As I said earlier, by then, indeed as soon as I recognized him as being the same man who had been staring so intently out of the train window, I had rejected the idea of him being a traveling salesman, but apart from what I had thought at the time (without much conviction or insight, that he owned some medium-sized company), I had not stopped to think what he might do. Of course, I could never have guessed what his reply would be.
"I'm a companion. Now, don't look so surprised. That isn't what it says on my passport, and I suppose that isn't really my proper tide, perhaps private secretary, financial adviser, Manur & Co.'s Iberian representative, whichever you prefer. I was a stockbroker once and that marks you, oh, yes, it leaves a mark, but what can you expect? Basically, though, I'm a companion. At my age there's no point in trying to dress up the truth. And the truth is that I'm just a companion, albeit a well-paid one."
I was still trying to decide if I was interested in this conversation or not and so I did not reply at once, but in one gulp drank down my glass of milk which was still intact before me, and which gave rise to another of Dato's inappropriate remarks:
"I suppose you have to look after your throat and avoid cold drinks. Another whisky, please, barman."
"Yes," I said mechanically. "You must never let your throat get cold, that's absolutely fundamental. For example, I don't usually take my scarf off until well into June, and even then that very much depends on the weather."
"Really? And when do you put it on again?"
"Usually in early September. If you ever see a young man wearing a scarf around the end of June or the beginning of September, you can be sure that he's a singer. As I say, it's an unforgiving life, with a lot of obligations and duties. We can't even allow ourselves an ordinary cold, which, as you can imagine, would be a complete disaster, because although you might recover soon enough from the cold, it takes four or five weeks before your voice is in perfect condition again. And meanwhile we're in breach or semi-breach of our contract and we lose both money and reputation. But tell me," and I led the conversation back to the one thing that had really struck me: I was struck by the fact that, in the solitude of what had once been my own city, the person now keeping me company claimed to be a professional companion, "What exactly does a companion do? Whom do you accompany? How do you do it? Are you for hire?"
Dato smiled even more broadly than before (he was a nice man or at least that was his intention) and made a negative gesture with one of his delicate hands before picking up his fresh glass of whisky.
"No, you've misunderstood me. I'm not what people call a lady's companion, if that's what you're thinking: you know, one of those insipid, kindly, intransigent women you get in films, looking after some old duffer or an invalid. What I meant to say is that, despite my theoretical duties (as financial adviser, etc.) what I mostly do, my main function and use, is to keep my employers company. Didn't you see them? Didn't you notice? They were traveling with me on the train."
Of course I had seen them and studied them, and analyzed and even defined them: an exploiter and a depressive, a tycoon and a melancholic, a man of ambition and a neurotic. That is how they had seemed to me then, and I had in fact thought about them occasionally since. Yes, I dreamed that at that moment in my conversation with Dato I remembered, or admitted having given them a few fleeting thoughts during the first three days of my stay in Madrid, while I was beginning rehearsals at the Teatro de la Zarzuela for my role as Cassio in Verdi's Otello. Given her a few fleeting thoughts. Of course I had seen them, of course I had noticed, but, quite why, I don't really know — or perhaps now I do know — I pretended to think hard for a few seconds.
"Oh, yes, a couple, he seemed very imposing." I hadn't wanted to use the word "imposing," which is so often used when speaking of someone's physical appearance: I had wanted to use an adjective that would describe him morally, but at that moment I couldn't think of any word that would not also prove offensive.
