The professor had the audacity to defend his achievement anyway; he’s not a man to give in easily, only when he’s grown bored with the argument.
“Don’t be impertinent, young Marías. I came off terribly, but in any case it was obvious she had suffered a great deal over me and that makes me interesting. Doesn’t it?”
“Young Marías”: that’s what Don Juan Benet and a few other friends have long been in the habit of calling me, to differentiate me from my estimable father, who is also a writer though not of fiction. I can well imagine that forty years from now there will still be someone who, on seeing me walk into a room, will say, “Here comes young Marías,” and when the others turn around they’ll see an eighty-five-year-old man; I’ve grown used to the idea and even to the scene, there’s no way around it, names can do so much. Nowadays Rico calls me “Javier” and I call him “Paco,” but at that point we didn’t know each other as well and went by other names, “young Marías” and “Professor Rico, man of vast knowledge.”
“Not very,” I answered. “Making people suffer is the easiest thing in the world, it lies within anyone’s power, the biggest fool or idiot, the most ordinary man and the least mysterious woman. In fact, everyone makes everyone suffer, a little or a great deal but always to some degree, even the people who are good to us and take care of us, contact is all it takes. And then, inevitably, there’s the other person’s disgust which is sometimes apparent and always makes you suffer, doesn’t it? But that’s not the point, nor does it matter whether, as a fictional character, you’re made to seem more interesting than you are. The point is to be a character in an immortal book, if such a thing can happen today; even if you come off looking like a heartless brute, a rat, a moron. Of course it’s best not to come off like that, because you’ll appear in that light until the end of literature, but being left out would be even worse. At least that’s what a foreign mentor of mine thinks. Tell me, do you think that little novel about you is going to last?”
The professor was pensive a few seconds, not wondering what his answer should be but whether he should give one. He pursed his elastic and continually fluctuating lips.
“Frankly,” he said at last, “I’m sure not one reader will ever think of it again after putting it back on the shelf. If they read it to the end. I’m surprised you remember it.”
“I don’t remember much any more, and only because I know you, professor. And there you have it,” I said. “You need a more solid author, one with a better chance of lasting. It’s not that I think my chances are all that great, but in the end it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to put your chips on some more promising numbers.” The professor is so deliberately vain that you can only feel comfortable with him if you’re as tractable as his acolytes or match him with a vanity of your own, be it forced or false: he takes it very well, feels right at home, on solid ground, and sees it as an invitation to give himself free rein, in some respects he has a childish disposition, excessive in its gratitude. “I’d like to propose a deal.”
Rico adjusted his glasses with his middle finger and looked me up and down, wrinkling up his nose like the sort of accountant who wears an eyeshade.
“And what sort of deal would that be, young Marías? I’m warning you that by my standards you don’t yet have much to offer.” What’s true of his vanity is also true of his impudence — he doesn’t mind anyone else’s if the other person allows him his own without stiffening up at the first sally.
“I’m writing a novel and would have no problem putting you in it, if you can demonstrate sufficient merit.”
“Oh really, how’s that?” he asked with interest, then quickly switched to an air of indifference. “What would someone like me be doing in a novel of yours? Are you writing about scholars? Seducers? Illustrious men? Seems implausible to me.”
The professor amused me, he almost always does, with his vast knowledge, except for once over the telephone.
“It’s more about scholars than about seducers,” I answered. “Look: this novel takes place in Oxford and nothing could be simpler than for me to include an elegant Spanish professor, there on a visit — invited to deliver a lecture, for example.”
“You must mean a virtuoso and possibly inaugural lecture. Something extremely erudite and stimulating, on the House of the Prince at El Escorial, for example, or the Libro del caballero Zifar,” he interjected with great conviction. “An extremely distinguished man and a dazzling speaker, no? His Oxford colleagues will drink in his words as if being granted a revelation, no? And handsome, ça va sans dire.”
“Let me handle the character and the setting, professor, don’t you be clichéd, too. Maybe that romance novel was all you deserved and I’m wasting my time. The Oxford University faculty has never drunk in anyone’s words, that would go against their principles. They merely tolerate. And anyway, what would your speech be inaugurating?”
“The school year, of course,” answered the professor opening his hands wide at shoulder level to underscore the obviousness of the thing. “The opening of the academic year for the entire university. And none of this limiting me to the department of Spanish and Portuguese, careful there, none of your crumbs, no. Michaelmas is what they call the first quarter there, isn’t that right? Well then, for the inauguration of that Michaelmas of yours.”
Since we were both being pedantic, I corrected his pronunciation: this particular “Michael” is pronounced Basque-fashion. “Míkelmas,” I said. “Professor, don’t be absurdly ambitious. To do that, you’d have to give your speech in English, in which case it would not be a terribly virtuoso performance, I’m afraid your vast knowledge doesn’t extend that far, nor does that of your potential fictional character. In any case, you haven’t earned it yet.”
Professor Rico reined in his aspirations. It was clear the idea had attracted him and was tempting him, or at least the joke of the idea. Making a couple of remarkable movements with his flexible mouth, he recovered his natural disdain.
“Oh yes, your deal.” But he immediately left off with his pretence and his interest returned, he’s too impatient a man for hypocrisy or haggling. “Tell me, how much of a role will I have?” he asked, as if he would be acting in a play.
“Not much of one, for the moment, not much, Professor. We could just give it a try this time, and if we’re both happy with it who knows what future books may bring? For the moment a small role, a secondary character, incidental, but distinct.”
“Me? Incidental? Me?”
“No, not you, the character in the novel. As I’m sure you’ll understand, I’m not going to rewrite the entire book to make you the protagonist. I have no heartbreak to work through, you know.”
Professor Rico muttered something unintelligible, as if so enthralled with his hastily imagined portrayal that it pained him badly to renounce any part of it. So he muttered something like “Ertsz.”
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing, nothing.” He went on muttering a while longer as if tallying up sums in his head. He straightened his glasses, pushed up the sleeves of his jacket and finally began speaking clearly again, resolutely even, like a man accepting a bet in poker, and saying, “I see you” or “I raise you.” “Very well, young Marías, let’s skip the preliminaries and get down to business. What do you want in return? Let’s have it.”