The Man of Feeling by Javier Marías Page B

time they'll be starting to look worn," he said. "The human voice is the most extraordinary and complex of musical instruments, in which, contrary to what most people think, the actual quality of the instrument is far less important than the intelligence—the musical intelligence, I mean—of the person using it," he said. He cast a furtive glance at the nails on one hand), all of which revealed how very difficult it was for him to give real importance to anything. Or perhaps only to Natalia Manur, I thought, for during the precisely twenty minutes he afforded us, he made not the slightest reference to her nor to how she was dressed nor to the delicate glow in her cheeks that day nor to her expression which had grown even more melancholy than usual the moment she spotted Manur in the lobby. He limited himself (but to define it as a limitation might be an attempt at attenuation or a mere inexactitude) to looking at her occasionally with unsettling devotion and to stroking her hand gently but doggedly, a gesture whose very lack of ostentation only made it appear all the more possessive; and she, who formed part of that rambling conversation and who had undergone only the change I have just referred to when she came through the door and saw, advancing towards her, his robust figure crowned by that unequivocally un-Spanish fedora, allowed herself to be touched by that Belgian banker with his rough features and studied manners (a tycoon, a man of ambition, a politician, an exploiter) for precisely twenty minutes. For five or six days, Natalia Manur—despite the married name she had when I met her and with which I will always identify her—had been my companion, and in turn brought along her own innocuous companion, the diligent, indispensable, perfumed Dato. And now, suddenly, despite there having been no misunderstanding between us, despite the fact that the implied promise or idea we had been in the process of becoming had not been denied or suffered a sudden deterioration or been overshadowed by some breach of faith, despite our not having changed city or hotel, there I was, watching her allowing herself to be touched by a charming, bald, moustachioed authoritarian, who, like her, was called Manur. Up until then, Manur's existence had been only a fact, assimilated and filed away; or, if you like, had also been a face, interpreted and forgotten. I remember that when we said goodbye, and all four of us got to our feet, Manur kissed his wife on the corner of her mouth, shot his secretary a sideways glance, and shook my hand for the second time, with a distinct lack of cordiality. Then he raised that threatening forefinger again and repeated my name, to indicate that from now on he would know exactly who I was ("I'll think of you the next time I go to the opera," he said. "Although that might not be for a few years: the truth is that I have very little time to myself." He put on his fedora. He looked at his watch.)
    That was the second of only three occasions on which I saw Manur, although, shortly after that, I took his place, and since then I have not ceased to see him in my dreams, as always happens in cases of supplantation. It was that raised, rather plump forefinger that made me realize that what I wanted above all else was to destroy that man and to continue seeing Natalia Manur every day: not just in Madrid, not just with Dato, not just while I was rehearsing Verdi's Otello in the Teatro de la Zarzuela in what had once been my own city.
     

 
    I HAVE NOT THOUGHT FOR four years. By this I mean that I have not thought about myself, the only mental activity to which I previously used to devote myself. I used to think about myself preferably at night, before I turned over, once I was in bed, turning my back on Berta or on no one, depending on whether I was at home or staying in some luxury hotel room. When I was at home, the last thing I would see just before falling asleep was a wall because Berta preferred to sleep facing