Free The Man of Feeling by Javier Marías Page B

lovers, nor the reason for her profound, irremediable discontent, nor why she and Manur led such separate diurnal lives, when to all appearances they did lead some kind of shared nocturnal life, since, each night, when our trio said goodbye in the hotel elevator, each of us going off to our respective luxury room, Natalia and Manur presumably slept together in theirs. Perhaps the Flemish banker's cognac-colored eyes opened the moment he heard the sound of the key in the lock, or even before, when he sensed, as he waited and dozed, his wife's light steps along the carpeted corridor; perhaps Manur, wearing a pair of improbable green silk pajamas (the same color as his incredible transatlantic fedora), would see Natalia leave her jacket and her handbag on an armchair, go to the bathroom and then, back in the bedroom, undress in order to get into the double bed. Perhaps he received her there with warm words and open arms or perhaps he complained bitterly about how late she was or perhaps they did not speak at all and merely lay in the same bed for eight hours from which all diurnal memory was erased, without looking at each other, without touching, not even in dreams, two bodies together night after night, in mutual oblivion, for years. Or it might be that the cognac-colored eyes, slightly paler and brighter than hers, but (by the way) the (exact) same shape as hers, would remain awake (offended, irascible, impatient), pondering balance sheets and transactions and prices or, who knows, speed-reading some novel, possibly with the aid of a pair of glasses imposed on him by age. How would Natalia Manur enter their luxury room? In the dark, her elegant Delia Valle or Prada shoes dangling from two of her long, gnarled fingers in order not to disturb the exhausted banker's repose, or, rather, to avoid answering questions? Or perhaps she would make as much noise as possible (kicking off her shoes so that they thumped against the wardrobe door) and put on all the lights to enjoy the vision denied to her all day, that of her absent and beloved and much-missed husband, whose lack she would have tried, palely, to mitigate in the animated company of a burly, talkative and extremely amiable opera singer? "Hello," she would perhaps say. He would already be in bed, wearing those hypothetical glasses, which mask his plebeian features and soften his chilling gaze. "What sort of day did you have? Everything all right? How was work?" Manur lowers his glasses though he does not take them off, and peering over the top of them with eyes accustomed to being flattered by the things of this world, he does not reply immediately. He looks older with his glasses perched on his nose, although he might have pushed them up onto his forehead, like an aviator, and that, on the other hand, makes him look younger. Natalia does not insist, she was probably just asking out of habit. Quite naturally (like someone in their own house, alone or in front of their life-long husband), she goes into the bathroom, turns on the light and starts removing the make-up she had put on for the evening. She uses cotton balls. Manur continues reading his documents or, more likely, takes the opportunity to perfume himself a little (a small bottle of cologne in the drawer of the bedside table) and to smooth the few hairs that fail to ennoble his prematurely bald pate. (A vain man, even with his own wife.) Natalia keeps the door open as she brushes her teeth, then closes it for a few seconds. Manur pricks up his ears, tries to hear the fall of liquid on liquid. Or perhaps, against his wishes, he cannot help but hear it. He has put his documents to one side, thus demonstrating that there was no need for him to look at them, that he had just been killing time until Natalia arrived. Wait. Wait. Natalia reappears, turns out the bathroom light and starts nonchalantly getting undressed, as if there were no one else there (but I don't know if the lights are on or off or if only the table lamp