Authors: Josep Pla
Having said this, Bramson got up from his chair and prepared to use his arty cigarette holder once again.
“So then, I can’t count on any support from you folk?” said Riera after a pause, struggling to articulate his words, with an out-of-sorts expression that hid indignation he could hardly stifle.
“Unless the situation changes,” said Bramson grasping the door handle, “I shall be staying. A very good night to you all!”
Bramson and Pickel disappeared down the dark passage.
That left only Riera, Ferrer, Boada – now fast asleep – and me. Ferrer was lighting a cigarette.
“Sr Ferrer, what do you think about Bramson’s ideas?” asked Riera, re-galvanizing his indignation. “Have you ever heard anything like it? These foreigners possess a gall that is absolutely beyond me.”
“I believe,” said Ferrer blankly, “that the Swiss gentleman has outlined a very reasonable point of view. Don’t be under any illusions: if Bramson had found a boarding house where they would feed him better for the same price, he’d have left already … Have no doubt about that. Besides, he has already said as much: ‘Why change, if everywhere else serves up the same food?’ ”
“So, Sr Ferrer, what do you intend to do?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. I do think that you are right; but, on the other hand, I think the matter is too delicate to make decisions too quickly or
lightly … I think it’s better not to jump in at the deep end … At my age, Sr Riera, everything causes stress. In fact, one can only conclude that changes bring little in the way of benefit … Besides, Riera my friend, I’d like to be absolutely frank. You deserve some straight-talking. As you know, Sr Riera, I am an understanding kind of fellow.
Very
understanding, don’t doubt that. You’ve heard me say as much a thousand times at the dining table and everywhere. Well, I think I understand a few sides to the life of Sra Paradís (I said
a few
, just to be clear) or at least I think I’m in a position to understand … What can we do, Sr Riera? Women will be women …”
Riera’s glared furiously in Ferrer’s direction and cut him short in mid-sentence.
“I had taken it for granted, Sr Ferrer,” Riera drawled frostily, “that you were small-minded and permanently unstable. However, forgive me if I say this: I would
never
have thought you could have stooped so low …”
“Please let it drop, Sr Riera …” Ferrer riposted. “I can see you’re not interested in what I have to say. Nothing much we can do about that! Tomorrow is another day. Sleep well, good night.”
And, jumping up from his chair, he very gingerly opened the door, shutting it a bit harder.
It was a struggle to wake up Boada. When I left the room, helping the future pharmacist on his way, Sr Riera still stood in the middle of his room, looking rather manically at the small carpet that lay parallel to his bed.
Two or three days after these scenes of everyday life, Sr Verdaguer, who was strolling along the central Rambla decided – as he often did – to go into the Cafè Orient. He crossed the large room that looks over the Rambla, turned down some stairs and entered the basement. Those large, rather dark, low-ceilinged places were very animated. A big throng bustled in the
fug, the noise of cues, billiard balls, dominoes, drinking glasses, and cups made a real racket. The beige of the billiard tables, fully spotlighted, took on a spectral hue in the murk. At the back was a tiny room for playing
tresillo
.
Don Natali Verdaguer glanced across this last room – where the smoke levels were considerable – and spotted Sr Riera among the crowd. Riera was snooping behind a
tresillo
table. He seemed fascinated by the cards being played. He was taken aback to hear someone say: “So we’re on the snoop, are we, Sr Riera?” When he looked up and saw Sr Verdaguer, he was even more astonished. After the scenes in the charabanc he had concluded that Verdaguer would never speak to him again. It was time to decide one way or the other: send him packing or start a conversation. An internal – almost wholly unconscious – mechanism made him opt to converse. When one scrutinizes the way men act, it soon becomes clear that psychological rationalism doesn’t work systematically. Almost all our passions – self-esteem, sense of the absurd, or inertia – get in the way or derail it.
“Yes, senyor,” said Riera, “a little idle snooping …” There are two things that really excite me: the theater … and
tresillo … tresillo
, I mean, simply watching people play.”
The former tobacconist exhaled light blue smoke through his nostrils.
“By the way, Sr Riera,” said Verdaguer acting shyly, “I’d appreciate a couple of words …”
“Yes, of course, senyor, there’s a table right here …”
As it was a smallish space, they sat at the adjacent table – almost next to the card players. If the spot lacked anything it was privacy.
