Your Face Tomorrow 1: Fever and Spear

graciously.

The noise of the blades immediately became unbearable, Peter clapped his hands over his ears and at the same time screwed up his eyes hard, as if the clatter – a giant rattle – hurt his eyes too, and thus he could not prevent the drawings from being blown about in the turbulence. He didn't even see this happen. I tried to hold down those I could with my hands, but only very few. The helicopter started making passes overhead, as if we were the object of its vigilance, perhaps it amused the pilot to see this frightened old man and to watch his companion chasing after some elusive bits of paper that were heading in the direction of the river. I had to hurl myself flat on the grass (not just once or twice either) to rescue the more graspable papers before they fell into the water, while the helicopter circled overhead with what I perceived, possibly erroneously, to be mockery, as I hurled myself this way and that. Then it moved off and disappeared in a matter of seconds, just as it had come. A few drawings were still flying about, especially the newspaper cuttings, which were the lightest, I feared that Fraser's 'Information to the Enemy' might not only crumble like a papyrus (it was over sixty years old that bit of paper), but also get a soaking. I was still chasing after various of these when I saw that Wheeler had finally opened his eyes as well as his ears, and – with his hands free again – was now raising one arm to his forehead – or it may have been his wrist to his temple – as if he were in pain or were checking to see if he had a fever, or perhaps it was a gesture of horror. And I saw that he had stretched out his other arm, pointing with his forefinger just as he had the previous night when he couldn't find the word he wanted and I had to guess or work out what it was. I would have assumed that this was the same thing again, this momentary aphasia, had it not been preceded by the helicopter flying over and by Peter's contrived deafness and blindness while the blades thundered above us, I had seen him, how can I put it, defenceless and helpless, and possibly overcome. I went fearfully over to him, I abandoned the bits of paper for the moment, abandoned my hunt for the remaining rebellious items.

'Peter, are you feeling ill, is something wrong?' He shook his head and continued pointing with a look of alarm on his face at the banks of the peaceful Cherwell, I didn't need approximations this time: 'The cartoon?' I asked, and he nodded at once even though I think I may have used the wrong term, it was the original cutting that was worrying him, he had only become aware of the danger when he opened his eyes after his initial fright or his lightning realisation, not before; and so off I went again, I ran, leapt, fell, caught it, closing my fingers on it, still intact, on the very edge of the gently flowing stream, I must have looked like one of those fielders in cricket who hurl themselves to the ground, in that quintessentially English game about which I understand nothing, or else a goalkeeper in a football match performing a full-length save, in that no longer so quintessentially English game which I understand perfectly. The air had grown still again, I picked up another two or three bits of paper from the ground, they were all safe, none had been lost, none had got wet, a few were merely slightly crumpled. 'Here you are, Peter, I think they're all here, and they hardly seem to be damaged at all,' I said, smoothing some of them out. But Wheeler was still unable to speak, and he pointed at me repeatedly with his finger as if at an heir or at an addressee, and I understood that these drawings were for me, that he was giving them to me. He opened the file and I began putting the drawings back, apart from the one by Fraser, the one that was not a reproduction but an original cutting, because he raised his forefinger again to stop me as I was about to put it back with the others, then immediately touched his own chest with his thumb. 'No, not that one, that's for me,' said the gesture.

'You're keeping this one?' I asked, trying to help him out. He nodded, I set it aside. It was strange that he should suddenly have been left speechless, just when he had been talking about the few or the many – depending on how one looked at it – who were also speechless. The previous night, when he had been unable to come out with the word 'cushion', he had explained afterwards, when he had recovered his voice or his fluency: 'It happens from time to time. It only lasts a moment, it's like a sudden withdrawal of my will.' And it was then that he had used that rather recondite word, although less so in English than in Spanish: 'It's like a warning, a kind of prescience…' without actually completing the sentence, not even when I had urged him to do so shortly afterwards; to which he had replied: 'Don't ask a question to which you already know the answer, Jacobo, it's not your style.' Prescience means a knowledge of future events, or knowing beforehand exactly what will happen. I don't know if such a thing exists, but sometimes we also give a name to what does not exist, and that is where uncertainty begins. I had no doubts now as to how that sentence should end, I had wondered about it and had guessed at it the previous evening, now I knew the answer even though he had not told me: 'It's like a warning, a kind of prescience, a foreknowledge of what it's like to be dead.' And he could perhaps have added: 'It's not being able to talk, even though you want to. Except that you don't want to, your will has withdrawn. There is no wanting and no not wanting, both have gone.' I looked back at the house, Mrs Berry had opened a window on the ground floor and was waving to us. Perhaps she had looked out as soon as she heard the racket made by that predatory helicopter and had, without our realising it, seen me haring around and diving to the ground. I raised my voice to ask: 'Time for lunch?' and accompanied my cry with the rather absurd gesture of one hand held at mouth level, like someone twirling spaghetti round a fork. I don't think she heard me, but she understood. She said 'No' with her hand and then used it to indicate waiting, as if to say: 'No, not yet,' and then pointed at Peter with a gesture of disquiet or uncertainty, 'Is he all right?', was the translation. I nodded several times to reassure her. She raised both hands at once, as if she were being held up at gunpoint, 'Good,' then closed the window and disappeared inside. Wheeler recovered his voice:

