It often happens to me that when I have an interesting experience, immediately afterwards I am overwhelmed by the clear and categorical thought that I will never write about it. This idea, which presents itself as a categorical and unshakable truth, becomes diluted over the hours, days or years – depending on its intensity – and, ultimately, I will not be able to keep silent. Ultimately, this is my experience and I have the right to handle it to my likingprovided that he does not involve anyone else in his narration, at least without disguises.
Last week I was invited to a Madrid lunch by a well-known person, whom I had never met in person. I had spoken to him on the phone, seen him on television and learned about his way of running the business. I’m not going to reveal his identity, at least not yet. At this point, I have the misfortune of not knowing how this text will end; my fingers fallI can barely control their pulse, so maybe they’ll decide later to reveal more information about my host.
I was waiting at the door of the villasomething as unusual as revealing his intentions. Who is waiting for his guest standing at the door of his house? The normal thing is to wait inside and, if it is a restaurant, to sit at the table where the meal will take place; At least that’s what I’ve experienced my whole life. Well, none of that. He was outside, in the street. Since I was a little disoriented, I didn’t see him from afar, so it was surprising when he suddenly turned around in front of me and shook my hand.
Then we enter the villa. A long staircase – perhaps not very long, but it seemed eternal to me – invited us to go upstairs. He told me to go ahead of him. We could have gone up together, as it was generously spacious for that; but he decided to analyze me well from the start. Once upstairs we sat down facing each other. Glass of chamomile, red wine, soup, lamb and infusions: these were the ingredients that crossed the tablecloth. Likewise, there was insight, evidence of thoughtfulness, cunning, malice, touches of arrogance and much admiration, on both sides.
The lunch was amicable – at least on the surface. The hours passed quickly. The meeting was at two o’clock in the afternoon and what comes next happened after four hours, and we still had almost an hour left to walk down the street together and take each of us separately on the way home. It was a sunny fall Monday, one that I will never forget, and not just because I’m writing it here, but because of what comes next.
At that time, we were discussing the subject of my new book, which is still undecided. He is an intelligent, lively, clever man, with an exciting life story, who doesn’t joke around. I think I’m smart too, but not as smart as him; I can also be very daring, I even dare to say that I see reality with a certain lucidity, but all that means nothing next to the character that, now I am clear, I am not going to reveal it.
As I said, we were reasoning together about the degree of interest of a literary subject and, suddenly, I saw how his expression changed. He became very serious, leaned decisively over the table, looked at me, opened his eyes differently. Sparks were coming out of his pupils. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. He pointed it out to me. Nobody saw us, we were completely alone. I froze for a second, then I exploded. nervous laughter, agitated, as distressing as it is ridiculous.
None of this was a joke. Actually, it wasn’t a gun like you imagine. The gun he pulled out of his jacket was a writing I had signed two years before; but he carried it like someone who carries handcuffs, duct tape and grenades in his pocket. We are victims and perpetrators with astonishing ease. I survived the gun. I must have had a left hand, because I am still alive and that is why I can tell you about this experience. It took me a while to digest this lunch, experiences like this don’t happen every day. However, I want to thank my host, because he taught me a lesson and because, despite everything, I loved him very much and seemed like a good person.
