without even telling me off or demanding an explanation for my indiscreet behaviour. Perhaps that was the most striking thing, him talking to me about a serious crime in that matter-of-fact way, about a murder committed indirectly by him or at his instigation, in a not yet remote, but almost recent past, murder not being something that one usually talks about calmly, at least it didn’t use to be: when such a thing was revealed or acknowledged, there were no cool explanations or dissertations or conversations, no analysis, but horror and anger, outrage, screams and vehement accusations, or people would grab a rope and hang the self-confessed murderer from a tree, and he or she, in turn, would try to flee and kill again if necessary. ‘What a strange age we live in,’ I thought. ‘We allow people to talk about anything and to be listened to, regardless of what they have done, and not just in order to defend themselves, but as if the story of their atrocities were itself of interest.’ And another thought came to me that I myself found odd: ‘That is our essential fragility. But it is not in my power to rebel against it, because I, too, belong to this age, and I am a mere pawn.’
As Díaz-Varela had said right at the start, there was no point in me continuing to deny all knowledge. He had already gone far enough (‘It was an error on my part’, ‘I should have taken Ruibérriz outside’, ‘You had a not entirely mistaken reason to feel alarmed, well, a half-mistaken reason’), so far that I was left with no alternative but to ask him what the devil he was talking about, if, that is, I maintained my pose of innocence. Even if I insisted on pretending that this was all entirely new to me and that I had no idea what he was talking about, that wouldn’t let me off the hook either: it was up to me to demand to be told the story and to hear it through to the end, from the beginning this time. It would be best to admit that I knew, thus avoiding having to repeat myself or possibly having to come up with some extravagant lie. The whole thing was going to be most unpleasant, but then it was a thoroughly unpleasant business. The less time he took to tell his story the better. Or perhaps it would turn out to be not a story but a disquisition. I wanted to leave, but didn’t dare so much as try, I didn’t even move.
‘All right, I did hear you. But I didn’t hear everything you said, not all the time. Enough though for me to feel afraid of you, what else would you expect? Anyway, now you know, you couldn’t have been entirely sure before, but now you can. What are you going to do about it? Is that why you made me come here, to confirm your suspicions? You were pretty sure already, we could simply have let things run their course and not left any more “marks”, to use your word. As you see, I haven’t done anything yet, I haven’t told anyone, not even Luisa. She, I imagine, would be the last to be told. It’s often those who are most affected by something, those who are closest, who least want to know: children don’t want to know what their parents did, just as parents don’t want to know what their children have done … To impose a revelation on someone …’ I paused, unsure as to how to end the sentence, and so I cut things short, simplified: ‘That’s too great a responsibility. For someone like me.’ – ‘So I am the Prudent Young Woman after all,’ I thought. ‘That’s how Desvern thought of me.’ – ‘You certainly have no reason to feel afraid of me. You should have allowed me to stand aside, to exit from your life silently and discreetly, more or less as I entered it and as I have remained, if I have remained. There was never any reason why we should see each other again. For me, each time was the last, I never assumed there would be a next time. It was always until further notice, until further orders from you, because you were always the instigator, the one who took the initiative. There’s still time for you simply to let me go, I really don’t know why I’m here at