Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

you don't like. It's happened to me more than once, and it's veryuncomfortable; I've always preferred loving to being loved.I remember one affair in Madrid, when I was a producer. I'vealways despised movie moguls who take advantage of their power toseduce aspiring young actresses, but I too found myself in this situation,much to my embarrassment. In 1935, I met a very prettyfledgling actress whom I'll call Pepita. She was eighteen at most,and I fell in love with her. Clearly an innocent, she lived with hermother in a small apartment. We began seeing each other occasionally*picnic in the mountains, a dance in Bombilla near Manzanares~butour relationship remained absolutely chaste. I was twiceher age, and, although desperately in love (or perhaps because I wasin love), I respected her. So I held her hand, I hugged her, I oftenkissed her cheek; but despite my desire we remained on platonicterms for an entire summer.The day before we were leaving for an excursion, a friend of minein the movie business came to see me in the morning, a short andwholly unremarkable man, but with the reputation of being quitethe rake."You going to the mountains with Pepita tomorrow?" he suddenlyasked, in the middle of a business conversation."How did you know?" I exclaimed."We were in bed together this morning and she told me.""This morning?""Yes. At her place. I left around nine o'clock, and she told meshe couldn't see me tomorrow because she was going somewherewith you."I was dumbfounded. He'd obviously come by only to tell me thenews, but I couldn't believe it."Impossible," I protested. "She lives with her mother!""Who sleeps in another room," he replied calmly."And I thought she was a virgin!" I groaned."Yes," he replied evenly. "I know."Pepita dropped by that afternoon, and, without revealing anythingof my morning encounter with her lover, I made her an offer.