The Man of Feeling by Javier Marías Read Free Book Online

other side, though, he assumes that I will know everything about Natalia, at least everything of importance. And since I don't know that she has any lovers (which, generally speaking, is something one would deem to be a fact of some importance), the only possible conclusion one can draw is that she does not. Because the truth is that, suppositions apart, I only know what she tells me. That is all I can know and all I can be expected to know. Now do you see what I mean?"
    "Not entirely," I said, although I was beginning to understand the confession of duplicity that Dato was offering me. He seemed slightly impatient with my response, but that impatience lasted only a matter of seconds (his mouth suddenly inexpressive and closed, as I had seen him on the train; his inquisitive eyes bulging even more than usual), but his beaming smile soon returned.
    "Are you married?"
    "No," I said at once, and although it was true that, in the eyes of the law, I wasn't married, I immediately thought that I had lied and immediately thought about Berta, who, at the time, four years ago, I had been living with for a year. (Yes, although I prefer not to think about it now, it is true that Berta lived with me for some time: and she was always there waiting for me at home when I got back from my operatic travels, which, as I have said, were already quite frequent.) That is, although I didn't lie, I did lie and, as I said earlier, I cannot help wondering if it did not prove to be a decisive lie. Perhaps not. At any rate, it has mattered little during the last few years or, to be precise, now that I'm not dreaming and my dream has ended, it does not matter very much this morning.
    "You mean you've never been married?"
    "No," I said again, and I suppose I wasn't really lying at all.
    Dato took another sip of his drink and looked across at the mirrors at the back of the bar, and reflected in them he doubtless saw Natalia Manur come in, because he immediately turned to me and said in a low, hurried voice: "(Here she is.) Perhaps that is why you don't understand: dealing with a married couple is like dealing with one very contradictory and forgetful person"; and he took a few steps towards the entrance to the bar to greet that woman whom I had seen deep in tormented sleep a few days before. She hesitated on the threshold, half smiling, as if uncertain (as if her uncertainty was not mere politeness, as if, indeed, that was the uncertainty) whether to regret my presence there, which would prevent her from telling Dato about the supper, or to feel pleased at the possibility of meeting a stranger. Her companion accompanied her to where I was sitting at the bar, suddenly very upright, my glass of hot milk long since empty.
     

 
    W HILE I REHEARSED MY ROLE as Cassio in Verdi's Otello, they were both nearly always there before me, sitting—like the other invited guests—in rows ten or twelve in the stalls, so as not to distract us too much by their presence. Whenever there was a pause and I was listening to the director's advice (pure tokenism really, since, in the end, every singer sings the way he or she thinks best and takes not the least bit of notice), I would look at them, especially at Natalia Manur. I asked myself over and over how they could bear these long, repetitive sessions which I myself would have found tedious if they had not been there, if she had not been there. Moreover, the role of Cassio, although an important one, is not a very large part, and very often they were not listening to me (which had been the initial reason for them coming), but to the great but now ageing Gustav Hörbiger playing Otello or to the ghastly, ambitious Volte playing Iago, or to the pair of them in one of their interminable dialogues. If I had to remain on stage, I would just switch off from what was going on there and gaze, fascinated, at those two accidental devotees who had appeared out of the blue in the city of Madrid. Dato, who clearly had absolutely no