Neophilologus (2014) 98:599–615

DOI 10.1007/s11061-014-9392-6

The Idiosyncratic Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados

de Salamina

Andrew A. Anderson

Published online: 20 April 2014

 Springer Science+Business Media Dordrecht 2014

Abstract One of the key components of Javier Cercas’s novel Soldados de Sa-
lamina (2001) is its unreliable narrator, whose name is also Javier Cercas. This
article proposes that we need to take a closer look at the psychology of this character
as it is delineated in the text, not only because he turns out to be a more complex
individual than is usually recognized, but also because his particular psychology has
a significant bearing on the nature of his narratorial unreliability and how it man-
ifests itself. Several categories of personality traits are identified: self-deprecating;
libidinous/indiscreet; opinionated; superior; punctilious; over-precise; and error-
prone, and then each is illustrated and analyzed in turn. Having established this
psychological profile, of an idiosyncratic, quirky, and inconsistent individual with
several internally contradictory features, we can contrast it with the various pro-
nouncements made by the real Cercas about his fictional self, determine how these
traits interact with the notion of the ‘‘relato real’’ favored by the narrator, and
appreciate how, ultimately, this profile contributes substantially to the sense of
contingency and undecidability that permeate the novel.

Keywords Javier Cercas
Soldados de Salamina
Unreliable narrator

Character
Personality
Undecidability

In approaching Cercas’s (2001) novel, most critics have rightly devoted a good
amount of attention to the first-person narrator in the text, someone who we
eventually discover is called ‘‘Javier Cercas’’ and who is, along with Rafael Sánchez
Mazas and Antonio Miralles, one of the three primary characters in Soldados de

A. A. Anderson (&)
Department of Spanish, Italian and Portuguese, University of Virginia, 115 Wilson Hall,
P.O. Box 400777, Charlottesville, VA 22904-4777, USA
e-mail: aaa8n@virginia.edu

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Salamina. Commentators have dwelt on a variety of issues arising from this

situation, including the metafictional and layered structure of the book, the
confusion of author and narrator, the complexities of fictive autobiographical
narrative,1 the inevitable partiality of the narrator in the task of historical research
and reconstruction, and so on.2 However, in what follows I shall argue that, in their
pursuit of the ‘‘big picture,’’ critics have overlooked or ignored a number of other
features of the narrator’s character, temperament, and style. Some of these simply
serve to endow him with a more developed three-dimensional quality, based on his
undeniably quirky personality, but others, when examined closely, lead us to
conclusions that require a revision—or fine-tuning—of our general estimation of
him and hence, also, serve to problematize his central role in the investigative/quest
articulation of Soldados de Salamina.
In terms of basic biographical details, there are both coincidences and differences
between the ‘‘real’’ Cercas and the person whose voice is heard in the text.3 The
latter’s name is not revealed until three-quarters of the way through the book, during
his initial conversation with Roberto Bolaño (145).4 According to the internal
chronology, the narrator turned 40 during the first half of 1994 (18), whereas Cercas
was born in 1962, making him some 8 years younger. The narrator is recently
divorced (17) and childless (48), while Cercas is (and has remained) married (to
Mercè Mas) and has one son (Raúl). The narrator is a journalist who has taken
5 years off from this profession (1989–94) to try to launch his career as novelist, but
has failed (17); Cercas holds a doctorate in Filologı́a Hispánica (UAB), taught for
2 years at the University of Illinois (1987–1989), took up a position as a Professor
of Spanish Literature at the University of Girona, and—as a side endeavor—has
contributed regularly to El Paı́s for a number of years.
The narrator has published just two books, a collection of short stories, El móvil
(1987) and a novel, El inquilino (1989) (17, 145), and their titles, genre, and dates
match exactly the first two books by the real Cercas. He also laments the ‘‘notoria
indiferencia’’ (17) and ‘‘escasos elogios’’ (146) with which they were greeted, a
characterization that would also serve to describe the critical response to the
corresponding two books by Cercas. On the other hand, in the real world these were
not ‘‘los dos únicos libros’’ (145), because a second novel, El vientre de la ballena
(1997), was in print 2 years before the start of work on the composition of Soldados
de Salamina. The text of a journalistic piece, ‘‘Un secreto esencial,’’ is reproduced
on pp. 24–26, the name of the newspaper is not given, but the date of publication
is—22 February 1999, a date that is correctly identified as the sixtieth anniversary of
Antonio Machado’s death in Collioure (26). The article is essentially identical to
one published by Cercas, with the same title, in the Catalan edition of El Paı́s on 11
1
Although Alberca (2007) situates Soldados de Salamina within the general category of novels
employing the ‘‘pacto ambiguo,’’ he sees Cercas’s next novel, La velocidad de la luz, as a true
‘‘autoficción’’ (pp. 198–201) and places Soldados… in the sub-genre of ‘‘factual fictions’’ (pp. 168–169,
288). In doing so, he overemphasizes, I believe, the historical content and undervalues the importance of
the character of the narrator (p. 202).
2
I have identified some eighty-five articles and chapters concerned with the novel.
3
Cercas talks about some of these (Cercas and Trueba 2003, pp. 11–16).
4
All page references are to the 37th impression (2005) of the 1st edition (2001).

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The Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados de Salamina 601

March 1999.5 Finally, the narrator is the putative author of Soldados de Salamina
(the book we hold in our hands), as is made clear in the very last scene when he
experiences an epiphanic moment and writes (in his mind) the exact opening line of
the novel (17, 209). Likewise, the internal chronology of composition, from summer
1999 to fall 2000, to which there are many references throughout the text, must also
correspond very closely to Cercas’s own, as Soldados de Salamina was first
published in March 2001.
With these data established, we may proceed to consider the various ways in
which the first-person narrator demonstrates a decidedly idiosyncratic personality,
with the goal of providing potential answers to two important questions: how these
perceived traits measure up with the various pronouncements of Javier Cercas the
author about his fictional ‘‘self’’ in Soldados de Salamina, and exactly what kind of
impact the full consideration of the narrator’s idiosyncrasies may have on how we
respond to and interpret the novel. For the purposes of exposition, I have grouped
examples drawn from the text under the following category headings: (1) self-
deprecating; (2) libidinous/indiscreet; (3) opinionated; (4) superior; (5) punctilious;
(6) over-precise; and (7) error-prone.

