I’d forgotten.
After the meal I excused myself for a moment and went out into the garden for some fresh air. A starry night cast a silver veil over the trees. I’d been there for only a minute or so when I heard footsteps approaching and turned to find the last person I was expecting to see: Cristina Sagnier. She smiled at me, as if apologizing for the intrusion.
“Pedro doesn’t know I’ve come out to speak to you,” she said.
She had dropped the “Don,” but I pretended not to notice.
“I’d like to talk to you, David,” she said, “but not here, not now.”
Even in the shadows of the garden I was unable to hide my bewilderment.
“Can we meet tomorrow somewhere?” she asked. “I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”
“On one condition,” I said. “That you stop addressing me with the formal usted. Birthdays are quite enough to make one feel older.”
Cristina smiled.
“All right. I’ll use the tu form if you do the same with me.”
“The tu form is one of my specialities. Where shall we meet?”
“Could it be at your house? I don’t want anyone to see us, and I don’t want Pedro to know I’ve spoken with you.”
“As you wish …”
Cristina smiled with relief.
“Thanks. Will tomorrow be all right? In the afternoon?”
“Whenever you like. Do you know where I live?”
“My father knows.”
She leaned over a little and kissed me on the cheek.
“Happy birthday, David.”
Before I could say anything, she had vanished across the garden. When I went back to the sitting room she had already left. Vidal glanced at me coldly from one end of the room and smiled only when he realized that I’d seen him.
An hour later Manuel, with Vidal’s approval, insisted on driving me home in the Hispano-Suiza. I sat next to him, as I did whenever we were alone in the car: the chauffeur would take the opportunity to give me driving tips, and, unbeknownst to Vidal, would even let me sit at the steering wheel for a while. That night Manuel was quieter than usual and did not say a word until we reached the town center. He looked thinner than the last time I’d seen him and I had the feeling that age was beginning to take its toll.
“Is anything wrong, Manuel?” I asked.
“Nothing important, Señor Martín.”
“If there’s anything worrying you …”
“Just a few health problems. When you get to my age, everything is a worry, as you know. But I don’t matter anymore. The one who matters is my daughter.”
I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I simply nodded.
“I’m aware that you have a certain affection for her, Señor Martín. For my Cristina. A father can see these things.”
Again I just nodded. We didn’t exchange any more words until Manuel stopped the car at the entrance to Calle Flassaders, held out his hand to me, and once more wished me a happy birthday.
“If anything should happen to me,” he said then, “you would help her, wouldn’t you, Señor Martín? You would do that for me?”
“Of course, Manuel. But nothing is going to happen to you!”