“I meant the limp,” Becquer said.
“Of course.” Mr. Malick turned to me. “Lord Byron,” he explained pointing at his flowing robes that consisted on the loose shirt and pants the Greek nationalists wore in the nineteenth century. “He had a congenital limp, the good lord. Mine is only temporary.”
Becquer frowned. “You mean it’s real?”
“Quite so.”
“You should have told me. I would have gone to see you during the week. You didn’t have to stress yourself by coming here.”
“Nonsense.” Richard waved his hand to encompass the room. “I couldn’t possibly miss your party.”
“Let’s get you a seat.”
As Becquer spoke, a couple sharing the sofa further along the wall got up.
A coincidence perhaps. Perhaps not, I thought as I remembered Federico’s conviction that Becquer manipulated minds.
I glowered at him.
Becquer raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged and continued his conversation with Richard, a conversation he had managed to maintain even while we were engaged in our silent one.
When we reached the sofa and, after he had helped Richard to sit and asked me what I wanted to drink, Becquer excused himself and disappeared into the crowd.
“Charming, isn’t he?” Richard said, the longing so strong in his mind that it flooded mine. “You’re lucky he’s your agent.”
“Indeed,” I said, somehow insulted at the implication that it would be Becquer’s charisma and not the strength of my writing what would get me a contract.
I felt confusion in his mind, then embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he rushed to apologize. “I respect Becquer’s judgment tremendously. If he has signed you, you must be seriously talented.”
I laughed. His overuse of qualifiers reminded me of Madison, who couldn’t leave a noun alone or use one adverb when she could use two.
“Seriously.” I smiled. “I’m guessing, by your words, that, contrary to Becquer’s belief, you’ve not read my manuscript.”
His fingers tapping nervously on his glass betrayed his embarrassment. “I may have given him that impression in my last e-mail. I promise I will read it as soon as I get home.”
“Any time in the next four months would be all right,” I teased him, to put him at ease, for I could sense how much he would hate Becquer to catch his lie. “Querying is a long process. I’ve learned to be patient.”
“A week only. And that is a promise.”
“A week?” Becquer repeated joining us.
“For my contract,” I joked.
Becquer passed me the glass of Riesling I had requested and raised his. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.
And we all drank.
Another of Becquer’s authors stopped by soon afterward, eager to share with Mr. Malick an idea she had just had for a horror story. She seemed surprised because she hated the genre, she explained, and all her novels so far had been realistic fiction. Becquer encouraged her and used her presence to excuse himself and take me with him.
“You gave her the ‘idea,’” I told Becquer once we were far enough for them not to hear.
“And why would I do that?” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “To be with you?”
“Certainly not. I — ”
“Actually I did,” he said setting his glass — still full, I noticed — on the tray of one of the waiters passing by. “I wanted you to meet other people, and didn’t want to leave him alone. Is that a crime?”
I didn’t argue.
Over the following hour or so, I met many of Becquer’s authors, and several editors who requested my manuscript. Becquer came and went freely. But whether he was there or not, the conversations flew with ease, driven by a common love of books and writing, and my enhanced ability to sense people’s emotions.
It was a strange feeling being able to do so. Disturbing, yet exhilarating, for knowing how people felt, I soon realized, gave me power over them. I found it increasingly difficult, as the evening wore on, not to use it to my advantage.
Apparently, Beatriz had been successful in asking Sheryl to perform, because she had been playing for some time now. Her choices, classical piano pieces, Chopin and Beethoven mainly, blended with the discussions, never too loud to cover the voices, yet audible enough to fill awkward silences.
After each piece, all conversation ceased as a round of applause recognized her efforts, and provided an excuse, if needed, for the guests to part and regroup. I had just taken advantage of one of those breaks to take my leave from my last partner — a mystery writer I had always admired, but who, in person, had turned out to be most boring — when I spotted Becquer.
He was helping a young woman to one of the sofas. His gesture, paternalistic and condescending as it was, was also annoyingly touching.
Becquer looked up and his eyes met mine over the tiara the woman wore with the easy grace of a young queen. Embarrassed at being caught watching, I stumbled back and hit somebody.
A firm hand steadied me.
“Thanks,” I said and turned.
Beatriz stood by my side, a glass of red wine in her hand, her eyes intent on the couple.
“Her name is Sarah,” she said. “She is one of Becquer’s readers and, as far as I know, his latest lover.”
“Lover?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No. But I thought he — ”
It wasn’t that he had a lover what surprised me. Federico had made it clear that Becquer had had many over the years. What surprised me was that, as Becquer moved to take his seat by the woman’s side, I had seen by the bump her Empire-style gown couldn’t totally conceal that she was pregnant.
“You thought he was the perfect gentleman?” Beatriz finished for me. “Well. Sorry to disappoint you, but he has had many lovers. They don’t last long, though. At the end, he always comes back to me.”
I had disliked Beatriz from the moment I first met her. Just then, I plain hated her. I hated the patronizing innuendo in her voice. I hated the way she pronounced the words with the harsh edge of her foreign background that gave them the opposite meaning. And, even though I didn’t want to admit it, I hated her, because she had confessed to being Becquer’s constant lover and, although I didn’t care for him, or so I told myself, she seemed to think I did and she had meant to hurt me.
“Becquer’s personal life is none of my business,” I said. “Why should I care whether he has a lover?”
“Why indeed?”
The sarcasm in her voice grated at my nerves. Especially because her disbelief was justifiable. Even in my ears, the harshness in my voice had belied my words.
I took a deep breath, and turned to go. Once again, my eyes fell on Becquer and his supposed lover. She was talking and he smiled as she took his hand and set it gently on her protruding belly. I remembered then, what I’d meant to ask before Beatriz interrupted me: not whether the girl and Becquer were lovers but whether the baby was his. For if Becquer could have children of his own, why had he gone through the trouble of contacting and befriending Ryan?
“Is the baby his?” I blurted, my desire to know outweighing my profound dislike of Beatriz.
Beatriz laughed. “No. Of course not.” There was contempt in her voice as she added. “So you don’t know?”
