Javier Marias - Bad Nature, or With Elvis in Mexico

Then I saw myself shouting something in Spanish out on the dance floor, all of us were there, Presley grabbing the lapels of the rubber man who twisted out of reach with a hard slap, Hank with the handkerchief in his hand, he had given the fat man a shove that sent him flying back to his seat and sent all the glasses on Roland’s table crashing. This crew wasn’t carrying knives, or not just knives, they were full-grown men, not peons but capatazes and landowners, and they carried pistols, I could see it in the way the other two thugs moved, one at the chest and the other on the hip, though Montalbán restrained them, opening out a horizontal hand as if to say, “Five.” Hank was the most excited, he always carried a pistol, too, though fortunately he hadn’t put his hand on it, a man with a gun gets more excited when he sees he may be using it. He wadded the handkerchief into a ball and threw it at the hotheaded fat man, saying in English, “Are you crazy or what? You could have killed him.” The silk floated in its journey.

“¿Qué ha dicho ese?” Romero asked me immediately, he had already realized I was the only member of the group who spoke the language.

“Que si está loco, ha podido matarlo,” I answered automatically. “No es para tanto,” I added on my own account. What was the big deal?

It was all coming to nothing, every second that went by now, every panting breath we all drew made the tension diminish, an altercation of no importance whatsoever, the music, the heat, the tequila, a foreigner who behaved like a spoiled brat, he was standing up now with Sherry’s help, coughing violently, he looked scared, unable to comprehend that anyone could possibly have harmed him. He was all right, either there hadn’t been time for much harm to be done or the fat man wasn’t as strong as he looked.

“La nena vieja se puso pesada con el amigo Julio y Julio se cansa pronto,” said Romero Ricardo. “Será mejor que se la lleven rápido. Váyanse todos, las copas están pagadas.”

“What did he say?” Presley asked me immediately. He had his own urgent need to understand, to know what was happening and what was being said, I saw him slipping into belligerence, the ghost of James Dean descended upon him and sent a shiver down my spine. His own movies were too bland to satisfy that ghost. Hank jerked his head toward the door.

“That we should get out of here fast. The drinks are on them.”

“And what else? He said something else.”

“He insulted Mr. McGraw, that’s all.”

Elvis Presley was a good friend to his friends, at least to his old friends, he had a sense of loyalty and a lot of pride and it had been many years since he had taken orders from anyone. It’s only a short step from melancholy to brawling. And there was his nostalgia for boxing.

“Insulted him. That guy insulted him. First they try to kill him, then they insult him. What did he say? Come on, what did he say? And who is he to tell us to get out of here anyway?”

“¿Qué ha dicho?” now it was Roland César’s turn to ask me. Their inability to understand each other was enraging them, a thing like that can really grate on your nerves in an argument.

“Que quién es usted para decir que nos vayamos.”

“Han oido, Julio, muchachos, me pregunta el gachupín que quién soy yo para ponerlos en la calle,” Montalbán answered without looking at me. I thought (if there was time for such a thought) that it was odd that he said I was the one asking who he was: it was Presley who was asking and I was only translating, it was a warning I didn’t pay attention to, or that I picked up on too late, when you relive what happened, or reconstruct it. “Soy aquí el propietario. Aquí soy el dueño, por muy famoso que sea su patron,” he repeated with a slight tremor of one of his mobile biceps. If he was the owner, as he claimed, he was very unfriendly, my boss didn’t impress him, they hadn’t come over to say hello when we came in and now they were throwing us out. “Y les digo que se larguen y se lleven a la bailona. La quiero ya fuera de mi vista, no espero.”

“What did he say?” It was Presley’s turn.

I was getting tired of the double onslaught of this crossfire. I looked at McGraw, la bailona, as Romero had called him, he was breathing more easily now but was still terrified — the tiny psychotic eyes were glazed — he was pulling at Hank’s jacket to get us to leave, Hank was still making gestures with his head tilted towards Presley, Sherry was already heading for the door, McGraw leaning on her, maybe taking advantage, he was one of those guys who never learns. Fat Julio was in his seat, he had recovered his composure after his exertions, his whiteness had returned like a mask, he was following the conversational match with his hands crossed (rings glinting), like one who has not abandoned the idea of re-entering the fray.

Before answering Presley I thought it was a good idea for me to say something to Ricardo: “El no es quien usted cree. Es su doble, sabe, su sosias, para hacer las escenas de peligro en el cine, estamos rodando una película allí en Acapulco. Se llama Mike.”

“El parecido es tan logrado,” Julio interrupted sarcastically, “que le habrán hecho la cirugía estética a Mike, como a las presumidas.” He wiped the by now utterly revolting handkerchief across his forehead.

“What did they say?” Presley insisted. “What did they say?”

I turned toward him.

“They’re the owners. We’d better go.”

“And what else? What were you saying about Mike? Who’s Mike?”

“Mike is you, I told them that was your name, that you’re your double, not yourself, but I don’t think they believe me.”

“And what did they say about George? You said they insulted him. Tell me what those guys said about George, they can’t get away with just saying whatever they want.”

This last comment was a genuine piece of North American naiveté. And that was where my share of the blame came in, though Presley and I were to blame only in the second place; the guilty party was primarily McGraw, and maybe I was only to blame in the third place. How could I explain to Mr. Presley, at that moment, that the tough guys were using nouns in the feminine gender to refer to McGraw, la nena vieja, pesada, bailona, English nouns have no gender and I wasn’t about to give him a Spanish lesson right there on that dance floor. I glanced over at la nena vieja, la bailona — I’m the same age now that he was then — he was smiling weakly, walking away, the coward, he was starting to feel as if he were out of danger, he was tugging at Hank, Hank was tugging a little at Presley (“Let’s go, Elvis, it doesn’t matter”), no one was tugging at me. I gestured my head towards César Gilbert.

“O.K. He called Mr. McGraw a fat faggot,” I said. I couldn’t avoid putting it like that, and I couldn’t help saying it, I wanted the owner of the Herald to hear it and not be able to make any display of despotism or punish anyone or do anything except swallow the insult. And I wanted the others to hear it, pure childishness.

But I hadn’t been thinking about what a stickler Presley was and for an instant I’d forgotten the ghost. We’d all been drinking tequila. Mr. Presley raised one finger, pointed it at me dramatically and said, “You’re going to repeat this word for word, Roy, to the guy with the moustache, don’t you leave out one syllable. Tell him this: you are a goon and a pig, and the only fat faggot here is your little girlfriend there with the handkerchief.” That was what he said, with that way of twisting his mouth he sometimes had that inspired distrust in the mothers of his youngest fans. His insults were a little on the schoolboy side, nothing about sons of bitches or motherfuckers, words that had more weight in the sixties. He paused for a second, and then, with his finger still pointing, added, “Say that to him.”