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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,