Self-deprecating

The very first impression we receive of the narrator, forcefully established in the
initial two pages of the text (17–18), is of a self-deprecating individual. Writing
from the vantage point of late 2000, he depicts himself in 1994 in the throes of a
full-blown mid-life crisis: he has just turned 40, after 5 years of effort he has
abandoned his goal of becoming a professional writer, he has slumped into a
depressive state, his father has recently died, his wife has left him, and he is obliged
to return to a poorly-paid and unsatisfying job at the newspaper. He complains about
what he has had to endure, but above all he ironizes on his own plight. His career
never got off the ground, so, strictly speaking, it is hard to talk of abandoning it; the
two books that he published were barely noticed, and he repeatedly jokes that they
sold just one copy (29, 145); he handles his depression by sitting in front of a blank
TV screen for 2 months; and upon rejoining the newspaper, he is assigned to the
catch-all ‘‘culture’’ section, required to cover all manner of duties, and subjected to
mockery from most of his colleagues.
Some of these threads are developed later in the text. Picking up on his self-
judgment, ‘‘no soy un buen escritor, pero tampoco un mal periodista’’ (18), he later
self-ironizes to Bolaño, ‘‘Ya no escribo novelas. […] He descubierto que no tengo
imaginación’’ (151), and when he rejects Bolaño’s solution to invent material, he
concludes that ‘‘(contra lo que yo habı́a creı́do cuando escribı́ mi primer libro), yo
no era un escritor de verdad’’ (170). Likewise, when he discovers the major
structural problems in the account of Sánchez Mazas’s life and career that he has
just completed (mid-February 2000), he experiences a recurrence of the

5
In El Paı́s Cercas’s article opens: ‘‘Acaban de cumplirse 60 años de la muerte de Antonio Machado,’’
whereas Soldados de Salamina gives: ‘‘Se cumplen sesenta años de la muerte de Antonio Machado’’ (24).

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602 A. A. Anderson

psychological funk of 1994 (2 weeks now, instead of 2 months), and he then makes
a second, ignominious return to the newspaper (144–145).
The other major locus of self-deprecation is his relationship with Conchi, a
fortune-teller (professional name: ‘‘Jasmine’’) with a regular spot on local TV. On
the face of it they make a totally mismatched couple, an ‘‘intellectual’’ (as she calls
him, 46) paired with a purveyor of one of the more dubious forms of pop culture. In
the sequence of the narrator’s amorous attachments from his wife to a colleague at
the paper, an employee at Pan’s and Company, and now Conchi (45), there is the
implicit hint of an increasing willingness to compromise in the quest for female
companionship. In addition, part (perhaps a good part) of their dynamic is evidently
based on sex (see below), and his weak attempt to frame the description of her
striking physical appearance with understatement—‘‘su aspecto un tanto llamativo’’
—is totally unsuccessful (‘‘pelo oxigenado, minifalda de cuero, tops ceñidos y
zapatos de aguja’’) (45). Another side to Conchi’s attractiveness may be that she is
practical, capable, cheerful, and refreshingly blunt, and he ‘‘admits’’ that she
intimidates him, something that he suspects he likes (45). More than once he riffs on
how terrified he is to ride in her beat-up Volkswagen (47, 170, 180), simultaneously
mocking his own fears, his over-the-top descriptions, the prehistoric age of the car,
and Conchi’s pedal-to-the metal driving style. His reluctant conclusion is perhaps a
little surprising: ‘‘yo creo que Conchi me gustaba mucho’’ (47). Likewise, he agrees
to spend a fortnight in Cancún with her, and while the stay certainly has its
nightmarish qualities, he still acknowledges that ‘‘mentirı́a si no reconociera que
hacı́a muchos años que no era tan feliz’’ (50). At the same time, more ashamed of
her fashion sense than her profession (or so he claims), he depicts himself as
avoiding being seen in her company (45), and shame also prevents him from telling
Jaume Figueras that he is about to go to Cancún (50).

Libidinous/Indiscreet

With Javier living in Girona and Conchi in the village of Quart, trips in the VW are
inevitable, and these ‘‘entrañaba[n] un riesgo que yo sólo estaba dispuesto a correr
en circunstancias muy excepcionales; éstas debieron de darse a menudo, por lo
menos al principio’’ (47). Although unspoken, the clear implication is that they tend
to have sex at Conchi’s place, and that, especially in the early days of their
relationship, his desire to do so was both frequent and sufficiently strong to
outweigh any automotive fears. Various aspects of their active sex life are described
or insinuated.6 Conchi has a predilection for going commando, engaging in
advanced games of under-the-table footsie, and having sex in public restrooms (69);
while Javier reciprocates the second of these (168), he apparently dislikes the third.
For his part, he recounts in a matter-of-fact tone a quickie in the living room in
Quart—‘‘un revolcón de urgencia en la sala’’ (170)—and then immediately returns

6
Gómez-Vidal (2009) refers in passing to ‘‘des détails croustillants’’ (p. 248). Here and elsewhere (see
below), she is primarily concerned not with the narrator per se but rather the genre of the text and the
novel’s complex and ambiguous treatment of genre.

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The Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados de Salamina 603

to the telephonic search for Miralles while Conchi, still on the floor and almost
naked, discusses the matter with him.

Opinionated

The narrator possesses some strong opinions, and now and again he expresses these
in such forceful or abusive terms that they constitute a distinct salida de tono when
considered in the context of where they appear, in—for example—passages of what
is otherwise historical reconstruction or reasoned argumentation. The first mild taste
of this is to be found in the description of Tejero and his co-conspirators as ‘‘los
golpistas de opereta del 23 de febrero de ese año [1981]’’ (37–38), but mainly
Javier’s comments are directed at Franco, the Franco regime, Falangist ideology,
and Sánchez Mazas.7 In the phrase ‘‘aquel general decimonónico que fue Francisco
Franco’’ (51) the adjective may be understood as a historical judgment or a derisory
one, but there is no doubt as to the narrator’s intent when he later refers to ‘‘el
militarote gordezuelo, afeminado, incompetente, astuto y conservador’’ (86), a
leader who exercised an ‘‘interminable monopolio del poder’’ (131) over ‘‘un simple
gobierno de pı́caros, patanes y meapilas’’ (134–135) in a country marked by ‘‘la
chatura y la mediocridad que el régimen le habı́a impuesto a la vida española’’
(134).
Javier proposes a clear analysis of the phases that Falangist ideology passed
through (before the war, during the war, immediately after, later after), from ‘‘el
temible régimen de poetas y condotieros renacentistas’’ (134) to a ‘‘revolucionaria
ideologı́a de choque ante las urgencias de la guerra’’ (86), to a mere ‘‘ornamento
ideológico’’ (86), and finally to ‘‘un aguachirle gazmoño, previsible y conservador’’
(128). This sequence is summed up, in equally contemptuous terms, as ‘‘unas ideas
y un estilo de vida […] convertidas en la parafernalia cada vez más podrida y
huérfana de significado con la que un puñado de patanes luchó durante cuarenta
años de pesadumbre por justificar su régimen de mierda’’ (86). As for Sánchez
Mazas, who is often treated with an essentially neutral tone, Javier asserts, in the
concluding pages of the biographical portrait, that ‘‘ejerció la traición y la cobardı́a,
y contribuyó como pocos al embrutecimiento que la retórica de Falange hizo de
ellos’’ (138), and also that ‘‘durante un tiempo Sánchez Mazas pagó con el olvido su
brutal responsabilidad en una matanza brutal’’ (140) (cf. Gómez-Vidal 2009,
p. 243).

Superior

Although self-deprecation is, as we have seen, a dominant trait of the narrator, he

has a multi-faceted personality and is also capable at times of striking a note of
superiority or arrogance. Armchair psychologists might well see the phenomenon as

7
There is just one non-political example: Javier’s interview with ‘‘un vomitivo novelista madrileño que
estaba promocionando en la ciudad su última flatulencia’’ (43–44).

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604 A. A. Anderson

two sides of the same coin, a conclusion perhaps bolstered by the fact that the target
of his condescension is, most frequently, also the object of his libidinous desire,
Conchi. Furthermore, this occasionally superior air is not that far distant from the
attitude implied by the harsh, judgmental, and sometimes crude political vocabulary
just reviewed.
Miquel Aguirre is highly instrumental in advancing the course of Javier’s initial
researches, but for some inexplicable reason always seems to be the object of a
certain animus: during their initial encounter the narration dwells on Aguirre’s
appearance—hung-over (or eccentric), three-day beard, ‘‘perilla de malvado’’
(28)—and his manner—an ‘‘inconfundible petulancia de erudito’’ (27), to say
nothing of his eating and drinking habits (see below). A second chance meeting is
even less cordial (44), yet Javier continues to rely on him heavily for information
and advice.
Very shortly after introducing his current girlfriend Javier tells us that Conchi is
‘‘un poco especial’’ (45), and by way of explanation recounts an anecdote, at her
expense, of how she misunderstood the meaning of ‘‘prehistoriador’’ in the street
name, ‘‘Avinguda Lluı́s Pericot. Prehistoriador,’’ where his apartment is located
(46). Although he is convinced that Conchi has never read any of his newspaper
articles (or at best one or two of the shortest), she has constructed a small shrine in
her house where copies of his two published books are displayed, and he imagines
her showing these off to her ‘‘semi-literate’’ friends (46). As for her dating history,
Conchi has recently broken up with an Ecuadorian improbably called Dos-a-Dos
González, whom she had met at a gym. The whole passage artfully blends together
condescension with self-mockery: her lack of education, the plastic-covered books,
the female friends, the brawny ex-boyfriend, on some level all make Javier cringe,
yet this is the person he is now going out with, and for whom he appears to have
some real affection (if it is not just sublimated lust). The Cancún episode reinforces
much the same impressions. The Mexican town represents a quintessentially
‘‘touristy’’ destination (47), and the package holiday that Conchi has booked turns
out to consist, almost exclusively, of forever on-the-go, hotel-based activities (50).8
Once again Javier cringes, yet paradoxically he finds the time, the mental space, to
sort out his thoughts and make the decision to write about Sánchez Mazas.

Punctilious

The narrator of Soldados de Salamina is careful to tell us of the numerous

documentary sources, of various kinds, that he has consulted, and information that
he has culled is rolled into all three sections of the book. Indeed, he incorporates
enough acknowledgements and indications that, with effort and diligence, one could
probably reconstruct a fairly exhaustive bibliography of source materials.

8
In a similar vein, the narrator later describes a ‘‘Price is Right’’-style TV show host thus: ‘‘un
presentador de pelo impoluto y expresión acogedora, desmentida por el rictus despectivo de los labios,
dictaba instrucciones a unos concursantes’’ (182–183).

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The Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados de Salamina 605

His prose is also marked by a distinctive stylistic tic that gestures to (or at least
purports to gesture to) extreme care in the formulation of statements and a
preoccupation with the finer shadings of language. This tic can be so pronounced
that the manner of exposition seems foregrounded over the material being treated
(style over substance), an effect that can produce in the reader a variety of
responses: a sense of thoughtfulness or precision, but also of over-meticulousness or
fussiness (cf. Amago 2006, p. 157).
Examples of this self-reflexive and fastidious mode greet the reader from the very
first page. The narrator tells us three important things and then continues: ‘‘La
verdad es que, de esas tres cosas, las dos primeras son exactas, exactı́simas; no ası́ la
tercera’’ (17). Although the third is not actually untrue, he feels compelled to parse
the statement more precisely: ‘‘En realidad, mi carrera de escritor no habı́a acabado
de arrancar nunca, ası́ que difı́cilmente podı́a abandonarla. Más justo serı́a decir que
la habı́a abandonado apenas iniciada’’ (17). These scrupulous clarifications
proliferate through the opening pages: Javier is able to meet Sánchez Ferlosio
‘‘gracias a un amigo (o más bien a una amiga de ese amigo, que era quien habı́a
organizado la estancia de Ferlosio en la ciudad)’’ (18), but in regard to the
conversation they have, ‘‘llamar a aquello entrevista serı́a excesivo; si lo fue, fue
también la más rara que he hecho en mi vida’’ (18).9
A particular structural device appears quite often in conjunction with these fine
distinctions: after the initial enunciation of two or three concatenated observations,
the narrator returns to elaborate on them or render some judgment, one by one, as
can be seen in the first example in the previous paragraph. Likewise, reflecting on
the early days of the Falange, he makes two statements referring to two related
ideas:
No sé quién dijo que, gane quien gane las guerras, las pierden siempre los
poetas; sé que […] yo habı́a leı́do que […] José Antonio Primo de Rivera […]
habı́a dicho que « a los pueblos no los han movido nunca más que los
poetas » .
and then delivers his assessment: ‘‘La primera afirmación es una estupidez; la
segunda no’’ (51). This iterative pattern occurs throughout the text with sufficient
frequency to draw attention to itself.
Other varieties of discursive punctiliousness are also to be encountered. For
instance, when Javier fails to find, initially, the prison record of Pere Figueras in the
Archivo Histórico in Girona, its absence sets in motion a whole chain of reasoning
that leads him to question everything that he has believed up till now about the
Sánchez Mazas story. Pages 64–65 trace his line of thought in considerable detail,
signposting the logical progression of each step along the way. His conclusions are
false, however, because he has too easily and rapidly accepted the negative result
(the missing file) that sets the whole chain in motion.
There are also convoluted explications, with multiple options, for certain findings
that the narrator seeks to account for. Thus:

9
Gómez-Vidal (2009) also employs the adjectives ‘‘scrupulous’’ and ‘‘meticulous’’ in her character-
ization of the narrator (p. 245).

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606 A. A. Anderson

Las descripciones que los dos memorialistas hacen de aquel Sánchez Mazas
[…] son llamativamente coincidentes, como si les hubiese impresionado tanto
que la memoria hubiera congelado su imagen en una instantánea común (o
como si Laı́n hubiera copiado a Ridruejo; o como si los dos hubieran copiado a
una misma fuente): (41)
Or again:
Me pregunté si esos relatos se ajustarı́an a la realidad de los hechos o si, de
forma acaso inevitable, estarı́an barnizados por esa pátina de medias verdades
y embustes que prestigia siempre un episodio remoto y para sus protagonistas
quizá legendario, de manera que lo que acaso me contarı́an que ocurrió no
serı́a lo que de verdad ocurrió y ni siquiera lo que recordaban que ocurrió, sino
sólo lo que recordaran haber contado otras veces. (62)
However, arguably the most pervasive form of all is what we might call full
disclosure, the overt divulging of internal contradictions and of what operations
have gone into how these have been handled. After interviewing Joaquim Figueras,
Marı́a Ferré, and Daniel Angelets, Javier contrasts their versions of events, and then
explicitly describes what intervention has been necessary in order to make the
storyline cohere:
Las versiones de los tres diferı́an, pero no eran contradictorias, y en más de un
punto se complementaban, ası́ que no resultaba difı́cil recomponer, a partir de
sus testimonios y rellenando a base de lógica y de un poco de imaginación las
lagunas que dejaban, el rompecabezas de la aventura de Sánchez Mazas. (71)
This rhetoric of painstaking openness becomes dominant, logically enough, in
section II—‘‘Soldados de Salamina’’—where the majority of the historical sources
are in play. The following declarations set the tone for the more elaborate
disquisitions that come later:
Su peripecia durante los meses previos a la contienda y durante los tres años
que duró ésta sólo puede intentar reconstruirse a través de testimonios
parciales […] lo que a continuación consigno no es lo que realmente sucedió,
sino lo que parece verosı́mil que sucediera; no ofrezco hechos probados, sino
conjeturas razonables. (89)
A classic instance occurs at one point in Javier’s narration:
Estamos a 29 de noviembre de 1937; las versiones de lo que a continuación
ocurre difieren. Hay quien sostiene que […] Otra versión sostiene que […]
Incluso hay quien afirma que […] Estas dos últimas hipótesis son erróneas;
casi con total certeza, las dos primeras no. (94–95)
This same pattern is mirrored some pages later: ‘‘Las causas del cese no están claras.
Unos alegan que […] Otros aseguran que […] Ni siquiera falta quien, de forma
candorosa o interesada, atribuye […] Todos coinciden en que […]’’ (132–133).

