of him. With others I did, but not with him. If I learned one thing from him as a lover, it was not to take things too seriously and not to look back.
What he said next sounded like a demand barely disguised as a plea.
‘Please, María, come and see me, it can’t be that difficult. The question I have to ask could possibly wait a day or two more, but I can’t wait, and you know what it’s like with these subjective emergencies, they refuse to be postponed. It would be to your advantage too. Please, come and see me.’
I hesitated a few seconds before replying, just so that it wouldn’t seem quite as easy to him as it usually did; something horrible had happened last time I was there, although he didn’t know that, or perhaps he did. I was in fact burning to see him, to put us to the test, to enjoy looking at his face and his lips again, even go to bed with him, with his former self, who was still there in the new Díaz-Varela, where else would he be? Finally, I said:
‘All right, if you insist. I can’t be sure what time, but I’ll be there. And if you get tired of waiting, phone me and save me the trip. Anyway, I must go now.’
I hung up, switched off my mobile, and returned to my pointless meeting. From then on, I was incapable of paying any attention to the semi-young author who had been recommended to us, and who clearly disapproved of me because that is precisely what he wanted, namely, an audience and lots of attention. I was quite sure of one thing, though: he wasn’t going to be published by us, certainly not if I had anything to do with it.
In the event, I had more than enough time and it wasn’t late at all when I set off for Díaz-Varela’s apartment. So much so, in fact, that I was able to pause along the way to conjecture and hesitate, to take several turns about the block and put off the moment of arrival. I even went into Embassy, that archaic place where ladies and diplomats take afternoon tea, I sat down at a table, ordered a drink and waited. I wasn’t waiting for a specific time – I was merely aware that the longer I delayed things, the more nervous he would get – but waiting, rather, for the minutes to pass and for me to pluck up enough resolve or for my impatience to become sufficiently condensed to make me stand up and take one step and then another and another, until I found myself at his front door agitatedly ringing the bell. But, having decided to meet him and knowing that it was in my power to see him again, neither the necessary determination nor the impatience came. ‘In a while,’ I thought, ‘there’s no hurry, I’ll wait a little longer. He’ll stay there in his apartment, he’s not going to run away or leave. May every second seem long to him, may he count them one by one, may he read a few pages of a book without taking anything in, aimlessly turn the TV on and then off again, grow exasperated, prepare or memorize what he’s going to say to me, may he go out on to the landing every time he hears the lift and be disappointed when it stops before it reaches his floor or goes straight past. What can he possibly want to discuss with me? Those are the words he used, vacuous, meaningless words, a kind of stock phrase which usually conceals something else, the trap one lays for a person so that he or she feels important and, at the same time, curious.’ And after a few more minutes, I thought: ‘Why did I agree? Why didn’t I say No, why don’t I run away from him and hide, or, rather, why don’t I simply report him? Why, even knowing what I know, did I agree to see him, to listen to him if he wants to explain himself, and probably go to bed with him if he suggests doing so with the merest gesture or caress, or even with that prosaic, male tilt of the head in the direction of the bedroom, not even bothering with any flattering, intervening words, being as lazy with his tongue as so many men are.’ I recalled a quote from The Three Musketeers that