‘Yes, but what I don’t understand is how the problem can possibly be related to the fact that your friend neither betrayed nor denounced anyone, isn’t that what you said? Because surely that’s a good thing. And if what you’ve been told doesn’t imply any crime and doesn’t affect you directly because it isn’t a betrayal of you as such, well — I mean, you can tell me about it another day, if you like — but I really can’t understand what you meant when you said “something like that”. Something that you can’t dismiss as mere gossip and that anyone would deny to anyone who asked, “to a friend, an enemy, a mistress, a stranger, a judge, not to mention his wife or children”. Those were your words. Don’t go thinking I haven’t been listening. I have, as you see.’
He ran his hand over his cheeks and chin, as if checking to see that he had shaved properly. Then he rubbed his forefinger several times up and down his large, straight nose, which resembled that of a TV actor from my youth, Richard Boone, who also had a slender moustache; in fact, Muriel was possibly more like him than any of the others I mentioned earlier. Then he gently drummed his fingertips on his bulbous eyepatch, doubtless preparing himself to make a decision, although perhaps only as regards me, rather than the matter in hand.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have got you all intrigued for no reason, but just for the moment, you’re going to have to wait. I still don’t know what to do with this story. In fact, it’s really bothering me. So much so that I daren’t tell anyone else. I don’t think I should. Not yet. And if I did tell someone, you or whoever, I would be spreading the story, and there’s no way of catching or stopping something once you’ve thrown it to the winds. Later, depending on what I decide (which will be soon, don’t worry, one way or another), I might have to ask you to do something for me, might need your help as my assistant or, more than that, as my bishop or even my knight, for, as you may or may not know, the knight is the most unpredictable piece on the chessboard, capable of leaping over obstacles in eight different directions. I may also simply ask you to forget this whole conversation, as if it had never happened. But I don’t want to leave you completely in the dark and, besides, since it’s quite likely that you’ll meet this friend at some point, you could, anyway, see what you think, since he’s the person involved, just to see how he strikes you; one tends not to notice things so much in people one has known for ages. His name is Jorge Van Vechten and he’s a doctor. Dr Van Vechten.’
I couldn’t resist interrupting him, we all leap up like a coiled spring whenever we hear an unfamiliar word or name. Now I know exactly how that name is written, but when I first heard it (Muriel pronounced it ‘Ban Bekten’, as did Van Vechten himself and everyone who knew him, although later I was told that in Holland and Flemish-speaking Belgium, they would say ‘Fan Fechten’ or something like that), I couldn’t catch it the first time nor imagine how it was written.
‘Van what? Is he Dutch?’
‘No, he’s as Spanish as you and me.’ And he spelled out the obscure part of the name. ‘But his distant ancestors must, of course, have been Flemish, like the painter Carlos de Haes or that other artist, Van Loo, although he may have been French, but of Dutch descent, or Antonio Moro, who was really Anthonis Mor, they all came to Spain and stayed; or like the soldier-sailor Juan Van Halen and possibly the Marqués de Morbecq, do you know him, he has a collection of editions of Don Quixote that would take your breath away; Professor Rico is green with envy. So there have been quite a few in Spain. His family, Van Vechten’s that is, came from Arévalo, in Ávila, if I remember rightly, he told me about it once: apparently, there are lots of fair-haired, blue-eyed people there because it’s one of the places, in Castile and Andalusia, that was repopulated with Flemings and Germans and Swiss in the time of Felipe IV or Carlos III, or perhaps both, I’m not sure. Not that it matters. Now he’s as Spanish as Lorca. Or as Manolete. Or as Lola Flores. Or as Professor Rico himself. Imagine that!’ He smiled. He had amused himself more than he had me. I knew Professor Rico only by name. He paused and asked: ‘So, can I count on your help if I need it? As an infiltrator, shall we say? Or would you rather not get involved in anything that goes beyond your strict duties? Not that we’ve ever defined what those are, so they can’t be very strict.’
Having just about finished my degree, not only did it suit me perfectly to earn the monthly wage that Muriel paid me, but I counted myself lucky that, thanks to my parents, I had found a job so quickly, however strange and transitory it might be. Most young people then — things have changed since — subscribed to my father’s view: ‘There’s no such thing as a bad job as long as there’s no better one in sight.’ Also, right from the start, Eduardo Muriel had become for me one of those people whom one admires unreservedly, whose company one finds enjoyable and illuminating and whom one very much wants to please. Or more than that, one of those people whose esteem and approval you hope to gain. As you would with a particularly good lecturer at college or university (although, with one exception, all the teachers in my faculty were absolutely dreadful) or a school teacher, or a guru if you’re an ignoramus trying to be less of one, even if only by dint of staying close and being in the presence of his wisdom. At the time, I would have done almost anything Muriel asked, I was at his service and very happily so, and was filled with a growing sense of loyalty that bordered on the unconditional. He wasn’t even in the habit of issuing orders, or only when it came to minor matters and practices. When, as in this case, it was something unusual, he would consult me and ask my opinion; he was always polite and never imposed his views on me. He was also very persuasive: having drawn me in, having aroused or pricked my curiosity (and he must have known that, as a great admirer of his, I would be interested in everything he did), he would doubtless know that I would go wherever he sent me, find out whatever he asked me to, if that was within my capabilities, and would even be prepared to strike up a friendship with the most vile or unpleasant of individuals.
‘I’m entirely at your disposal, Don Eduardo, I mean, Eduardo, in whatever way I can help. You just have to tell me when and where. I await your orders. If I should meet Dr Van Vechten, do you want me to give you my impressions?’
‘No, if you do meet, which is highly likely, leave it to me to ask you. Don’t confuse me by taking the initiative.’ He fell silent again. I thought he was going to bring the conversation to a close and would leave any letters to be dictated for another occasion; that he would get up, put on his jacket and head off to his office, where he was usually alone, or so I assumed, or, at most, accompanied by a kind of telephonist-cum-accounts-clerk-cum-representative-cum-housekeeper, a woman who did not come in every day, but only when she wanted to or when Muriel expressly asked her to. Instead, he went on: ‘Listen, Juan. A moment ago, when you quoted my words and boasted of your good memory, you said “to a friend, an enemy, a mistress, a stranger …” I’m sure I didn’t mention a mistress, so where did you get that from? What made you think my friend would have a mistress? Though I did mention a wife and children.’
‘I’ve no idea, Don Eduardo, it was just a manner of speaking. I didn’t even realize you were referring to that particular friend, but rather to anyone with some deep, dark secret to conceal. Besides, doesn’t everyone have a mistress? Temporary ones at least, on and off. Since there’s still no divorce … Until they change the law, whenever that will be. Meanwhile people have mistresses, and a mistress is also someone close to you, someone on whom you want to make a favourable impression, from whom you would conceal or deny anything that made you look bad. Anyway, I’m sorry if I misquoted you and for my arrogance.’