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.’
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.