The Speed of Light
Read The Speed of Light Online
Authors: Javier Cercas
THE SPEED OF LIGHT
Javier Cercas
Translated from the Spanish by Anne McLean
For Raül Cercas and Mercè Mas
Evil lasts, mistakes do not,
the forgivable is long forgiven, the knife cuts
have also healed, only the wound that evil inflicts,
does not heal; but reopens at night, every night.
Ingeborg Bachmann, 'Gloriastrasse'
Unver
ö
ffentlichte Gedichte
'But what if we're overwhelmed?'
'We shan't be overwhelmed.'
'But what if we're smothered?'
'We shan't be smothered.'
Jules Verne
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
NOW I LEAD A false life, an apocryphal, clandestine, invisible life, though truer than if it were real, but I was still me when I met Rodney Falk. It was a long time ago and it was in Urbana, a city in the Midwest of the United States where I spent two years at the end of the eighties. The truth is that every time I ask myself why I ended up precisely there I tell myself I ended up there just as I might have ended up anywhere else. Let me explain why instead of ending up anywhere else I ended up precisely there.
It was by chance. Back then — seventeen years ago now —I was very young, I'd just graduated and a friend and I shared a dark, dank apartment on calle Pujol, in Barcelona, very close to plaza Bonanova. My friend was called Marcos Luna, he was from Gerona like me and in reality he was both more and less than a friend: we'd grown up together, played together, gone to school together, we had the same friends. Marcos had always wanted to be a painter; not me: I wanted to be a writer. But we'd done two useless degrees and we didn't have proper jobs and we were as poor as could be, so Marcos didn't paint and I didn't write, or we only did in those rare spare moments we were left by the more than full-time job of surviving. We barely got by. He gave classes at a school as dank as the apartment we lived in and I did piecework for a publisher run by slave drivers (copy-editing, correcting translations, proof-reading), but since our miserable salaries combined weren't even enough to keep ourselves housed and fed, we took on anything we could scrape up here and there, no matter how peculiar, from proposing a list of possible names for a new airline to an advertising company to putting the archives of the Hospital del Vail d'Hebron in order, as well as writing unpaid song lyrics for a floundering musician friend. Otherwise, when we weren't working or writing or painting, we wandered around the city, smoked marijuana, drank beer and talked about the masterpieces with which we'd one day take our revenge on a world that, despite our never having exhibited a single painting or published a single story, we felt was blatantly ignoring us. We didn't know any painters or writers, we didn't go to art openings or book launches but we probably liked to imagine ourselves as two bohemians in an era when bohemians no longer existed or as two terrible kamikazes ready to explode cheerfully against reality; in fact we were nothing more than two arrogant provincials lost in the capital, lonely and furious, and the only sacrifice we felt unable to make for anything in the world was to return to Gerona, because that would amount to giving up the dreams of triumph we'd always cherished. We were brutally ambitious. We aspired to fail. But not simply to fail any old way: we aspired to total, radical, absolute failure. It was our way of aspiring to success.
One night in the spring of 1987 something happened that would change everything. Marcos and I had just left the house when, right at the intersection of Muntaner and Arimon, we ran into Marcelo Cuartero. Cuartero was a professor of literature at the Autonomous University of Barcelona whose dazzling lectures I'd attended with enthusiasm, despite being a mediocre student. He was a heavy-set, short, red-headed man in his fifties, a sloppy dresser, with a big, sad turtle face dominated by bad-guy eyebrows and sarcastic, slightly intimidating eyes; he was also one of the foremost experts on the nineteenth-century novel, had led the university protests against the Franco regime in the sixties and seventies and, it was said (though this was difficult to deduce from his classes or his books, scrupulously free of any political content), was still a heartfelt, resigned and unrepentant communist. Cuartero and I had spoken once or maybe twice in the corridor when I was a student, but that night he stopped to talk to me and to Marcos, told us he was coming home from a literary gathering that met every Friday in the Oxford, a nearby bar, and, as if the meeting hadn't satisfied his conversational craving, asked me what I was reading and we started talking about literature; then he invited us for a drink in El Yate, a bar with huge windows and burnished wood where Marcos and I didn't often go, because it seemed too posh for our skimpy budget. Leaning on the bar, we spent a while talking about books, at the end of which Cuartero suddenly asked me where I was working; since Marcos was there, I wasn't brave enough to lie to him, but I did all I could to embellish the truth. He, however, must have guessed, because that was when he told me about Urbana. Cuartero said he had a good friend there, at the University of Illinois, and that his friend had told him that next term the Spanish department was offering several teaching-assistant scholarships to Spanish graduates.
