Javier Marías - Thus Bad Begins

Or perhaps she would have calmly and slowly filled the bathtub and then climbed in before slitting her veins — if you cut them before, the blood will start to flow at once and stain the towels and the hotel’s immaculate bathrobe, very few suicides are entirely indifferent to the mess they make or the image they leave behind — and what happened once she was in the water would depend on various factors: the number, length and depth of the cuts, whether on one wrist or on both; whether the water was really hot or not hot enough, because the cold would make the incisions close up, thus delaying death, not yet, not yet, although the cold is sure to come sooner or later; and two other things would determine the speed or otherwise of that death: if the person lost consciousness and her head slipped beneath the water, then she would drown, unless her body became wedged in the tub, her nose and mouth unsubmerged; in that case, if she didn’t drown, she would lie there unconscious until her heart stopped, incapable of pumping the little remaining blood around the body. It would, therefore, be a question of when she had sliced into her veins with the razor and how often and how deeply, whether she had done this at just gone six, shortly after going up to the room, or had waited and amused herself anticipating and savouring what would happen at home when the guests had all arrived and she had still not appeared; or if she had hesitated for a long time, knowing there would be no turning back, no possible postponement, once the skin was cut and the flesh opened, now, yes, now, it’s not easy to remain calm enough to staunch your own blood once it has started to flow; or if she had wanted to wait and see which complete stranger would win the latest TV quiz show — sometimes the most insignificant of things can detain us — and the minutes would have passed without her noticing, or she’d be thinking all the time that it wouldn’t be much longer until the dimmest contestant was eliminated or else declared the winner. It would be the same if she had taken pills, it would be crucial to know when she had started swallowing them and how quickly — the throat rebels and you have to stop now and then — and how much alcohol she had drunk. And depending on all these things, we three would arrive in time or too late, although the presence of the Doctor meant there would be not a moment’s vacillation or horror, he would know precisely what to do in any circumstance, Beatriz’s life would probably be in his hands, assuming there was still life in Beatriz. There was also a third possibility that could not be ruled out, for the fact that she had not, up until then, jumped off the balcony didn’t mean that even as we were still running, still on our way, she might not be climbing on to the balustrade and jumping — I didn’t look up as I was running, if I had, I might have seen her crouched on the ledge, ready to let herself fall — or even as we were asking at reception for her room number or persuading the staff that, given the imminence or actual occurrence of a tragedy, they would have to break down the door or use the master key, the staff would have resisted at first and called the hotel manager so that he could take charge and authorize such an intrusion, thus wasting possibly vital minutes. There was also a chance that Beatriz had hanged herself by using strips torn from the sheets, then climbing on to a chair that she herself would have kicked away, in which case, there would be no delay, no margin, nothing to be done, she would be dead when we finally entered the room as daylight was fading, or as night had already fallen, or so it would appear from inside the room, where all the lights would be on so that she wouldn’t have to kill herself without being able to see properly or perhaps so as not to have to die in the dark: it’s impossible not to imagine that, afterwards, there will be only blackness and so why torment yourself with the idea beforehand, unless you prefer to become accustomed to it with your eyes wide open, with your failing, fading consciousness, clinging on to life’s last threads.

Time must be very strange for a would-be suicide, because it’s in her hands alone to end it, and she is the one who will decide precisely when, the actual moment, which could be just before or just afterwards, and it can’t be easy to decide or to know why now and not a few seconds ago or a few seconds later, or even why today and not yesterday or tomorrow or the day before yesterday or the day after tomorrow, why today when I’m still only halfway through a book and when they’re about to show a new season of a TV series I’ve been following for years, why decide now that I’m not going to continue and will never find out what happens at the end of either book or TV series; or why stop distractedly watching a film being shown on a channel we happened upon in this hotel room — the transient place chosen for our solitary, unwitnessed death — something is sure to arouse our curiosity when we’re just about to take our leave of all curiosity, along with everything else: our memories and our patiently accumulated knowledge, the anxieties and the hard work that seem now utterly pointless or of little importance; the infinite number of images that passed before our eyes and the words our ears heard, passively or by chance; the carefree laughter and the feelings of elation, the moments of fulfilment and anxiety, of desolation and optimism, as well as the tick-tock that has accompanied us since our birth; it’s in our power to silence that ticking and say to it: ‘Thus far and no further. There have been times when I’ve ignored you completely and others when I could hear nothing else, always hoping that some other noise would be loud enough to block you out and allow me to forget you, a few longed-for words or the sound of passionate, panting, amorous fury, the muttered obscenities that simultaneously repel and attract and hold us hypnotized during the time it takes to say them. Today, I will stop you dead and put an end to your imperturbability, at least as regards myself. I know that nothing will really stop you, that you will continue to exist, but only for other people, not for me; from this moment on, I will have escaped and be beyond your reach, and you will have ceased to measure out my time.’ No, it can’t be easy to decide precisely when our ancient survival instinct will lead us to think: ‘Not yet, not yet, what harm can there be in my lingering for a few more minutes in the world, to watch the rising of the cold, sentinel moon, who, having seen so many leave, will not even blink its somnolent, half-open eye, bored with the unending spectacle of these strange, speaking beings who weep into their pillow before saying goodbye; at least I will be able to see it.’ And our weariness and suffering will lead us to think: ‘Right, this is it, why delay any longer, what’s the point of staying for a few minutes more, or a few days, days that will seem arduous and identical as we unwittingly draw them out and continue to live with our consciousness still fully active, a consciousness that has so often caused us pain; to wonder yet again what will become of our children, who we will not see grow up into adulthood, they will have to get by without me like so many who came before, besides, Eduardo will be there to help them, for in my eyes, he will live eternally, given that he will still be alive when my time is over and who’s to say that he won’t be there for ever, when, as far as I’m concerned, he will never die; on the other hand, it’s asking too much to expect me to help and guide the children indefinitely, I lack the will to live, the pain is too great, and they’re not enough to keep me here. I can’t stand it any more, nothing else matters. I will numb myself so that I can simply drift off as if I wasn’t really dying, and when I’m no longer here and am part of the past, then let others come with their accusations of egotism, with condemnations and reproaches and harsh judgements, because I won’t hear any of them. Then, then, I’ll be beyond caring.’