Javier Marías - Thus Bad Begins

There was something else that only increased her resentment: his treatment of Beatriz — which had been going on for who knows how long: ‘I didn’t bore you then, and our relationship wasn’t exactly languishing’ — Gloria probably saw in this a prolongation or repetition or variant of what her husband had perhaps dished out to her in the latter years of his life. This led her to feel or, rather, display an ostentatious, delighted solidarity with her sister-in-law and friend — although this was possibly more lip-service than anything, because, as I said, Beatriz’s curvaceous, vigorous appearance elicited little solidarity from her own sex or compassion from the opposite sex — and to take every jibe or repudiation from Muriel — about which she was doubtless instantly informed — or every suspected or rumoured flirtation on his part, as a personal insult and betrayal; and even to see the evil or cruelty of those two brothers as genetic. That is how Muriel interpreted it, and the truth is that when I overheard snippets of conversation between the two women (or three if her other great friend, Marcela, was there), while my boss was out and I was working on those chronological lists of authors, searching out and filling in dates of birth and death, or on the English translation of a script or a synopsis, or checking facts or whatever, what I heard were seditious, provocative words and phrases, intended to incite Beatriz to revolt, things like ‘I don’t know how you let him get away with it’, ‘All that sarcasm is just intended to humiliate and denigrate you’, ‘I can’t understand why you didn’t just slap him there and then’ or ‘Threaten him with divorce, because it’s sure to be made legal soon, although they’re certainly taking their time.’ I remember once hearing Beatriz’s response to that last remark and, feeling curious and in order to hear better, I looked up from my work. I was in my or Muriel’s area, and they were in Beatriz’s, with the doors open as if I didn’t exist or didn’t count, the sound of the typewriter a guarantee of my indifference, I suppose. I sometimes felt like an old-fashioned servant, the kind who would see everything and say nothing, as though they were statues in the trusting imaginations of their masters, who got some very nasty surprises later on, when they discovered that the statues had tongues.

‘Yes, it’s been about to be made legal since 1977, but it never happens, thanks to those priests of yours and their political allies determined to keep it off the statute book. Besides, what kind of threat would that be, when it’s clearly what he most wants. As soon as it does become law, I’ll be preparing myself to be left alone with the children and to lose him for ever. That’s what will happen. And then there’ll be no hope.’

It was very difficult to incite Beatriz or rouse her to rebellion. She always seemed more sad than angry, more afflicted than indignant, at least when she was with him, but also when he was the main topic of conversation. She was calm and long-suffering, not so much because she hoped her patience would make him change his attitude towards her as because she was sure that any show of impatience would only make matters worse, that shouting, raging, rebelling, returning his insults and making a scene would only strengthen his case and make him more splenetic, thus ensuring that he would be forever incapable of uttering a momentarily gentle, grieving, almost mournful word, like the words I’d heard him say: ‘I’ll grant you that.’ I don’t know, but it was as if Beatriz loved Muriel so much and felt so deeply in his debt that she found it as hard to face up to him as to tear him to pieces behind his back, but that she found relief in talking about him and complaining, without the need to spit venom or get overly worked up. Yet when she wasn’t with him and wasn’t talking about him, Beatriz didn’t just lie doggo like some pitiful victim. She led a separate, independent life, as if she didn’t care about her husband or had formally renounced him.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Gloria responded, ‘it could cost him an arm and a leg, so he’d think long and hard before asking for a divorce. We don’t know what the terms of the law will be, but the spouse with the least money is sure to come out well. Especially if the children stay with her.’ She took it for granted that all wives would earn less than their husbands and that the children would automatically stay with them, which is how it usually was in 1980, and as it still is now with a few exceptions, nothing much has changed really. ‘As far as we know, he has no other stable relationship. No woman pressurizing him to marry her. Besides, do you really see him marrying again? I don’t. He couldn’t stand being close to anyone else, and new wives tend to be jealous and clinging, and he couldn’t bear having someone asking him all the time where he was off to and keeping a note of his various trips. Basically, he’s very comfortable with the way things are, however much he spurns you and hates the sight of you. Threatening him with the new divorce bill will scare the pants off him. He’ll moderate his behaviour then and stop all the insults, well, the worst ones. Sometimes I find it hard to believe the things he says to you, but I’m sure you’re not inventing it. You shouldn’t have to put up with it, no one should. And you’ll soon find someone else to take you in.’

I sensed a certain malicious edge to those words ‘take you in’, as if, when Beatriz divorced, she would inevitably fall into the void or be cast out into the wilderness, and would need another man to protect her from the nothingness or the cold. Beatriz ignored her comments and did not respond, probably inured to her friends’ smiling sideswipes.

‘I don’t know how you, a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic, can advise me to get a divorce, and as soon as possible too, the moment the bill is passed.’

‘Yes,’ said Gloria, ‘but I’m perhaps not as dyed-in-the-wool as all that, besides you don’t want to be the only one to lose out. If divorce is made legal, you can bet your boots it won’t be only agnostics and atheists taking advantage of it. Do you really think that the people who are so fiercely opposed to it now won’t end up embracing it too? They fight it because they have to, but we all know how open to interpretation God is and that he’ll understand if we just explain properly and provide him with some solid arguments. They’ll each make their peace with him, don’t you worry. After all, that’s what we’ve been doing all our lives: pacts and compromises, bargains and pay-offs. God is more than used to that, at least with the people he knows best, namely, religious folk.’

‘That makes him sound like some stallholder desperate to sell his wares,’ said Beatriz with a little laugh. ‘Don’t tell me you would have divorced Roberto, because I don’t believe you.’

‘Sadly, I haven’t had to consider it, I only wish he were still alive. But yes, if he had carried on as he was, I would have felt justified in doing so. It would have been his fault, not mine. And his initiative too, which is what really matters. I might have been the one to start divorce proceedings, but he would have sown the seed. Oh, I’d have given him a second chance, I’d have waited. But that Ávila business, assuming it had been a serious affair, would have provided me with sufficient grounds. But I’ll never know for sure now, and not knowing is a real curse, believe me. Not knowing if your husband died because he was seriously in love, the kind of love that would have left you sidelined, or because of some mad, insignificant fling. He would probably never have seen her again. Or even thought about her. What a waste!’ ‘That Ávila business’ was how she used to refer to her husband’s death and its circumstances. And she added: ‘Just as in your case, the fault lies with Eduardo, not with you. Whatever you did afterwards is another matter, you could hardly be expected to sit on your hands for ever.’