Javier Marias - Your Face Tomorrow 3 - Poison, Shadow and Farewell

He was right. Wheeler still missed very little, even if his mind wasn't what it was and even though he now paid less attention to the outside world and was developing a form of loquacious introspection (or, I suppose, just introspection plain and simple when he was alone). Yes, I did have a reason for going to Oxford on that Sunday exiled from the infinite, to his house by the River Cherwell, whose quiet or languid murmur was just audible from where we were sitting, very faint, but still audible, and I recalled the words that my thoughts had attributed to it as they finally fell asleep, very late, on the night I had met Tupra there during a buffet supper: 'I am the river, I am the river and, therefore, a connecting thread between the living and the dead, just like the stories that speak to us in the night, I take on the likeness of past times and past events too, I am the river. But the river is just the river. Nothing more.' I had gone there to tell Wheeler what had happened to me or rather what I had done-after all, nothing had happened to me: other people had been the losers-and to ask him if he could have foreseen something like that happening when he first introduced me to the group to which he, too, had belonged; that is, in his role as intermediary, how far had he been aware of what he was getting me involved in and the risks he was laying me open to. He must have known about the possible consequences of our reports and about the uses to which they were sometimes put, to immediate and practical use or, in my case, to ruthless and criminal use. If, in times of relative peace, the result of one such report was a homicide and a scandalous arrest, the death of an innocent person and the ruin of another, tricked into being the guilty party, then, presumably, during the War, when the group had been created, and there would have been little margin for checking facts and when hasty decisions would sometimes have been made, the interpretation of people and the translation of lives or the anticipation of stories would inevitably have led to people being eliminated, to disasters and calamities. Although they would also have contributed to avoiding those things-I was sure of that. Wheeler would perhaps have found himself in a situation similar to mine now; he was not an unscrupulous person, and even though he might, in his day, have spread outbreaks of cholera and malaria and plague, that wasn't the man I knew. Perhaps his words had killed not one man, but many, some perhaps who should not have died. However, had that happened, he would always have had the consolation, the justification, the excuse that a war was on. I did not.

'Yes, I do have a reason for coming here today, Peter,' I said. And I put him in the picture and explained what had happened, just as I had with Pérez Nuix the night before.

Wheeler heard me out in silence, without interrupting me once, with his walking stick upright now, the tip resting on the floor, and the palm of one hand cradling his cheek in the gesture of one listening attentively. I told him about that first encounter with Dearlove and about Edinburgh, thus affording his weary tongue a rest. I spoke to him of my suspicions-or, rather, certainties-regarding the crime that had caused a frenzy of press speculation in the last few days and about which I assumed he would know.

'Yes, I read about it in the newspapers.' And he brushed the papers beside him with the tips of his fingers, as if he feared dirtying his hands. 'The contemptible Sunday papers are full of it, and Mrs. Berry, who watches television more than I do, told me how shocked and horrified she was. And very disappointed too: apparently, she enjoys this Dearlove fellow's music. I'm clearly not au fait with all her interests.' He paused and added, as if issuing a statement: 'It would never have occurred to me that you and your colleagues had anything to do with it. It's surprising really that the group can still surprise me. Although, naturally, things must have changed beyond belief.' He thought a little more, then said: 'I don't know. Jacobo. I don't know what Tupra is up to, he rarely calls me and confides in me still less. The older one gets, the more distant people become, not that I'm reproaching any of you for that.' But there was reproach, towards me as well, in those words. And of course it's very much Tupra's style when he doesn't act impulsively and takes his time; insofar as I know him, that is, which isn't very well. Toby knew him better. At least he knew the Tupra who was his student, the person he used to be. I find it hard to imagine what possible danger that singer could represent, to necessitate laying a trap for him and getting rid of him. But one shouldn't discount anything; in time one learns that, in theory, as people in our line of work come to realize, anyone can be dangerous. And our line of work, don't forget, is about protecting other people. And about protecting ourselves, because if we don't safeguard ourselves, we won't be able to protect anyone. It would seem, though, that you're quite right, given that they've carried out your predictions to the letter. The man was clearly a real danger, a madman. A murderer. You mustn't torment yourself overmuch on his account.'

'You don't mind if I smoke, do you?' He shook his head. I offered him the pack of cigarettes, he shook his head again, and I lit a Karelias. 'I'm afraid that they fulfilled those predictions only because I made them, Peter,' I said. 'It's not that easy. The thing didn't just happen naturally and spontaneously. Calculation and artifice played their part, as did machination and scheming; there was the interested party to whom I gave the idea, as if I were an Iago. Without my prognostications nothing would have happened, I'm sure, and Dearlove would not be a murderer. And a young man who had nothing whatsoever to do with it wouldn't have died. He may not even have received his payment for the job. I doubt that Tupra would have paid him in advance. I don't know how I'm going to be able to live with that.' Wheeler said nothing. He sat looking at me, his hand on his chin, attentive, thoughtful, rather as if I were new to him, or as if he were wondering what to do with me in a situation that was not so much unforeseen as insoluble. He didn't even say 'Hm,' but just sat there, looking at me. 'When I first got involved in this,' I went on, 'did you know that something like this might happen? That what you called my gift or my talent might be used for such things, with one person killed and another sent to prison? That it could lead to such drastic measures being taken, measures that could change lives so radically, and even put an end to one person's life? I don't think I can continue in this job. And I'd like you to know that before anyone else does, before Tupra knows. After all, you were the one who encouraged me, the one who first spoke to me about the group.'

Then I realized that he had got stuck again, that his voice or his words would not come out, that he had been assailed once more by that momentary aphasia, which, according to him was not physiological, but like a sudden withdrawal of his will: this was the third time I had witnessed this, so it obviously wasn't as infrequent as he had told me. As on the two previous occasions, it didn't happen in the middle of a sentence that I could then help him to conclude with conjectures, the way one does with people who stutter, but before he had actually spoken. This time, he was not pointing to anything that would help me orient myself (a cushion in the first instance, a cutting of an Eric Fraser cartoon in the second, when the helicopter flew over). He merely made a gesture with one hand asking me to be patient, to wait, as if he knew that it would soon pass and that it was best to leave him be and not add any more questions to those I had already asked him, best not to pressure him. His lips were pressed tight shut, as if they had suddenly become glued together and he could not open them. His face, however, remained unchanged, it was still attentive and thoughtful, as if he were preparing himself to tell me whatever it was he was going to tell me as soon as he could, once he had recovered the power of speech or liberated the word that had got stuck. This finally happened after about two minutes. He made no reference to his difficulty and answered me as if that silent hiatus had not existed: