Выбрать главу

B's first thought is to flee. But then he realizes that the only way out, as far as he knows, is past the arbor, so the best escape plan would be to stay in one of the mansion's innumerable rooms and wait for dawn. But maybe it's not A, thinks B, maybe it's the editor of some magazine, or a publisher, or a writer who would like to meet me. Barely conscious of what he is doing, B withdraws from the terrace, picks up a drink, goes down the stairs, and out into the garden. There he lights a cigarette and approaches the arbor, taking his time. When he gets there, he finds it empty, but he is sure he saw someone, so he decides to wait. An hour later, bored and tired, he returns to the house. He asks the few remaining guests, who are wandering about like sleepwalkers or actors in a terribly slow play, where the Countess is, but none of them can give him a coherent answer. A waiter (who could just as well be a guest) tells him that the lady of the house has no doubt retired for the night, as it is past her bedtime; you know what old people like. B nods and thinks, Fair enough, at her age she can't afford to overdo things. Then he says good-bye to the waiter, they shake hands and he walks back to his hotel. It takes him more than two hours to get there.

The next day, instead of catching his flight back to the city where he lives, B spends the morning moving to a cheaper hotel and settling in, as if he intended to spend a long time in the capital, and then devotes the whole afternoon to dialing A's home number. At first, he keeps getting the answering machine. A's voice and the voice of a woman, saying, one after another, in cheerful tones, that they aren't in, but will be back soon, so leave a message, and if it's important, leave a number so they can call back. By the time he has listened to this invitation several times, without leaving a message, B has formed some hypotheses about A and his partner and the mysterious entity they constitute. First, the woman's voice. She is young, much younger than A and B, energetic by the sound of it, determined to carve out her place in As life and make sure that place is respected. Poor fool, thinks B. Then A's voice. Supremely serene, the voice of Cato. This guy is a year younger than me, thinks B, but he sounds fifteen or twenty years older. Finally, the message: Why the joyful tone? Why do they suppose that if it's important the caller is going to stop trying and be content to leave his or her number? Why do they take turns, as if they were reading out a play? To make it clear that two people live there? Or to show the world what a wonderful couple they make? All these questions remain unanswered, of course. But B keeps calling, roughly once every half hour, and finally, at ten that night, trying from a pay phone in a cheap restaurant, he gets through and a woman's voice answers. B is so surprised that at first he doesn't know what to say. Who is it? asks the woman. She asks several times, then remains silent, without hanging up, as if she were giving B time to gather his courage and speak. Then, slowly and thoughtfully (so he imagines), the woman hangs up. Half an hour later, B calls again, from a telephone booth. Again it is the woman who picks up the phone, asks who it is and waits for an answer. I want to see A, says B. He should have said: I want to speak with A. Or at least that is what the woman assumes he meant, and she says so. After a moment of silence, B says sorry, but what he wants is to see A. And who may I say is calling? It's B, says B. The woman hesitates for a few seconds, as if she were wondering who B is, then says, All right, hold on for a moment. Her tone of voice hasn't changed, thinks B, not the slightest hint of fear or aggression. B can hear voices; she must have left the receiver on a table or a chair or hanging from the wall in the kitchen. Although what they are saying is completely unintelligible, he can distinguish the voices of a man and a woman: A and his young partner, thinks B, but then a third voice joins in, a man's voice, much deeper. At first it seems they are engaged in a conversation of such riveting interest that A cannot tear himself away from it, even for a moment. Then B thinks it sounds more like they are arguing. Or trying to reach some agreement on an urgent question that must be settled before A can pick up the phone. And in this suspense or uncertainty someone shouts, maybe A. Suddenly there is silence on the line, as if the woman had sealed B's ears with wax. And then (several five-peseta coins later), quietly, gently, someone hangs up.

B doesn't sleep that night. He plans to call again, but, impelled by superstition, decides to change booths. The next two phones he tries are out of order (surprising how rundown and dirty the capital is) and when he finally finds one that is working and goes to put the coins in the slot, his hands start shaking as if he were having some kind of attack. The sight of his shaking hands distresses him so much he almost bursts into tears. The best thing to do, he thinks sensibly, would be to calm down and collect himself, and for that, what better place than a bar. So he starts walking and after a while, having rejected several bars for various and sometimes contradictory reasons, he enters a small establishment with excessively bright lighting, into which more than thirty people are packed. The atmosphere, as he promptly realizes, is one of unrestrained and noisy camaraderie. He soon finds himself talking to perfect strangers who, in normal circumstances (back home, in his day-to-day life), he would avoid. They are celebrating someone's last night as a bachelor, or the victory a local soccer team. He returns to his hotel at dawn, feeling vaguely ashamed and cursing himself for not having persisted with his calls.

The next day, instead of looking for somewhere to eat (he is not particularly surprised to discover that his appetite has disappeared), B goes into the first phone booth he can find, in a fairly noisy street, and calls A. Once again, the woman answers. He doesn't expect her to recognize him straight away, but she does. A's not in, says the woman, but he wants to see you. And after a silence: We're very sorry about what happened yesterday. What happened yesterday? asks B in all sincerity. We kept you waiting, and then we hung up. I mean, I hung up. A wanted to talk to you, but I didn't think it was a good time. Why not? asks B, who has now cast aside all semblance of discretion. For a number of reasons, says the woman… A hasn't been well lately. When he talks on the phone he tends to get overexcited. He was working and I don't like to interrupt him. She doesn't sound as young as she did before. She is definitely not telling the truth, and not even taking the trouble to come up with convincing lies, plus which she hasn't even mentioned the man with the deep voice. But in spite of all this, B is charmed. She's lying like a spoiled little girl, secure in the knowledge that I will forgive her lies, he thinks. And the way she is protecting A makes her all the more irresistible. How long are you going to be in the city? asks the woman. Just until I see A, then I'll go, says B. Uh-huh, says the woman (sending a shiver down B's spine), then she thinks for a while in silence. During those seconds or minutes B imagines her face. The image is vague but haunting. The best thing would be for you to come tonight, says the woman. Do you have the address? Yes, says B. Good, we'll expect you for dinner at eight. All right, says B in a faltering voice and hangs up.

B spends the rest of the day wandering around like a vagabond or a lunatic. He doesn't visit a single gallery, of course, although he does go into a couple of bookshops, in one of which he buys A's latest book. He finds a spot in a park and sits down to read it. The book is fascinating, although every page is steeped in sadness. He is such a good writer, thinks B. He considers his own work, blemished by satire and rage, and compares it unfavorably to A's. Then he falls asleep in the sun, and when he wakes up the park is full of beggars and junkies who seem, at first glance, to be moving around, but are not, in fact, although to say they are still would also be inaccurate.