All Men Are Liars (7 page)

Andrea began by introducing Bevilacqua into the small artistic circles which were starting to flourish in Madrid, in dark, smoky basements that hoped to imitate, after a fashion, the
vie bohème
of Saint-Germain-des-Prés some twenty years earlier. She introduced Bevilacqua to a way of dressing that would set him apart from the lugubrious masses, and given his horror of clothes shops, she started buying him tweed jackets and silk bow ties. Finally, she decided that Bevilacqua should move in with her. More or less forcibly, she took his few belongings to her flat in the Chueca district and even offered to pay any outstanding rent. Andrea divided her wardrobe in two, offering the more spacious part to Bevilacqua (even though she had ten times as many clothes), and in a corner of the room, she set up a little table so that he would have somewhere comfortable to string his colored-bean necklaces. Next to the toolbox, she discreetly placed a reading lamp, a ream of paper, and a portable Olivetti.

Since the first time Bevilacqua had been introduced to her, Andrea had resolved that this writer (never mind that he was a writer of
fotonovelas
) should take up his pen again. That was her mission: to rescue her beloved genius from a Bartleby-style indolence. Andrea believed fervently in the magnificent, resounding work that Bevilacqua, terrified of revealing it to the world, must surely be carrying in the depth of his soul. Andrea would be his midwife, his keeper, his tutor.

Vila-Matas assures me that in the case of nonwriting writers, someone usually pops up who refuses to accept this creative silence and tries to provoke an outburst of all that has not been expressed. Rather than admit that the writer exists precisely because of what he does
not
produce, this person sees in the absence of work a promise of great things to come. Andrea's relationship with Bevilacqua confirms the master's thesis.

Months passed, however, and Bevilacqua did not write. He spent every night stringing beans. Every morning he set off for Calle Goya, where he spread out his mat. Some afternoons he spent in bored resignation with Andrea at a poetry reading or a private view. But, to Andrea's great concern, the ream of paper remained intact and the Olivetti unopened.

One day, when Bevilacqua had gone off to sell his knickknacks, Andrea decided to clean up the flat, and on removing a pile of suitcases and boxes from the wardrobe, she spotted the old Pluna bag that Bevilacqua had brought over from Buenos Aires, a shirtsleeve protruding from it. Thinking that Bevilacqua must have forgotten some item of clothing that needed washing, Andrea emptied the bag and found, at the bottom of it, a rectangular packet, wrapped in plastic. She opened it. It was a bundle of handwritten papers, the first of which bore a title:
In Praise of Lying
. There was no name, either on the title page or the end page.

As you can imagine, Andrea began to read, and devoured the manuscript in one sitting. As she finished, the bells of Santa Bárbara were striking six o'clock in the evening. Andrea quickly bundled everything else back into the wardrobe and set off for the Martín Fierro, taking the novel with her. There she placed it in a drawer of her desk and locked it. (I remember that desk, that drawer, and that key so well!)

Although Andrea worked out the details of her plan little by little, the main thrust of it had come to her immediately, when she had barely read the first paragraphs. Bevilacqua was a writer, as she had always suspected. Not of
fotonovelas
and other pap. He was a real writer, the author of a work of art. Because
In Praise of Lying
was (and is, as you who have read it will know) a great novel.

I know you're thinking about that handful of bad reviews which, unsurprisingly, sought to redress the balance. I also read some skeptical and bad-tempered articles by a handful of cynical critics, including Pere Gimferrer in Barcelona and Noé Jitrik from his Mexican exile. I read them, and they honestly did not alter, in the slightest, my first opinion. Nor did they change Andrea's—which, believe me, is not to be sniffed at. Because Andrea knew good literature when she saw it. She took pleasure, I admit, in minor works, those well-written and perfectly agreeable novels that make a journey shorter or while away the night hours. But a work of genius is something else, as Andrea knew all too well. And the one she had just read was part of that select, literary Olympus: it belonged on that shelf which Andrea reserved only for books without which, as someone once said, “the world would be poorer.”
In Praise of Lying
must not be hidden away. Nobody had the right to deprive the world of something so beautiful. Andrea (for all her small size, that woman was a
force de la nature,
as you might say, Terradillos) would be its herald, its standard-bearer. She would see it published to a fanfare. She would distribute it by hand, if necessary, to ensure that it reached the few luminaries who were beginning to appear on Spain's dismal intellectual firmament. And not just Spain's; Bevilacqua was going to be read in the remotest corners of the globe. Andrea felt herself possessed by a kind of evangelizing fever. If she had come to me for advice at that time, I would have cautioned prudence, reflection. But she didn't. She went to Camilo Urquieta, instead.

I keep forgetting that you don't know any of these people! Being so young (forgive me, Terradillos, but at my age anyone with less than half a century under his belt is a stripling), you don't know any of these names, which were so famous in their day. Urquieta was (he died a long time ago, poor old thing) your typical born editor. Some people embody their métier: they are a hundred percent carpenters, guitar players, and bankers to the core, and can never be anything else—they were that thing in their mothers' womb and they will continue to be it after their last breath, as scattered dust, you might say, as part of the air we breathe. Every day, my friend, we inhale the ashes of military men, podiatrists, prostitutes, and, why not, those editorial ashes of Camilo Urquieta.

Let me tell you about him. Urquieta was born in Cartagena, in Murcia—something he always brought up when dealing with Murcian authors. Early on, he moved to Madrid. He was first there under Franco, then during the decades of slow change. Later, by representing the writers of the emerging cultural scene—the
Movida
—he managed to find himself a spot in the world of letters. He was an early editor of Hugo Wast and Chardin, later of a short life of Saint Thomas and etiquette manuals, such as
The Polite Child
and
Good Manners;
then, from a cautious
Introduction to Theosophy,
translated by Zenobia Camprubí, he suddenly went on to publish the works of several young Latin American writers who were taking their first steps in the world of books. Courting notoriety with an anthology of vaguely erotic literature, he demonstrated once and for all that nothing in this new Spain was as it had been before. Urquieta knew instinctively what to publish, at what time and in what manner, and, above all, how to sell it and then start the whole process again. There are at least half a dozen publishing houses still running which began life under Urquieta. During the time we're talking about, Urquieta was running an imprint—the vigorously named Sulphur—that dared to include in its catalog all those poets published in Argentina and Mexico which had previously only been available under the counter in certain dangerous shops. Ask Ana María Moix, who knows much more about that chapter of Spanish publishing than I do.

Andrea knew Urquieta because, in the small social circle of those days, it was impossible not to know him. And he, predictably flattered that a beautiful and intelligent girl like Andrea would ask his advice, offered it to her in a dingy café next to Angel Sierra's wine bar. Urquieta frequented this place, apparently, because one of his poets—Cornelio Berens, I believe—had described it in a Nerudian ode as “a mussel bravely clinging / to the prow of an old battleship.” Others says that Urquieta stayed out of the editorial offices because of the uncomfortable possibility of running into a debt collector there.

At the back of this café, Urquieta had a table reserved for life. To reach it (I, too, have made the pilgrimage!) one had to go down a series of invisible steps, then grope one's way along a corridor crammed with chairs and tables. One mean candle (“it creates atmosphere,” claimed the café's owner, who was from Salamanca) grudgingly illuminated the editor's face, which was smooth and creamy, like the paper in a deluxe edition. Urquieta, I don't know if I've told you, had no body hair, and wore a rather unconvincing wig. But nothing could disguise his lack of eyebrows and eyelashes, and in the gloom, one had the disagreeable impression of sitting opposite someone not entirely human.

Of course I don't know what they said to each other, but I can imagine (humor me here) the anxious, ardent questions of little Andrea—
toute feu, toute flamme,
as you French say—and the solemn, know-it-all answers of Urquieta, playing part Père Goriot, part Casanova. Andrea must have explained to him about her discovery, the need to publish what she regarded as a prodigious work, the need to conceal from its author the fate of his book. Urquieta, smitten but cautious, must have asked for time to look at it and give her his opinion.