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The Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados de Salamina 607

Over-precise

The flip side of this scrupulous disclosure is a kind of over-precision, an almost

obsessive attention to minute detail, whose purpose or relevance is often not easy to
discern. In addition, this tendency only manifests itself in relation to one specific
topic: food and drink consumed in restaurants, cafés, and bars. In the course of the
lunch with Miquel Aguirre at Le Bistrot, we are told exactly what both of them
ordered from the menu and what they had to drink (28–29, 34), and Aguirre’s eating
style is lingeringly described (30–36), these latter particulars adding substantially to
the tone of condescension already associated with this character.
Although Aguirre is the subject of the most extended treatment of this sort, he is
far from alone. There are drinks with Jaume Figueras at the Núria (52–54), supper
with Conchi at a Greek restaurant (68), breakfast with Bolaño in Blanes (147–148),
lunch with Bolaño at Le Bistrot (150–152), and tea and drinks in the bar of the hotel
Carlemany (152–153, 160–161). The precise observation of foodstuffs even extends
to Marı́a Ferré and Sánchez Mazas. When Mazas first arrives at the Ferré farmhouse
and she feeds him, the narrating voice offers an evocative (and, obviously, entirely
fictional) description of what is on offer that morning: ‘‘Marı́a calentaba el perol de
la noche anterior—donde en un caldo marrón y sustancioso se veı́an flotar lentejas y
buenos trozos de tocino, butifarra y chorizo acompañados de patatas y verdura–,’’
(107). Once he has hungrily devoured the stew, ‘‘Sánchez Mazas rebañó el plato’’
(107)—just as Miquel Aguirre did with his (34).

Error-prone

There are quite a lot of factual inaccuracies or errors in the text. Usually it is
impossible to determine if these are misprints undetected by the proofreaders,
oversights or slips attributable to the authorial Javier Cercas, or whether, more slyly,
they are, as it were, deliberate errors that Cercas makes the narrator commit.
There are various problems of chronology. Javier recollects the information that
Sánchez Ferlosio gave him: his father, Sánchez Mazas, was in Madrid on 18 July
1936, took refuge in the Chilean Embassy, and tried to smuggle himself out of the
city in a truck ‘‘hacia finales del treinta y siete’’ (19). But when this is recounted in
‘‘Un secreto esencial,’’ we read: ‘‘en la embajada de Chile […] pasó gran parte de la
guerra; hacia el final trató de escapar camuflado en un camión’’ (25).10 Given that
this article was originally authored by the real Cercas, and then subsequently
incorporated in Soldados de Salamina and attributed to the narrator Javier, the
discrepancy in the time period involved is odd, to say the least. In section II, the first
version of events reappears: a little time after the military uprising, ‘‘consigue
Sánchez Mazas entrar en la embajada de Chile, donde pasará casi año y medio’’

10
Las armas y las letras is another important source for Cercas: there Trapiello (1994) refers more than
once to just ‘‘un año’’ (pp. 67, 318).

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608 A. A. Anderson

(92); later, after reaching Barcelona, ‘‘lo detienen agentes del SIM. Estamos a 29 de
noviembre de 1937’’ (94).11
Another problematic moment is when Sánchez Mazas makes it back to Barcelona
after the days spent in the woods. With a byline of ‘‘Barcelona 8,’’ a brief report in
ABC of 9 February 1939 (Anon. 1939b) has the first news of him: ‘‘Esta tarde ha
llegado a nuestra ciudad.’’ The same day (9th) La Vanguardia Española ran a long
article by Eugenio Montes, evidently based on a conversation with Sánchez Mazas
the evening of the 8th.12 The narrator rightly alludes to the meeting of the two
friends in Barcelona (41), but wrongly attributes the original composition of the
article to the 14th (the date given by the version reprinted as the ‘‘Pórtico’’). As
noted, this latter version is also ascribed to Burgos (rather than Barcelona), a
geographical detail that filters into a later reference by the narrator to the same
account (60).
Sánchez Mazas’s diary runs up to 7 February, at which point he is still with ‘‘los
tres muchachos’’ (57); we know that nationalist troops entered Banyoles on the
morning of the 8th, (Anon. 1939a) and Sánchez Mazas was in Barcelona by later the
same day.13 This means that the whole chronology mapped out by the narrator over
pp. 123–126 must be incorrect: for instance, the long conversation between Pere
Figueras and Sánchez Mazas is attributed to ‘‘la noche del jueves,’’ but Thursday
was already 9 February. Finally, he gave an important speech in Zaragoza on the
afternoon of 8 April 1939, not the 9th (129), which is when ABC reported on it
(Anon. 1939c).
Other features create different kinds of perplexity. Describing Sánchez Mazas
drifting off to sleep in the middle of the countryside, Javier writes that:
le afloraron a los labios, como un brote incongruente de aquella imprevista
plenitud, unos versos que ni siquiera recordaba haber leı́do:
Do not move
Let the wind speak
That is Paradise (109–110)
The poeticization of the scene is one thing, but anachronism another. The three lines
quoted are by Ezra Pound and have a complex textual history in his Drafts and
Fragments; whatever the designation of the poem to which they belong (‘‘Canto
CXX,’’ ‘‘Notes for CXVII et seq.,’’ etc.), their composition does not date back
earlier than 1959 or their publication earlier than 1969! (Stoicheff 1995, pp. 57,
64–68, 172–173).
11
In point of fact, all these accounts are notably incomplete: Sánchez Mazas was in Madrid’s Cárcel
Modelo as of 8 August 1936 (report in the newspaper Polı́tica of that day, p. 4), but somehow escaped the
fate of his companion, Julio Ruiz de Alda, on 22 August.
12
This text by Montes was later reused (with some substantial cuts) as a ‘‘Pórtico’’ (pp. XIII–XV) for
Sánchez Mazas’s book Fundación, hermandad y destino (1957), where it is dated ‘‘Burgos, 14 de febrero
de 1939.’’ It is possible that the source may have been a newspaper in Burgos that reprinted on the 14th in
a shortened form the article from La Vanguardia Española.
13
Besides the newspaper reports, this date is also attested to by the soundtrack of a newsreel (available
on YouTube) showing Sánchez Mazas recounting his experiences to an enthusiastic audience, footage
that Javier describes consulting in the Filmoteca de Cataluña (42).

