With our glasses full, I asked Supervielle if he lived in Israel, and he replied, yes and no, I have a house in the Negev Desert, to the south of Jerusalem, and an apartment in Paris, which is my base for some of my European business, but my family is spread around the world, one son in New York, another in Costa Rica and a daughter in Buenos Aires, can you imagine, you’re Colombian, aren’t you? Yes, I said, and what does your daughter do in Buenos Aires? and he replied, well, you know, a question of love, she married a colleague of mine, a bibliophile and a treasure hunter, like me, only Argentinean, I should tell you that of course I was opposed to the marriage and the truth is that even today, seven years later, it makes my blood boil, a young woman of twenty-eight with a man of fifty-six, is that normal? I was not sure what to reply, because age is no impediment to anything, so I shrugged, but he said, any age may have its mitigating points but in this case there’s an aggravating circumstance, which is that he was my partner in two bookstores, one in Madrid and the other in Buenos Aires, and to tell the truth, I must say it was and still is strange to know that I am working to build a legacy that, on my death, through my daughter, will pass to my partner, do you see? I try not to think about it when I add to the family capital, because I could very easily argue that he ought to contribute more, but in the end, this is all nonsense, the ramblings of a grumpy old man, what matters is my daughter, not that I’m saying she’s exactly happy, because marriage, as I’m sure you know, has the same decaying effect on love that heat and the passing of the days has on meat, turning it into a shapeless and foul-smelling mass, that’s why I know that she isn’t happy, but never mind, that’s life and what’s done is done, I’ve been to visit them a couple of times and I was dazzled by Buenos Aires, its bookstores are like the wreck of a sunken liner, I’ve found some amazing titles, it’s a highly cultured country, a country of immigrants, and there are books in every language, it’s magnificent, and I said, I agree with you there, Monsieur Supervielle, I also like books, first editions of authors I admire, and I have one or two important ones myself, like A Poet in New York, by Federico García Lorca, Editorial Séneca, Mexico City, 1940, with original drawings and an introduction by José Bergamín. As I said this I noticed that Supervielle was changing, a sharp expression came into his eyes and he nervously raised his thumb to the base of his nose and pushed it up, then said, very interesting title, if you don’t mind my asking, did you inherit it? was it a gift perhaps? may I know where you obtained it? I’m sorry, my friend, it’s a professional deformation, but I hastened to say, it’s not a secret, I bought it in a bookstore in Seville for not much money, I don’t remember the name, it wasn’t a specialized store and it’s possible they didn’t know its value, I felt a bit guilty when I bought it, I confess, and Supervielle said, you don’t have to justify yourself, my dear colleague, as you can imagine, being a bibliophile I don’t have that kind of scruple, I think objects, like people or civilizations, have a destiny, or many destinies, given that they’re perennial, that’s why it’s normal that they should pass from hand to hand, just like antiques; whatever is valuable and beautiful ennobles a life, but then must pass to someone else and then someone else until the cycle is complete, don’t you think so, my friend? sometimes the cycle ends with fire or at the bottom of the sea or simply turns into something else, into parts of something greater, anyway, Leonidas, do you agree with my appraisal? Kosztolányi seemed to wake up and said, very much so, Edgar, yes indeed, and as the talk is acquiring the muddy color of profound matters, I suggest we have another drink.
As I walked to the drinks table, my eyes met those of an extremely attractive woman with a wonderfully pure face. I saw her for barely a second, as she turned and put a glass down on a tray. Then she stepped back and our eyes met again, for an even shorter time, before she disappeared in the crowd. After that apparition, Kosztolányi and Supervielle seemed to me like two strange gnomes, wandering jugglers created by a lame, blennorrhagic Shakespeare in a waterfront tavern. I stretched my neck, trying to see her, but in vain. I looked at the waiter’s tray and, strangely, it was empty. The glass that the woman had left there a moment before was already gone, so I told myself, it must have been a hallucination due to my tiredness or the alcohol I had consumed, I must have had about five glasses already, my God, my doctor would scream blue murder, it must have been that, something that had emerged from my subconscious; I started to imagine that this narrative might well take an abrupt turn toward the fantasy genre, but Kosztolányi and Supervielle were real enough, and when I focused on their faces both were looking at me, questioningly, and I realized that the last words Supervielle had spoken, don’t you think so, my friend? had been directed at me, so I said, I’m sorry, I lost the thread, I’m very tired, I’ve only just recovered from a long illness, could you please repeat what you were saying.