"You've put your finger on it, that's him, imposing. Señor Manur is very imposing. She, on the other hand, is in a terrible state. Not the way she looks, of course, I mean she's very attractive and elegant, but she's a lost soul, really, a most unhappy woman. And she's the one, of course, whom I mainly accompany, both at home in Brussels (he's Belgian, you see, we live in Brussels) and on the occasional trips we make, like on this one now. Especially on the trips. You see, she's got nothing to look forward to and she gets bored. She suffers, she's never happy, and you can see her point really. I'm supposed to distract her, to try to keep her boredom and suffering to a minimum, so that she doesn't cause Señor Manur too many problems, so that she's not quite so unhappy, and focuses on the present and doesn't pine. I listen to her complaints and her confidences, I console her with reasoned arguments, I ask her to be patient for my sake and for Señor Manur's sake too, I try to make her see the pros and the cons; I take her to the movies, to an exhibition, to the theater, to the opera, to a concert; she's very fond of old books and old things in general, and so I consult or, rather, study huge catalogues from the most prestigious booksellers in Paris, London, and New York, and I order for her the most bizarre, most sought-after books, rare, expensive editions, anything that might interest her; and I go to auctions with her, where I do the bidding and raise my finger or make the agreed signal and where we buy not just paintings, but furniture, statuettes, vases, the occasional carpet, wall clocks, letter openers, little boxes, paperweights, engravings, frames, figurines, anything you can imagine, all of it first-rate, all of it very old and in the best possible taste. I do what I can, but, after all this time, I'm running out of ideas and, besides, I'm tired, very tired. I know all her ills, I know them by heart, and she knows by heart all my arguments, my remedies, all my persuasive techniques."
Dato paused to take a sip of his drink. Although he had just begun what appeared to be a litany of complaints, his voice, his gestures, his ingratiating smile had barely altered. It was as if he too were reciting something — a lamentation, the introduction to an aria. And there was not the slightest trace of mockery in his voice, nor even irony. He took that woman utterly seriously and felt no rancour either, perhaps because — or so I thought — she seemed to be his sole occupation in life, even if he would rather she were not.
"The only place in the world where she used to feel comfortable, where she didn't need anything, not even me (volontiers), the only place where she had independent memories that predated her disastrous marriage, was Madrid, where she comes from and from where she was uprooted some twelve or fifteen years ago and where, up until only a few months ago, her brother used to live. Whenever we came to Madrid (and since Manur & Co. has traditionally had many dealings here, we used to come here frequently), I could have a rest and devote myself to other things. Señor Manur, as he always is everywhere, would be busy with his many financial deals (he's a banker, you see), and Natalia, his wife (her name's Natalia, you see), would spend all day with her brother. That was the only time when she seemed happy, when she seemed almost to have forgotten her melancholy and seemed almost indifferent to Manur, indeed she was almost nice to Manur when their paths occasionally crossed in the hotel lobby or when they had to go out to some formal supper, to which her brother, Monte, would nearly always go along too. And now what? Monte is no longer in Madrid, he's gone to live in South America (South America of all places!), and for the three days we've been here, Natalia has been even more unhappy and depressed than ever; it's the first time she's been to Madrid without Monte being here, and she's even more bored and lethargic and miserable than she usually is (and for two reasons now), and just at a time when my reserves are at an all-time low, when I simply don't know how to distract her or even how to bring a smile to her face, least of all during those formal suppers. I simply don't know what to say to her any more. I can be quite resourceful when I put my mind to it, you know. I can be extremely resourceful, but she knows all my jokes, all my pithy sayings, the kind of remark I'm likely to come out with, she can even tell when I'm about to make some quip. She knows all my mechanisms and she knows the city, well, she was born here. I can't take her to the Prado or to the Plaza Mayor as if it were a novelty for her. And I haven't got anyone else to fall back on: she's lost contact with all the friends from her youth, because she left here when she was nineteen or twenty, and anyway everyone's always so busy; she hasn't written to or phoned anyone in years and you have to make an effort to keep in touch; all she knows is that in this city, her own city, she doesn't exist: she only used to exist (when she came here) through Monte. She knows the people her brother introduced her to, but they won't want to see her without her brother, you know what social conventions are like and how lacking in curiosity most people are. And I'm finding that here, where I used to have a break, a break from being a companion, I have to work and strain my imagination to the limit; I have to be with her almost all the time, especially during her interminable walks around areas she has probably seen thousands of times before and knows like the back of her hand. It wears me out I'm too old for all that walking. And besides, Madrid, when it wants to be, is a very hostile city, and here I am obliged to spend hours at a time walking through this hostile city; walking and stopping again and again (she's always looking at shop windows and buildings), which is the most tiring part of all. What was traditionally my rest period has become the worst time and the worst journey of the year."