Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (8 page)

That disastrous-looking man said:

«
You want to know my past? Here
’
s to not breaking up this illustrious gathering: I am a new murderer of shadow, and my shadow was named Hildebrand. I met him in the French Legion, where I ended up due to romantic circumstances. One wretched afternoon, in Le Houga, in the middle of the desert, he set out to find me. We were fifty lost souls, depression was driving us mad; we hardly had water. I
’
d never paid attention to him before. At least not in any particular way, and he emerged suddenly, as if he were arriving in the capacity of my protector. He offered me his ration of liquid, and the blues and gratitude made me accept it. Great evil that he was, he knew the power of an opportunely compassionate attitude. He dominated me, he enslaved me, he turned me into an automaton. He mocked me; he took pleasure in irritating me so that I
’
d feel my impotence. I hated him and I couldn
’
t free myself from him. He dragged me beyond the bounds of the law, and under his orders I had to commit low crimes, repugnant offenses. At times I ask myself why he chose me as his victim. Did he suppose I was weak? I don
’
t know, but he tortured me with refinement. He made me learn in a year and a half
—
by heart and in Chinese
—
without my understanding a word of it, Li-Ping
’
s
The Abridged Commentaries of Lao-Tse
, a work of a mere forty-seven volumes, and he obliged me to recite it whenever he had insomnia. On another occasion, at a cannibal festival, he demanded I devour the gall bladder and rib of a leprous old sorcerer from a tribe of the Balolo, dead from the bite of a bluebottle fly. I can
’
t look at turtles, they make me nauseous: Hildebrand amused himself, for two months, with the contemplation of the trembling provoked in me each day
—
once I
’
d been tied up so that I couldn
’
t move
—
by the slow stroll of the most abominable exemplar of that species across my exposed belly. Why tell of my horrors? He hypnotized me, he enslaved me, and he was slight in build, while I, as you can see, am quite corpulent. We wandered the streets, for years and years, an eternity. He was the devil, my shadow, a blue nightmare. Until I murdered him in Lav
í
nia, at the doors of Santa Maria Liberal.
»

He paused to breathe and to smoke. The man continued:

«
Hildebrand, or the spirit of contradiction: connoisseur of antithings. If I affirmed any historical date, because I
’
m college-educated, he would correct me, hunkered down in voguish German research, and he would underline an error to me for ten hours. If I exalted Caesar or Alexander, he would bring up the existence of a tremendous (and of course unmatched) Incan, Sioux, or Macanese-Portuguese captain. He restrained my enthusiasm for a grand literary figure with the bitterness of his precise erudition: the grand figure plagiarized an obscure author who was the legitimate star. He corrected me, he shamed me, he knew the last secret and the latest discovery of the latest school of thought. He understood wines, watches, philosophy, cacti, jurisprudence, medicine and the music of Bach, Buddhist
eudaimonia
, and fifty thousand other things. He was a competent orator, the future of Humanity, past tense of the animal branch itself, passing for stylistic French distinction and
joie de vivre
, and the feminine heart. With his experience he would have been a really sharp film critic. My God, how he counter-asserted! In Syracuse, in the catacombs of S. Giovanni, he and a friar who was accompanying us argued about the name of the bones of the martyrs that were buried there. Naturally, the conversation degenerated into an examination of the dates conserved regarding the coming of Saint Paul to Rome and the analysis of the scientific solvency of the evidence traditionally presented to this end. An hour from Lassa, he argued with Jetsunma Neel about the properties of a few syntactical varieties of
“
Kyapdo.
”
Jetsunma, from drowsiness, was about to cross the benedictions of Nub-dewa-Tsxen. In Debra Libanos he lost himself with the Abun Ias
ú
in an endless digression on the wonders of Saint Tekla Haimanot. The Abun wanted to have him burned, and it
’
s a shame that he escaped it. In Kairouan, in the Mosque of the Sabers, he couldn
’
t manage to agree with Ishaq ibn Mansur, snake charmer, from the M
ā
lik
ī
school. They spoke of the meanings of
“
adl
”
within the general
“
Sahadic
”
system. Ishaq defended Ibn Arafah
’
s definition as correct. Hildebrand opposed him with Ad-Dardir. Ishaq accused him of
“
hawarig.
”
They reconciled at the end of the neutral, limitative camp of the four Kaba
’
ir.
»

«
Eh!
»
Trinquis said, growing impatient, getting fed up.

