That is how I explained my own behaviour: pure curiosity, I was intrigued and I did feel somewhat anxious about Beatriz’s fate and the company she was keeping; or perhaps, despite my youth and the general freedom of the times, I found her visits quite frankly exciting, visits of which Muriel would know nothing. Not that he would have cared, he might even have been pleased had he known. She was much older than me, and yet my attitude towards her was tinged with a strange, respectful desire to protect her, even if only as an unseen companion and invisible witness, tinged too with an incongruous paternalism, as if she were a fictional character, for when a character captures our imagination, we observe her with unease and fear, indeed, in the field of fiction, it’s not unusual for a child to watch out for an adult, from his seat in the dark or from his startled eyes as he turns the pages with bated breath. In the land of fiction, there are no adults and children, there are no ages. We worry about those who are stronger, wiser, cleverer, older and more experienced than us, and the child, who, in his elemental state, can still not see this clearly, aches or struggles to warn someone that he’s being tricked or is in grave danger, even though that someone cannot hear; he can see what’s happening, because he is the chosen witness (absorbed in contemplation or in reading, the child really believes he is the sole witness). And Beatriz did seem disoriented and helpless, although not in any obvious or self-pitying way, as I said, I liked her and felt sorry for her — ‘poor unhappy woman, sad and affectionate; poor soul, poor wretch’ — not that she intentionally sought my pity. Had I thought this was her way of getting through life, a tactic intended to attract kindness and gain advantages, I would never have worried about her in that passive, distant, silent manner — although ‘worried’ is not perhaps the right verb — it would, instead, have provoked a certain irritation and suspicion in me. I don’t like victims who are too keenly aware of their victimhood.
It was only days after Muriel’s return from that absence that he finally gave me my orders. One morning, when there was no one else in the apartment, we went into the living room next to the office and he closed the door, something he didn’t normally do. Then he lay down full length on the floor, as he had on other occasions, with his forearm cushioning his head: I came to think this was his way of avoiding looking directly at me, of keeping his lost eye trained on the ceiling, or on the highest shelf in the library, or on the painting by Casanova’s brother, a way of saying things without really saying them, of seeming to be talking to himself or of allowing me to pluck his words — his indications, digressions, confidences, his mildly spoken orders — out of the air and not directly from his one eye or from his lips. It seemed to me that he was directing his gaze at the oil painting, which depicted an exotic horseman with a drooping moustache and an unusual plumed cap or hat, who was half-turning, so that his right eye, and only that eye, was fixed for ever on Catherine the Great of Russia or on some other viewer, the left almost hidden or perhaps sightless — from what one could see, it appeared to be defective, half-closed or perhaps simply clumsily painted — he could have been one-eyed like Muriel, having lost his eye in battle, for, unlike Muriel, he was a soldier. I sometimes suspected that Muriel wore his patch so as to resemble John Ford, Raoul Walsh, André de Toth, Nicholas Ray or possibly Fritz Lang, a strange plague among individuals whose work depended in large measure on their sight. But in the background could be seen another six horsemen, all riding away on their horses, all with their backs to us and wearing less unusual hats with broad brims — they looked vaguely Velázquezian — whereas the red figure in the foreground had paused, looking over his shoulder, as if wishing to retain, before he rode off, the image of the deaths he had caused, as if he were the only one listening to the dumb plea of the dead, who, in all wars, seem to send out a murmur from their bodies that lie as still as figures in a painting: ‘Remember us. Or at least, remember me.’
Muriel took out his compass-pillbox and studied the north-pointing needle.
‘Do you remember what I told you about Dr Van Vechten?’ he asked.
I think I blushed — although only very briefly, just for a moment, he wouldn’t have noticed — when I heard him mention that name which, only months before, I hadn’t even understood. Now it was different. I not only knew Van Vechten and had spoken to him at meetings and suppers and over card games, with other people present, I had also found out something about his personal life which, to put it more delicately this time, deeply affected Beatriz. Ever since that partially seen episode in the Darmstadt Sanctuary, I had been dreading Muriel mentioning the Doctor again. I didn’t know whether I should tell him about what I had witnessed while up a tree or if I should keep silent; it depended on what he asked or requested, I would decide then, I told myself, all the while hoping not to have to decide anything.
‘Yes, I do. Well, you didn’t really tell me anything, you were, you remember, reluctant. You announced it rather than telling me. You explained your doubts. And you also warned me that you might ask me to forget the conversation entirely, or forget what you had skirted round or announced. And that, more or less, is what I’ve done up until now.’ I reminded him of this possibility in the hope that he would choose that option, although he clearly wasn’t going to. Ever since that afternoon, I found everything to do with Van Vechten troubling, and thought that when I next saw him, I would try to avoid him. ‘But yes, of course, I remember. One can’t simply forget at will.’
‘Well, Juan, I told you that I might want you to do something for me,’ he went on, still staring up at the ceiling or at the painting. ‘And what I want you to do is to make friends with Van Vechten. More than that, I want you to make him one of your drinking companions, to involve him as much as you can in your nocturnal excursions and sorties. You often go out at night, don’t you? To discos, concerts, bars, the celebrated Madrid movida. Invite him to join you. He may be a lot older, but I can assure you, he’ll jump at the chance. He’ll be pleased to have a guide. Introduce him to your girlfriends or to your female acquaintances, to women young and old, I don’t care what age they are, and observe how he behaves with them, with women in general. Gain his confidence. Talk to him about your sex life. Tell him all about your promiscuity, your conquests (you’ve had a few, haven’t you?), and any other adventures in that field, and if they’re nothing to write home about, then invent some. Show off. Boast. Make him green with envy. Things were far more difficult when he was young, there were far fewer opportunities. When he sees how easy things are now, he’ll wish he’d been born two decades later. Don’t worry about seeming vulgar or even disrespectful when talking about women, be as vulgar and disrespectful as you like, exaggerate. Draw him out and, above all, observe him. I want you to encourage him to confide in you, about what he gets up to now and about his past exploits, his glory days. He always was a womanizer and, as you’ve probably noticed, still is. And he’s had quite a few successes too. But in his day, women played hard to get, here more than in most countries. Most were so armour-plated and bulletproof you had to resort to promises and tricks. See if you can get him talking about the past, because that’s what interests me most. There’s nothing like boasting about your own exploits to get others to tell you theirs, however ancient; it never fails. Make a note of any chat-up lines, watch him in action, see if he tries to get off with anyone, and he’ll try often, believe you me. Things will be more difficult for him now, but see how far he gets. Reveal yourself as vile and unscrupulous and watch his response, whether he approves or is of a like mind, whether he urges you on or censures you. Let me know what he tells you and what impression he makes on you. Let me know what you find out.’