Javier Marías - Your Face Tomorrow 1 - Fever and Spear

'What is it you want?' he said after a few seconds, like someone who has grown tired of guessing and gives up, it didn't even sound like a question.

It was Tupra again who replied:

'Just tell us the truth, that's all, without trying to read our minds and without trying to please us.'

The soldier's response was instantaneous, and I translated it as precisely as I could, although it wasn't easy:

'Oh, the truth. The truth is what happens, the truth is when it happens, how can you expect me to tell you that now? Until it happens, nobody knows.'

Tupra seemed somewhat surprised and amused by this reply, half-philosophical, half-crass, or perhaps he was just confused by it. He did not waver in his demand though. Instead, he smiled, and made sure he had the final word:

'And often not even afterwards either. And sometimes it doesn't happen at all. It just doesn't. Nevertheless, that is what we want, you see: we're asking you for the impossible, according to you. And if, at the moment, you're not in a position to satisfy that demand, if you want to consult with your colleagues to see if that impossibility could become a possibility,' he paused, 'feel free. I understand that you will be staying a few more days in London. We will phone you before you leave, to see if you have achieved it – the great deed, the impossible. We have your number. Mulryan, would you be so kind as to show the gentleman out.' Then he turned to me, and without changing his tone and with barely a pause, said: 'Mr Deza, would you mind staying behind for a moment, please?'

The fake or real soldier got up, smoothed tie, jacket and trousers, made the unnecessary gesture of tucking in his shirt, picked up from the floor a briefcase he had placed next to his armchair and which he had not had the chance either to take up or open. He shook Tupra's hand and mine in a distracted, preoccupied, absent way (a soft, rather limp hand, perhaps because he was preoccupied). He said:

'I don't believe I have your number.'

'No, I don't believe you have,' was Tupra's response. 'Goodbye.'

'Sir?' murmured Mulryan before disappearing, while, with both hands, he drew shut the two leaves of the door of that very unbureaucratic office, it was more reminiscent of the rooms of the various Oxford dons I had known, Wheeler's, Cromer-Blake's, Clare Bayes's, full of shelves overflowing with books, with a globe that looked like a genuine antique, the whole room was dominated by wood and paper, I saw no base materials, not even metal, I saw no filing cabinets, no computer. Mulryan murmured the word as if he were asking, in the manner of a major-domo, 'Anything else, sir?', but he looked more as if he was standing to attention (there was, however, no click of the heels). He was clearly devoted to his superior.

And it was then, when we were alone, with Tupra seated behind his ample desk and me sitting opposite him, that, for the first time, he required of me something similar to what subsequently became my main task during the period that I remained in his employ, and which was related, too, in a way, to what Wheeler had half-explained to me on that Sunday in Oxford, in the morning and during lunch. Tupra ran a hand over his cheeks the colour of barley, always so close-shaven and smelling always of after-shave as if the lotion impregnated his skin or as if he were constantly, secretly, applying more, he smiled again, took out a cigarette which he placed loosely between his threatening lips (as if they were always pursed, ready to inhale), but he didn't light it for the moment, and so I didn't dare light mine either.

'Tell me what you thought of him.' And with a lift of his head, he gestured towards the double doors. 'What did you learn about him?' And when I hesitated (I wasn't sure what he meant, he hadn't asked me anything about the Chileans or the Mexicans), he added: 'Say anything, whatever comes into your head, go on.' He usually withstood silence very well, except when it went against his own wishes or decisions; then his permanent state of vehemence and tension seemed to demand that he keep time filled up with things palpable, recognisable or countable. It was a different matter if the silence came from him.

'Well,' I said, 'I don't know quite what this Venezuelan gentleman wants from you. Support and financial help, I assume. I suppose he's preparing for, or considering the possibility of a coup against President Hugo Chavez, that much I gleaned. He was in plain clothes, but judging by his appearance and by what he said, he could be a military man. Or, rather, I assume he's presented himself to you as such.'

'What else? Anyone in your place and in your role could have deduced that, Mr Deza.'

'What do you mean "what else", Mr Tupra?'

'What makes you think he was a military man? Have you ever seen a Venezuelan military man?'

'No. Well, only on television, like everyone else. Chavez is a military man, he calls himself Comandante, or Major, doesn't he, or Sub-Lieutenant, or perhaps Parachutist-in-Chief, I don't know. But naturally I can't be sure that this gentleman was a military man. I'm just saying that he probably presented himself to you as that. Or so I imagine.'

'We'll come back to that later. What do you think of the plot, the threat of a coup against a government elected by a popular vote, more than that, by popular acclaim?'

'I think it's terrible, the worst possible thing that could happen. Remember that my country suffered for forty years because of just such a coup. Three years of romantic war perhaps (romantic at least to English eyes), followed by thirty-seven years of destruction and oppression. But leaving theory aside, that is, leaving aside principles, I wouldn't really care in this particular case. Chavez led an attempted coup once, if I remember rightly. He conspired with his troops and rose up against an elected civilian government. True, it may have been a corrupt and thieving government, but then what government isn't nowadays, they handle far too much money and are more like businesses than governments, and businessmen want their profits. So he couldn't really complain if he was ousted. The Venezuelan people are another matter. They might. Except that there seem to have been quite a few complaints already about this leader whom they elected by popular acclaim. Being elected doesn't immunise a leader against becoming a dictator.'

'You seem very well informed.'

'I read the newspapers, I watch television. That's all.'

'Tell me more. Tell me if the Venezuelan gentleman was telling the truth.'

'About what?'

'Generally. For example, as to whether, if it came to it, they would touch the Comandante or not.'

'He said two different things about that.'

Tupra looked slightly irritated, but only slightly. He gave me the impression that he was enjoying himself, that he liked this conversation and my quickness, once I had got over my initial hesitancy and once stimulated by his questioning, Tupra was a great one for asking questions, he never forgot what people had said in reply and so was able to return to that reply when the interrogatee least expected it and had forgotten about it, we forget what we say much more than what we hear, what we write much more than what we read, what we send much more than what we receive, that is why we barely count the insults we hand out to others, unlike those dealt out to us, which is why almost everyone harbours some grudge against someone.

'I know that, Mr Deza. I'm asking you if either of those two things is true. In your opinion. Please.'

That 'please' worried me. Later on, I learned that he always resorted to such formulae, 'if you would be so kind', 'if you wouldn't mind' when he was about to get really annoyed. On that occasion, I merely sensed this and so hastened to respond, without giving much thought to what I said and having given it no previous thought at all.