commit some barbarous act simply in order to be remembered. That having so little faith that his music would last, he might very well blot his own life and thus deliberately enter the ranks of the Kennedy-Mansfield clan, isn't that right? So you see, you were very sharp, it was clear he might come to a bad end. And on purpose too.' I had forgotten about that additional report of mine; he, on the other hand, had not and was now using it as an alibi. I realized that he was not willing to discuss the matter, that he wasn't even going to take part in the conversation, I was still just an employee who did my job and was paid well for it, but I had no right to ask about objectives or motivations, still less to demand explanations or make reproaches, at least that was how he saw it. Perhaps because he held me in a certain regard, because of his temporary fondness for me, he was putting me in my place only indirectly, almost tacitly, surreptitiously. And I understood this even more clearly when he added: Anything else, Jack?' It's what he had said on that other far-off occasion, after replying succinctly: 'Yes, I have.' No, he didn't usually comment on my successes and failures, or on his aims or motives, or on his pacts or transactions or commissions. He had said enough with the words 'you were very sharp.' In fact, I think that was the only time he complimented me.
'Yes, there is something else,' I said. 'I have to leave, I have to go back to Madrid. Things have got a little complicated there, I won't bore you with an explanation, it would take too long. But I can't stay here in London. I have no alternative but to resign. That's why I phoned you at home on Saturday, to let you know as soon as possible, in case you wanted to start looking for a replacement, although, obviously I can't help you with that.'
I played his same game, I resorted to an acceptable alibi, I preferred not to confront him, not to insist, after all, he would soon be merely the past for me, dumb matter, or perhaps a dream, as I would be for him. But I'm sure he understood the real reason for my leaving. It must have seemed ridiculous to him, but he didn't show it.
'As you wish,' he said coldly. 'It's your decision.'
'If you like, I can still come in occasionally, until I actually leave,' I added.
'Fine,' he said. 'That way some things won't be left half-finished. But it's not really necessary. You do as you like. Really.' There wasn't any spite in the tone in which he said this, but, rather, curtness or indifference, whether feigned or recently acquired, I don't know. It was, at any rate, new. He didn't care whether I came in or not.
'I'll see you around, then. If, that is, I do manage to come in on the odd day. Although I will have an awful lot of things to sort out.'
'Fine. Anything else, Jack?' he said again and picked up his pen as if intending to resume writing his notes as soon as I left his office.
And this time I gave the same answer as I had on that previous occasion:
'No, nothing else, Mr. Tupra.' That is how I addressed him.
I got up and went over to the door, and just as I was about to open it, his voice stopped me:
'Just out of curiosity, Mr. Deza.' When he addressed me in the same formal way, I realized that it amused him that I should have chosen such an odd moment to do so with him, just when we were saying goodbye. I turned round and thought I saw the tail end, just the shadow of a smile on that soft fleshy mouth, on those lips that were rather African or perhaps Hindu or Slavic, or even Sioux. 'Did you sort out that business in Madrid? Did you take care of that guy who's been bothering your wife? Did you make sure he's out of the picture?'
I stood still for an instant. I thought.
'Yes, I think so,' I replied.
And then he smiled broadly, waving his pen at me as if he were telling me off:
'Be careful, Jack. If you only think you did, that means you didn't.'
I didn't go back to the building, so that was the last time I saw him. But here in Madrid, I think of him more than I imagined I would. Despite that rather abrupt ending, despite the possible disappointment I must have caused him and the very real disappointment he caused me, I still feel that he is someone on whom I could always count. In a time of difficulty or confusion or trouble or even danger. Someone I could call one day and ask for advice or guidance, especially with the kind of situation I don't deal with very well. And now that Wheeler is dead, it's as if Tupra, strangely enough-possibly because of his link with Rylands, the brother whose student he was-were all that remained to me of him, even if only in my memory and imagination: his unexpected substitute or successor, his legacy almost, part of that permanent process of replacing the people we lose in our lives, of the shocking and persistent efforts we make to fill any vacancies, of our inability to resign ourselves to any reduction in the cast of characters without whom we can barely go on or survive, part of that continuous universal mechanism of substitution, which affects everyone and therefore us too, and so we accept our role as poor imitations and find ourselves surrounded by more and more of them.
Peter died six months after my father, although he was about eight months older than him. Mrs. Berry phoned me in Madrid; she was very succinct, belonging, as she did, to the thrifty generation and doubtless mindful that she was phoning abroad. Or perhaps that was just her style, one of extreme discretion. 'Sir Peter passed away last night, Jack,' she said, employing the usual euphemism. That was all, or, rather, she added: 'I just wanted you to know. I didn't think it fair that you should carry on believing he's still alive when he's not.' And when I tried to find out what had happened and the cause, she merely said: 'Oh, it wasn't unexpected. I had been expecting it for weeks,' and informing me that she would write to me later on. I couldn't even ask her to whom it would have been 'unfair,' to Peter or to me. (But presumably to both of us.) A few days later, I recalled that in England, in comparison with Spain, they take a long time to bury their dead and that I might still be in time to travel to Oxford and attend the funeral. So I phoned her several times and at different hours of the day, but no one answered. Perhaps Mrs. Berry had gone to stay with a relative, had left the house as soon as her employer died, and I realized that there was almost no one I could ask now to find out more information. There was Tupra, but I didn't turn to him: it was hardly a moment of difficulty, confusion, trouble or danger, and he hadn't himself deigned to inform me of Peter's death. I was assailed by the feeling-or perhaps it was a superstition-that I didn't want to waste a cartridge unnecessarily, as if with him I only had a certain number that would last as long as our respective lives. Young Perez Nuix didn't bother to tell me either: she may not have known Peter personally, but she would have heard. I could have phoned one of my former colleagues, Kavanagh or Dewar or Lord Rymer the Flask or even Clare Bayes-the very idea!-but I had long ago lost touch with them. I could have tried The Queen's or Exeter, the colleges with which Peter had been connected, but their bureacracy would almost certainly have passed me fruitlessly from office to office. And the truth is I couldn't be bothered; memory and grief don't always chime with social duty. I was very busy in Madrid. I would have had to dust off my cap and gown. So I just let it go.
Mrs. Berry's promised letter took more than two months to arrive. She apologized for the delay, but she'd had to take care of almost everything, even the recent memorial service, a ceremony which, in England, tends to take place sometime after the death. She was kind enough to send me a copy of the order of service, listing the hymns and readings. Wheeler hadn't been a religious man, she explained, but she had preferred to fall back on the rites of the Anglican church, because 'he always hated the improvised ceremonies people hold these days, the secular parodies that are so popular now' The service had taken place in the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Oxford, a church I remembered well; it was where Cardinal Newman had preached before his conversion. Bach had been played and Gilles, as well as Michel Corrette's gentle, ironic
Mrs. Berry also enclosed a color photo of Peter taken some years before ('I thought you would like it as a keepsake,' she said). Now I have it framed in my study and I often look at it, so that the passing of time does not cause my memory of his face to grow dim and so that others might still see it. There he is, wearing the gown of a Doctor of Letters. 'It's made from
scarlet cloth with grey silk edging or facing, and the same on the sleeves,' Mrs. Berry explained. 'Sir Peter's gown had belonged to Dr. Dacre Balsdon, and the grey had faded somewhat, so that it looked more like a dirty blue
