‘What’s a rapscallion?’ asked Bettina. It was a fairly antiquated word that she might never have heard or read.
‘I’ll tell you that later too, rica.’ Rico, again rather suspiciously, repeated that assimilatory or bamboozling appellation. You had to watch that bald-headed man, he was quite capable of stealing a girl from under your nose. And yet I still couldn’t believe that he would take advantage of his closeness to Beatriz, however much she enjoyed his company. He could hold your attention whatever the subject and even if you didn’t understand half of what he said, he was doubtless a magnetic teacher, a mesmerizer of students (whether blockheads or geniuses, it didn’t matter). In fact, I noticed that Muriel and Beatriz, who had been elsewhere in the apartment, had come to the living-room door when they heard him speechifying and were smiling as they listened, and they rarely smiled at the same time. They each raised a finger to their lips almost simultaneously, as if they were well matched to the point of synchronicity, warning me to say nothing and not to interrupt. However, it was Rico himself who suddenly stopped talking, surprised and bewildered: ‘But why the fuck am I talking about this?’ he asked. ‘How did I get on to the subject of that impostor in the first place?’
‘It was because of my surname, Professor,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes. Now then, can you explain to me the sham of your being called De Vere?’ and he again pronounced this as ‘De Viah’, to which he had obviously taken a great liking and which emerged from his mouth like an explosion.
‘There’s no mystery about it, Professor, and you’re right, it really is a complete sham, although a fairly ancient one. Apparently, our original surname was the much more common Vera. My family clearly has a long history of delusions of grandeur or perhaps originality. On a whim, some great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather of mine changed it to Vere, thinking that changing one letter would lend it a certain distinction. And I believe it was my grandfather who added the “de”. My father likes it and has kept it, he obviously has his own delusions of grandeur and must think it suits his profession, where high-sounding surnames are par for the course. He’ll be thrilled when he finds out that there was a De Vere hiding behind Shakespeare’— and I pronounced it Spanish fashion, it was, after all, my surname — ‘even though we’re not related to those genuine De Viahs.’ I couldn’t help myself this time and the name came out like a roar, even more exaggerated than his own pronunciation; Rico realized I was making fun of him and looked at me somewhat askance. ‘He’ll boast about it, he’ll tell everyone and will contribute more than anyone else to spreading the word. That Anglo-Saxon colleague of yours is well and truly finished. Soon, half the world will know about it.’
This, however, seemed to vex the Professor.
‘Your father’s profession? He’s a diplomat, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, a career diplomat, not a political one.’
‘He must know people all over the world.’
‘Quite a few, yes. He’s travelled around a lot.’
‘And where has he been posted to now? Algeria, I hope.’
I didn’t understand why he said this.
‘He’s Consul in Frankfurt,’ I replied. ‘Why?’
The Professor pondered deeply and, while he did so, kept up a rapid muttering like a man possessed, although none of his comments seemed addressed to me.
‘Far too civilized. Airport hub. Business deals by the shedload. No, I don’t like it, I don’t like it all. Tons of visitors. The annual Buchmesse. Money calling to money. A lot of very cultivated people. Buchmesse,’ he repeated, as if it were one of his onomatopoeia. Then he uttered a real one, which sounded like an interjection. ‘Áfguebar. No, best not. He’ll send a circular. To all the delegations in the world. And the world’s a big place. National and foreign delegations. Multiplication. Too many countries. Telegrams. Best not. No, I’d rather be hanged first.’ And then he spoke to me again: ‘Listen, young De Vere or De Vera, be very careful. Something that’s merely a tall story could be taken for the truth. That fellow will never be able to prove it, for all his research and rummaging around in archives and however much he twists and distorts the facts to fit his theory. He’ll never get away with it. So I ask you to be discreet, best not say anything to anyone, I wouldn’t want things to backfire on me because of that gossipy father of yours. We certainly don’t want it to become a generally held idea that Shakespeare was just an actor and didn’t write a single line and that it was all the work of Edward de Vere. If he ever does publish his book, maybe fifty experts will know about it, of which forty-five will ignore it and the other five, having flipped through a couple of pages, will gladly lay into him, out of sheer spite (that’s what it’s like in the groves of academe). If the press picked it up, then a lot more people would find out, although, it would doubtless be forgotten again within a month. Rumour on the other hand is what lasts, it’s unstoppable, undying, the one thing that endures. I certainly don’t want to give that imbecile the gift of a rumour. Like the man said …’ And here the Professor began reciting from memory, in a loud, passionate voice, his arm raised (not, fortunately, in the Roman or the Fascist manner, he was merely trying to be theatrical and eloquent, but his arm remained rigid): ‘Open your ears; for which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks? I, from the orient to the drooping west, making the wind my post-horse, still unfold the acts commenced on this ball of earth. Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, the which in every language I pronounce, stuffing the ears of men with false reports.’ Rico had the bit between his teeth now and didn’t look as if he were about to stop, this was no parenthesis, no mere footnote. Absorbed, perhaps enthused, he continued to declaim as if only that ancient text existed in the room or in the universe, and it was doubtless a very long text. ‘And who but Rumour, who but only I, make fearful musters and prepared defence, whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief, is thought with child by the stern tyrant war …?’ I looked at Bettina, who was listening open-mouthed to these barely comprehensible words. I touched her thigh, the thigh that Rico had so coveted (although not now, for poetry drives out or suspends lust), and she emerged from her trance and, in turn, looked at me as if she had suddenly woken up. She realized that it was time for us to leave, she had, after all, come to pick me up on her way to a couple of parties. I glanced across at Muriel and Beatriz, who were watching Rico with affection and amusement, it was clear that they were both very fond of him and that they occasionally still enjoyed a certain complicity, a shared sense of humour, perhaps dating back to their youth. They gestured to us, letting us know that the way was clear and that the reciter would not miss us if we left. And so we very quietly got up and left the room, without the Professor even noticing, sequestered in his mind by his invasive memory, his arm still held stiffly aloft, as if it were mummified. He probably often had such attacks of oral literature. When I opened the front door, I could still hear his vibrant voice in the distance, addressing his words now only to himself and his two watching friends. ‘The posts come tiring on, and not a man of them brings other news than they have learn’d of me …’