The Impostor Read online

  ALSO BY JAVIER CERCAS

  Soldiers of Salamis

  The Tenant and The Motive

  The Speed of Light

  The Anatomy of a Moment

  Outlaws

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  English translation copyright © 2017 by Frank Wynne

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Originally published in Spain as El impostor by Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial, S. A. U., in 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Javier Cercas.

  This translation originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by MacLehose Press, an imprint of Quercus Publishing Ltd., a Hachette UK company, London, in 2017.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Oxford University Press for permission to reprint an excerpt of “Che Fece…II Gran Rifiuto” from C. P. Cavafy: Collected Poems, new translation by Evangelos Sachperoglou, edited by Anthony Hirst and Peter Mackridge (OWC, 2008). Reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Cercas, Javier, [date] author. | Wynne, Frank, translator.

  Title: The impostor : a true story / by Javier Cercas ; translated from the Spanish by Frank Wynne.

  Other titles: Impostor. English

  Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2018. | “This is a Borzoi book” | Includes bibliographical references.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017044942 (print) | LCCN 2017045503 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524732820 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524732813 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Marco, Enric, 1921—Fiction. | Impostors and imposture—Spain—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PQ6653.E62 (ebook) | LCC PQ6653.E62 14713 2018 (print) | DDC 863/.64—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2017044942

  Ebook ISBN 9781524732820

  Cover photograph of Enric Marco by Lluis Gene/AFP/Getty Images

  Cover design by Chip Kidd

  v5.3.2

  ep

  For Raül Cercas and Mercè Mas

  Si se non nouerit…

  —METAMORPHOSES, OVID,

  BOOK III, L. 348

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Javier Cercas

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part I: The Onion Skin

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part II: The Novelist of Himself

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part III: The Flight of Icarus

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue: The Blind Spot

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Acknowledgements

  Notes

  A Note About the Author

  PART I

  The Onion Skin

  1

  I did not want to write this book. I didn’t know exactly why I didn’t want to write it, or rather I did, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, or didn’t dare acknowledge it; or not entirely. The fact is that for more than seven years I resisted writing this book. During that time, I wrote two others, but I never forgot this one; on the contrary: after my fashion, while I was writing those two books, I was also writing this one. Or perhaps, after its fashion, this book was writing me.

  The first paragraphs of a book are always the last to be written. This book is finished. This paragraph is the last I am writing. And, since it is the last, I now know why I didn’t want to write this book. I didn’t want to write it because I was afraid. This is what I’ve known since the beginning but didn’t want to acknowledge, or didn’t dare acknowledge; or not entirely. What I didn’t know until now is that my fear was completely warranted.

  * * *

  —

  I met Enric Marco in June 2009, four years after he became the great impostor and the great pariah. Many people still remember his story. Marco was an octogenarian from Barcelona who, for almost three decades, had passed himself off as a deportado—a deportee—to Hitler’s Germany and a survivor of the Nazi camps, for three years he had been president of the Amical de Mauthausen, the principal Spanish association for survivors of Mauthausen, he had given hundreds of lectures and dozens of interviews, he had received a number of significant official distinctions, and had addressed the Spanish parliament on behalf of his supposed companions in misfortune, until it was discovered in early May 2005 that he had not been deported and had never been a prisoner in a Nazi camp. The discovery was made by an obscure historian named Benito Bermejo, shortly before the commemoration ceremony at Mauthausen to mark the sixtieth anniversary of the liberation of the concentration camps, a ceremony at which, for the first time, a Spanish prime minister was to be in attendance and at which Marco was to play an important role, one he was forced to relinquish at the last minute after his imposture was exposed.

  When I met Marco, I had just published my tenth book, The Anatomy of a Moment, but I was going through a difficult time. Even I didn’t understand why. My family seemed happy, the book was a success; it’s true that my father had died, but he had died almost a year earlier, more than enough time to have coped with his death. The fact is that, I don’t know how, but I came to the conclusion that my recently published book was to blame for my depression: not (or not entirely) because it had left me physically and mentally exhausted; but also (or more importantly) because it was a curious book, a strange novel-without-fiction, a rigorously true story, devoid of the slightest trace of invention or imagination. I thought that this was what had killed me. Day and night I repeated a mantra to myself: “Reality kills, fiction saves.” In the meantime I was struggling to deal with anxiety and panic attacks. I would go to sleep crying, wake up crying and spend the day hiding from people so that I could cry some more.

