Natalia Manur would listen to me as attentively and compassionately as if she were being told of the misfortunes and privations of some Dickensian child, and she told me later, on more than one occasion, that she was, in part, attracted to me because of those stories and because she could relate her adult fate to that of mine as a child. Soon afterwards, I discovered that her history or past or life shared that same nineteenth-century quality. But, as I have said, prior to the performances of Verdi's Otello at the Teatro de la Zarzuela, what I mainly came to realize was my own unthinking conviction: I wanted to destroy Manur and I had to destroy Berta in order to go on seeing Natalia Manur without impediment of any kind. We were in odor of cruelty. The second act of destruction was easy enough, since it depended entirely on a decision I had already taken: I knew everything about Berta, far more than was necessary. The destruction of Manur, on the other hand, was far more difficult knowing, as I did, almost nothing about him and nothing at all about his weak points, and having seen his manner and glimpsed his smug self-satisfaction, his confidence in himself and in his qualities, it seemed to me impossible to make a fool of him in any direct confrontation, whether dialectical in nature or otherwise. He was clearly stronger and more flexible than I was, as well as more commanding. After thinking it over very quickly in my room one night (the night before the first performance, I remember it well), I realized at once that the only way of putting into effect my improvised or unexpected plans was to invert the order in which I have just listed them: I had only to go on seeing Natalia Manur every day and the destruction of Manur would come about by itself. As for the destruction of Berta, which I did not want, I had, nevertheless, to take it for granted — to put my signature once and for all to a longstanding sentence — and try to ensure that the whole process was as brief as possible and did not interfere with what, from then on, I imagined to be a conquest or a game. But that same night I found myself plunged into doubt as to what method to use. Should I speak openly to Natalia Manur? Declare myself to her in proper operatic fashion, before there was any kind of intimate contact between us? Use Dato as mediator? Or should I try to get her on her own on some propitious occasion — perhaps in my dressing room — and act like a classic — that is, old-fashioned — seducer, at the risk of failing at the first attempt with no possibility of putting things right later on? The fact that I had formulated to myself the nature of my feelings ("I must be in love or under the unknown influence of some powerful fancy to think like this and to feel such desire," I said to myself) suddenly seemed to be a terrible disadvantage that was forcing me to put into action a plan which was more or less premeditated (but which had still not got beyond the meditative stage) and which was forcing me, therefore, to act artificially, instead of letting things continue as they had until then, taking things, not passively exactly, but at least naturally, without forcing or directing anything, in a state of vague, unexpectant waiting. How tiring loving is, I thought. Striving, planning, longing, unable to content oneself with perseverance and immobility. How tiring the real world is, I thought, with its demands to be filled. And how tiring the as-yet-to-be is too. I have had to struggle so hard all my life to fulfill urgent needs: to grow up healthy and sane, to not be the object of other people's mockery, to lose weight, to not give in to my godfather's despotism, to remove myself from his house, to study music, to study singing, to study in Vienna, to leave Madrid, to enter the small, jealous circle of professional singers, to gain respect, to be an international star. So far I have triumphed in everything I have set out to do, and every morning, when I scrutinize myself long and hard in the mirror in order to spot any changes, I feel certain that triumph is written all over my face. I have an agent who looks after me and always tries to get me the best of everything, I travel the world (albeit alone), I make records and my name appears in third or fourth or fifth place on the album covers, I go to luxury hotels like this one (albeit alone), I have enough money and I know that soon I will have much more. I enjoy my profession, I like stepping out onto the stage in costume and transforming myself into many other people, and singing and acting and being applauded for my efforts and reading the ever longer and more glowing reviews in the newspapers of the world's cities. I like the fact that impresarios and journalists from all over the globe call me up to engage me or to interview me in my house in Barcelona. There I live with Berta, whom I may not love, whom I doubtless do not love, as I realized a few months ago during a performance of