123
The Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados de Salamina 609

Javier writes of ‘‘el capitán de aviación Emilio Leucona [sic]’’ (99), which should
be Lecuona. We also hear of Miralles serving in General Leclerc’s column, that was
turned into the 2nd Free French Armored Division and which in turn was
incorporated into the XV Army Corps, commanded by one Maj. Gen. Wade
Hampton Haislip, not the enigmatic ‘‘Hislip [sic]’’ (195) that Javier offers.
Names are most mistreated in the part of the text set in Dijon. Here is a summary
list of errata or misspellings:
Soldados de Salamina correct
Longuic (169) Longvic
Marsannay (169) Marsannay-la-Côte
Fontainemont (171) Fontaine d’Ouche
Kellerman (171) Kellermann
Résidence de Nimphéas (172) Résidence Les Nymphéas
Rue Desvoges (181) Rue Devosge
Place D’Arcy (181) Place Darcy
Arco de Triunfo (181) Porte Guillaume
Route des Daix (182) Route de Daix
Café Central (196) Restaurant le Central Grill
Rue Combotte (203) Rue des Combottes14
In addition, the real Résidence Mutualiste Les Nymphéas is not located at the
intersection of the Route de Daix and the Rue des Combottes, as Javier states (182,
203), but rather at the intersection of the Rue des Combottes with the Rue de la
Confrérie, a little distance from the Route de Daix (with which Combottes does not
intersect) and also from the Chemin de Daix (with which Combottes does intersect).
To return now to the questions posed at the beginning, Cercas has established,
through a variety of interviews and articles, a consistent position vis-à-vis the
narrator of Soldados de Salamina. He explains that his thinking on the subject dates
from the time of the ‘‘crónicas’’ (1997–1999) that he was writing for El Paı́s:
‘‘Escribı́a en el periódico historias y todo el mundo creı́a que eran de verdad, que me
habı́an pasado porque firmaba Javier Cercas. Pero no, porque escribir es fabricarse
una identidad’’ (Cercas 2002). Elaborating on the relationship between the author
and the textual voice, he asserts that this ‘‘I’’ is a mask, an identity that the writer
creates for himself (as demonstrated in the Latin meaning of persona). Invoking a
notion similar to that famously formulated by Oscar Wilde (‘‘Man is least himself
when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth’’),
Cercas states that masks conceal, but also reveal: one needs to lie in order to gain
access to the truth.15
In the face of considerable critical and readerly confusion over Soldados de
Salamina, Cercas has repeated more than once that he is not the ‘‘Javier Cercas’’ in

14
Orsini-Saillet (2003) points out a few of these instances (p. 254 n14).
15
Summarized from ‘‘Prólogo’’ and ‘‘Solas’’ in Cercas (2000, pp. 7–8, 197), cf. Cercas and Trueba
(2003, pp. 18–19).

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610 A. A. Anderson

the text and that one needs to be very wary of the narrator and his explanation of the
undertaking in which he is engaged.16 These reflections are developed most fully in
the Quimera article of 2005 (‘‘Relatos reales’’). Here Cercas explicitly cites the
concept of the ‘‘unreliable narrator’’ from Wayne Booth’s The Rhetoric of Fiction
and pithily concludes: ‘‘a fin de cuentas, todo narrador, y en particular si es un
narrador en primera persona, es siempre unreliable’’ (p. 93).
Certainly, in Soldados de Salamina the warning signs are there from the very
start, when Javier, after listing those three recent and important events in his life,
immediately follows them up with the bald statement: ‘‘Miento’’ (17). He is
apparently quite prone to mendacity, and is also quite open (sincerely?, disarm-
ingly?, disingenuously?, deceptively?) about the fact: ‘‘–Puede ser –mentı́–. Todavı́a
no lo sé’’ (53); ‘‘–Todavı́a no sé lo que haré –volvı́ a mentir’’ (55); ‘‘–No sé si lo
escribió –mentı́–’’ (74); ‘‘mentı́: le dije que no podı́a […]; volvı́ a mentir: le dije que
lo harı́a muy pronto’’ (150); ‘‘–Por nada –dije./Pero no era verdad’’ (164).17 He
remembers well enough all the circumstances surrounding the interview/conversa-
tion with Sánchez Ferlosio (18), and he also remembers (or claims to remember)
what Ferlosio recounted about his father (19), but in the midst of all this Javier
declares: ‘‘No recuerdo quién ni cómo sacó a colación el nombre de Rafael Sánchez
Mazas’’ (19). The composition and status of the resulting text are also left curiously
up in the air: ‘‘En cuanto a la entrevista con Ferlosio, conseguı́ finalmente salvarla, o
quizás es que me la inventé’’ (21).
Fulfilling Cercas’s axiom, then, Javier can be seen as a fairly typical unreliable
narrator: he has his own point of view, he is fallible, he may misrepresent or
mislead, and so we should not accept unquestioningly anything that he tells us
(about himself, other people, history, politics, etc.). But there is more to him than
just an a priori narratorial unreliability, stemming from his subjectivity, the tricks of
memory, and the slipperiness of language, because in Soldados de Salamina—as is
the case with most memorable unreliable narrators—the discursive/rhetorical and
the psychological are inextricably entwined. Given that Javier is possessed of a rich
and nuanced psychological profile, his personality traits—and flaws—have a major
impact on what he narrates and how he narrates it.
The basic details of Javier’s current situation are all quite clear: we know his age,
where he lives, his personal, marital, and family status, and so on. His ambition in
life is to be a novelist: we are not told when, or why, he first embraced this goal, but
it is one that he had apparently worked towards for a number of years and one for
which he was willing to make considerable sacrifices. However, what he has to
show for all this are a collection of short stories and a novel that were hardly
noticed, and three unfinished novels (17). Consequently, he gives up, resigning
himself to a job—journalism—that evidently does not provide him with much
satisfaction. He comes across the story of Sánchez Mazas, forgets it, 5 years later is
reminded of it (23), and as he delves deeper into the topic it becomes ever more
consuming. While in Cancún, ‘‘tuve tiempo […] de comprender que el personaje y
su historia se habı́an convertido con el tiempo en una de esas obsesiones que

16
Cercas (2002, 2005, p. 93), cf. Cercas and Trueba (2003, pp. 90–91).
17
Epimenides’s Cretan Paradox may be relevant here.

