Read Online Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me by Javier Marías - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Javier Marías
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right, sir? Just a moment,” said the porter, for whom the day and the night that for me seemed endless were already distant entities, and again I heard him whistling, he was obviously a jovial man, a man of spirit, possibly a young man despite the dignified, professional tone he adopted; or perhaps he had been sleeping soundly until shortly before and was feeling refreshed, the night shift. Appropriately and ironically enough, he was whistling “Strangers in the Night”, now I had time to recognize it, which meant that he couldn’t be that young, young men don’t whistle Sinatra songs. After a few more seconds he said: “There was no reservation in that name for yesterday, sir. He might have cancelled, of course, but there was definitely no reservation in that name yesterday.”
I was on the point of insisting and asking him if perhaps there was a reservation for today, Wednesday. I didn’t, though, I merely thanked him, he said: “Goodbye, sir” and I hung up, and only after hanging up did a possible explanation occur to me: in England, as in Portugal and in America, if someone has three names, what counts is the last name, Arthur Conan Doyle, for example, is usually listed under Doyle. When they saw Deán’s identity card or passport, they would probably have registered him under his second surname, Ballesteros, which, for a Spaniard, barely counts at all. I could have tried asking for Mr Ballesteros and then I realized that I shouldn’t and that I shouldn’t even have asked for Mr Dean and that I had had a narrow escape. If I had managed to leave him my tragic message, Deán might have called not only a sister-in-law, a sister or a friend, but a neighbour or even the porter, who would have been up to the apartment in no time at all and would have discovered me going down in the lift or down the stairs or right there: by the time they had arrived, it was more than likely that I would not even have left. I had to leave soon though, I shouldn’t waste time, even though, as yet, no one knew anything and no one was likely to turn up at that time of night. But there were still things I needed to sort out: I took my shoes off again and went back to the bedroom. When I passed the boy’s room, I clearly thought what had been in my mind all the time, throbbing, postponed, Marta’s last words, “Oh God, the child.” I walked on and, now, having made contact with theoutside world, even if it was only with a foreign porter about whom I knew nothing and never would know anything, I saw the situation differently when I went back into the bedroom, for the first time I felt ashamed at the sight of Marta’s half-naked body, ashamed of the part I had played in that nakedness. I went over and pulled back the cover and the sheets on the unoccupied side of the bed, the side occupied by me that night and by her husband on other nights, I pulled the sheets right back, from the pillow down to the foot of the bed, then I walked around the bed and, from the other side, I managed to push her, with due consideration for what had passed between us, then rather harder when I noticed the resistance put up by the slight mound formed by the puckered sheets down the middle of the bed and this time I did feel a certain repugnance towards her dead flesh (one hand on her shoulder, my other hand on her thigh, pushing), that contact no longer felt pleasant, I think I averted my gaze as much as possible as I was moving her. I had to roll her over, there was no other way of getting her across the ruck of woollen cover and sheets, and when she was on the side of the bed where she never slept (she rolled over twice and remained as she had been before, lying on her side, looking to her right), I pulled up the sheets and the bed cover that I had previously drawn back and I managed to lay them over her. I covered her up, I tucked her in, I drew the sheets right up to her neck, to the nape of her neck, which now no longer looked as if she had just
I was on the point of insisting and asking him if perhaps there was a reservation for today, Wednesday. I didn’t, though, I merely thanked him, he said: “Goodbye, sir” and I hung up, and only after hanging up did a possible explanation occur to me: in England, as in Portugal and in America, if someone has three names, what counts is the last name, Arthur Conan Doyle, for example, is usually listed under Doyle. When they saw Deán’s identity card or passport, they would probably have registered him under his second surname, Ballesteros, which, for a Spaniard, barely counts at all. I could have tried asking for Mr Ballesteros and then I realized that I shouldn’t and that I shouldn’t even have asked for Mr Dean and that I had had a narrow escape. If I had managed to leave him my tragic message, Deán might have called not only a sister-in-law, a sister or a friend, but a neighbour or even the porter, who would have been up to the apartment in no time at all and would have discovered me going down in the lift or down the stairs or right there: by the time they had arrived, it was more than likely that I would not even have left. I had to leave soon though, I shouldn’t waste time, even though, as yet, no one knew anything and no one was likely to turn up at that time of night. But there were still things I needed to sort out: I took my shoes off again and went back to the bedroom. When I passed the boy’s room, I clearly thought what had been in my mind all the time, throbbing, postponed, Marta’s last words, “Oh God, the child.” I walked on and, now, having made contact with theoutside world, even if it was only with a foreign porter about whom I knew nothing and never would know anything, I saw the situation differently when I went back into the bedroom, for the first time I felt ashamed at the sight of Marta’s half-naked body, ashamed of the part I had played in that nakedness. I went over and pulled back the cover and the sheets on the unoccupied side of the bed, the side occupied by me that night and by her husband on other nights, I pulled the sheets right back, from the pillow down to the foot of the bed, then I walked around the bed and, from the other side, I managed to push her, with due consideration for what had passed between us, then rather harder when I noticed the resistance put up by the slight mound formed by the puckered sheets down the middle of the bed and this time I did feel a certain repugnance towards her dead flesh (one hand on her shoulder, my other hand on her thigh, pushing), that contact no longer felt pleasant, I think I averted my gaze as much as possible as I was moving her. I had to roll her over, there was no other way of getting her across the ruck of woollen cover and sheets, and when she was on the side of the bed where she never slept (she rolled over twice and remained as she had been before, lying on her side, looking to her right), I pulled up the sheets and the bed cover that I had previously drawn back and I managed to lay them over her. I covered her up, I tucked her in, I drew the sheets right up to her neck, to the nape of her neck, which now no longer looked as if she had just
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