Sr Verdaguer was perfectly aware of the intrigue Riera had tried to set in motion in his room a few days ago with Ferrer, the students, and the Swiss. He probably also knew that it had all turned out badly for him.
“Sr Riera,” began Verdaguer, “I like your kind of man. You act as you
speak. You’re not a hypocrite. When you dislike something, you say so straight out …”
Sr Riera, who had anticipated a very different tone at the start of this conversation – he was expecting a short, sharp attack – felt a sense of relief. He was absolutely repelled by this man, but not enough to refuse contact with him outright. Immediately he felt deflated. He was reacting much more sincerely – above all much more politely – than he could ever have imagined.
“As you know the state of play,” he said, “let me fill you in on the detail. I’ve decided that Bramson and that other Swiss fellow are a couple of jokers; they are peculiar, and quite beyond the pale. The students are a dead loss, pure lightweights … Ferrer is something else: that man is bad news …”
“Good heavens!” said Verdaguer. “Ferrer is mad about Sra Paradís, the lady has put a spell on him …”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, hardly a spell. In any case, I thought
you
were the one Sra Paradís had bewitched …”
“I …” said Verdaguer, rolling the whites of his eyes and circumflexing his eyebrows.
“Yes, senyor, you … Besides … I have proof of what I say …”
“You’ve got it wrong. In any case, your information is out of date …”
“I’m sorry, Verdaguer! My sources are impeccable. You’re now telling me it’s not true … Very well! But you must understand – and this hardly needs saying – that I doubt your sincerity, I hope you will furnish proof of what you’ve just said …”
“Of course, all the proof you want …” said Verdaguer, rising to the bait, “our boarding house, like all such places, has its mysteries, and you’ve not heard the latest.”
“Now that I’m with you, we have a new ingredient: the presence of Don Martí Dalmau …”
“Precisely! But forgive me, what can you tell me about Don Martí Dalmau? Sr Riera, you don’t know the half of it, where he’s concerned. In the first place you should know that this gentleman we call Don Martí Dalmau is an absolutely mysterious character. People sometimes knock on the door, ask after him and call him Sr González or Sr Dalmau, and others use names I’d rather not recall. In my opinion, Sr Riera, this is intolerable. Who is this man? In my opinion, people should be transparent, yes, above all transparent … How do you expect me to live in a house with people like him, even contributing to his upkeep like a complete nitwit? Because you should know, Sr Riera, that this kind of situation affects all of us, every last one of us, even that poor fool Sr Tomeu … You get my gist, Sr Riera?”
At this point in his harangue Verdaguer’s voice was swallowed up by a tremendous hue and cry – terrible shouts, violent gesticulating – from the card-players nearby. Riera, who was listening to Verdaguer, smirking smugly, sitting comfortably, gazing dreamily at the smoke spiraling from his cigarette, was reluctantly aroused from his modest level of human bliss. When the din died down – a din sparked by one of the gamblers who had lost his temper – Verdaguer returned to the chase, even more vehemently: “Dalmau or González, or whoever,” he went on, “was born here in Barcelona, but has lived in Venezuela or Colombia for years, I don’t know exactly where …”
“What’s that? In Colombia, you don’t say?” said Riera looking up, closing his eyes with a voluptuous shudder.
“Yes, in Colombia. Do you find that odd?”
“Only, you know, I had a friend, Conxita, who came from Colombia …”
“And which Conxita was that?”
“
The
Conxita, naturally, the one and only! Now
that
was a real woman, my dear Verdaguer! She was passionate and unassuming at the same time! What a contrast! She was such a classy dame, dear Verdaguer …”
Increasingly surprised by Riera’s tendency to wander off at a tangent, Verdaguer snarled so furiously he immediately brought his interlocutor back to the matter in hand. Riera now resumed apologetically: “But what I’m saying, Sr Verdaguer …” said Riera, “I do beg your pardon. Obviously, you may never have met Conxita. She belongs to the past, is a memory, a trifle, to tell you the truth … Do go on, Sr Verdaguer, please …”
Verdaguer, who’d been wondering for the last few seconds:
What kind of country is this?
bit his lip scornfully and went on irritably, his retired boxer’s face looking more battered than ever: “Sr Dalmau or González, or whoever, lived, until we saw him walk into Carrer de Consell de Cent, in a boarding house run by two hapless widows on the Carrer de Bailén. He lived there for four long months, paying nothing, naturally. All that time he deferred payment of his rent on the excuse that he was about to receive some fabulous checks from Central America. One day, the two hapless ladies registered to their surprise or satisfaction, at any rate to their great annoyance, that the bird had flown the coop. They went to the bank, and nothing …”
“And to the police … and nothing doing there either!” added Riera mechanically.
