“You knew him well, then,” Toño concluded, deciding to take another sip of his chamomile tea, which was ice cold, as he’d expected. Cecilia had ordered, as always, tea with lemon and a bottle of mineral water.
“He had great gifts, you know,” she said. “But he was also vain, smug, incredibly difficult. A neurotic the likes of which I’ve never seen. He refused to play with the rest of the band, he wanted the stage for himself alone. The whole company hated him. They called him ‘the one and only.’ He never talked to them, and everyone thought he looked down on them. Of course, he played the guitar like a dream. But if I hadn’t fired him, the whole company would have quit on me. That last day, when he came to say goodbye, was the only time I ever saw him sad. ‘I give you my silence,’ he said, and departed, almost ran off. I don’t know what he meant by that: I give you my silence. Does that mean anything to you?”
“When I heard him playing at Abajo el Puente, a silence fell like you hear at times in the bullring,” Toño said. “It touches my soul, him having said that. I give you my silence. Of course he was in love with you, Cecilia.”
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