Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me by Javier Marías

yards from the front door and then just go, I could even leave him at the porter’s lodge and then run off, and meanwhile what, twenty-four or even forty-eight hours spent in the company of a miniature fury, he might not even want to come with me or to leave the house, I would have to wake him up and get him dressed in the middle of the night and prevent him going in to see his mother, he would probably cry and kick and hurl himself to the floor, I would feel like a kidnapper, it was absurd. Lastly, I could just leave him: I had to leave him, there was no real alternative. The child would go on sleeping until he woke, then he would call out for his mother or perhaps get up on his own and go and look for her; he would climb on to her bed, he would start shaking the body, motionless under the covers, doubtless not much different from any morning; he would protest at her indifference, he would shout, he would have a tantrum, he wouldn’t understand, a child that age doesn’t know what death is, he wouldn’t even be able to think: “She’s dead, Mama is dead,” neither the concept nor the word would enter his head, nor would the word “life”, neither thing exists for him, what a blessing. After a while, he would grow tired and watch the television (perhaps I should leave the one in the living room switched on too, in case he wanted to watch it and so that he wouldn’t have to stay in the bedroom next to the body) or he would get up and go about his business – toys, food, he would be hungry – or he would cry endlessly and very loudly, children have superhuman lungs, they can cry for hours, so much so that one of the neighbours would hear him and ring thedoorbell, although neighbours don’t much care what goes on as long as it doesn’t bother them. Someone was bound to turn up in the morning anyway, a child minder, a cleaning lady, her sister, or Deán would phone again between business deals and no one would answer, not even the answering machine, the tape was in my jacket pocket; and then he would get worried and would make enquiries, he would set things in motion. One thought remained after thinking all this: the child would be hungry. I went to the fridge and I decided to prepare him something to eat as if I were putting out food for a pet I was leaving behind while I went away for a couple of days on a trip: there was ham, chocolate, fruit, I peeled two mandarins to make it easier for him to eat, salami, I took off the skin, I didn’t want him to choke, his mother wouldn’t be there to put her finger down his throat to save him; I cut up some cheese, removed the rind and washed the knife; in a small cupboard I found biscuits and a bag of pine nuts, I opened the bag and put everything together on one plate (if I opened a yoghurt it might go off). It was an absurd meal, a crazy mixture, but the important thing was that he should have something to eat if the person who looked after the flat was late in arriving. And to drink, I took a carton of fruit juice out of the fridge, filled a glass and placed it beside the plate, I put everything on the kitchen table, with a stool nearby, the child would easily be able to reach it, two-year-olds are great climbers. All of that would betray my presence, that is, someone’s presence, but that didn’t matter now.
    There was nothing more to do, I couldn’t do anything else. I glanced towards the bedroom, the idea of going back in there terrified me, luckily I didn’t have to, there was nothing I needed to do in there. I went into the living room and put the television on for the boy, with the volume down low, at least that way he would be able to hear something; I left it on a channel where there was still something on, they were showing a film which I recognized at once,
Chimes at Midnight
, the whole world is in black and white in the early hours of the morning. I felt as if I were leaving that apartment in a state of devastation: lights and televisions left on, food