“Precisely!”
“They carried out all kinds of investigations … and came up with nothing!”
“Yes, senyor. That’s the truth of the matter. So you’ll understand that Sr Dalmau in his present state is like a fish in water. As caution bids him to stay mostly indoors, he doesn’t even need to expend anything on imagination. Conversely, as you know, women adore men who rarely go out. I have
long experience of this … So now you know the whole story …” Verdaguer concluded with his mix of sarcasm and facetiousness.
“No need to say another word, it’s perfectly clear …”
A long silence ensued, then Verdaguer eased his chair as close to Riera’s as possible. He whispered: “Senyor Riera, I have a confession to make. Do you know what I think?”
“Tell me pray …”
“Well, I think love is a powerful thing, a powerful and mysterious thing. Let’s not delude ourselves!”
“But Verdaguer …!” asked Riera reacting indignantly, “Do you really think that it’s love?”
“Call it what you will … It makes no difference!”
“What do you mean, ‘it makes no difference’? Steady on, Verdaguer! Don’t you drive me crazy, I beg you! I’m already at a loss! Don’t muddy the waters any more, I beg you … The only thing I see at all clearly is that you’ve radically changed your mind on this subject.”
Verdaguer made a few evasive gestures of denial. This led Riera to raise his voice and adopt a different tone: “Verdaguer, don’t evade the issue! You are a fine, upstanding man. It would be intolerable if you were to let your easy-going nature prevail over your sense of morality … In any case, I shall be leaving. I can’t stand any more and I hope …”
“Oh, be in no doubt about that! I will be joining you too, come what may …”
As this scene of emotional endearment unfolded, the
tresillo
players, annoyed by their loud voices, stared furiously at the two ebullient conversationalists – one of them arching an eyebrow over his rusty silver frames. Verdaguer responded to these lightning flashes with a slightly apologetic
smile. Riera was drained and overwhelmed. When the gamblers resumed their game, one rudely proclaimed, “The cheek of the bloody devil …”
“As I was saying, Sr Riera,” said Verdaguer, almost imperceptibly when peace was restored, “I will also be leaving, because my conscience won’t allow me to stay a day longer … We shall depart together! Yes, senyor, we shall depart together. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t believe (and this was what I was saying a moment ago) that love isn’t a very powerful and mysterious thing … Don’t let what I say lead you to draw any conclusions, I beg you! I’m simply saying that to acknowledge a fact of life, merely to acknowledge a fact of …”
Then they left the basement, walked up the stairs, crossed the floor of the bar – that was very brightly lit – and started to stroll up the Rambla. Released from that smoky fug, their eyes went endlessly on the blink.
The house cat – she of the ash-white fur – was generally liked by the lodgers. But some, like Pickel and Sr Verdaguer, for various reasons, also seemed inclined to be friendly towards Murillo, the little black dog with a white spot on his face.
“This dog,” said Pickel one day during supper, in his German growl, “behaves as if he suffered a typical case of neurasthenia. He sometimes seems to jitter nervously and shake as if he were demented. At others he falls into a kind of manic depression, a state of complete limpness. He falls victim to sudden changes in the weather, the ups and downs of the barometer, the humidity or dry weather. He is a dog deformed by big city life.”
“The problem with Murillo,” stated Sra Paradís gravely, looking at Sr Dalmau out of the corner of her eye, “is that I’ve brought him up poorly. He’s in reaction to the aspirins I’ve fed him …”
“You’ve fed him aspirin? That’s criminal!” exploded Pickel, looking terrified, acting as if he was going to leave the table, staring at the mistress of the house with octopus eyes that glistened sadly.
“Sr Pickel, sit down, don’t take it to heart …!” said Sra Paradís, laughing loudly. “Don’t you see I’m only joking? Sit down and don’t budge another centimeter! He’s a strange animal!”