Javier Marías - Thus Bad Begins

It was only a short distance, although it seemed longer, as distances always do when you’re afraid you won’t arrive in time for something, to catch a train, to clear up a misunderstanding, to stop someone passing on a piece of information or to hasten a letter on its way, to withdraw an ultimatum or a threat, or, as was the case then, to avoid a death. The hotel staff were very understanding: since it wasn’t just a young lad and a one-eyed man talking to them, but a renowned doctor, they decided not to consult their superiors or, rather, to take immediate action and then inform the manager, whom one of them rushed off to find, while another came with us to the room and rapped vigorously on the door, Beatriz having signed in under her own name. He knocked three times, pausing in between, three apparently being the obligatory or minimum number of times he could knock before opening the door without permission, while Muriel urged him to make immediate use of the master key or spare key or whatever. The door remained locked, nor was there any reassuring response (although that could have been deceptive, the sound of someone about to kick away a chair and remain hanging in the air) — ‘Just coming’ or ‘Who is it? I can’t answer the door right now. Come back later’ — and so he decided to use his key to open the door; he hadn’t noticed the lady go out, although she might be in the café or in one of the hotel lounges or, indeed, in her room, in which case it looked very bad indeed. Muriel was the first to enter, followed by Van Vechten, both of them at a run, then the member of staff who had accompanied us, infected by the rapid pace of events, with me last of all, afraid of what I might see, especially if she’d hanged herself or if there was a lot of blood, but neither did I want to miss anything once I’d got there, never having seen anyone dead. Before crossing the threshold, I noticed someone hurrying down the long corridor, a man too fat actually to run, but who must have been the manager summoned by the receptionist. I also noticed a smartly dressed couple coming out of their room, and when they saw so many agitated people, they stopped to look.

It was a large room, a junior suite they’d call it now, although perhaps not then, Beatriz probably wasn’t bothered about the expense if she wasn’t going to leave under her own steam or have to pay the bill. There was no one there, she hadn’t hanged herself nor was she sprawled or curled up on the bed having taken too many pills, but there was still the bathroom, the door of which remained stubbornly shut, bolted from the inside, and no one responded from within or protested at all the noise and fuss.

‘Do you have some way of opening this?’ Muriel asked the receptionist, almost at the same time as he hurled himself against the door. His face was contorted with anxiety, although this was perhaps less obvious because of his eyepatch.

‘No, not with me. And I’m not sure there is a way of opening bathroom doors.’ By this time, the fat man had arrived, jacket all awry and his very long, wide tie hanging over his waistband, doubtless a feeble attempt to disguise his belly, one that proved totally counterproductive, since one’s eye was inevitably drawn to that dangling bit of cloth. The receptionist said: ‘Is there some way of opening bathroom doors, Don Hernán?’ adding an incongruous introduction: ‘This is the manager, Don Hernán Gómez-Antigüedad.’ I couldn’t help noting that unusual, somewhat pretentious name, although I subsequently learned that it’s not actually that rare. The well-dressed couple, who appeared to be French, were now peering in through the door, and suddenly, absurdly enough, there were seven of us in the room.

Gómez-Antigüedad made as if to shake someone’s hand and said: ‘I’ve no idea, we’d have to ask the maintenance people,’ but no one took his proffered hand because Muriel and Van Vechten were already trying to kick in the door, while the rest of us looked on, our hearts in our mouths; it looked as though it would take a lot of kicking, but, fortunately, the door wasn’t that sturdy and a crack soon appeared.

‘Perhaps we should fit bathroom doors with locks not bolts,’ said Gómez-Antigüedad in his role as hotel manager, observing the mess being made. ‘But changing all of them would mean an awful lot of work. And this sort of thing’s hardly likely to happen that often.’ He was talking rather breathlessly to himself, having still not recovered from his haste.

The door finally gave way and we all rushed to look inside, but Muriel held us back with a commanding gesture, as if he didn’t want us to see Beatriz in her underwear or the water stained red, which is what I did manage to glimpse before obeying his command and withdrawing, urging the assembled multitude to do likewise, for other guests, attracted by the raised voices and the sound of banging, had also now gathered — well, no one can resist the chance of having some weird and wonderful tale to tell. Knowing that she would probably be discovered by the hotel staff, Beatriz had not got fully undressed before getting into the bath, on a modest impulse she had kept on her bra and pants, or so I assumed, although I didn’t see the latter, only the upper part of her torso veiled in reddish foam, she must have washed first in order to smell clean, forgetting that blood has its own odour, and that peculiar metallic effluvia had already reached my nostrils, like the smell of iron. Fortunately, she had one elbow resting on the edge of the bath and so had not sunk beneath the water, had not drowned, perhaps the idea of drowning had filled her with a particular dread or revulsion, which would explain that supporting arm. Or she might already have bled to death, and I retreated before I could know if this was so.

‘Let the Doctor deal with it, let him take charge,’ I murmured as I pushed the crowd back into the room. Gómez-Antigüedad was happy to help and left the room along with the intruders and remained outside with them, looking dreadful, pasty-faced and faint, and leaving the receptionist in the room as the hotel’s representative or in case he was needed. It was going to be hard to stop the news spreading like wild-fire round the hotel.

So it had been her veins. I didn’t see him do this, but I assume Van Vechten tried to bind up the cuts with bits of cloth or rags (he told Muriel to bring him a sheet, and with a single violent tug, Muriel pulled the sheet off the rumpled bed — so Beatriz must at some point have been lying down), and if the bleeding continued, I again assume that he would have improvised a tourniquet. I remained stationed at the now closed bedroom door, watching Muriel going in and out of the bathroom and hearing the orders given by Van Vechten, who did not reappear for several minutes, hidden from view, so that I had no idea what his expression would be or his degree of anxiety, or perhaps he felt no anxiety, he would be the only one with any idea as to whether she would survive or not and, besides, he was too busy. I also heard the water drain out of the bath, from which he would have removed the plug, making things easier to manage without all that liquid in the way, apart from the denser, less controllable stuff.

‘Eduardo, phone the clinic, the Ruber, which is the closest. Tell them from me to send an ambulance urgently. Ask for Dr Troyano or, if he’s not there, Dr Enciso, and if she’s not there either, it really doesn’t matter, just tell whoever picks up the phone; they all know me. Tell them not to log your call, say it’s a non-residential, they’ll understand what I mean. Tell them to send an ambulance immediately, I’ll go with the patient and give any further instructions when I get there.’ And he gave Muriel a number, which Muriel remembered at once, without noting it down, his memory made keener by the sheer uncertainty of the situation.