Javier Marías - Your Face Tomorrow 1 - Fever and Spear

'In my opinion, one was not true at all. The other was, but the context in which it was given wasn't.'

'Explain that, will you?' He had still not lit the dangling cigarette, which, despite having a filter, would surely be getting soggy, I was familiar with the extravagant brand, Rameses II, Egyptian cigarettes made from slightly spicy-tasting Turkish tobacco, the lavish red packet on the desk looked like a drawing from Tintin, they would be very expensive nowadays, he must have bought them from Davidoff or Marcovitch or in Smith & Sons (if the last two still exist), I didn't recall him smoking them at Wheeler's house, perhaps he only smoked them in private. I didn't apply a match to my more commonplace cigarette either, although mine was still dry, my lips are not moist.

I merely improvised, that's all. I had nothing to lose. Nor to gain either, I had been summoned to act as translator and had performed that role. Remaining there was a courtesy on my part, although Tupra did not make me feel this to be the case, rather, perhaps, the opposite, for he was one of those rare individuals who can ask for a loan and manage to make the person giving the loan feel that he is the debtor.

'It didn't ring true to me at all that they were prepared to shoot the Lord High Parachutist, even if the success or failure of the operation depended on it. I did, therefore, believe him when he said that they wouldn't cause him any physical harm at all, if it turned out they couldn't get rid of him.'

'And what was the untrue context for this truth?'

'Well, as I say, I don't know why this gentleman came to see you, or what he wants to get out of you…'

'Oh, nothing from me, or from us, we have nothing to give,' broke in Tupra. 'They sent him to us merely so that we could pass judgement, that is, give our opinion on how convincing or truthful he is. That's why I'm interested to know your views, you speak the same language, or perhaps it isn't the same any more. I mean, I can't understand half the dialogue in some American films, they'll have to start adding subtitles soon when they show them over here, maybe it's the same with Latin American Spanish. There are subtleties of vocabulary, expressions I can't recognise or appreciate in translation. Other sorts of subtlety I can, precisely because I can't understand what someone is saying, and that sometimes proves very useful. Words distract sometimes, you see, and hearing only the melody, the music, is often fundamental. Now tell me what you think.'

Armed with boldness and indifference, I decided to improvise some more. I could hold out no longer, though, and finally lit a cigarette, not mine, however, but an expensive Rameses II, to which I asked his permission to help myself (he agreed of course, and didn't seem at all put out, although each cigarette must have cost around fifty pence).

'My impression is that there are no serious plans for a coup d'état. Or if there are, then this man will play no part in it or will have very little say in the matter. I assume you've checked his identity. If he's a soldier in exile or no longer in the army, or retired, an opponent with contacts in the country, but who acts from outside, then it's likely that his task is to raise funds based on nothing or based only on the vaguest of plans and on very tenuous information. And his own pockets may be the final destination for whatever money he does collect, after all, people tend not to ask questions or provide answers about money spent on abortive clandestine operations. If, on the other hand, he still is a soldier and has some authority, and is living in the country, and presents himself to us as someone regretfully betraying his leader for the good of the nation, then it's not impossible that the Comandante himself has sent him, to put out some feelers, to get in early, to make some enquiries, to be forewarned, and, if the opportunity arises, to raise funds from abroad that will doubtless end up in Chavez's own pockets, quite a clever move really. I also think that he might be neither one nor the other, that is, that he may not be and may never have been a military man. Anyway, I don't think he's behind anything serious, anything that would actually happen. As he himself said, the truth is what happens, which is a rough-and-ready way of saying just that. I would guess that this plan of his is never going to come to anything, with or without support, with or without financial help, internal, external or interplanetary.' I had got carried away by my own boldness, I stopped. I wondered if Tupra would say something now, even if only about the title under which the Venezuelan had presented himself to him (I had deliberately said 'presents himself to us', seeing that I was now included). 'If he doesn't,' I thought, 'he's obviously one of those people who is impossible to draw out, and who only says what he really means or what he knows he can safely reveal.' 'All this is pure speculation, of course,' I added. 'Impressions, intuitions. You did ask me for my impressions.'

Now he too lit his cigarette, his precious, saliva-sodden Rameses II. He probably couldn't stand to see me enjoying mine, or, rather, his, fifty pence going up in smoke in someone else's mouth, in, what's more, a continental mouth. He coughed a little after the first puff of that piquant Egyptian blend, perhaps he only smoked two or three a day and never quite got used to it.

'Yes, I realise you can't know anything for sure,' he said. 'Don't worry. I don't either, or not much more. But, tell me, why do you think that?'

I continued to improvise, or so I thought.

'Well, the man definitely looks the part of the Latin American military man, I'm afraid they're not much different from their Spanish counterparts twenty or twenty-five years ago, they all have moustaches and they never smile. His appearance just cried out for a uniform, a cap, and a superabundance of medals festooning his chest, as if they were cartridge belts. Yet there were some details that just didn't fit. They made me think that he wasn't a military man disguised as a civilian, as I at first thought, but a civilian disguised as a military man disguised as a civilian, if you see what I mean. They're really insignificant details,' I said apologetically. 'And it's not as if I've had many dealings with the military, I'm hardly an expert.' I broke off, my momentary boldness was fading.

'That doesn't matter. And I do see what you mean. Tell me, what details?'

'Well, they're really tiny things. He used, how can I put it, inappropriate language. Either soldiers nowadays aren't what they were and have been infected by the ridiculous pedantry of politicians and television presenters, or the man simply isn't a military man; or he was, but hasn't seen active service for a long time. And that gesture of tucking in his shirt was too spontaneous, like someone used to civilian clothes. I know it's silly, and soldiers do sometimes wear suit and tie, or a shirt if it's hot, and it is hot in Venezuela. I just felt that he wasn't a soldier, or else had been out of the army and hadn't worn an army jacket for some time, or had been removed from his post, I don't know. Or hadn't worn even a guayabera or a liki-liki or whatever they call them over there, they're always worn outside the trousers. And I felt, too, he was overly preoccupied with the crease in his trousers, and with creases in general, but then you get vain, dapper officers everywhere.'

'You can say that again,' said Tupra. 'Liki-liki,' he said, but didn't ask any more. 'Go on.'

'Well, perhaps you noticed his boots. Short boots. They may have looked black from a distance or in a bad light, but they were bottle-green in colour and looked like crocodile, or possibly alligator. I can't imagine any high-ranking officer wearing footwear like that, not even on his days of absolute leisure or total abandon. They seemed more suited to a drug-dealer or a ranch-hand on the loose in the big city or something.' I felt like a minor Sherlock or, rather, a fake Holmes. I leaned back my chair a little in the sudden hope of catching sight of Tupra's feet. I hadn't noticed what he was wearing, and it had suddenly occurred to me that he might be wearing similar boots and that I might be making a grave mistake. He was an Englishman: it was unlikely, but one never knows and he did have a strange surname. And he always wore a waistcoat, a bad sign that. As it turned out, I was unlucky, I couldn't get far enough back, the desk prevented me from seeing his feet. I went on – although if he was himself sporting some rather eccentric footwear, I was only making matters worse: 'Of course, in a country where the Commander-in-Chief appears in public dressed to look like the national flag and wearing a beret that's a shade of brothel red, as he did recently on television, it's not impossible that his generals and colonels do wear boots like that, or sabots or even ballet shoes, in these histrionic times and with a role model like him, anything's possible.'