Read Online While the Women are Sleeping by Javier Marías - Free Book Online
Authors: Javier Marías
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impossible, for what I was watching was in colour, not black and white and, besides, no one had ever filmed us from that window—what I was seeing I was seeing from the position I was occupying at that moment. The man in the room was real: if I broke the glass and reached in, I could touch him. He was crouching by the sofa and he had my eyes, my nose, my lips, my blond curly hair, he even had the small scar at the base of his left eyebrow from the time my cousin Derek threw a stone at me when I was a child. I touched the small scar. Outside, night had fallen.
He was talking now, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying through the closed window and Martin had stopped crying since they went into the living room. Meanwhile, Janet was still sobbing and the man who looked like me was crouched beside her, saying something to her, though I could tell from the expression on his face that his words were not consoling but mocking or even accusing. My head was in a whirl, but despite that, two or three ideas still surfaced in my mind, each more absurd than the last. I thought she must have found a man identical to me in order to take my place during my long absence. I thought that time must have been incomprehensibly altered or cancelled, that those four years actually had been forgotten, erased, just as I had wished, and that I really might be able to pick up the threads of my life with Janet and the child again. The years of war and imprisonment really hadn’t existed and I, Tom Booth, had never gone to war or been taken prisoner which was why I was here, as on any other day, arguing with Janet on my return from work. I had spent those four years with her. I, Tom Booth, had not been called up, I had stayed at home. But then, who was the ‘I’ looking through the window, the ‘I’ who had walked up to this house, the ‘I’ who had just been released from a German POW camp? Who did all these memories belong to? Who had fought in the war? And I thought something else too, maybe the excitement of returning home had evoked some scene from the past, a scene, maybe the very last scene, that took place before I went away, something I had forgotten and that resurfaced now with the shock of homecoming. Perhaps, on that last day, Janet had cried because I was going away, possibly to my death, and I had treated it all as a joke. That might explain the child Martin’s crying, for he was still a baby then. The fact was, however, that it was no hallucination, I was neither imagining nor remembering it, I was seeing it now. Besides, Janet had not cried before I left. She was a woman of great strength of character, she had kept smiling right up until the very last moment, she had behaved as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if I were not really going away at all. She knew that any other attitude would have made everything so much more difficult for me. She would weep today when I opened the door, but this time she would weep on my shoulder, making my jacket damp with her tears.
No, I wasn’t seeing something from the past, something I had forgotten. I knew this with absolute certainty when I saw the man, the husband, the man who was me, Tom, suddenly stand up and seize Janet by the throat, his wife, my wife, sitting there on the sofa. He seized her round the throat with both hands and I knew that he had begun to squeeze even though, again, all I could see was Tom’s back, my back, the vast white shirt blocking my view of Janet who was still sitting on the sofa. Of her I could see only her outstretched arms, her arms flailing in the air and then hidden behind the shirt, in desperate attempts to loosen the grip which was not my grip; and then, after a few short seconds, Janet’s arms appeared again, fallen on either side of the shirt of which I could see only the back, except this time they were limp, inert. Through the closed windows I could hear the child crying again. The man left the room, going off towards the
He was talking now, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying through the closed window and Martin had stopped crying since they went into the living room. Meanwhile, Janet was still sobbing and the man who looked like me was crouched beside her, saying something to her, though I could tell from the expression on his face that his words were not consoling but mocking or even accusing. My head was in a whirl, but despite that, two or three ideas still surfaced in my mind, each more absurd than the last. I thought she must have found a man identical to me in order to take my place during my long absence. I thought that time must have been incomprehensibly altered or cancelled, that those four years actually had been forgotten, erased, just as I had wished, and that I really might be able to pick up the threads of my life with Janet and the child again. The years of war and imprisonment really hadn’t existed and I, Tom Booth, had never gone to war or been taken prisoner which was why I was here, as on any other day, arguing with Janet on my return from work. I had spent those four years with her. I, Tom Booth, had not been called up, I had stayed at home. But then, who was the ‘I’ looking through the window, the ‘I’ who had walked up to this house, the ‘I’ who had just been released from a German POW camp? Who did all these memories belong to? Who had fought in the war? And I thought something else too, maybe the excitement of returning home had evoked some scene from the past, a scene, maybe the very last scene, that took place before I went away, something I had forgotten and that resurfaced now with the shock of homecoming. Perhaps, on that last day, Janet had cried because I was going away, possibly to my death, and I had treated it all as a joke. That might explain the child Martin’s crying, for he was still a baby then. The fact was, however, that it was no hallucination, I was neither imagining nor remembering it, I was seeing it now. Besides, Janet had not cried before I left. She was a woman of great strength of character, she had kept smiling right up until the very last moment, she had behaved as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if I were not really going away at all. She knew that any other attitude would have made everything so much more difficult for me. She would weep today when I opened the door, but this time she would weep on my shoulder, making my jacket damp with her tears.
No, I wasn’t seeing something from the past, something I had forgotten. I knew this with absolute certainty when I saw the man, the husband, the man who was me, Tom, suddenly stand up and seize Janet by the throat, his wife, my wife, sitting there on the sofa. He seized her round the throat with both hands and I knew that he had begun to squeeze even though, again, all I could see was Tom’s back, my back, the vast white shirt blocking my view of Janet who was still sitting on the sofa. Of her I could see only her outstretched arms, her arms flailing in the air and then hidden behind the shirt, in desperate attempts to loosen the grip which was not my grip; and then, after a few short seconds, Janet’s arms appeared again, fallen on either side of the shirt of which I could see only the back, except this time they were limp, inert. Through the closed windows I could hear the child crying again. The man left the room, going off towards the
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