123
The Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados de Salamina 611

constituyen el combustible indispensable de la escritura’’ (50). The subject is so

appealing to him not only because it is compelling (reawakening his writerly drive),
but also because, being historical, it lends itself to treatment not in novelistic form
(something at which he has decided he is no good) but rather as the hybrid ‘‘relato
real’’ (for which a powerful imagination—something that he claims to have
discovered that he lacks—is not a prerequisite) (Ellis 2005, pp. 517–518).
The primary impression given by the combination of features of Javier’s
personality, as analyzed above, is one of inconsistency or internal contradiction: his
nature and behavior seem to be perpetually shifting and unpredictable. Quite often
he appears to have low self-esteem, but on other occasions is haughty; he can make
strenuous efforts to be even-handed but at other times is extremely opinionated; he
calls attention to what would appear to be a meticulous approach to sources and
argumentation, yet this is balanced by curiously self-indulgent and unnecessary
over-precision and also by a certain propensity to factual imprecision or error. For
all the emplottedness of his narrative, tracking the succession of leads and
informants (from Sánchez Ferlosio to Miquel Aguirre, to Andrés Trapiello, and so
on, through sections I and III), there are asides and minutiae woven into it that have
no bearing on the investigation, as if he suffered from a kind of lack of discursive
self-control, when he seems compelled to share some tangential data or to blurt out
something inappropriate,18 culminating in the stream of emotions poured out in the
last pages (206–209). Sometimes he is boastful, unable to resist the temptation of
describing his active and variegated sex life, but at others there is a very different
tone, of ingratiation or captatio benevolentiae: the less flattering things about
himself that he reveals are, one presumes, also a rhetorical device for getting on the
right side of the reader, drawing the reader in. He is obviously flawed as a person (as
he is, too, as a narrator), but this also serves to humanize him, to make him more
approachable and, perhaps, more likeable.
As a writer, Javier is engaged in a double task: producing a kind of personal
memoir that traces the sequence of inspiration, research, composition, further
research, and further composition, and producing ‘‘una suerte de biografı́a de
Sánchez Mazas’’ (143) that, Russian doll-like, is embedded within the surrounding
memoir text. Javier is, then, an autobiographer of sorts, focusing primarily on a span
of \2 years (1999–2000) and, in the last pages, more on Miralles than himself, and
at the same time an amateur biographer and historian, a role that connects with his
work at the newspaper and specifically with the genre of investigative journalism
(Gómez-Vidal 2009, p. 247).
Within the overall imaginative scheme of the book (where fiction masquerades as
fact), the whole text that Javier has purportedly composed is a ‘‘relato real’’
(sections I and III) that is the account of the writing of another ‘‘relato real’’
(reproduced in section II). The notion is first suggested to him by Aguirre: ‘‘Me
gustó [el artı́culo] porque era como un relato concentrado, sólo que con personajes y
situaciones reales… Como un relato real’’ (37), and later developed on his own:
‘‘decidı́ […] que el libro que iba a escribir no serı́a una novela, sino sólo un relato

18
Of course, this is only an effect of the first-person narration, as Javier is not actually speaking
impromptu but rather writing (with the possibility of revision).

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612 A. A. Anderson

real, un relato cosido a la realidad, amasado con hechos y personajes reales’’ (52).
But the conditions of possibility for the existence of such a hybrid genre are in
doubt. He tells a story (more than one: his own, Sánchez Mazas’s, Miralles’s,
Bolaño’s), and they are based, to a greater or lesser degree, on fact (Javier Cercas,
Rafael Sánchez Mazas, Enric Miralles,19 Roberto Bolaño), but does his account
merit the adjective ‘‘real’’? He acknowledges that section II only offers ‘‘lo que
parece verosı́mil que sucediera,’’ composed of ‘‘conjeturas razonables’’ (89). It is
patently clear that almost all the small details (that make it read more like a story
than history) are actually invented: there is absolutely no way to determine what
Marı́a Ferré gave to Sánchez Mazas to eat, and if it was a stew, no way to determine
its ingredients. In addition, as Cercas himself points out, ‘‘cuando en Soldados de
Salamina se lee una y otra vez que aquello es un relato real, es sólo el narrador
quien lo afirma,’’ and he goes on to explain:
el narrador de mi novela sostiene que se trata de un relato real. Pero el relato
real es imposible porque existe un punto de vista, porque al contar siempre
existe una selección. El relato real es imposible porque en la medida en que
uno escribe está haciendo ficción. Siempre.20
The idiosyncratic, inconsistent, partially contradictory, and—of course—unreli-
able nature of Javier the character and narrator resonates with several unanswered (and
unanswerable) questions and unknown (and unknowable) facts that are littered
through the text: what did José and Manuel Machado say to each other in Collioure?,
what went through the soldier’s mind when he looked at Sánchez Mazas and why did
he spare him?, what did Pere Figueras and Sánchez Mazas talk about while they sat
propped against a tree trunk?, is Miralles telling Javier the truth and what does he say as
the taxi pulls away? Above all (perhaps), what is Javier driving at when he links
solving one of these mysteries with glimpsing or attaining a more fundamental truth?:
‘‘si consiguiéramos desvelar uno de esos dos secretos paralelos, quizá rozarı́amos
también un secreto mucho más esencial’’ (26); ‘‘tal vez [yo] comprenderı́a por fin un
secreto esencial’’ (180). Needless the say, such an ‘‘essential secret’’ is, at best,
completely inaccessible, and in all likelihood non-existent.
In the course of his researches (recounted in section I), Javier describes his first
visit to the Santuario del Collell. He is shown round by mossén Joan Prats, ‘‘quien
me dio las indicaciones precisas para llegar al lugar en que se produjo el
fusilamiento’’ (70). He continues:
Siguiéndolas, salı́ del santuario por la carretera de acceso, llegué hasta una
cruz de piedra que conmemoraba la masacre, doblé a la izquierda por un
sendero que serpenteaba entre pinos y desemboqué en el claro. (70)
In section II, the relevant moment in the biographical/historical narration is based, at
least in part, on the earlier field trip:
19
For details on the real Miralles, see Anon. (2013).
20
Cercas (2002, 2005, p. 93), cf. also Cercas and Trueba (2003, pp. 89–90). Gómez Trueba (2009)
observes that at crucial junctures in his ‘‘relato real’’ the narrator also has recourse to a highly poetic
language that is completely at odds with his ‘‘historical’’ agenda (pp. 72–73).

