'Why can't one do what?’
'Why can't one go around beating up people and killing them? That's what you said.’
'What do you mean, 'why'?’
My confusion was growing; sometimes we don't have an answer to the most obvious of questions. They seem so obvious that we take them for granted, and stop thinking about them, still less questioning them, and so literally decades pass without our giving them a thought, however paltry or vague. Why, in my opinion, can't one go around killing people, that was the idiotic question Tupra was asking me. And I had no answer to this idiotic question, or only equally idiotic, puerile answers inherited but never thought through: because it's not right, because it's immoral, because it's against the law, because you can get sent to prison, or in some countries to the gallows, because you should not do unto others what you would not have done unto you, because it's a crime, because it's a sin, because it's bad. He was clearly asking me something that went beyond all that. He did not reply at once. He saw that I did not know what to say, or at least not immediately. He took out another Rameses II, and did not offer me one this time, two in a row would have seemed to him an extravagance; he put it to his lips, but did not light it yet, instead, he turned the ignition key and started the engine. I did not for a second think that he was going to ask me to get out, to dismiss me and drive off. He did not let go of his prey either, whether dialectical or otherwise.
'I hope there really isn't anyone waiting for you up there, I hope so for her sake,' he said, and pointed up at the car roof, then glanced at his watch; in an almost reflective, mimetic response, I looked at mine too: no, it wasn't very late, despite everything, not even for London, and in Madrid the night, any night, would just be getting into its stride, the partying would be at its height – 'because it's not yet time for you to go up and see her. Anyway, it's not that late, and you can have tomorrow off if you want. But we need to talk a bit more about all this, I can see that you've taken it all very much to heart, too much so really. I'll explain to you why it was necessary. We're going to go to my place for a while, it won't take more than an hour or an hour and a half. I want to show you some videos that I keep there rather than at the office, they're not for just anyone's eyes. And I'll tell you a couple of stories, one from medieval times in fact. I'll tell you about Constantinople, for example. Perhaps a bit about Tangiers as well, not quite so remote, although still a few centuries ago. And while we're driving, think a bit more about what you said, so that you can explain to me why one can't beat people up or kill them.’
I had said nothing since my failure to find an answer to his idiotic question. Or perhaps it wasn't so very idiotic and there
'I know what happened in Constantinople in 1453,' I said, for lack of anything else to say. Many years ago, before I went to live in Oxford, I had read a marvellous book,
'I see,' replied Tupra. 'But I'll tell you a bit about what happened shortly before as well.’
He drove around the square in order to leave and head north. I didn't know where he lived. 'Perhaps in Hampstead,' I thought. I looked back once more at the lights in my windows, and at those of the trusting dancer. Tupra caught these two glances out of the corner of his eye. Everything was still lit, the large dancing windows, my silent window. Mine would have to remain silent, and would stay like that until I returned, with Tupra you could never tell what time you would be back. And however much he insisted, there was, fortunately, no one waiting for me in my apartment, no one to turn off any lights in my absence, while I was not there. No one had my keys and no one was ever waiting for me.
Javier Marias
