Needless to say, he did not answer my question. It was late, his schedule had been drawn up, or he had arranged his timetable for that weekend, and he would deal with whatever he wanted to deal with when he wanted to.
'It's interesting, remarkable really, that despite not knowing all that, you were still able to discover the true nature of their relationship, and without having seen them together except at a distance,' he said, and raised his walking-stick to his shoulder, like the rifle of a soldier on parade or on guard, with the handle as the rifle butt, it was a meditative gesture. 'Tupra has serious doubts at the moment, or so he told me. They finally separated a year ago, after some big bust-up or after a long decline, then about six months ago, they applied for a divorce by mutual consent. The decree is about to be made absolute, so I don't think they are yet technically ex-spouses. And as often happens when a change is imminent, one of them, Beryl, has suggested that they get back together, stop the whole process and try again. Despite the new girlfriend (not that she'll prove crucial, lately Tupra has been getting through girlfriends rather too quickly), and Tupra doesn't know what to do. After all, he's a certain age, he's been married twice already and Beryl was very important to him, enough for him to miss that importance, I mean miss her being important to him, even when, in my view, she isn't any more. On the one hand, he's tempted by the thought of going back, but, on the other, he doesn't really trust it. He knows that she's not doing brilliantly either romantically or financially, even though she wouldn't do badly out of the divorce, since he's hardly opposed a single one of her requests. But Beryl is used to leading a more comfortable life, or used, shall we say, to the unexpected treats, to the pleasant surprises so frequent in Tupra's profession, to the little extras, paid in kind. And, of course, to not being alone. He's afraid, that is, he suspects, this is the only reason she wants to come back, out of fear and impatience, rather than out of genuine nostalgia or a stubborn fondness for him, not because she's reconsidered (let's not talk about love here), but because her situation hasn't improved in the last year, probably contrary to her expectations. It seems she hasn't even made a new life for herself, as they say, and since she's not as young as she was, she doesn't know how to wait or to trust, for she suddenly feels time pressing and has forgotten how, because women, you know, only stop being young when they think they're not young any more, it's not so much age as self-belief that makes them old, they're the ones who give up on themselves. So Tupra is testing her out at the moment, he's left the door ajar, he's not rejecting her, he ferries her around, gauges her behaviour, they even go out together occasionally. He wants to wait and see. But Tupra is worried that Beryl is just pretending. Playing for time and getting temporary backing until a better substitute, who has not yet appeared, comes along: someone who will take a fancy to her or love her, someone she likes.'
Tupra's profession. Again it did not escape my notice. But I put it to one side and could not help but be somewhat acerbic. None of this rang true of a man like Mr Tupra, that is, the man I thought I had glimpsed. Anything was possible, of course. It's a well-known fact that those with most choice almost always choose badly.
'He must have it really bad,' I said, 'he must be completely blind if he's only "worried". It stands out a mile that she's more interested in almost any other possible future than in a present existence spent by his side. Obviously I can't be sure, but, I don't know, it was as if from time to time she would suddenly remember that she was supposed to be trying to win back her husband, which, as you say, is her announced intention, and then she would try a bit harder for a while, or, rather, she would apply herself to routinely pleasing or even flattering him, I suppose. But she wasn't even capable of remembering that reminder or of making that impulse last, it must be too artificial, pure invention, it doesn't even exist in ghost form, and, as you know, the hardest part about fictions is not creating, but maintaining them, because, left to their own devices, they tend to fall apart. It takes a superhuman effort to keep them in the air.' I stopped, perhaps I'd gone too far, I sought solid, prosaic support, I mean, even De la Garza could see that Beryl no le hacía ni puto caso, that's what he saw and said, he didn't mince his words. And I think he was right, he had a good look at Beryl because he thought she was pistonuda, that's what he said, you know. Or perhaps that was what he said about the widowed deaness, but it doesn't matter: he barely took his eyes off Beryl, especially from the waist down and from the thighs up.'
I shifted into Spanish where I had to: 'no le hacía ni puto caso' - she didn't take a blind bit of notice of him – 'pistonuda' – bloody gorgeous. Untranslatable really. Or perhaps not, there's a translation for everything, it's just a question of working at it, but I wasn't prepared to do that work then. The reappearance of my language made Wheeler move into it momentarily too.
' "Pistonuda"? "Pistonuda" did you say?' He asked this with a degree of confusion as well as annoyance, he didn't like to discover gaps in his knowledge. 'I don't know that term. Although I think I can grasp what it means. Is it the same as "cojonuda"?'
'Well, yes, pretty much. But don't worry, Peter. I can't really explain it to you now, but I'm sure you've understood it perfectly.'
Wheeler scratched himself just above one sideburn. Not that he wore them long or carefully sculpted, not at all, but he was, in his own way, elegant; he didn't lack sideburns either, certainly not, he wasn't one of those obscene men who do not frame their faces with hair, faces that look fat even when they're not. They are bad people in my experience (with, in my experience, one major exception, there's always one, which is awkward and disconcerting, it really throws you), almost as bad as someone who sports a chin-tuft, a newgate frill, an imperial. (Proper goatee beards are another matter.)
'I assume it has something to do with pistons,' he muttered, suddenly deep in thought. 'Although I can't really see the connection, unless it's like that other expression "de traca", which I do know, I learned it a few months ago. Do you use "de traca"? Or is it very vulgar?'
'It's the kind of thing young people say.'
'I really should visit Spain more often. I've visited so rarely in the last twenty years that I'll be incapable of reading and understanding a newspaper soon, colloquial language changes all the time. Don't do yourself down, though. Rafita may not be quite as imbecilic as we thought, and if so, I'd be very pleased for his good father's sake. But his perceptive powers are nothing in comparison with yours, you can be quite sure about that, so don't delude yourself.'
I noticed that he looked suddenly tired. A few minutes before he had been jolly, smiling vivaciously, now he seemed worn out, sunk in himself. And then I noticed my own tiredness too. For a man his age, such a long, busy day must have been utterly exhausting, with all the preparations, the fuss, the waiters, the party, the cigarette smoke and the clever comments, lots of drink and lots of talk. Perhaps the final surrender of his socks had been the limit, or the cause.