That pitiful-looking man said:

«
Pardon, I will keep it brief. One day we arrived in that great country Konil
ò
sia. In Lav
í
nia, our city, the most beautiful dance is danced, literature of the highest standard produced, and the town is probably conscientious by obligation, and totalitarian against its will. There, I met a girl.
»

He paused to cough. Then continued:

«
A girl with large eyes, slender then. She loved me, we married, we were happy. But Hildebrand, who desired her, worked diligently through the night. He organized a systematic campaign to discredit me. The woman was very religious. One day, Hildebrand steered the conversation toward the Inquisition. We argued. About this I had clear ideas, principles: the Inquisition, you all know it, etc. He made himself into an apologist for it. Full of shock, the woman found me hardly fervent, and she devoted herself to Hildebrand.
»

Then he said:

«
This shame liberated me. Here
’
s how it happened: Hildebrand had, a few days later, an exceptionally laborious bout of indigestion. He obliged me to leave with him, to help him. He had been drinking. We walked a while in silence. Suddenly, he took to conceitedly glorifying his conquest. He exasperated me, but the custom of servitude impeded me from acting out. And then rang the hour of my liberation. Hildebrand, and this was unusual, began to tell me things in confidence. I had never heard a thing about him, about his life. That afternoon I learned everything. And as he showed me his soul, his influence disappeared, and I recovered my will. From external, historical confidences we moved to the most intimate of details.
“
You know?
”
Hildebrand said to me.
“
I have sixty-three red spots on my skin, from the nape of my neck to my waist.
”
The self-importance in this I found unbearable.
“
No!
”
I responded.
“
Surely you don
’
t have that many, let
’
s count them.
”
He had transferred to me his spirit of contradiction. Turning pale, he tried to recover his position. He coaxed back his old voice and insulted me:
“
Ask your lady. She
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
”
He didn
’
t finish. At the doors of Santa Maria Liberal, my knife found the depths of his heart.
»

«
You talk too much,
»
Trinquis, who was presiding, interrupted.
«
You
’
re a college guy, pedantic, absurd, and a liar. Now you
’
ll shut up and listen to stories from leprous lips.
»

We okayed the beggars and stoked bonfires by the sea-fog. A train passed staggering along the neighboring track, and we made out, behind the windows, the blanched faces of passengers, faces like ghosts. And perhaps they were dead.

In memory of my uncle, Mutsu-Hito, who told me this story.

It was time. And it was stretched through the space of days and months, with unnecessary cruelty, and the suffering was prolonged, and the meager savings dried up. It was no doubt the hour. The hopeful lightning was definitively exiled; all of the remedies were going bankrupt. All that remained was the cruel reality of the carcass, a few bones struggling against death. Where did the spirit rest? Far, far, a little light amid the gloom, panting light, eaten orbits, face of wax. And, what
’
s more, she has her head clear, the sticking-in-the-throat of the last hour, a recommendation on the tips of the lips, useless. Until she recognizes the others: her sister, those who ask, the indifferent ones. Indifferent ones? All of them, all of them strange, outside, external, alive. Her, her alone in the fight, without assistance, and her spirit was always so weak! Would no one save her now? They can
’
t leave her, they can
’
t leave her, onward, win, it
’
s already time!

Bitter life. Poor, sad, difficult life. She and her sister, alone. The others in the family, scattered. The others? Them, them alone, all two of them, poor old women. Bitter life, slow life that approaches, humble, indefectible, wasteland, on time. Do you promise that when it comes, when it comes, solemn bells will ring, face to face? And there will be many priests, rich responses, candles. And the coffin, at least double, the inside made of zinc, do you promise? No wood: the reinforcements zinc. I think that
’
s why I worked, that
’
s why I suffered, that
’
s why I lived. Will you make it so, do you promise? And the tunic, silk, that one in the drawer, bridal silk or shroud silk. Shroud! Shroud, a few whacks, shoveling, silence. The sun, out. The singing, out. Pain, out. All of me, alone. All of me, rotting. All of me, awaiting the chill of time. And you
’
re crying? Sister, sister, you
’
re no longer useful to me, sister! The spirit, far, far from here, to the other side, where you won
’
t be able to follow me. Not at all right now, now no, after, I don
’
t know when, also alone, when another time arrives. This is mine, all for me, the only thing I fully live for, alone. To live at the very moment of death! What do you know about whether it
’
s a justification for me, if it cleanses me of my sins? Humble, vegetative sins, sins of misfortune, without bravery. Flabby envy, tiny desires, risking little. Risk? If nothing has been had that was hers, that was hers! Not a stare, nor a hug from a male, nor a little bit of luxury. She and her sister. She and her sister, inseparable: same words, same clothes, same urges, identical tears. Years and suffering, years and suffering, a vulgar and gray, enduring monotony. Passing has to be dealt with, cent after cent
—
money fades away and it
’
s necessary to save for old age, for epidemic illness, for when the time comes, this, that has already arrived. It
’
s useless, all useless, sister: the tears, the prayers, the Christ. Kisses, kisses? Yes, don
’
t make me queasy, three or four, don
’
t make me queasy. Alone, the Christ, kisses, three or four.

She died, they dressed her, out of custom they sought the mantilla, but her sister wants it, wants this one, because it
’
s a good one, a doily, and she wants it for herself, to go to mass, for when the other time, hers, comes. Poor girl! What would you do with it, poor girl? Sepulchre, modest burial, but not without a sense of luxury, poor girl, because she toiled and deserved it. Cancer, suffering, months and months, poor girl. All for naught.