'I have no idea what the city's like,' Marcelo admitted. 'The only thing I know about it is from
Some Like it Hot'
'Some Like it Hot?'
Marcos and I asked in unison.
'The movie,' he answered. 'At the beginning Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis have to play a concert in a freezing Midwestern city, near Chicago, but due to some trouble with gangsters they end up running away to Florida disguised as girl musicians and living it up like crazy. Well anyway, Urbana is the freezing city they never get to, so I guess Urbana must not be too wonderful or at least it must be the total opposite of Florida, supposing that Florida is so wonderful. Anyway, that's all I know. But the university is good, and I think the job is too. They pay you a salary to give language classes, just enough to live on, and you have to enrol in the doctoral programme. Nothing too demanding. Besides, you want to be a writer, don't you?'
I felt my cheeks flare up. Without daring to look at Marcos I stammered out something, but Cuartero interrupted me:
'Well, a writer has to travel. You'll see different things, meet new people, read other books. That's healthy. Anyway,' he concluded, 'if you're interested, give me a call.'
Cuartero left not long after that, but Marcos and I stayed in El Yate, ordered another beer and spent a while drinking and smoking in silence; we both knew what the other was thinking, and we both knew that the other knew. We thought that Cuartero had just said in a few words what we'd been thinking for a long time without saying it: we were thinking that, besides reading everything, a writer should travel and see the world and accumulate experiences, and that the United States — any place in the United States —was the ideal place to do all those things and become a writer; we were thinking that a steady, paid job that left time to write was much more than I could dream of finding at that moment in Barcelona; too young or too naive to know what it means for a life to be going to hell, we thought our lives were going to hell.
'Well,' said Marcos eventually and, knowing the decision was already made, drained his glass in one gulp. 'Another beer?'
So it was that, six months after this chance encounter with Marcelo Cuartero, after an interminable flight with stopovers in London and New York, I ended up in Urbana just as I might have ended up anywhere else. I remember the first thing I thought when I arrived, as the Greyhound bus that brought me from Chicago entered a succession of deserted avenues flanked by little houses with porches, redbrick buildings with meticulous flowerbeds that shimmered beneath the burning August sky, was how tremendously lucky Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon had been in
Some Like
It Hot,
and how I'd write to Marcos to tell him I'd travelled ten thousand kilometres in vain, because Urbana — a little island of barely a hundred and fifty thousand souls floating in the middle of a sea of cornfields that stretched unbroken to the suburbs of Chicago — was not much bigger and didn't seem much less provincial than Gerona. Of course, I didn't tell him anything of the sort: in order not to disappoint him with my disappointment, or to try to modify reality a little, what I told him was that Marcelo Cuartero was mistaken and that Urbana was like Florida, or rather like a mix of Florida and New York in miniature, a vivacious, sunny and cosmopolitan city where my novels would practically write themselves. But, since no matter how hard we try, lies don't alter reality, it didn't take me long to discover that my first impression of the city was accurate, and so I let myself be overcome by sadness during the first days I spent in Urbana, unable as I was to shake off my nostalgia for what I'd left behind and the certainty that, rather than a city, that unrelenting furnace lost in the middle of nowhere was a cemetery where I'd soon end up turning into a ghost or a zombie.
It was Marcelo Cuartero's friend who helped me to get over that initial depression. His name was John Borgheson and he turned out to be an Americanized Englishman or an American who hadn't been able to give up being English (or just the opposite); what I mean is, although his culture and education were American and most of his life and all of his academic career had been spent in the United States, his Birmingham accent was still almost pure and he hadn't been infected by North Americans' direct manners, so he remained an Englishman of the old school, or he liked to imagine himself as one: a shy, courteous, reticent man who vainly struggled to hide his true vocation, which was for comedy. Borgheson, who was about forty and spoke that slightly archaic, stony Spanish often spoken by those who've read a lot of it and spoken it rarely, was the only person I knew in the city, and upon my arrival had been kind enough to take me in; later he helped me find an apartment to rent near the university campus and get settled in there, showed me the university and guided me through the labyrinth of its bureaucracy. During those initial days I couldn't avoid the suspicion that Borgheson's exaggerated friendliness was due to the fact that, by some misunderstanding, he thought I was one of Marcelo Cuartero's favourite students, which I couldn't help but find ironic, especially since by then I was beginning to entertain well-founded suspicions that if Cuartero hadn't sent me to a more remote and inhospitable place than Urbana it was because he didn't know of a place any more remote and inhospitable than Urbana. Borgheson also took pains to introduce me to some of my future colleagues, students of his and assistant professors like me in the Spanish department, and, one Saturday night, a few days after my arrival, he arranged a dinner with three of them at the Courier Cafe, a small restaurant on Race Street, very close to Lincoln Square.
