Sometimes Luisa sings when she's in the bathroom, while I watch her getting dressed, leaning against the door which is not our bedroom door, like a lazy or sick child seeing the world from his pillow or without crossing the threshold and from there I listen to that murmured feminine song, which isn't sung in order to be heard, still less interpreted or translated, that insignificant song, with neither aim nor audience, which one hears and learns and never forgets. A song that is sung despite everything, but that is neither silenced nor diluted once it's sung, when it's followed by the silence of adult, or perhaps I should say masculine life.
The translator would like to thank Javier Marias, Annella McDermott and Loreto Todd for all their help and advice.
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