AND IT IS ALL OF THIS, WHAT happened four years ago in reality and in this morning’s true and ordered dream, which I am still able to recall and which I cannot now stop myself recalling, because not enough time has passed as yet. What else happened? Or what else did I dream, as the dream grows more distant and more diffuse as I write? Ah, yes, I dreamed that I was kissing Natalia Manur for the first time, almost without knowing I was, in that other (non-luxury) hotel room to which we went on the afternoon following the first night of Verdi’s Otello in the Teatro de la Zarzuela, when Manur’s prohibition order was already in force and when Manur had already been abandoned by Natalia, although he did not know it then. Nor did I: most of the time one does not know when one has been taken up and when one has been abandoned, not just because this always happens behind one’s back, but because it is impossible to pinpoint the moment when such upheavals happen, just as one never knows if the fact of being taken up has to do with one’s own merits or virtues, one’s own unrepeatable existence, one’s own decisive intervention or, rather, merely to one’s casual insertion into another person’s life. I have never had any real sense, in all this time (in the interval between exclaiming “Now is my time!” and saying “Our time is over!”—the interval taken up by these last four years), of having played a personal, unequivocal, vital part in Natalia Manur’s decision—after fifteen years of acceptance of and submission to an enforced situation, after fifteen years of a coexistence built on routine, on certain agreed conditions, on an economic pact, on a fear of reprisals and on the abolition of her previous life, on waiting and perhaps, too, on a mutual love that went unrecognized, in every sense of the word—to put an end to that situation and to that coexistence one afternoon in the middle of May and to go on to create a substitute based on far less solid and binding things: freedom of choice, a persuasive argument, the adulation of love, a few ardent kisses, defiance, expectation and perhaps, too, a passion as recognizable as it was primitive. I don’t know if the determining factor was that I was the fifth or tenth or fifteenth of the suitors who had been tyrannically and abusively driven away by her husband (the suitor whom it was ordained would provoke a cry of “Enough!”) or if it was the absence from Madrid of Roberto Monte—experienced for the first time—that made her lose all patience and forget all about her fears for her brother and for herself and to perceive what remained of her future as blacker now than she had ever known it when she still had so much future left: five, ten or even fifteen more years, since the beginning of her marriage. I only know that at the end of the long-awaited first night of Verdi’s Otello, and contrary to what Manur himself had said, neither he nor she nor Dato came to my dressing-room to congratulate me and later celebrate my success with me. Claudina the prostitute did not come either, or her sponsor, Céspedes: they were, after all, some of the very few people whom I knew in Madrid at the time, even though it had been the city of my adolescence, but, as I have said, I neglected, alas, to invite them. As I have also said, my godfather, Señor Casaldáliga, to whom I sent two tickets by motorcycle messenger, did not come either. I gave the rest of my quota to the Heldentenor Otello, who—for he was still pretending to possible rivals that everything was perfectly normal—had asked me more than once if, by any chance, I had tickets to spare, so numerous were his social commitments. No one knocked at my dressing-room door, that is, no one who should have knocked as opposed to those who knocked spontaneously, and I was not, therefore, able to spend that night with the people who had—one might say—unceasingly kept me company in Madrid. When it was confirmed to me that everyone in the audience had left the theater, I found myself dragged off by my colleagues and by the impresarios (always eager to be seen with the stars, and I was on my way to becoming a star) to a late supper in a noisy restaurant and then to one of those tumultuous café terraces where, as soon as the good weather arrives, the natives of Madrid love to linger after one of their many walks. My most vivid memory of that evening is the continual passing—as happens anywhere in Madrid and at any time after sunset—of the scrupulous garbage trucks: every few moments, a terrible racket and the stink of rubbish would ruin both one’s conversation and the taste of one’s drink. I think now that I only put up with being in those places and with those people for so long because it comforted me not to know what had happened between the Manurs (that blissful state of uncertainty) and because I was afraid I would find out if I went back to the hotel, where, perhaps, I might be told what I already suspected and what I definitely did not want to hear: that they had vanished without trace. It was a ghastly night. Desdemona or the lovely Priés had brought with her the clumsy and ill-favored (Spanish) first violin from the orchestra and—doubtless feeling bolder and more empowered after her clamorous triumph on stage—she brazenly showered him with wet kisses and absentmindedly stroked his hairy chest. Fortunately, Iago or the fatuous Volte, left fairly early, because, although the next day was one of complete rest, he was hoping to spend the morning perfecting (that’s the word he used—“perfezionare”) certain aspects of his interpretation; however, before leaving, he pontificated for ten minutes on the limitations of my performance. Otello or Hörbiger got slightly drunk, told mischievous anecdotes and more or less demanded to be listened to by everyone present at that large table (fifteen or twenty people, of whom almost no one understood German, the only language he could speak coherently and fluently when in that state): now and then—so I was told—he would bawl out in his own language from the head of the table: “Listen, listen, everyone, this is really funny!”; his worst enemy, however, was not linguistic incomprehension, but the city’s obsessive and tyrannical rubbish collection system and its ubiquitous trucks which kept drowning out everything. It was after one such pestilential blast, immediately followed by the usual hideous grinding noises, that, quite without warning, I was sick on the sandy ground of the café terrace. Now vomiting, but more especially retching, is disastrous for a singer. There was a moment of general alarm, and nearly everyone—either out of disgust or fear that they themselves might feel sick—turned their back on me. I cleaned myself up as best I could with my own handkerchief and with another that someone lent me, and, when I was feeling slightly better, I took a taxi back to the hotel, where a message awaited me, presented in person by Céspedes (who was clearly on permanent night duty) along with my key. I saw that he had noticed my stained jacket, but he made no comment about this or about my waste, the previous night, of his staff masseuse, about which I assume he knew. He merely asked, in his professional tones, if I needed anything before going to bed.
The Man of Feeling Page 12