The following day, the woman didn’t phone. The cellist waited in just in case. The evening passed, and not a word. The cellist slept even worse than he had the night before. On Saturday morning, before setting off to his rehearsal, a mad idea occurred to him, to go and ask around all the hotels in the area to see if they had a female guest with her figure, her smile, her way of moving her hands, but he immediately gave up this crazy project, because it was obvious that he would be dismissed with an air of ill-disguised suspicion and an abrupt We are not authorised to give that information. The rehearsal went reasonably well, he merely played what was there on the page, doing his best not to play too many wrong notes. When it was over, he rushed back home. He was thinking that if she had phoned in his absence, she wouldn’t even have found a miserable answering machine to record her message. I’m not a man born five centuries ago, I’m a troglodyte from the stone age, everyone uses answerphones except me, he muttered. If he needed proof that she hadn’t phoned, the next few hours provided it. In principle, someone who had phoned and got no reply would call again, but the wretched machine remained silent all afternoon, indifferent to the cellist’s ever more desperate looks. All right, so it looks like she won’t get in touch, perhaps for one reason or another she hasn’t had the chance, but she’ll be there at the concert, they’ll come back together in the same taxi, as happened after the last concert, and when they arrive here, he’ll invite her in, and then they can talk calmly, she’ll finally give him the longed-for letter and then they’ll both laugh at the exaggerated words of praise which she, swept away by artistic enthusiasm, had written after the rehearsal where he hadn’t seen her, and he’ll say that he’s certainly no rostropovich, and she’ll say who knows what the future may hold, and when they run out of things to say or when the words start to go one way and their thoughts another, then we’ll see if something happens that will be worth remembering in our old age. It was in this state of mind that the cellist left home, it was this state of mind that carried him to the theatre, with this state of mind that he went on stage and sat down in his usual place. The box was empty. She’s late, he said to himself, she must be just about to arrive, there are still people coming into the theatre. This was true, the late arrivals were taking their seats, apologising for disturbing those already seated, but the woman did not appear. Perhaps in the interval. She still didn’t come. The box remained empty until the end of the performance. Nevertheless, there was a reasonable hope that, having been unable to attend the concert, for reasons she would explain, she’ll be waiting for him outside, at the stage door. She wasn’t there. And since the fate of hopes is always to breed more hopes, which is why, despite so many disappointments, they have not yet died out in the world, she might be waiting for him outside his building with a smile on her lips and the letter in her hand, Here you are, as promised. She wasn’t there either. The cellist went into his apartment like an old-fashioned, first-generation automaton, the sort that had to ask one leg to move in order to move the other one. He pushed away the dog who had come to greet him, put his cello down in the first convenient place and went and lay on his bed. Now will you learn your lesson, you idiot, you’ve behaved like a complete imbecile, you gave the meanings you wanted to words which, in the end, meant something else entirely, meanings that you don’t know and never will know, you believed in smiles that were nothing but deliberate muscular contractions, you forgot that you’re really five hundred years old, even though the years very kindly reminded you of this, and now here you are, washed up, lying on the bed where you were hoping to welcome her, while she’s laughing at the foolish figure you cut and at your ineradicable stupidity. His master’s rebuff forgotten, the dog came over to the bed to console him. He put his front paws on the mattress and pulled himself up to the height of his master’s left hand, which lay there like something futile and vain, and gently rested his head on it. He could have licked it and licked it again, as is the way with ordinary dogs, but nature had, for once, revealed her benevolent side and reserved for him a very special sensitivity, one that allowed him even to invent different gestures to express emotions that are always the same and always unique. The cellist turned towards the dog, and adjusted his position so that his head was only a few inches from the dog’s head, and there they stayed, looking at each other, saying, with no need for words, When I think about it, I have no idea who you are, but that’s not important, what matters is that we care about each other. The cellist’s bitterness gradually ebbed away, the fact is the world is full of such episodes, he waited and she never arrived, she waited and he never came, and just between ourselves, unbelieving sceptics that we are, rather that than a broken leg. This is easy enough to say, but it’s best not to, because words often have very different effects from those intended, so much so that these men and women quite often curse and swear, I hate her, I hate him, then burst into tears when they’ve done so. The cellist sat up in bed, put his arms around the dog, which, in a final gesture of solidarity, had placed his paws on his master’s knees, and said, like someone telling himself off, A little dignity, please, no whingeing. Then, to the dog he said, You must be hungry. Wagging his tail, the dog replied, Yes, I am hungry, I haven’t eaten for hours, and the two went into the kitchen. The cellist didn’t eat, he didn’t feel like it. Besides, the lump in his throat wouldn’t allow him to swallow. Half an hour later, he was back in bed, having taken a pill to help him sleep, not that it did much good. He kept waking and sleeping, waking and sleeping, always with the same obsessive idea that he should be running after sleep to catch it up and thus prevent insomnia from occupying the other side of the bed. He didn’t dream about the woman, but there was a moment when he woke and saw her standing in the middle of the music room, with her hands pressed to her breast.