'Yes, I'll keep that one, but I can get you a copy if you like,' he said, meaning the drawing by Fraser. 'You can have the others, I've got several copies, or else reproductions of them in books; I have a few other originals too. I particularly like the spider-cum-swastika. Wretched helicopter,' he added without a pause and with a hint of annoyance, 'What on earth was it up to, hanging around a studious area like this? I hope they don't come back again to ruffle our hair; by the way, have you got a comb on you? You Latins usually do.' Wheeler's hair was indeed like the furious foam on the crest of a wave, and mine had clearly become tangled. 'What did Mrs Berry want?' he said, again without a pause. He had gone back to referring to her as he did in company. He was regaining his composure and that must have helped him; or perhaps it was just force of habit in him to dissemble. 'Was she calling us in for lunch already?' He looked at his watch without actually looking at it, he was trying to get over his shock with no need for any remarks from me, although he knew I wasn't going to let him off that easily.

'No, it's not ready yet. I imagine she was frightened by the noise, she wouldn't have known what it was,' I replied, and added, in turn, without a pause: You lost your voice again, Peter. Last night, you told me it only happened occasionally. But that's twice now in one weekend.'

'Bah,' he replied evasively, 'it was just a coincidence, bad luck, that damn helicopter. They're absolutely deafening, it sounded almost like an old Sikorsky H-5, the noise alone used to be enough to provoke panic. Besides, I've been talking a lot, I talk far too much when you're here, and then I suffer the consequences, I'm not really used to it any more. You let me ramble on, you pretend to be interested and I'm very grateful to you for that, but you should interrupt me more, make me get to the point. I suppose I've been a bit alone here in Oxford lately, and with Mrs Berry there's nothing more to be said, of what can be said between us, I mean, or of what she might want to talk about. I don't have that many visitors, you know. A lot of people have died, others went to America when they retired and live there like parasites, I didn't want to do that, they just lounge around, getting as much sun as possible, they even go so far as to wear bermuda shorts, they get hooked, via television, on that football they play over there, all padding and helmets, they worry about their digestion and eat nothing but broccoli, they prowl around the library and whatever campus it is that they've landed up in, and allow their departments to exhibit them now and then like prestigious foreign mummies or the wrinkled trophies of some vaguely heroic times that nobody there knows anything about. In short, they're like antiques, most depressing. Besides, I like talking to you. The English shy away from anything that isn't either anecdote, fact, event or ironic gloss or comment; they don't like speculation, they find reasoning superfluous: and that's precisely what I most enjoy. Yes, I like talking to you very much. You should come down more often, especially as you're so alone there in London. Although perhaps soon you'll be much less alone. I still have a proposal to put to you, and I ask you, please, to accept it without giving it too much thought or asking me too many questions. You can't really waste time that you already consider to be wasted, these periods of sentimental convalescence can be filled up with anything, the content doesn't really matter, whatever happens by and helps to push them along will do, one tends, I think I'm right in saying, not to be too choosy. Afterwards, it's hard even to remember those times or what one did while they lasted, as if everything had been permissible then, and one can always cite disorientation and pain as justification; it's as if those times had never existed and as if, in their place, there was a blank. They're free of responsibilities too, 'I wasn't myself at the time, you know.' Oh, yes, pain has always been our best alibi, the one that best exonerates us of every action. It has always been man's best alibi, I mean, the best alibi for humankind, for both individuals and nations.'