In the picture álvaro was looking at him, but he was staring out to sea. Manuel experienced again that familiar sensation that something was missing, something had been overlooked. His feeling of loss was compounded because he saw that on the day that image was taken, it captured the pretentious self-regard of a writer who claimed an intimate knowledge of the very truths to which he’d deliberately turned his back.
Manuel had regressed to a childlike dependency, trusting álvaro to take care of every trifling detail. He left real life in álvaro’s hands and hid himself away in his dream palace of crystal, where he squatted beside its inexhaustible font of stories. That unreal world became his daily routine. álvaro scrupulously safeguarded him and maintained the balance between that world and demanding reality. For years álvaro took care of the practical details of managing the contracts. He negotiated deadlines, advance payments, international contracts, and percentages. He made sure taxes were paid. álvaro worked through the tangle of vulgar, necessary, and distasteful details that Manuel wanted nothing to do with. He’d handled it all, sparing Manuel from the annoying commonplace demands of the outside world by arranging his trips, reservations, and interviews, dealing with phone calls, acting as his gatekeeper, and tending to everything from the most important issues to the least significant details.
No, he didn’t remember the agency’s employees. He doubted he’d be able to put names to more than three of them. That morning he hadn’t been able locate his agent’s phone number, and he’d realized to what an amazing extent he’d lived like an idiot staring out to sea. He’d absentmindedly let álvaro assume his burden of reality, the portion of existence assigned to each human being. álvaro had carried both their loads, protecting him and shielding him as if he were somehow privileged.
A genius or a mentally incompetent dependent.
Or both.
He couldn’t face opening the book to reread the dedications he’d written fifteen years earlier. They were made out to the man who became his husband, the man he loved, the man who had become his greatest vulnerability. The heavy import of the new title obliged him to undertake a clear-eyed reexamination of their photo. He returned the book to the nightstand and carefully propped the photo against it. The spine of that oft-handled volume was worn and tattered, but the title, The Man Who Refused, was still legible.
He picked up his phone and punched in one of the numbers Mei Liu had located.
“Oh, hi, Manuel! How are you? I’ve been trying to get in touch with álvaro for days.”
Manuel smiled. His agent’s eager energy made him think of her as a hot wind blowing over him and sweeping away his indecision, pressing him to share her unlimited enthusiasm and join her constant march forward.
He was tempted to keep álvaro’s death from her, because he knew she loved him too. The warmth with which she spoke of him made that very clear. Manuel knew she’d have preferred to deal with álvaro. Her daring and unremitting determination were more in tune with álvaro’s amused audacity than with his own soft-spoken reticence.
“Anna, I have bad news. álvaro died in a traffic accident last week. That’s why he didn’t return your calls. It’s why neither of us did.”
“Oh, my God!” She said nothing more, and after a minute Manuel realized she was weeping. He gave her plenty of time. His eyes focused blankly on middle distance as he listened.
Then came questions he left mostly unanswered, accepting her grief as sincere, and appreciating her natural instinct to protect him. As always, she was at his service.
“Manuel, don’t worry about a thing, I’ll take care of it all. I’ll call your publisher right away.” She caught her breath with difficulty. “Last time I spoke to álvaro, he said you were finishing The Sun of Tebas. We agreed to publish in time for Christmas, I’m sure you remember, but if you’re not up to it, we can push it back to January or until National Book Day in April. I’ll get you all the time you need. Think it over; you don’t have to decide right now. Take some time for yourself.”
“I’m writing,” he muttered.
“Oh, that’s good, of course. I don’t know how things were when . . . Are you really up to it right now? Maybe you should put it off. Like I said before, we can postpone publication.”
“I’m writing another novel.”
“What, a different one?” Her natural instinct as a literary agent was immediately aroused, and he felt that wind of enthusiasm beginning to blow.
“I’m not going to give them The Sun of Tebas, Anna. I don’t want to publish it.”
“But—”
“Oh, maybe someday, I don’t know. But I certainly don’t want to publish it right now. The novel I’m writing now will be the next on my list.”
She protested, reminded him of his responsibility and the engagements already made, attributed his refusal to the confusion of the moment, to the rush and course of events. Thinking ahead as always, she urged him to take time to think before making such a drastic decision.
He dismissed all her objections with a single sentence. “álvaro didn’t like it.”
She had no reply to that.
“Anna, I . . . I need a favor from you.”
“Of course, whatever you want.”
“I’d like to gather some background for a novel about a monastery in Galicia.”
By noon the sun had warmed the area and at last dissipated the cloud banks that had covered the Ribeira all night and most of the morning. He found Gri?án courteous but distant because of their most recent encounter, though relieved and perhaps even flattered to be asked for his professional services. In ceremonial demonstration of his dedication, the administrator put on his reading glasses to scan the papers Manuel extracted from the envelope Nogueira had given him the night before. Gri?án made the arrangements within half an hour with a couple of phone calls.
“You’re staying, aren’t you?” The administrator escorted him to the door. “I ask, because the other day . . . and considering what you’re doing now . . .”
Manuel smiled. He opened his mouth, perhaps to reply or perhaps to confirm that conclusion, but he found himself at a loss for words. He’d spent too much time looking out to sea, and he didn’t know what to say.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of it,” he called back in a determined voice as he stepped into the elevator. Gri?án was left standing in his office door, nonplussed.
With Café at his side Manuel negotiated the curves and turns of the road down the slope to the Heroica winery. The main gate was closed today and the place was quiet. The numerous cars parked in the winery lot testified to the many employees hard at work decanting the juice after the first filtration. He parked outside and called Daniel’s number.
“Are you at the winery?” he asked, thinking he should have called ahead.
“Yes. Are you coming to visit?”
Manuel smiled. “Come out front.”
He still had the phone in his hand when he saw Daniel slip out beneath the half-closed metal shutters that ran entirely across the front of the building. The cellar master wore denim overalls. He smiled in surprise to find Manuel leaning against the car.
“Say, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d have had them cook lunch on the grill!”
“It’s just for a minute,” Manuel apologized. “I don’t have much time today, but I wanted to come show this to all of you.” He held up the envelope that contained the documents.
Daniel gave him a puzzled look.
“These papers concern the terrain you mentioned the other day. You were right. álvaro arranged for the purchase and the contract was ready to sign. And because of what happened he wasn’t able to complete it. I thought the men would be pleased to know.”
Daniel removed his gloves and took the documents in hand. “That’s marvelous!” He waved toward the warehouse door. “Come on, you should come inside to tell them yourself.”