All Souls by Javier Marías Read Free Book Online Page A

Halliwell with satisfaction.
    "How interesting . . . fancy that," I replied. "And why a tax on cider alone?"
    "You're surprised, aren't you?" said Halliwell gleefully, and proceeded to explain in minute detail the causes and characteristics of that unusual tax about which I couldn't have cared less.
    "How fascinating," I said, "do go on."
    Fortunately, in a language not one's own, it's easy to make a pretence at listening and, by pure intuition, to agree or enthuse or now and again make some (obsequious) comment, which was what I did during the endless seven-minute periods with Halliwell that were my allotted span after my five minutes of conversation with Cromer-Blake. While this promising young economist spouted endlessly on about cider without even having the delicacy to ask me one single question about me, I was able to devote myself, despite my increasingly drunken state (though I'm fortunate in that nothing in my conduct or external appearance ever betrays my progressive drunkenness), to observing the other guests, with whom any direct contact was forbidden until dessert was served, and, during my designated periods of talk with Cromer-Blake, either to interrogating him about the other guests or avenging myself on the young economist Halliwell by fulminating against him (in Spanish). I should say that, just as Clare was observing me out of the corner of her eye with mingled mockery and pity, I took great pleasure in observing her and, later, as the general deterioration of manners at the table became more marked, my gaze became one of open sexual admiration. She was one of only five women at the supper, and one of only two aged under fifty. She was also the only one to reveal beneath her black gown a tasteful glimpse of décolletage but, for the moment, I'll say no more than that, since, having been the lady's lover for a certain time, it would seem boastful now to enumerate her charms. The rest of the table was occupied by gentlemen all but one of whom wore gowns, and the Warden that night was Lord Rymer, a notorious intriguer in the cities of London, Oxford, Brussels, Strasbourg and Geneva. I was separated from him by two other guests, and Clare, on the other side of the table, by only one.
    As is well known, the English never look openly at anything, or they look in such a veiled, indifferent way that one can never be sure that someone is actually looking at what they appear to be looking at, such is their ability to lend an opaque glaze to the most ordinary of glances. That's why the way Continentals look at people (the way I do, for example) can cause great unease in the object of their gaze, and that applies even when the gaze in question would be classified, within the range of possible Spanish or Continental gazes, as indifferent, dispassionate, even respectful. That's why, too, it can be shocking when the veil usually covering the insular or English gaze is torn away and why it might even provoke a dispute or an argument were it not for the fact that the eyes of those likely to see that gaze stripped of its veil still wear theirs, and therefore fail to see whatto unclouded eyes (to Continental eyes, for example) would be obvious and possibly even insulting. Although during my two years there I did learn - at will - to veil my gaze somewhat, I was not at first trained in self-censorship, and at those unforgettable suppers my one recourse against hunger and tedium — apart from the wine: red, rosé and white - was, as I have explained, to look about me even more intently and devote myself to observing the other guests. Anyway, if my gaze (as I myself noticed) was, after a certain point, full of sexual admiration for Clare, that of the Warden, right from the first Latin phrase and gavel blow, was one of unbridled and undisguised lust. But just as the immodesty of my gaze was cancelled out by the modesty of other people's when they looked at me (this included that of the Warden, who put on the customary insular