You already know the rest of the story. Urquieta's decision to publish
In Praise of Lying
. The rumors that began to circulate around the secret future bestseller. The race to be one of the first to read it. The scandal of the galley proofs. Suspicions around the name of the secret author. The invariably overconservative sales forecasts. Even though it was December and people were focused on Christmas shopping, all Madrid seemed to be absorbed by one topic.

Finally, the long-awaited evening came. At about seven o'clock, a small but select group began to gather in the cramped, overheated space of the Antonio Machado cultural center. They certainly numbered more than the visitors who usually attended such presentations, which were rare at the time. I had received my invitation the day before. At first, I thought I might not go, because that same evening I was returning to Poitiers for a couple of days to attend a seminar, and the prospect didn't thrill me. I mean to say, what would life be without that constant flow of vexatious obligations, of insipid engagements, of frustrated desires!

Terradillos, let me set the scene: the guest of honor nowhere to be seen. Andrea, at the door, anxiously looking out for him. Two or three journalists waiting impatiently. Berens making jokes about the well-known modesty of celebrities. Quita wrapped in her fur stole, annoyed as hell, asking Tito Gorostiza if he really did not know what had happened to our Alejandro. Gorostiza sulking.

Finally, Urquieta made an announcement saying that they could wait no longer.

The proceedings were opened by a certain actress, a rising star in Spanish cinema, who read a few pages from the novel. The audience, doubtful at first, listened with increasing delight, bursting into applause at the end. After that Urquieta spoke. As you'd expect, he made an allusion to the new voices emerging from the New World, to the linguistic debt repaid now by the River Plate to the cradle of Cervantes, to that inspiration born on the legendary pampas between Eldorado and Tierra del Fuego. He concluded by citing various names from the Sulphur backlist who (so he claimed) were already classic authors. More applause. Then Bevilacqua appeared.

Borne along on Andrea's arm, he seemed to be dragged to the platform rather than guided there. Urquieta shook his hand, half turning so that the photographer could get a shot of them together. Then, with a kind of reverence, he stepped aside to let him speak. Bevilacqua stared at the microphone as though it were some strange creature, blinked, and raised his gaze to the back of the room; he looked around for Andrea and, finding her behind him, looked ahead again. With difficulty, he lit a cigarette.

There is nothing longer than a public silence; this one of Bevilacqua's must have lasted at the very least five endless minutes. We waited, perplexed, feeling uneasy for him more than for ourselves. Suddenly, as though something had hit him in the face, he looked down, got down from the platform, forged a path through the crowd, and made a swift escape through the front door. I say “escape,” because that was the impression he gave us. Of an animal in flight.

With a few, halting words, Urquieta brought the proceedings to a close. It was apparent that even he, a seasoned master of ceremonies, was baffled. Bevilacqua's behavior was so strange, so inexplicable, that everyone (myself included, of course) felt stunned and defrauded, as if the man who had run away was someone else. I went up to Andrea, to see if she could explain what had happened. The poor girl was on the brink of tears and, without answering me, tried to cover her face. Tito Gorostiza, always so gentlemanly, spoke consolingly to her while pocketing two of the bottles of sherry that Urquieta had laid on (because a good businessman knows when to be generous) in preparation for the final toast. Berens, who doesn't miss a thing, joined us and, with those lizard features of his, launched into a rant.

“I suppose this is the avant-garde way of doing things, eh? Rudeness as a literary style. And there I was, thinking Spain was above the silly posturing we're used to in South America! Because you know what's going to happen now? This snub will be interpreted as a revolutionary manifesto—just wait and see. We come from a country where nobody is surprised to see artists getting mixed up in politics, ‘the lowest of all human activity,' as one of my fellow countrymen describes it. But why shit all over the new nest? What's the point of that?”

“Berens, weren't you mixed up in politics yourself?” asked Paco Ordoñez, who had recently started working at the news agency EFE. “Isn't that why they arrested you?”

“‘You'll always find a clover / Amid the grass unseen / Which when you turn it over / Shines with a braver green.' You can have that quotation free. I wrote it,” Berens replied.