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The Narrator in Javier Cercas’s Soldados de Salamina 613

…[e]l monasterio. A unos ciento cincuenta metros de éste, el grupo [de

presos] dobla a la izquierda, abandona la carretera y se interna en el bosque
por un sendero ascendente de tierra caliza que desemboca en un claro: una alta
explanada rodeada de pinos. (101)
Cercas has evoked his own visits to the site on at least two occasions: in Diálogos
de Salamina (2003), under the heading ‘‘Un pastor providencial’’ (pp. 70–80), and
in a piece—entitled ‘‘Mal sı́ntoma’’—for the ‘‘Palos de ciego’’ column of El Paı́s
Semanal (December 2012). He recalls that his first visit was in 1999, when he was
accompanied by his colleague Josep Maria Nadal. They explore the building
together and then:
buscamos el paraje en el que, según mis noticias, habı́a tenido lugar la
masacre. Creı́ encontrarlo 150 metros más allá, en una explanada donde morı́a
un camino de montaña y donde no habı́a absolutamente nada, ni el menor
recuerdo de las 48 personas muertas allı́. (Cercas 2012)
In 2002, after the publication of the novel and during the preparations for the making of
the movie, Cercas returns with David Trueba: ‘‘[JC] >Recuerdas que te llevé al Collell
por primera vez y te enseñé un claro del bosque donde creı́a que habı́a tenido lugar el
fusilamiento?’’ (Cercas and Trueba 2003, p. 70); ‘‘le mostré [a Trueba] la explanada
del fusilamiento’’ (Cercas 2012). Days later, Cercas and Trueba, now in Paris together,
receive a phone call from Cristina Huete (a producer) who had been scouting filming
locations with Jessica Berman (the production director):
DT: […] [ellas] salen del Collell y suben por la carretera siguiendo nuestras
indicaciones, en busca del prado del fusilamiento. […] está cayendo la tarde
y, de pronto, por la carretera, sube un señor de sesenta y pico años […] les
dice ‘‘por supuesto que sé dónde está, a ciento cincuenta metros, aquı́ abajo’’
[…] con una rama les desbroza un camino cubierto de hierbas y ramajes…
JC: Hacı́a mucho tiempo que nadie entraba por ese sendero, ası́ que estaba cegado
por las hierbas
DT: Por eso tú no lo encontraste y te equivocaste de sitio. Pero el pastor las guı́a
por el sendero y, de pronto, dan con un claro en el bosque; en medio, una
enorme cruz de piedra y en su base el nombre de los cuarenta y ocho
fusilados. (Cercas and Trueba 2003, pp. 71–73)
In ‘‘Mal sı́ntoma’’ the description is briefer but contains exactly the same details:
‘‘anochecer,’’ ‘‘un camino cegado de hierbajos,’’ ‘‘un claro del bosque,’’ ‘‘una
imponente cruz de piedra’’.
‘‘El pastor providencial’’ begins with Cercas acknowledging that he had
originally been mistaken, and ‘‘Mal sı́ntoma’’ closes similarly (‘‘yo habı́a cometido
un error’’), but there is something confounding here. In the novel Javier turns off the
road at a point 150 meters from el Collell marked by ‘‘una cruz de piedra’’ and then
takes a path that leads to a clearing. In 1999 Cercas finds ‘‘una explanada’’ at the end
of a path, 150 meters distant. In 2002 Cercas shows Trueba ‘‘la explanada’’ or ‘‘un
claro del bosque.’’ Days later, Huete and Berman encounter the shepherd on the
road and he guides them to the site, 150 meters from where they currently are; on

123
614 A. A. Anderson

arriving at the clearing they find the imposing stone cross. How does Javier come to
specify precisely the same distance as that stipulated by the shepherd (from el
Collell to the turn, or from the turn to the clearing)? What is this cross mentioned by
Javier that marks the turn and commemorates the event, when Cercas in 1999 and in
2002 finds ‘‘absolutely nothing’’ and Trueba’s two colleagues need to be led to the
clearing with the cross? Cercas’s memory may be playing tricks on him or, just as
he warns us with regard to the ‘‘crónicas’’ in Relatos reales (2000), perhaps we
should not take at face value the seemingly factual statements made by him in these
more recent interviews and articles. Whatever the case, this aporia serves rather well
as a pendant to the pervasive contingency and undecidability to be found in
Soldados de Salamina, qualities that, in part, are attributable to the many
idiosyncrasies of its narrator, one Javier Cercas.

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Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without
permission.