The three of us were coming into the hotel as he was going out, but he decided to retrace his steps and even suggested having an aperitif with us in one of the reception rooms ("I have precisely twenty minutes before my luncheon appointment," he said. He had removed his fedora. He looked at his watch). He spoke irritatingly perfect Spanish, with barely a trace of an accent and devoid of any syntactical or grammatical errors (although he did perhaps say "yo" too much). Now and then he stammered over a word, seeking confirmation, but he gave the impression that this was just a childish form of coquetry that merely emphasized the difficulty of the achievement and which is a ploy often used by those who set out to impress. He did not translate from his language or languages ("I'm Flemish and I learned French as I learned Spanish, only when I was much younger, of course; I'm used to learning," he said. He rejected with a glance one of my cigarettes, and took one of his own). He thought in my language as quickly or more quickly than I. He was pedantic, correct, sententious — possibly unintentionally. He sat down on a sofa, beside his wife, and I remained — stiff and uncertain, hoping that he would be with us for precisely twenty minutes and no more — in an armchair next to him. While he addressed himself mainly to me in my condition as novelty (as one does with foreigners, although he was, in fact, the foreigner), he stroked Natalia Manur's left hand with his right hand. Sitting together like that (how was it possible that I hadn't realized this in the train, I thought during those precisely twenty minutes, and I kept thinking this morning in my dream) it was patently obvious that they were married and had been for a long time. Manur, the Belgian banker, was one of those people, and there are many like him among those who invite me to sing (that is, among impresarios), who mitigate their intrinsic coldness with a perfect knowledge of the formal details that can transform a proud, unfeeling individual into someone attentive and seductive. It was not just that it occurred to him to order the slightly exotic drink for which everyone else immediately opted too (it was, I think, Natalia Manur who blurted out: "Oh, what a good idea") nor that his movements revealed not only the absorbing activity from which he had just emerged and which still awaited him, but also the spirit of insouciance that he had resolved to allot to that precise period of twenty minutes, nor that his smile, calculated to the millimetre, varied depending on whether he was raising his glass to Dato (just enough of a smile to be polite and magnanimous, just enough to underscore his position), to Natalia Manur (just enough of a smile to be ardent and masterful, just enough to underscore her position) or to me (just enough of a smile to be admiring, distrustful and paternal, just enough to underscore my position as clown). It was above all his skill in giving importance to everything that was mentioned in his presence and that was going on around him ("What a useless waiter, doesn't he know that one should pick up a glass by the stem not the bowl," he said; "That's a very bold tie you're wearing, Dato, tell me where you bought it," he said. He speared a pitted olive and ate it. "You might not think so now, but it's time they had these sofas reupholstered: you'll see, in a couple of months' time they'll be starting to look worn," he said. "The human voice is the most extraordinary and complex of musical instruments, in which, contrary to what most people think, the actual quality of the instrument is far less important than the intelligence — the musical intelligence, I mean — of the person using it," he said. He cast a furtive glance at the nails on one hand), all of which revealed how very difficult it was for him to give real importance to anything. Or perhaps only to Natalia Manur, I thought, for during the precisely twenty minutes he afforded us, he made not the slightest reference to her nor to how she was dressed nor to the delicate glow in her cheeks that day nor to her expression which had grown even more melancholy than usual the moment she spotted Manur in the lobby. He limited himself (but to define it as a limitation might be an attempt at attenuation or a mere inexactitude) to looking at her occasionally with unsettling devotion and to stroking her hand gently but doggedly, a gesture whose very lack of ostentation only made it appear all the more possessive; and she, who formed part of that rambling conversation and who had undergone only the change I have just referred to when she came through the door and saw, advancing towards her, his robust figure crowned by that unequivocally un-Spanish fedora, allowed herself to be touched by that Belgian banker with his rough features and studied manners (a tycoon, a man of ambition, a politician, an exploiter) for precisely twenty minutes. For five or six days, Natalia Manur — despite the married name she had when I met her and with which I will always identify her — had been
my companion, and in turn brought along her own innocuous companion, the diligent, indispensable, perfumed Dato. And now, suddenly, despite there having been no misunderstanding between us, despite the fact that the implied promise or idea we had been in the process of becoming had not been denied or suffered a sudden deterioration or been overshadowed by some breach of faith, despite our not having changed city or hotel, there I was, watching her allowing herself to be touched by a charming, bald, moustachioed authoritarian, who, like her, was called Manur. Up until then, Manur's existence had been only a fact, assimilated and filed away; or, if you like, had also been a face, interpreted and forgotten. I remember that when we said goodbye, and all four of us got to our feet, Manur kissed his wife on the corner of her mouth, shot his secretary a sideways glance, and shook my hand for the second time, with a distinct lack of cordiality. Then he raised that threatening forefinger again and repeated my name, to indicate that from now on he would know exactly who I was ("I'll think of you the next time I go to the opera," he said. "Although that might not be for a few years: the truth is that I have very little time to myself." He put on his fedora. He looked at his watch.)