His instinctive caution and lacerating inferiority complex kept him from expressing opinions such as this one. What often happened as well was that he had absolutely no opinion at all but was forced to improvise one for fear of looking stupid. He was afraid of saying something wrong or offensive, but more than anything else he was afraid of demonstrating that he wasn’t at the intellectual level of Blanca’s friends.
Her first boyfriend when she was a teenager had been a fledgling singer-songwriter almost as young as she was. She ran into him again many years later, well after marrying Mario, during a Week of Singers and Their Songs that the government of the region of Andalucía was sponsoring in Jaén. When they went backstage to say hello after a performance he’d secretly found pitiful, Mario was initially a little jealous of the way Blanca hugged her former love, but he started calming down when he saw that the teenage hero she often reminisced about was now a guy with a receding hairline that his anachronistic ponytail did nothing to conceal. The popping buttons of his tight shirt, its shoulders liberally sprinkled with dandruff, further enhanced his general air of bewilderment and poor hygiene. The singer told them about a record with lyrics by Jaén poets that the Provincial Council’s cultural department was going to produce for him, and about a possible tour through Nicaragua and Cuba. Blanca never mentioned him again, and Mario struck his name from the imaginary list of potential enemies.
The next few chapters of Blanca’s sentimental biography involved a photographer, a would-be film director, and a professor ten years her senior with a passion for Puccini. Like the successive strata of an archeological excavation, the cultural enthusiasms she clung to long after leaving the lovers who first instilled them in her were what remained to bear witness to the history of her heart: Cartier-Bresson, Turandot, Eric Rohmer. The arts of painting and sculpture had come into her life relatively late in the day. When she met Mario, she was still suffering from the final repercussions of an all-consuming and disastrous relationship with the painter Jaime Naranjo, also known among the more up-to-the-minute or obnoxious of his unconditional adherents as Jimmy N.: the enfant terrible of the local avant-garde who routinely carried off all the province’s official prizes.
Mario had noticed that the previous decade of Blanca’s love life was a lot like the lives of the women whose biographies she collected: Misia Sert, Alma Mahler, Lou Andreas von Salomé. She was even thinking of writing a very long essay about Salomé, and early drafts of it filled some of the notebooks that were carefully aligned on her desk. First in Málaga and Granada, then in Jaén, Blanca had had passionate relationships — though some of them on a purely intellectual level — with men whose erudition and intelligence gave Mario a secret inferiority complex when he heard her talk about them. She’d inspired their desire, but not only that: also songs, poems, paintings, and even, people said, a certain novel that had met with considerable success. She owned its manuscript, personally dedicated to her by the author, and kept it among her own books in a special corner over her work table alongside other manuscripts, volumes of poetry, screenplays, short story collections, and even sheet music, all with inscriptions to her by their authors.
On the living room walls were drawings and engravings signed and dedicated to her, and a poem handwritten in red, green, and yellow ink by the legendary Rafael Alberti — to whom Blanca, who’d spoken to him half a dozen times, referred simply as “Rafael.” In the bedroom, over the headboard, hung a large semiabstract canvas by Naranjo, painted shortly before his breakup with Blanca, and on the opposite wall was a nebulous, yellowing engraving by Fernando Zóbel that had the considerable virtue of putting Mario to sleep. His response to art was often physical, sometimes almost to the point of an allergic reaction: Frida Kahlo, for example, made the roof of his mouth feel as if it were coated with grease, and Antoni Tàpies (fortunately not an object of Blanca’s devotion) inspired a mixture of weary sorrow and heartburn. He forced himself to feign interest nevertheless, and reproached himself bitterly for his lack of sensibility, the random paucity of his reading, the private lethargy and pent-up resistance he often harbored when accompanying her to a concert, a movie, the premiere of a new play, or an art opening where everyone knew everyone else and greeted Blanca effusively and the paintings looked like doodles or tiny insects and all the young people of both genders were uniformly dressed in black and afflicted with a ghostly pallor. Often on such occasions Mario would get the terrifying feeling that he was caught in a trap he would never break out of, a situation that would never end: experimental jazz concerts where the musicians seemed to be wringing out their instruments and the notes lasted for hours that were eternities; art openings with endless rounds of greetings, kisses on both cheeks (between men, even), glasses of lukewarm champagne, ecstatic congratulations, and meaningless gossip; dance performances in which a single musical phrase or given electronic rhythm was repeated ad infinitum and without the slightest variation.
There was never any opera in Jaén, to Mario’s great relief, but once, during one of their exhausting cultural pilgrimages to Madrid (they had to see everything, make the most of every minute of the weekend), Blanca took him to a contemporary opera in a theater that had once been a local cinema, on a beautiful, lively plaza in Lavapiés where Mario would have liked to sit, have a beer, and watch the people go by. But he didn’t dare say so to Blanca, and of course he didn’t like the idea of letting her go into the theater by herself at all. The composer of the opera in question was an individual she’d met in Granada who had introduced her to electronic music and the twelve-tone scale and who had phoned her personally to invite her to the premiere, catapulting her into transports of joy and impatience. When he said hello to her in the lobby of the theater (which was called — to Mario’s greater anxiety — the Center for New Theatrical Tendencies), the composer leaned forward and shamelessly planted a kiss on her mouth while giving her ass a squeeze with his big hairy hands. Even so, what he most resembled, Mario thought, was a Quaker preacher, dressed all in black and not wearing a tie, with a heavy beard but no moustache. But the worst of the ordeal was the opera itself: seemingly devoid of beginning, end, plot, or order, it went on and on, mercilessly, eternally, and just when it seemed about to conclude it would start up again. When it was finally over, Mario — defeated, demolished, and with a throbbing headache — cast a surreptitious glance at his watch while hypocritically joining in the audience’s applause and saw to his amazement that this infinite torture had lasted a mere two hours.