‘Damn!’ he exclaimed, staring forlornly at the broken glass, as if in the presence of some irreparable misfortune. And before I could put in a word, he turned to me with a silly smile, and approaching his face to mine till his hat touched the brim of my hat, he said thickly: ‘After all, you know, I’m the greatish pianist in the world.’
The truth struck me like a blow. In my amazing ignorance of certain aspects of life I had not suspected it. Diaz was drunk. The ignominy of it! The tragedy of it! He was drunk. He had fallen to the beast. I drew back from that hot, reeking face.
‘You don’t think I am?’ he muttered. ‘You think young What’s-his-name can play Ch—Chopin better than me? Is that it?’
I wanted to run away, to cease to exist, to hide with my shame in some deep abyss. And there I was on the boulevard, next to this animal, sharing his table and the degradation! And I could not move. There are people so gifted that in a dilemma they always know exactly the wisest course to adopt. But I did not know. This part of my story gives me infinite pain to write, and yet I must write it, though I cannot persuade myself to write it in full; the details would be too repulsive. Nevertheless, forget not that I lived it.
He put his face to mine again, and began to stammer something, and I drew away.
‘You are ashamed of me, madam,’ he said sharply.
‘I think you are not quite yourself—not quite well,’ I replied.
‘You mean I am drunk.’
‘I mean what I say. You are not quite well. Please do not twist my words.’
‘You mean I am drunk,’ he insisted, raising his voice. ‘I am not drunk; I have never been drunk. That I can swear with my hand on my heart. But you are ashamed of being seen with me.’