Javier Cercas - Soldiers of Salamis

'A friend, then?'

'More or less,' I said.

'Room twenty-two,' and pointing down a corridor she added: 'but I saw him go that way a little while ago; he's probably in the television room, or in the garden.'

The corridor led into a big living room with enormous windows that opened onto a garden with a fountain and lawn chairs, where several old men were lying in the midday sun, tartan blankets covering their legs. In the living room were two old people — a woman and a man — sitting in imitation leather armchairs and watching TV; neither of them turned when I entered the room. I couldn't help but look at the man: a scar began at his temple, crossed his cheek, his jaw, went down his neck and disappeared under the fleece of his grey flannel shirt. I knew he was Miralles straightaway. Paralyzed, I hastily sought the words with which to approach him; but I didn't find them. As if sleepwalking, with my heart pounding in my throat, I sat down in the armchair next to his; Miralles did not turn, but an imperceptible movement of his shoulders revealed he'd noticed my presence. I decided to wait, I made myself comfortable in the chair, looked at the TV: on the screen the sun shone brilliantly, and a presenter with perfect hair and a hospitable air belied by the condescending rictus on his lips, gave instructions to the contestants.

'I expected you sooner,' murmured Miralles after a while, almost sighing, not taking his eyes off the screen. 'You're a bit late.'

I looked at his stony profile, his sparse grey hair, his beard growing like a minuscule forest of whitish bushes around the wild firebreak of the scar, the stubborn chin, the autumnal prominence of his belly tugging at the buttons of his shirt, and the strong hands speckled with spots, resting on a white cane.

'Late?'

'It's almost lunch time.'

I didn't say anything. I looked at the screen, now crammed with an array of domestic appliances; except for the prerecorded and insistent voice of the presenter and the sounds of domestic chores coming from the corridor, the room was completely silent. Three or four armchairs away from Miralles, the woman was still sitting, motionless, with her cheek resting on a brittle hand, which was furrowed with blue veins; for a moment I thought she was asleep.

'Tell me, Javier,' Miralles spoke, as if we'd been talking for a long while and had stopped for a rest, 'do you like TV?'

'Yes,' I answered, and, transfixed by the cluster of whitish hairs sticking out of his nostrils, answered, 'But I don't watch it much.'

'I don't like it at all. But I watch it a lot: game shows, reports, films, spectaculars, news, everything. You know? I've lived here for five years, and it's like being shut out of the world. The newspapers bore me and I stopped listening to the radio a long time ago, so it's thanks to TV that I find out what's going on out there. This programme, for example,' scarcely lifting the tip of his stick to point at the television. apos;I've never seen anything so stupid in my life: the people have to guess how much each of these things cost, and if they get it right, they keep it. But look how happy they are, look how they laugh.' Miralles went quiet, undoubtedly for me to appreciate for myself the pertinence of his observation. apos;People today are much happier than they were in my day, anyone who's lived long enough knows that. That's why, every time I hear some old man fuming about the future, I know he's doing it to console himself because he's not going to be able to live through it, and every time I hear one of those intellectuals fume against TV I know I'm dealing with a cretin.'

Sitting up a little he turned his big, age-shrunken gladiator's body towards me and examined me with a pair of green eyes, which were strangely unmatched: the right, inexpressive and half-closed by the scar; the left wide open and inquisitive, almost ironic. I then realized that my initial impression of Miralles' face as petrified was only true for the side devastated by the scar; the other was vital, vehemently so. For a moment I thought it was like two people living together in the same body. Slightly intimidated by how close he was, I wondered whether the veterans of Salamis would also have had this derelict look of run-over old truck drivers.

'Do you smoke?' Miralles asked

I went to get my cigarettes out of my jacket pocket, but Miralles didn't let me finish.

'Not here.' Leaning on the arms of the chair and the walking stick, and unceremoniously rejecting my help ('Let go, let go, I'll ask you to lend me a hand when I need it'), he stood up laboriously and ordered: 'Come on, we're going for a walk.'

We were about to go out into the garden when a nun appeared from the corridor; she was about forty, dark-haired, smiling, tall and thin, wearing a white blouse and grey skirt.

'Sister Dominique told me you had a visitor, Miralles,' she said, holding out a pale, big-boned hand to me. 'I'm Sister Fran£oise.'

I shook her hand. Visibly uncomfortable, as if caught red-handed, holding the door half open Miralles introduced us: he said to me that Sister Françoise was the director of the home; he told her my name.

'He works for a newspaper,' he added. 'He's come to interview me.'

'Really?' The nun widened her smile. 'What about?'

'Nothing important,' said Miralles, beckonong me out into the garden with his expression. I obeyed. 'A murder. One that happened sixty years ago.'

'Oh good,' Sister Franchise laughed. 'It's about time you started confessing your crimes.'

'Go to hell, Sister,' Miralles said in farewell. 'You see,' he grumbled later on, as we walked beside a pond carpeted with water lilies and past a group of old men lying in hammocks, 'a whole lifetime spent railing against priests and nuns and here I am, surrounded by nuns who won't even let me smoke. Are you a believer?'

Now we were going down a gravel path bordered by boxwood hedges. I thought about the pale, distinguished-looking woman I'd seen that morning in the church of Notre Dame, lighting a candle and writing a supplication, but before I had time to answer the question, he answered it himself:

'What nonsense! There's nobody who believes any more, except for nuns. I'm not a believer either, you know. I lack imagination. When I die, what I'd like is for someone to dance on my grave, it'd be more cheerful, don't you think? Of course, Sister Françoise wouldn't be too pleased, so I suppose they'll say a mass and that'll be that. But that doesn't bother me, either. Did you like Sister Françoise?'

Since I didn't know whether or not Miralles liked her, I answered that I hadn't yet formed an opinion of her.

'I didn't ask you for your opinion,' answered Miralles. 'I asked if you liked her or not. If you can keep a secret, I'll tell you the truth: I like her a lot. She's good-looking, smart and nice. And young. What else can you ask for in a woman? If she wasn't a nun I'd have pinched her bum years ago. But, being a nun. . to hell with it!'

We passed the front of the entrance to an underground parking lot, left the path and clambered down a small embankment — Miralles with surprising agility, clinging to his stick; me behind him, fearing he would fall at any moment — on the other side of which stretched a patch of lawn with a wooden bench overlooking the intermittent traffic of the rue des Combottes and facing a row of semi-detached houses lined up on the other side. We sat down on the bench.

'Okay,' said Miralles, leaning his stick on the edge of the bench, 'let's have that cigarette.'

I gave it to him, I lit it for him, then I lit one for myself. Miralles smoked with obvious enjoyment, inhaling the smoke deeply.

'Is smoking forbidden in the home?' I asked.

'Nah, it's just that hardly anybody smokes. The doctor made me give it up when I had the embolism. As if one thing had anything to do with the other. But sometimes I sneak into the kitchen, nick a cigarette off the cook and smoke it in my room, or out here. How do you like the view?'