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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