Authors: Josep Pla
What most struck him was the way she acted like young girls in his country fifteen years ago: she could play the piano just a little, excelled at sewing and knitting, particularly in the use of sequins; she spoke lovingly about her mother, was fond of things fried in bread crumbs with the white of an egg, and enthused about cheap prints; her handwriting was full of curlicues and she could quote two dozen pretty little poems. On the other hand, she hated anything connected with cooking. As far as she was concerned, cooking was a most vulgar occupation. She believed that the French obsession with cooking was vulgar.
Mascarell found Eulàlia’s company very agreeable. He made the most of every opportunity to accost her. Fresh information about her way of life didn’t make him at all critical. Quite the opposite. The moment came – very soon – when he decided that she was totally good news.
Eulàlia could be very up and down. She sometimes seemed tired and despondent and then her attitude might be rather curt and off-putting. On the other hand, she had days when she was wonderfully animated, with a frivolous allure. Mascarell preferred her when he could see she was depressed and tense – even though he had to suffer the consequences – to
when she was smiling and laughing. Like all serious people – and Mascarell was a
terribly
serious fellow – he believed that other people should be equally serious.
“Do you see this?” Eulàlia laughed, with a sparkle in her eyes and moist lips, pointing to the freckle on her left cheek.
“Yes.”
“It brings bad luck.”
“Why so?”
“Because it just does.”
“Who told you that?”
“The cards.”
“But do you read the cards?”
“Yes, I do.”
“My lord!”
“Don’t be so solemn, you boor!”
And she burst out laughing, and that prevented Mascarell from putting his foot into it a second time. He had been about to spell out the reasons why one shouldn’t read the cards, or believe in them. If he’d done that, he’d only have proved that this world is a vale of tears. That would have pleased Mascarell much more than seeing Eulàlia look happy and vivacious.
That day they’d met by the hotel entrance when the streetlights were being switched on. It had been a warm, silken April day. The early blossom on the trees augured delicious bliss.
“Mascarell,” said the young lady. “You should invite me to dinner …”
“What do you mean?” replied an astonished Mascarell, sounding unfortunately tetchy.
Eulàlia was taken aback. Mascarell immediately corrected his inexplicable faux pas.
“Of course, I should invite you to dinner. But are you sure you’re not joking?”
“Not likely! I’m hungry and could do with a good dinner.”
“What time suits you?”
“How about half past seven here?”
“Fine.”
They met at the agreed time. They reached the Boulevard Saint-Michel via the Avenue de l’Observatoire, scented by the fluff drifting down from the magnificent chestnut-trees, and along the wrought iron fence around the Luxembourg – the gardens were closed. They went into the brasserie that was so renowned for its cuisine, opposite the Fontaine Médicis.
On that long walk Mascarell showed himself to be a gallant man, but one who said little. He was a man of few words – and even more so when accompanied by a woman. Eulàlia – who was having a good day – began two or three frankly flippant conversations with a spontaneity that was frankly delightful. One couldn’t have imagined a better aperitif than those conversations. The effect on Mascarell was counter-productive. He became quieter and more withdrawn than usual.
Their dinner was on the silent side. Anyone who didn’t know them would have said they’d been married for four or five years. Mascarell was visibly shocked when Eulàlia was greeted warmly by two portly gentlemen who were dining four or five tables behind them. For a moment a really Catalan thought passed through his head: what if he was just acting the country bumpkin?
When the waiter brought the bill, Mascarell picked it up with a flourish and gabbled tactlessly: “Will you allow me, Eulàlia …?”
Eulàlia looked at him as if she was hallucinating. She wondered for a moment whether he was being sarcastic or merely stupid. The look on her face seemed to say:
what’s this simpleton playing at?
“I don’t like,” continued Mascarell, “to mention such vulgar matters, but I’m always afraid of doing the wrong thing in Paris … When it comes to paying, people can be very iffy.”
“He’s still going on about it …” Eulàlia whispered.
“Believe me, I find these day-to-day things really trying …”
Eulàlia thought:
Pay for heaven’s sake and let’s forget it. What’s this guy after with all this nonsense?
But she said nothing.
When they left the restaurant, they started to walk slowly back to the hotel. It was a very warm, pleasant night, and spring seemed to make everything delightfully languid.
“Mascarell,” said Eulàlia, “you’re so sad and lugubrious. What on earth’s wrong with you?”
“It’s how I am. People like me seem very odd in Paris, because Parisians are so fun-loving … That’s not the case in our country.”
“People are always so irritable there!” exclaimed Eulàlia with a grimace, her brow somber as if she was remembering something truly unpleasant.
“What can we do about that? Every land fights its own battles.”
“But why is your character like this, Mascarell? Don’t you think you’ve got it all wrong? What’s the point in wearing such a long face?”
“Oh dear, what do you expect me to say? I must be made this way.”
“You must be in love …”
“I’m sorry, that’s not true! I would like to be in love, but that’s quite another matter.”
“And you haven’t found anyone in Paris to take your scowls away? Don’t make me laugh!”
“It’s true, Eulàlia. I would like to fall in love because I need someone to keep me company; I feel lonely, do you see?”
“You feel lonely? But how can you be lonely here? Please don’t let on to anybody, because they won’t believe you.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“You spend every day stuck in the hotel. Why don’t you go out more?”
“Where do you want me to go?”
“If you weren’t a man, I’d feel sorry for you …”
“Thank you so much, Eulàlia.”
Mascarell reacted strongly to the word “sorry.” He thought his friendship with that young woman had suddenly deepened.
“Did you enjoy dinner, Mascarell?” Eulàlia then asked, suddenly changing tack.
“Far too much!”
“Why ‘far too much’? Don’t make me laugh! I see nothing has changed in Barcelona.”
“Of course, I feel fine next to you, you know. I’m speaking generally …”
The last two sentences made Eulàlia want to burst out laughing but she had to restrain herself so as not to seem rude.
“I’m sorry,” said Eulàlia. “What do you mean by ‘I’m speaking generally …?’ ”
“I mean that I don’t like you when you are so cheerful, you don’t seem as nice as when …”
“You prefer me when I have headache …”
“Absolutely. On days when you are cheerful I feel we aren’t such good friends … as if I weren’t so close to you, do you understand?”
“What nonsense!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mascarell, I beg you, don’t get me going! I forbid you! For God’s sake don’t wind me up!”
“But I’m not, as far as I can see. Can’t I say that I hold you in high esteem?”
“No! Not with that sad face! You can joke as much as you like, but, please,
don’t ever speak seriously to me. I ask that as a favor. Don’t ever speak to me seriously …”
“Why not? This is really shocking …”
“You can be shocked as much as you like. That’s how it is.”
“Why don’t you want me to speak seriously? Don’t you like me one little bit?”
“Please don’t force me to say anything I’d rather not! Why do you do that? Why do you ask me questions that compel me to be unpleasant? Why are you so nosey? Why are you so rude and bossy?”
“Eulàlia, can you believe that I’ve never found myself in a situation like this? Never! You are extraordinary! I’ve never had dealings with a woman who is so independent …”
The conversation had taken such a vexing turn for Mascarell he could hardly contain himself. He struggled to put on a brave front, but so obviously his real inner state was quite transparent. One remark from Eulàlia had particularly floored him. “Why are you so nosey?” Eulàlia had rasped harshly. The meaning of that sentence is clear enough, Mascarell told himself. This young lady wouldn’t accept my presence in her life, not even on the doorstep. Mascarell found this deeply disturbing. His self-esteem suffered a battering. He felt sore. Something he could never have imagined – a person refusing to accept him as a friend – had actually happened right in his face. He felt disgust inside, and looked at Eulàlia with barely concealed contempt. He felt the need to irritate her, to make her feel his presence.
“Eulàlia,” he asked rather smugly, “who were those two gentlemen over there?”
“And what business of yours is that?”
“Are they close friends of yours?”
“Mascarell, don’t wind me up! Don’t be nosey, I beg you! Leave me and
my independence well alone! You must realize that things are different here.”
“And you like things to be different?”
“I should think I do. It’s glorious! And now, believe me, let’s put all that behind us! Let’s cool down.”
“And why should we cool down?”
“We should cool down because if you continue along this path I’ll think you’re
un homme fatal
and you’ll go down in my estimation.”
“So I’m
un homme fatal
, am I? What exactly is that?”
“
Un homme fatal
is someone like you, like most men in our country, a boor who won’t let anyone live in peace. Believe me: let’s put all that behind us! We can still be friends, but don’t expect anything more. What do you say?”
Mascarell was in a state of nervous tension he could no longer conceal. The tension was such that he had the good sense to say nothing else. He’d never thought he would ever find himself in such a situation. His self-esteem had been so grievously harmed – his words – that he looked highly disgruntled. They walked on for a while in complete silence. They now looked as if they’d been married for ten years. They said goodbye – Mascarell being so ingenuous – frostily by the entrance to the hotel. Back in her bedroom, Eulàlia objectively reviewed the events of the evening. On the one hand, she was upset by what she’d been forced to say. On the other, however, she realized that what she’d done was the only way to stop Mascarell in his tracks and put an end to what would have been a very boring and trying business.
Mascarell withdrew too, agitated and fraught, convinced he’d been acting like a complete fool for the last three or four hours.
What Eulàlia had said – that he was
un homme fatal
– had lodged painfully
in his brain. He thought it was the most cutting barb in all that Eulàlia had said. He tried to decide what
un homme fatal
might be, but couldn’t get any clarity at all, in view of which he decided to find out.
A few days later – it was dusk, and so mild and pleasant – Mascarell was strolling through Le Jardin du Luxembourg, on the Rue d’Assas side, and when he was close to the statue of Sainte-Beuve he spotted Eulàlia in the company of a foreign-looking man. And once he’d set his eyes on her, he made the mistake of loitering around hoping to find out more – and so obviously – that it was inevitable they would see each other. Eulàlia seemed very cheerful: she was laughing and talking loudly, sometimes took the arm of the person accompanying her, and was being wonderfully vivacious.
The gentleman by her side seemed rather perplexed. Perhaps he felt the young lady’s gestures were too flamboyant. At any rate, he kept looking fearfully to his left and right as if he was worried about being seen. He’d have probably acted quite differently if they’d been indoors.
Their paths crossed. When Eulàlia saw Mascarell she blanched slightly, bit her lip, tensed her whole body, but said nothing. Perhaps she’d just remembered what she’d repeatedly said that evening to Mascarell about interfering.
The gentleman accompanying her turned out to be a friend and acquaintance of the latter: it was Sr Tallada, from the Rambla de Catalunya, who ran a large outfitter’s concern and came to Paris every year. When Tallada saw Mascarell – they went to the same casino – he blinked for a moment and was briefly at a loss about what to do next. A second later he yanked his arm away from Eulàlia and shook Mascarell’s hand but without his usual noisy bonhomie. The latter seemed very pleased.
“Good heavens, Mascarell,” said Tallada. “I didn’t know you were in Paris.”
“Well, here I am …”
“Do you know Srta Fanny? We met in the Café de la Paix and she’s been so kind as to keep me company for a while.”
“Yes indeed, I do know her. How are you, senyoreta?”
Eulàlia shook hands but said nothing. That fellow’s appearance seemed to have changed her completely. She must have been aware of the transformation, because she made a visible effort to hide her sudden deflation. She acted as if she couldn’t care less about Mascarell, as if she felt contempt for him.
They spent a long time walking around the park chattering about nothing in particular. They observed the Palais du Sénat at great length that looked wonderful at twilight and left through la Porte de l’Odéon. They then walked as far as the Panthéon tavern that was almost on the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Michel and the Rue Soufflot. The big bulk of the Panthéon, its stone a light chamois tone, loomed at the end of this street.
“What’s that?” Tallada asked the young lady.
“It’s the Panthéon …”
Tallada put on the most admiring expression he could manage, took a couple of steps so he had a better view of the building and then said, with an air of great conviction, “You know, it is
rather
nice, isn’t it?”
If Eulàlia hadn’t been so downcast, she’d have burst out laughing at Tallada’s comment. All the same, she found his remark reeked of Barcelona.