  I decided that the solution was to write another book. Though I had no shortage of ideas, the problem was that most of them were for non-fiction narratives. But I also had ideas for fictions; three in particular: the first was a novel about a professor of meta
physics at the University of Pontificia de Comillas who, like a rutting boar, falls in love with a porn star and ends up travelling to Budapest to meet her personally, declare his love and ask her to marry him; the second was called Tanga and was the first of a series of crime novels featuring a detective called Juan Luis Manguerazo; the third dealt with my father and began with a scene in which I brought him back to life and we devoured fried eggs with chorizo and frogs’ legs at El Figón, a restaurant in the Cáceres of his youth where we had often eaten together.

  I attempted to write these three fictions; with all three I failed. One day, my wife, Mercè, gave me an ultimatum: either make an appointment with a psychoanalyst, or she would make one with a divorce lawyer. I didn’t have time to visit the psychoanalyst she recommended. He was a bald man, cold and twisted, with an unplaceable accent (sometimes he sounded Chilean or Mexican, sometimes Catalan, or maybe Russian), who, in our early sessions, constantly berated me for showing up at his surgery in articulo mortis. I have spent my life making fun of psychoanalysts and their pseudoscientific mumbo-jumbo, but I would be lying if I said that our sessions weren’t useful: they at least gave me a place to sob uncontrollably; but I would also be lying if I didn’t confess that, more than once, I felt like getting up from the couch and punching the psychoanalyst. He, for his part, attempted to guide me towards two conclusions. The first was that the blame for all my unhappiness was not my novel-without-fiction or true story, but my mother, which explained why I often left his consulting room with the urge to strangle her the next time I set eyes on her. The second conclusion was that my life was a charade and I was a charlatan, that I had chosen literature in order to have a free, happy and authentic life whereas actually my life was false, servile and unhappy, that I pretended to be a novelist, and succeeded by deceiving and cheating people; in reality I was nothing more than an impostor.

  The latter conclusion eventually came to seem more plausible (and less hackneyed) than the former. And this prompted me to remember Marco, as well as a long-forgotten conversation about him in which I had been called an impostor.

  Here I need to go back a few years, to the moment when the Marco scandal first broke. It triggered outrage that resonated around the world, but in Catalonia, where Marco had been born and had lived almost all of his life, and where he had been a very popular man, the revelation of his imposture made a greater impression than it did anywhere else. So it was logical that I, too, would be interested in his case. But there was another reason; furthermore, “interested” is an understatement: rather than simply being interested, I immediately wanted to write about him, as though I sensed in Marco some profound connection. This worried me; it produced a feeling of vertigo, an inchoate dread. Yet while the scandal played out in the media I devoured everything that was written about Marco and, when I discovered that a number of people close to me knew or had known Marco or had been aware of the man, I invited them to a dinner at my house to talk about him.

  The dinner took place in mid-May 2005, shortly after the story broke. At the time, I was teaching at the University of Gerona and living in the suburbs in a little semi-detached house with a garden. To the best of my recollection, in addition to my son, my wife and my sister Blanca, those present that evening included two of my colleagues in the Faculty of Arts: Anna María García and Xavier Pla. My sister Blanca was the only one of us who knew Marco well. Years earlier she and he both had long served as vice-chair on the board of FaPaC—the Federation of Associations of Parents of Schoolchildren in Catalonia—she in the Gerona district, Marco in Barcelona. To everyone’s surprise, over dinner, Blanca painted a picture of a charming, hyperactive, flirtatious and witty old man who was desperate to appear in photographs. Without bothering to hide the affection she had felt at the time for the great impostor and the great pariah, she recounted the projects, the meetings, the anecdotes and the trips she had shared with him. Anna María and Xavier did not know Marco personally (or knew him only superficially), but both had studied the Holocaust and the Deportation and seemed as fascinated by the case as I was. Xavier, a young professor of Catalan literature, loaned me various texts concerning Marco, including the two most comprehensive biographical accounts of his life. Anna María, a veteran historian who had never abandoned the noble concept of civic responsibility instilled in the intellectuals of her generation, had friends and acquaintances in the Amical de Mauthausen, the association for camp survivors of which Marco had been president, and had been in Mauthausen for the commemoration ceremonies a couple of days before the scandal exploded. She was among the first to hear of Marco’s imposture; she had in fact had dinner with Benito Bermejo, the historian who had just unmasked him. As I remember it, when we talked about Marco in the garden of my house that afternoon, Xavier and I were more baffled than anything; Blanca somewhere between baffled and amused (though on the whole she tried to hide her amusement, perhaps for fear of shocking us); Anna María, simply outraged: over and over she said that Marco was a scoundrel, a compulsive, barefaced liar who had mocked the whole world, but in particular the victims of the most terrible crime in history. At some point, as though she had suddenly become aware of a blindingly obvious fact, Anna María said, her eyes boring into me:

  “So, tell me, why did you organise this dinner? Why are you interested in Marco? You’re not thinking of writing about him?”

