So that’s how he knows, I thought. And perhaps that’s why he feels so bitter too. His Aunt Carmen.
I didn’t care about Muriel’s instructions then, didn’t care that he had so vehemently retracted his orders. What Vidal had told me seemed grave enough and coincided sufficiently with my boss’s initial suspicions, and with the accusations he had heard, for me to feel obliged to tell him. And it was interesting enough in itself for me to impose my discovery on him if he showed no interest, if what I said didn’t once again arouse his curiosity and convince him to listen to me. Strictly speaking, and legally speaking too, it was all rumour, but we tend to believe what we are told, and neither Vidal nor Naval had any reason to lie. I was burning to reveal all to Muriel, but in his frenetic activity — his response to being fired by Towers — he distanced himself from the apartment and from me, and so I barely saw him. He had been very generous, allowing me an indefinite period of time in which to find another job; I didn’t want to abuse that generosity, though, nor have him pay my wages when it was clear he wasn’t going to need me, or not very much. It was early July or so and, in August, everything would stop anyway, and so I gave myself until the end of September to dismiss myself. I visited various publishing houses to see if they would take me on in some role, most likely as a translator. Manuel Arroyo Stephens of Turner Books — who was fascinated when he found out who I was working for (he was an ardent admirer, of whom there were still quite a few) — suggested that I put together two bilingual anthologies of short stories by British and American writers, partly for students of English. It was better than nothing, and although it didn’t guarantee a fixed income, it would do to be going on with and would provide me with a way into the world of publishing.
I held back and decided not to force that conversation with Muriel, but to wait a while. For Vidal to come back with more information if, as promised, he did consult the Spanish Chilean Dr Naval. And to sound out Van Vechten with the facts I now had to hand. He kept urging me to go out with him, almost every other night or indeed every night, he had acquired a taste for the partying ethos of the time and its effervescent bars and clubs. And although he could perfectly well have gone on his own, it wasn’t the same, he said, as when we went together. I put him off for a few days. Until Vidal, true to his word, phoned me.
‘Juan,’ he said, ‘I’ve spoken to Dr Naval. He confirmed what I told you about Darmstadt; the movement, whose name was on the tip of my tongue before, is known as El Movimiento Apostólico de Darmstadt. It has its remote roots in Germany, but it’s now very firmly established in Latin America. There are replicas of the famous sanctuary not just in Chile, but in Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay, Argentina and probably elsewhere. Along with a few in Africa and Asia, as well as in Europe. There are more than a hundred of them scattered round the world, so quite a number. They also run or control a few schools; in fact, there’s one quite near here, in Aravaca or Majadahonda or Pozuelo, one of those wealthy areas, he couldn’t quite remember which. And as I thought, among its so-called “Servants of the Virgin” or its prominent members are a couple of Pinochet’s ministers, Chilean politicians and businessmen, as well as a cardinal and an archbishop; and it has some connections with one of the generals responsible for the “Caravan of Death”, which saw the cold-blooded murder of seventy or more prisoners in October 1973, shortly after the coup; you know, mass executions with no trial or anything, as happened here in 1939, which served them as a distant model. Naval could easily have met with the same fate if he hadn’t managed to get out of the country immediately after the coup. That same “Caravan of Death” general has stated that what helps him sleep peacefully in his bed at night is knowing that the fervent folk in the Sanctuary of Darmstadt are all praying for him. A close relative of Pinochet’s wife — a priest, apparently, who died some time ago — also belonged to the Movimiento Apostólico. Naval was delighted to learn that Van Vechten has an office there or whatever. Well, I don’t know if “delighted” is the word. He thinks, as I do, that Van Vechten holds a more or less symbolic consulting room there, perhaps a couple of hours a week or a fortnight, just to keep in with them. He’s going to investigate further, if he can, just out of curiosity. But you can see the kind of people your friend hangs out with. It’s not hard to imagine what the faithful Spanish flock must be like, given its Chilean membership. Old loyalties and friendships on the part of your Doctor, if we’re being kind. Old beliefs, if we’re not. Who knows.’
That was the moment to start going out with Van Vechten again, at least one more time; that whole business weighed on me, for one rarely emerges clean or unscathed from such investigations. And he weighed on me still more: there are some people from whom you want to remove yourself at once, to erase them urgently from your life if possible. Regardless of whether or not it was all true, the stain described by Vidal contaminated everything, and even Beatriz and Muriel began to seem somewhat oppressive, despite my fondness for them both, my veneration for him and my growing affection for her — not just sexual, not at all, but always tinged with pity. They were the people who had got me involved, who had introduced me to the Doctor; Muriel had charged me with unpleasant missions only to relieve me of them subsequently, and Beatriz was having sex with Van Vechten and possibly with Arranz, the other doctor, and with me too, although just that once, and so I was vaguely like those two lechers, to use Celia the civil servant’s word. As a couple, they had spotted me like one of those distant shapes on the ocean that can’t be ignored and had afforded me a glimpse into the long and indissoluble misery that was their marriage. I thought it was no bad thing that Muriel should get rid of me and remove me from the social world in which I had felt welcomed as a fascinated and privileged guest. But I should first inform him, share with him my stroke of luck and reveal or confirm to him the kind of man his friend was, so that he, too, could remove himself from his company and say, ‘I don’t know you’ or ‘I don’t wish to continue to know you’, and perhaps Beatriz would then imitate him, she with far more reason, as the one who went to the Sanctuary and who allowed him to do to her what his former victims, mothers or daughters, had not been able to say No to.
I arranged to have a drink with Van Vechten at our usual bar, Chicote, as a preamble to a tour of various discos and dives, because some places only started to get lively very late and you had to kill time until gone midnight. However impatient he felt, we had to wait. He inquired briefly about Beatriz, whom he hadn’t seen for days, to ask how she was doing. He inquired about my future and my plans, knowing that I would soon be leaving both the job and the apartment, the house in Calle Velázquez, which is always there in my memory, even after all these years, inhabited by the people who inhabited it then. He inquired after Maru and the sometime waitress Bettina, about García Lorca’s niece and other acquaintances of mine, none of whom he had seen in the places he had gone to on his own or in the reluctant company of Rico and Roy: as if all my friends had disappeared during the few weeks I was keeping careful watch over Beatriz. I allowed him to ask me questions before I asked him anything or mentioned the names of people or places that might embarrass or disconcert him. I didn’t know how to begin, I didn’t dare. I could find no valid reason for leading the conversation in that direction, not at least in any natural way. And so I took advantage of a lull in the conversation to leap in without any preamble and to come straight to the point: