Authors: Josep Pla
Our conversation lasted a good half hour. She did practically all the talking. Sra Vicenteta had cooked dinner, the waitress had served it up, and everything was tidied away. She could now relax and hold forth. She felt like talking. I was surprised. When I arrived in the village, it impressed me the way anything unknown does: it struck me as impenetrable and opaque. I’d felt the first signs of a terrible drowsiness overwhelming me. I’d not considered the reverse effect: I mean the intense curiosity newcomers arouse in village people. The flow of words from Sra Vicenteta’s lips could have been sparked by only one thing: the pleasure she experienced when talking to a complete stranger. Then, just as I was beginning to drowse, I noticed a person who also seemed drowsy – maybe even more so.
I took advantage of a short lull in the mistress of the house’s monologue to dare to ask which café I had best repair to, in her opinion.
“The Social Center,” she replied, “will serve you coffee that’s chestnut water and cheap liquor. I wouldn’t recommend Pepito’s café. The people that go there are not exactly flush. Try the Recreational: better class and good coffee. It is, I might add, a Catholic center, though they do own a fridge.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, senyor, they own a fridge … and next year, God willing, so will we.”
“Electric?”
“No, senyor. Easy does it, an icebox. There’s nothing like the ice this village makes in the summer, you know?”
Villages in our country always have two or three excellent, unrivaled products. The first was obvious: ice. I discovered the second later: the almond biscuits made by two or three confectioners on the Carrer Major and a little factory. That’s right, a little factory. A sign on the entrance to the building made that crystal-clear:
Narciso Soler’s Almond Biscuit Factory. Founded in 1837
. The industrialization of the manufacture of almond biscuits might be considered a trivial accomplishment. But the causes were soon revealed: ingredients, climate, water, local labor, everything seemed actively to conspire to create first-rate almond biscuits. That’s right, nature’s mysterious ways. Cerinyola’s almond biscuits are a source of pride for its citizenry.
Once in full flow on what was dear to her heart, Sra Vicenteta chattered irrepressibly at a merry tilt. She spoke in the village dialect that was perfectly understandable from the point of view of the words she used, but was in fact hardly intelligible, because her value judgments were purely local and referred to facts that were a complete blank to me, a thick fog. However, I won’t harp on, because it’s so common in this country. I’ll simply say that it is one of the wearisome burdens we learn to bear.
“The new doctor,” she said, “came some three months ago. Roundabout when they buried Sra Rosalia. And what a funeral that was! A rich lady who did lots of charitable work and was related by marriage to old Soler, you
know, Sr Tet, the almond biscuit maker, you with me? The doctor immediately struck me as rather dodgy. He ate at the very table where you just dined, senyor, right there, as if you could see him there now. When he told me he was on a diet, I knew he wasn’t up to scratch. How could you credit such a very young man, a qualified doctor to boot, being on a diet? Toast, broth, grilled meat, and lots of fruit … And where will we ever find fruit in winter? Just what the truck driver said: Sra Vicenteta, you must be pulling my leg asking for fruit. Let them eat prunes! Then it was time to give him his bill; you know, two weeks had gone by, and then his excuses started coming, and tomorrow is another day … We could have come to an arrangement, but he was suddenly as thick as thieves with the vet, Sr Daniel, who’s so full of himself, and likes to guzzle and stuff and splash out … Broth and vet, don’t make sense, do they? It’s what my deceased husband used to say: in for a peach, in for a pumpkin … I should have seen it coming, particularly when the goings on with Venus started …”
“Please, senyora, could you throw some light on the goings on with Venus. Are you telling me that there’s a Venus in this neck of the woods?”
“There’s a girl people call Venus.”
“Is she a rural or industrial Venus?”
“On my way out from Sra Rosalia’s funeral, the day when it was so windy (a curse on us here), Sra Quimeta, from the sewing shop, said to me: ‘You know who Venus is? She’s a nasty piece of work, no two ways about it …’ ”
“Please, senyora, be more precise. Who is she exactly? Is she from farming folk or weaving and textiles?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, honest I couldn’t … A tavern keeper’s work is never done! I’d only remind you …”
Just when Sra Vicenteta was about to launch into another endless, nonsensical monologue – her opening line was already striking panic – a door
creaked and in walked a man in his sixties. He was on the thin side, pleasantly dressed and seemed affable enough. As he walked past the electric switches, he flicked one and darkness descended on half the room. That’s the master’s touch, I thought. Then he came slowly toward our table, smiling warmly at Sra Vicenteta. Once he was next to us, she knew she had no choice but to introduce him.
“Agustí Vinardell,” she announced rather shamefacedly. “He’s a gentleman who lodges here.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance …”
But, as she didn’t know my name (at the time guest forms didn’t exist) she couldn’t complete the introduction she’d just begun. That little drawback put a stop to our conversation.
Sr Vinardell smiled continuously, as if the smile were embossed on his face. In the meantime he rubbed his hands together, occasionally muttering: “Well, well!” And the three of us exchanged affable smiles in the silent dining room – rather stupidly perhaps, but pleasantly nevertheless. Given the general silence, and particularly (for me) the tavern keeper’s surprising silence, in contrast to her previous chatter, Sr Vinardell finally broke the ice, “Senyora, we ought to be off to bed,” he said. “It’s almost eleven. It
is
very late.”
“Of course …”
And so we said goodnight, after agreeing that for breakfast next morning I’d be served lemon juice with sugar lumps, and tap water.
I had the pleasure of meeting Sr. Plàcid Comes at the Societat Recreativa, a kind of incipient, rural gentlemen’s club. We struck up a conversation after watching an enormously long and tedious twilight game of chess. We put on our raincoats at the same time by the cloakroom. While he was buttoning
up I heard him clearly say, “The anxious expressions on the opponents’ faces were quite exaggerated. Pure pantomime. Completely fake …”
I replied that I could only agree with his perceptive remark. We talked as we left the club and headed leisurely up the High Street, smoking. It was rather a misty, coldish, dark April night, deserted as well, agreeably so.
We soon walked past the pharmacy and Sr Comes said, “I work in that hut. The apothecary and his wife live in Barcelona. Their daughters are at primary school and their sons at high school. That way they can keep an eye on them and keep the nest warm. Ha, ha! I look after the pharmacy for them … You’ll visit me in due course. It’s an old-fashioned village institution with an intense odor cannon fire couldn’t disperse.”
Sr Comes spoke clearly, modulating his sentences. He looked poor and underfed, but was smoothly shaven and wore a cheap, shiny tie under a dubiously clean collar. A lively wit, small and excitable, he was the kind of villager who is endlessly resourceful.
When I told him – as we walked past – that I lived in the Central Tavern, he chuckled mysteriously, and I couldn’t decide if that signaled praise or disapproval.
“This tavern,” he said, “is duly renowned. The food’s just about decent – especially if one doesn’t expect too much. I lived there for six years and know what’s what. The rooms perhaps aren’t that ventilated these days. Villages have so much fresh air, people think everything is very well-aired. Ha, ha! Rather, it is just the opposite. They love stale fug. Then you have Sra Vicenteta, who is a true angel, of the elemental sort. Sra Vicenteta is a widow, and I gather, from absolutely reliable sources, that she now enjoys the company of Sr Vinardell. This gentleman is a remarkable member of the species. He’s been living happily in the tavern for the past ten years without paying a cent. What do you reckon? He has
never
paid! What has the world come to …?”
“Sr Comes, don’t jump to conclusions, I beg you! Above all, don’t take the moral high ground, I beg you. Such pontificating serves no purpose and can only obscure matters. There is nothing unusual or abnormal in what you have just told me about Sr Vinardell. I’ve been a customer of such places for years: boarding houses, pensions, taverns, and hotels, and I’ve never known anything different. These little clusters of humanity always include someone who doesn’t pay, someone who never pays. What I’d prefer to debate with you, as you are familiar with a specific case located in an apparently uncongenial context, is the reason behind this phenomenon of parasitic behavior. In these situations, the most interesting are the extreme cases: the hundred-percent parasites, the boarders who never cough up, who always take and never pay. As for the phenomenon of the amorous parasite there is often a
quid pro quo
, a done deal. Often not even the most basic contract is enacted. There is simply the
quid
. It is decidedly odd and quite fascinating.”
“So you believe such situations are likely …”
“No. I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter whether I find these situations to be likely. I’m saying they are in fact ever-present and, consequently, I’d like to know what’s behind them. Why are there so many people in these establishments who never pay up? How can one explain this fact? Are there people in this hard, implacable world, fated to live off the sentimentality of others? You know, the man who never pays is always the best fed, the best attended to, the recipient of every comfort and morsel. On the contrary, those who conform and pay on the nail are treated rudely, often intolerably so. Sometimes, when confronted by specific cases, I have wondered if these men don’t inspire a kind of terror or panic in people who are generally fearless. Apparently the proprietors don’t dare present them with a bill for fear they might fly into a fury, to forestall any possible retaliation. You’re a man who’s seen the world, Sr Comes. You look like a man who knows a thing or two. Could I ask you to share your thoughts on this matter, that is, if you have any?”
Sr Comes looked perplexed for a second, and said he didn’t have any and clammed up.
“A moment ago, you were saying, Sr Comes, that this Vinardell enjoys the companionship of Sra Vicenteta. This fact makes the situation much less worrying. If it is true, Sr Vinardell may have fallen victim to Sra Vicenteta. In my book, victims shouldn’t have to pay, particularly if they live in the same house. As I said previously, the extreme cases of parasitic behavior are the interesting ones, the chemically pure examples where there is no significant payback.”
“You may have misunderstood me. When I said Sra Vicenteta was enjoying the companionship of Sr Vinardell, I was using the word in its platonic sense. You must understand: Sr Vinardell is elderly; he is not fit for any fun and games. And as for Sra Vicenteta, I’d like to point out that she’ll be fifty-two on the Virgin Mary’s Day in August, if my memory serves me.”
“This is all very positive information and gives the case more substance. A purely parasitic case is emerging. Are you sleepy, Sr Comes? I’m never sleepy in this village. All I do the whole blessed day is breathe in the fresh air and try to be healthy. In the afternoon I sometimes drink a glass of water from one of the springs on the outskirts. So, Sr Comes, if you don’t feel sleepy either, we could continue our conversation. I find your company very agreeable. I suspect we’ve not yet wrung the case of Sr Vinardell dry.”
It did turn out that Sr Comes wasn’t sleepy either. He only requested we didn’t walk too far from the pharmacy in case someone came with a pressing need.
“Yes, of course,” continued Sr Comes. “And perhaps there is more to be mined and investigated in the case of Sr Vinardell … Let me tell you what happened when Sra Vicenteta was widowed, some two years ago. While her husband was alive, Sr Vinardell’s presence in the tavern was thought to
be straightforward enough. Naturally, people always gossip, but generally, nothing out of the ordinary. Things changed when Sra Vicenteta wore a widow’s weeds. A fine ruckus was unleashed. It seems highly likely that faced by the flood of vicious innuendo Sra Vicenteta would try to clear the air by forcing her free-wheeling lodger to go to ground for a time. You know, it’s a reasonable conclusion to draw. The truth is that she achieved very little, if that
was
her aim. Sr Vinardell continued to live in the tavern as usual, better set up than ever. Because I should emphasize that Sr Vinardell is extremely well served. I think it was during this phase that we might describe as shocking, that the run-in with Sr Figarola took place. Of course, you don’t know Sr Figarola. Sr Figarola was the elder of the two gentlemen playing the chess game we watched at the Recreativa. He is a highly respected property owner, perhaps on the stiff and snobbish side, but that’s surely down to his moral principles. In other words: a fine, upstanding citizen.”
Sr Comes stopped, seemed mentally distracted for a moment, snuffed out a cigarette and continued speaking. It was a quarter to one according to a church clock that was quite unreliable. The night had cleared a little and the haze was gone from the sky. The street was completely deserted. There was no light whatsoever, apart from three or four dim yellow street lights. The village was sleeping peacefully. The place had night watchmen but at that time of night they must have been patrolling the outskirts, because we couldn’t hear them singing. It was a pity, because the village had two good night watchmen, who dressed well and sang well. With their caps, truncheons, and lanterns, they looked like characters straight out of Italian opera – a comic opera, to be precise. There was a moment when a dog crossed the road, shortly followed by a cat. There was a balcony with a quail in a cage. The first quail I’d seen that year. It jumped now and then and hit
its head against the wire of its cage. Poor bird! The street alternated areas of pitch-dark and patches of flickering municipal lighting and was like a set for an amateur stage-play – a down-at-heel, rural backdrop. If it hadn’t been for the sound of the quail’s head hitting against the wire of its cage, it would have seemed unreal. But that noise became obsessive. When Sr Comes started to speak – as the night progressed, his voice began to fade – I had to make an effort to hear him, because the caged quail dinned in my ears.