  The three point-blank questions caught me off-guard and I didn’t know how to answer; it was Anna María herself who broke the silence.

  “Listen, Javier,” she said, very seriously, “the best thing to do about Marco is forget him. That would be the worst punishment for such a monstrous egotist.” Then she smiled and added: “Let’s stop talking about him.”

  I don’t remember whether we changed the subject (I think so, though only briefly: later Marco made his presence felt again), but I remember that I didn’t dare to publicly admit that Anna María’s intuition was correct, that I was considering writing about Marco; I didn’t even dare to tell the historian that, if I eventually were to write about Marco, it wouldn’t be to talk about him but to try to understand him, to try to understand why he did what he did. A few days later (or perhaps it was the same day) I read something in El País that reminded me of the advice or warning Anna María had given me. It was a letter to the editor from a woman named Teresa Sala, the daughter of one of the Mauthausen deportados and herself a member of the Amical de Mauthausen. It was not the letter of an outraged woman, but rather one who felt devastated and humiliated; her letter said: “I do not think we need to understand the reasons for Señor Marco’s deception…To spend time attempting to justify his behaviour is to disparage and to fail to understand the legacy of those who were deported…From now on, Señor Marco will have to live with his disgrace.”

  It was precisely the opposite of what I thought. I thought that our primary duty was to understand. Obviously, to understand does not mean to excuse or, as Teresa Sala said, to justify; to be more exact: it means the reverse. Thought and art, in my view, attempt to explore who we are, revealing our endless, ambiguous and contradictory variety, and in doing so, mapping out our nature: Shakespeare or Dostoyevsky illuminate every nook and cranny of the moral maze, demonstrate that love can lead to murder or suicide, and succeed in making us feel compassion for psychopaths and bastards. The duty of art (or of thought) consists in showing us the complexity of existence in order to make us more complex, in examining the mechanics of evil so that we may avoid it, and even the mechanics of good, perhaps so we may understand them both. I believed all these things, but Teresa Sala’s letter betrayed a desolation that I found moving; I also remembered that, in If This Is a Man, Primo Levi had written with reference to Auschwitz, or to his experience of Auschwitz, “Perhaps one cannot, what is more one must not, understand what happened, because to understand is almost to justify.” To understand is to justify? was the question I had asked myself years ago when I read this sentence by Levi, one I asked
myself again when I read Teresa Sala’s letter. On the contrary, is it not our duty? Is it not crucial to try to understand the bewildering diversity of the real, from the most noble to the most abject? Or does this universal imperative not apply to the Holocaust? Perhaps I was wrong and there is no need to try to understand terrible evil, still less someone who, like Marco, uses terrible evil to deceive.

  These questions were still nagging at me a week later at another dinner with friends where, as I would remember years later when my psychoanalyst led me to the conclusion that I was an impostor, I was called an impostor. The dinner took place at Mario Vargas Llosa’s house in Madrid. Unlike the dinner at my house, this gathering had not been arranged in order to talk about Marco, but inevitably we did end up talking about him. I say “inevitably” not simply because all those present—there were only four of us, in addition to Vargas Llosa and his wife, Patricia—had been following the case more or less attentively, but also because our host had just published an article in which he ironically paid tribute to Marco’s masterful talents as an impostor and welcomed him to the guild of story-tellers. Since irony is not a strong suit of the holier-than-thou (or since the holier-than-thou jump at any opportunity to be shocked, flaunting their ersatz virtue and attributing ersatz sins to others), various hypocrites had testily responded to Vargas Llosa’s piece, as though he were celebrating the lies of the great impostor in his article, and it is likely that our conversation about Marco over dessert came about because of this pseudo polemic. Whatever the case, we spent some considerable time talking about Marco, about Marco’s lies, about his remarkable talents for fabrication and performance, about Benito Bermejo and the Amical de Mauthausen; I also remember we talked about an article by Claudio Magris, published in the Corriere della Sera, entitled “The Liar Who Tells the Truth” in which he quoted and discussed a number of Vargas Llosa’s observations about Marco. Naturally, I took the opportunity to recount what I had found out about the case thanks to Xavier, Anna María and my sister Blanca, and at some point Vargas Llosa interrupted me.