I remember the dinner very well, among other reasons because I'm very much afraid that what went on there reveals the precise tone of what my first weeks in Urbana must have been like. The three colleagues, two men and one woman, were more or less the same age as me. The two men edited a biannual journal called
Linea Plural:
one was a Venezuelan called Felipe Vieri, a very well-read, ironic, slightly haughty guy, who dressed with a meticulousness not entirely free of affectation; the other was called Frank Solaun and he was a Cuban-American, well-built, enthusiastic, with a gleaming smile and slicked-back hair. As for the woman, her name was Laura Burns and, as I found out later from Borgheson himself, she belonged to an opulent and aristocratic family from San Juan de Puerto Rico (her father owned the country's foremost newspaper), but what most caught my attention about her that night, apart from her unmistakable
gringa
physique — tall, solid, blonde, very pale skin — was her intimidating propensity to sarcasm, reined in with difficulty by the respect Borgheson's presence inspired. Otherwise, he gently imposed his authority for the duration of the dinner, channelling the conversation into themes that might be of interest to me or that, he imagined or wished, at least wouldn't make me feel excluded. And so we talked about my trip, about Urbana, the university, the department; we also talked about Spanish writers and film makers, and I soon realized Borgheson and his students were more up to date on what was happening in Spain than I was, because I hadn't read the books or seen the movies of many of the film makers and writers they mentioned. I doubt the fact embarrassed me, because back then my resentment at being an unpublished, ignored and practically illiterate writer authorized me to consider everything being done in Spain to be garbage — and everything done anywhere else pure art — but I don't rule out that it may explain in part what happened when we were having coffee. By then Vieri and Solaun had been talking for a while with unrestrained devotion about the films of Pedro Almodovar; the ever attentive Borgheson took advantage of a pause in the enthusiastic duo's exchange to ask my opinion of the films of the director from La Mancha. Like everyone, I think I liked Almodovar's films back then, but at that moment I must have felt an irresistible urge to try to sound interesting or make my cosmopolitan vocation very clear by setting myself apart from those stories of drug-addled nuns, traditional transvestites and matador murderers, so I answered, 'Frankly, I think they're a pile of queer crap.'
A savage roar of laughter from Laura Burns greeted the judgement, and my satisfaction at this reception of the scandalous comment kept me from noticing the others' glacial silence, which Borgheson hurried to break by changing the subject. The dinner soon concluded without further incident and, on the way out of the Courier Cafe, Vieri and Solaun suggested going for a drink. Borgheson and Laura Burns declined the invitation; I accepted.
My new friends took me to a club called Chester Street, located appropriately enough on Chester Street, beside the train station. It was an enormous, oblong place, with bare walls, a bar on the right and in front of it a dance floor bombarded with strobes and packed with people at this hour. As soon as we got in, Solaun wasted no time in losing himself among the heaving throng on the dance floor; for our part, Vieri and I made our way to the bar to order Cuba fibres and, while we waited for them, I began a half-mocking, half-perplexed comment to Vieri about the fact that there were only men to be seen in the club, but before I could finish a guy came up to me and said something I didn't understand or didn't entirely understand. Leaning towards him, I asked him to repeat it; he repeated it: he asked me if I wanted to dance with him. I was just about to ask him to repeat it again, but instead of doing that I looked at him: he was very young, very blond, he seemed very cheerful, he was smiling; I said thanks and that I didn't want to dance. The boy shrugged and, without further explanation, he left. I was going to tell Vieri what had just happened to me when a tall, muscular guy, with a moustache and cowboy boots, came and asked me the same or a similar question; incredulous, I gave him the same or a similar reply, and without even looking at me again, the guy laughed silently and also left. At that very moment Vieri passed me my Cuba libre, but I didn't say anything and I didn't even have to read the smug and slightly vengeful sarcasm in his eyes to feel like Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis arriving in Florida dressed as girl musicians or to understand the stupefied silence that had followed my verdict on Almodovar's films. A long time later Vieri told me that when, the morning after that triumphal night, Frank Solaun told Laura Burns they'd taken me to a gay fiesta on Chester Street Laura's shriek resounded through the halls of the department like a fulmination: 'But that guy's such a Spaniard his brain must be shaped like a
botijo,
with a spout and everything!'
