had been in the review of an opera, on a record or even—which would have meant that he had actually been to see one of my performances—in some theater program ("But, on the other hand, most faces mean nothing to me; and besides, you performers are always so heavily disguised as to be unrecognizable," he said). That forefinger was clearly a threatening gesture, masked only by its fleeting nature; but threats never go unnoticed by those being threatened, especially if when they become aware of the threat they realize (as was my case) that they are in turn threatening the threatener.
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'
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'
Similar Books
