Javier Marías - Your Face Tomorrow 1 - Fever and Spear

'You mean probable, don't you?' asked Tupra.

'Yes, highly probable,' said the soldier, correcting himself, embarrassed and without even a hint of a smile, he seemed very self-conscious, tense and fragile, as if he felt he was at fault or had conflicting loyalties.

It did not escape my notice that, during the interrogation, neither Mulryan nor Tupra addressed him by name, they did not call this ill-disguised civilian anything, not once did they say 'Mr So-and-So', nor, of course, 'General' or 'Colonel' or 'Commander', or whatever the man's rank was. I assumed they preferred me not to know whom they were talking to, since I knew everything they were talking about.

'Now let's get one important, indeed, vital thing straight,' Tupra went on. 'You would definitely not attack the leader himself, is that correct? According to what you've said, you're only after his post. But you would never, under any circumstance, compromise his physical integrity. Have I understood you correctly?'

The Venezuelan gentleman instinctively loosened his tie, or, rather, eased his anxieties by making that gesture; he fidgeted in his chair; he stretched his legs a little as if he had suddenly realised that the crease in his trousers was not quite straight, in fact, he did discreetly straighten his two trouser legs, first one, then the other, his feet off the ground, and I noticed that he was wearing short boots, made of some very dark green leather, like crocodile skin, though whether they were imitation or not, I don't know, I can't tell the difference. It seemed to me that he was thinking and playing for time, that he wasn't quite sure what the best answer would be. It seemed to me that Tupra was more skilful than Mulryan, which is why he didn't ask many questions, so as not to reveal his hand or to wear himself out, so as to remain fresh, supervising things from a distance.

'That would be too much like tempting Fate, if you know what I mean. It would be dangerous, it could prove counterproductive, lighting a flame that should never be lit, not even one the size of a match-flame. He mustn't be harmed in any way, we're all quite clear about that, we'll treat him with kid gloves, don't worry, he can't be touched. Otherwise, the support we're counting on would collapse. Not entirely, of course, but partially.'

I remember that Tupra affected a pitying smile and paused, and that Mulryan didn't dare start asking questions again until he was sure that his superior had once again withdrawn momentarily from the interrogation. And he was right to hold back, because Tupra had not yet moved aside.

'You don't seem very determined,' he said. 'And in ventures like this, a lack of resolve means that failure is not only probable but guaranteed. As does a lack of hatred, you should know that, sir, either from your studies or from personal experience. In my experience, at least, you always need to be prepared to go further than is necessary, even if you don't go that far in the end, or decide to rein yourself in when the moment comes, or if it simply proves unnecessary. That, however, must be the prevailing spirit, not its opposite. You would agree, would you not, that one cannot impose a limit beforehand, setting the bar below what might prove necessary? If your resolve and your mood are as you say they are, then in my view you should hold back. And I would, for the moment, advise against any support or financial help.'

This somewhat unconvincing soldier shook his head vehemently while he listened to my Spanish version of Tupra's words, perhaps like someone who cannot believe what he is hearing or despairs over some extremely expensive misunderstanding, but perhaps, also, like someone who realises too late that he has given the wrong answer and, by doing so, has brought about an irremediable disaster, because, depending on the nature of the blunder, any retraction or rectification or clarification will always sound insincere and self-interested – like backing down. That phoney civilian or phoney soldier could well have been thinking: 'Oh, bollocks, what they wanted to hear was that we wouldn't blink an eye if we had to kill him and not, as I thought, that we would save the bastard's skin however difficult he made things for us.' Yes, he could have been thinking that, or something else which I had neither time nor imagination to elaborate in my mind, because as soon as my Spanish stopped, he was quick to protest.

'No, senores, you've misunderstood me,' he said anxiously and with rather more feeling than he had shown up till then. Or perhaps he didn't, but that's how I remember it, the precise way different Latin Americans speak gets very confused in one's memory and in the retelling too. 'Of course we'd be prepared to get rid of him, if we had no alternative. We certainly don't lack resolve and, as for hatred, well, you can summon up hatred in no time at all, from one moment to the next, all you need is a spark, a few well-chosen phrases and the fire spreads, but it's best not to start out with the flames too high, the fire might burn itself out, better a cool head than hand-to-hand combat, don't you agree? All I meant was that we believe that harming the leader might not be necessary, that it would be most unlikely and preferable for all concerned if we didn't. But, believe me, if he made any difficulties, and we had to kill him in order to keep things on an even keel, then we certainly wouldn't shrink from that. I mean, it's just a matter of a single shot, isn't it, and that's that, it's quick and it's easy, we have a number of men who are used to that kind of thing. And if his supporters complain, too bad, the liberator's gone. They can say what they like, but there's nothing they can do about it, the tyrant's dead, kaput.'

'It's quick and it's easy,' I thought. 'Don't I know it, there have always been a number of men used to that kind of thing. In the temple, in the ear, in the back of the neck, a gush of blood, but you can always clean that up later.' I translated his words with as much feeling as I could muster, Tupra and Mulryan weren't looking at me while I was doing this, but at him, at the Venezuelan, this was something I was always very struck by, because, normally, people instinctively look at the person emitting the sounds, the person speaking, even though he's only translating, even if he's only the person reproducing and repeating and not the person speaking, but they, on the other hand, invariably fixed their attention on the person originally responsible for uttering the words, even though the latter had to remain silent while his words were transmitted. This, I noticed, tended to make interrogatees nervous, for they always looked at me despite only understanding me by deduction (a fairly easy deduction on their part).

The civilian or fake soldier was no exception when it came to nervousness (though this was, admittedly, only my first experience), but possibly what upset him most, more than the four eyes trained on him while I emulated his words, was Tupra's immediate response:

'You must realise that if you shoot him, you'll have to shoot quite a lot of your fellow countrymen too, whether you hate them or not, in the heat of the moment and in cold blood, in combat and, who knows, in executions, which are also quick but not so easy. And nobody's going to like that, least of all the people outside, including us. With such a high risk of carnage, and with no guarantee that it will have the desired result, my opinion is that you really shouldn't try it. And I'm afraid that, for now, I'll have to advise against any support or financial aid.'

The Venezuelan crumpled his agile eyebrows into a frown, took a long, deep breath so that his chest puffed out even more, like that of a frog or a toad, he made as if to undo his tie (not just loosen it this time), hid his green boots under the armchair like someone moving them smartly out of the reach of some biting creature, or, more symbolically, like someone beating an instinctive retreat, overcome by confusion. I thought he might be thinking: 'What are these sons-of-British-bitches playing at? They don't want this, they don't want that, what do they want me to say, the stupid bastards?'