—
And of the two sisters, the one who remains is the more shameful. The other, whatever, it
’
s already over for her, God may have pardoned her. What are you saying? He wiped it all clean! The other, kick her out. Yes, the living one. Black!

Once more associated with her sister, the living one, who solicits and monopolizes shame. And is this my time? If it
’
s also time for her
—
not her time, but yes, time for her. You plan for that, dream about that? Disaster.

Raised cross, Latin magic of those days, extremely short retinue of remote cousins and the occasional neighbor. While burnt-out laborers lower and carelessly close the coffin in its niche, bitter dispute of two relatives over the custody
—
in the care of one or the other
—
of the funerary title. In accordance with the norms of that vanished age, it was to go to the younger of the two for having closer ties to the deceased. Wasn
’
t it fair?

Why were the Nativity scene figurines in the box so still? Why didn
’
t they stir like before, eager to escape the wooden prison? They spent the entire year forgotten, silent, full of boredom and cold. How pitiful they were, the poor things, when the children spied them during their short visits, the toy soldier
’
s and train set
’
s brief parentheses of boredom. But the day came, and they quickly leapt up, keen to make contact with mountains of cork and to tread the sand and to take in the intimate smell of moss. They arranged them by categories, and the hierarchies were re-established, and the anarchic mix in the box was rectified. Old shepherds, harvesters, the fisherman, the spinner, the group from the cave: all bright, Hebraically garbed, with capricious turbans. They were refined, erudite, and scoffed at the simplicity of the farmers
a la catalana
. All of them with their own personalities. The boys distinguished themselves quite well and never forgot their names. Each day, until Candlemass, they were moved and transferred across long distances. That allowed them to converse with each other, and they shared pieces of gossip down to the last detail. At night they revered the newborn and entertained the parents, whose task obliged them to stay in the cave. During the adoration they informed the patriarch (the little Virgin wasn
’
t in a good mood) of all of the quotidian anecdotes: that today the wise men had only advanced a few steps, that a camel had broken a hoof, that a fisherman boasted of the vainglory of continuous bounty, with the same fish always on the end of his rod. The patriarchal carpenter smiled, listening to them, and the entrancing wand made him prosper. The songs and na
ï
ve, infantile prayers came later. The guiding light took a mad course to the stable, perhaps already tired of its role, impatient for the definitive occasion, and the kings suddenly galloped on to capture it. The children shuffled all the wise architecture placed there by maternal hands, and carried on their bustling until it was time to go to bed. Later, already in the dark, a deathly silence extended over the Nativity scene. The injured complained and patiently awaited the following day, the panacea of an adhesive. In the middle of the night a mouse descended from its lair and walked through the avenues and streets under the rows of butcher
’
s-broom trees, and knocked down the shepherds on its way toward the cave. It was said that the mouse was a great eater of flour-like snow, and so the following day it had to snow again over the Nativity.

Every year the children chose their favorites, the propitiatory victims, a few innocent martyrs. Those heroes experienced thrilling, cruel adventures of primitive ferocity. They were tossed from peaks of cork to test the hardness of their bodies, or submerged in the calm water of a pond until the mud began to damage them, or burned in sheaves, after unjust and extremely short trials. Once in a blue moon they
’
d return to the silence and oblivion of the box, but they
’
d won, on the other hand, a highly honorable burial, with funeral song and military parades. With the years the mausoleum grew, and the mother
’
s economic alarm broke from the destruction, from the inevitable revival.

Few carried on whole. Some more, some less
—
all, even the holy personages, cried from the break of an arm, head, or leg, the loss of an eye, a roasting, or a prolonged bath. The Magi and ox-plowmen were the most affected. The children remembered, as the years passed, entire dynasties, and the excellences of the vanished were praised. And it was so each year. Each year, the weak architecture of the Nativity scene, the thrill of the countryside in full December in the city. Interior December, with the nakedness of the plane trees outside. Municipal plane trees, captive, extraordinarily sad. Evocation of a small, false spring, with moss, butcher
’
s-broom and heath, agave and flour-like snow.

Why were they so motionless inside Salom
’
s box of nightmares, the figurines of the Nativity scene, not stirring like before, eager to flee from the wooden prison? A shepherdess told the diaphanous secret to the aging, tired, and totally skeptical Salom, wept as she unfolded the story
’
s disappointment, and her weeping moistened the adhesive, that remedy of great wounds, and her head fell and rolled to his feet. One of Balthazar
’
s black pageboys took up the thread of the tale, and Salom saw himself there as in a mirror. Without children or murmur or breakage, they didn
’
t want to go out. But since they had to come out, who would help them come out? And in that trivial nightmare of a solitary man, Salom noted a smile. Perhaps he didn
’
t go often to the tomb, but he remembered how the lamenting figurines
—
with a pretentious anachronism of pseudo-Hebraic adornment
—
had gone about banishing little by little from the beloved Nativities, when he was small, the modest anachronism of the figurines of farmers tidied up
a la catalana
.