Javier Marias - The Man of Feeling

All this happened two years ago. Four years ago, the situation was nowhere near as serious, but even then Hörbiger made a point of sharing the billing with other acclaimed or up-and-coming singers who would themselves pull in the audiences, for he was aware, within his progressive limitations, that he was no longer enough to fill auditoria. The acclaimed singers in Madrid were Volte or Iago and Desdemona or la Priés; I was the promising younger artist. Something promised provokes unease and thus is more attractive than something already given or confirmed, and that is why it was no great surprise that on the day of the premiere of Verdi's Otello in the Teatro de la Zarzuela, of the four main singers, I was the one most sought after by the journalists, although I don't deny that my nationality (which I have still not renounced) had something to do with that and the fact that none of my fellow stars spoke any Spanish. Be that as it may (and I remark upon it only in order to make an observation before I go on), from the moment I woke promptly the next morning, with a hint of cheap, pleasant perfume still lingering either in my memory or in the room, the telephone did not stop ringing. So much so that when it rang for the fourth time, as early as half past nine, while I was shaving before going down to have breakfast in the inevitable company of Dato and Natalia Manur, I was tempted not to pick it up and to ask the exchange not to put any more calls through. But (and this is the observation) in the whole of that dream and in the whole of the prelude to my love story with Natalia Manur (of which the dream almost entirely consisted) there has been and there was a mixture of the intentional and the involuntary, as if all intention needed to do was to peep out, to announce itself, to arise in embryonic form or to put in the briefest of appearances, in order for its barely glimpsed or hinted-at plans or desires to find themselves presented with the very circumstances that would make them possible (or would make possible the persistence of that imminent intention) and which owed nothing to my still only incipient and never-confirmed desire to carry them out. I believe that in those moments, as in so many others in this prelude, there were no real attempts, tricks or efforts or even actions on my part, although I don't know if that exempts me from all responsibility for what happened next and for what is happening now. But something intervened, something which, nevertheless and consequently, could not be called fate or even so-called chance. A hand perhaps. (A tiny hand, an index finger perhaps.) I can only explain it by approximation, as is, moreover, my natural tendency: it was as if I did not have to do anything, I merely had to think of doing it, which is more or less what happens to us when we dream. That is perhaps why this history or past or fragment of life seems more believable now that it has ceased to be only reality and, from today, is now also a dream. Because nothing and no one questions dreams, there's no arguing with them nor do they require justification. Dreams simply tell themselves, in the order in which they happened and with their definitive images, and anything can happen in them, even the non-existence of Natalia Manur: for this morning I did not see her clearly once, she was not a real presence and barely had a voice, and that is how I am describing her to you now, you who cannot see her face, can barely hear her words, just as I myself could not see her face or hear her words, despite the fact that I know both face and words so well. It is possible that this morning she was only a name, Natalia Manur.

I DROPPED THE MIRROR ON THE BED and, Still holding my electric shaver in my other hand, I picked up the phone; and I recognized the voice at once, the same voice that had so easily scared me off the previous night. There was no mistaking his voice, despite his lack of any foreign accent in my language: assured, resonant and rather deep, although more of a true baritone than a bass baritone, if I say more Jokanaan than Wotan, some of you will know what I mean. I did not have time to beat another retreat: I could have hung up after the irritable "Yes?" with which I greeted this farther interruption (Spanish telephones work so badly) and then simply not have answered any second attempt on his part to get through; I could, meanwhile, have sought out Dato or Natalia Manur herself, I could have found out what was going on, prepared myself, allowed myself to be guided by them. But I did not think quickly enough and said "Yes" again, this time affirmatively, in response to that emphatic voice that had appended a question mark to my name.

"It's Hieronimo Manur" — that is how he said his own name, at least in Spanish, with an aspirated "h" but with less stress on the second syllable than there would have been in any Spanish Jeronimo —"Natalia's husband, we met a few days ago, as you will remember. I know that tonight is the first night of your performance and that you must be very busy" — he spoke quickly, admitting of no interpolations, like someone despatching what you might call the formal business at the beginning of a meeting—"but I would like to speak to you as soon as possible. Would you mind if I came to see you in your room in about five minutes?"

In fact I minded very much, a visit from Manur just before a first night or indeed at any other time was definitely not in my plans, but his resolute, naturally authoritarian tones, prevented me from saying so outright.

"Well, actually, I was just getting shaved before going down to breakfast with your wife and Dato, your secretary. Why don't we meet up with them in the dining room? What is it about exactly?" I made the stupid mistake of asking two questions at once because, in such cases, one question, usually the most important one, always remains unanswered.

And Manur (as I think I knew from the very first moment) was an intransigent (a tycoon, a man of ambition, a politician, an exploiter).

"No, I'd rather talk to you alone. If you want to finish shaving, I'll order two breakfasts to be brought to your room for us. What would you like, tea or coffee?"

"Coffee," I replied as automatically as I have always replied to that unvarying question in endless luxury hotels; and with that reply, I suppose, I agreed to receive Manur, for all he said was: "Fine, me too. See you soon then," and he hung up.

Manur did not give me the five minutes he had not so much announced to me as imposed, instead he gave me the ten minutes I so much hoped for.

I wasted at least the first of these minutes listening to the phone ringing vainly in Dato's room. I did not dare to ask for Natalia's room again, because Manur himself would still be there — always assuming that he was giving me the extra time I so craved. After some hesitation, I asked to be put through to the dining room, in the hope that my habitual companions would have already arrived. The person who answered took no fewer than three minutes between putting down the phone and locating Dato, at least that is the amount of time that passed before I heard Dato's voice at the other end.

"Hello," he said. "I've just come down."

"Listen, Dato, Señor Manur has just phoned to say that he wants to talk to me and he's coming to see me here in my room, so I won't be able to have breakfast with you and Natalia. Do you have any idea what he might want?"

There was a brief silence and then Dato said:

"Have you committed some error?" I was troubled more by the frankness of his response than by its actual content, that is, the impertinent words "commit" and "error."

"An error? What do you mean? What kind of error?"

Dato fell silent again, long enough for me to ask impatiently:

"Is Natalia with you?"

"She must be just about to come down. Do you want me to ask her to call you?"