiting. I, on the other hand, did go into the baby’s room and I’d sometimes stay there for a long time. I’d talk to her. I don’t have any children of my own, but it just seemed natural to talk to her, even if she couldn’t understand and even without the excuse that she needed to grow accustomed to the human voice. The sad thing is that she didn’t need to grow accustomed to anything, she had no future, nothing awaited her, she had no reason to get used to anything, it was a waste of time. In the house, no one talked about her or mentioned her, as if she had already ceased to exist before she died — that’s the unfortunate thing about knowing the future. Even we, the servants I mean, didn’t talk about her, but most of us would go up and visit her, on our own, as if we were visiting a shrine. My black magic, of course, couldn’t cure her — as I said it can only be used for revenge. She, the mother, got on with her life, phoning Madrid or Seville, which is where she’s from, talking to her friend when she was here, going out shopping and to the theatre, or watching television and Family Feud from Monday to Friday, at half past seven. After that time when I touched her without her realising, I had, how can I put it, begun to feel almost fond of her. Contact does create affection, a little, no matter how minimal that contact is, don’t you think?’

The butler paused long enough for his last comment not to appear rhetorical, and I stood up and said:

‘Yes, that’s why you have to be careful who you touch.’

The butler said:

‘Exactly, you might not think much of someone or even think very badly of them, then suddenly, one day, by chance, on impulse, out of weakness, loneliness, fear or drunkenness, one day, you find yourself caressing the person you’d thought so little of. That doesn’t mean you change your mind about them, but you do grow fond of someone you’ve caressed or who has allowed themselves to be caressed. And I had acquired a little of that elementary affection for her, after caressing her breasts with my white gloves while she was watching Family Feud— that was at the beginning of her pregnancy, during which, because of that incipient affection, I was more patient than usual and brought her whatever she wanted without complaint. Afterwards, I lost that affection, well, after the baby was born. But what made me lose it once and for all — what caused me to feel only disgust for her — was the death of the child, who survived for even less time than expected, two and a half months, not even three. My boss was away, he still is, I told him about the death yesterday by phone, he didn’t say much, just: “Oh, so it’s happened.” Then he asked me to take care of everything, of the cremation or burial, leaving it to me to choose, perhaps because he realised that, in the end, I was the person closest to the child. I was the one who picked her up from her crib and called the doctor, I was the one who, this morning, removed her sheets and her little pillow — I don’t know if you realise this, but they make tiny sheets for newborn babies, and tiny pillows too. This morning, I told her, the mother, that I was going to bring the child here, to the thirty-second floor, to have her cremated: they offer a very high-quality service, one of the best in New York; they really know their business; they occupy a whole floor. And what do you think she said? “I don’t want to know anything about it.” “I thought you would want to come with me, to accompany her on her last journey,” I said. And what do you think she said? She told me: “Don’t be so stupid.” Then, since I would be in this part of town, she asked me to get some tickets to the opera for some friends who are coming over in a few weeks’ time. She, of course, has a season ticket. She has a future, you see, unlike the baby. So I came on my own with the baby inside her little coffin, as white as my white silk gloves. I could have carried it in my own hands, white on white, my gloves on the coffin. I didn’t need to, though. The very efficient company on the thirty-second floor had thought of everything, and they came for us this morning in a hearse and brought us here. She, the mother, leaned over the banister, on the fourth floor, just as I was about to leave with the child and the coffin, because I was already going out of the door with my coat and my gloves on. And do you know what her final words were? She shouted down at me in that strong Spanish accent of hers: “Make sure they have lots of carnations, lots of carnations, and orange blossom!” That was the only instruction she gave. Now my hands are empty, I’ve just come from the cremation.’ The butler glanced at his watch for the first time since we’d been stuck in the lift and added: ‘We’ve been here nearly half an hour.’

Orange blossom, he had said: the flowers that brides in Andalusia wear, I thought. But just then the lift began to move again and, when we reached the ground floor, the butler wished me a pleasant stay in his city and vanished, as if the half hour that had brought us together had never existed. He was wearing black leather gloves, which he kept on all the time.

(1990)