Authors: Josep Pla
“I can vouch that this Sr Vinardell,” said Sr Comes emphatically, “is a local man, from a well-off family that is now totally bankrupt, and a distant relative of Sr Figarola, the man we just watched playing chess. As a very young man he disappeared from the village and didn’t return for years. His family meanwhile almost died out. I couldn’t tell you what Sr Vinardell got up to in all those years nor do I think anyone in the locality could. He never showed any signs of life, and the people who knew him as a child practically forgot him. Whether he lived in Buenos Aires for a number of years or owned a tailor’s in Paris or was ever sighted in a southern corner of the Peninsula, are conjectures that may contain an element of truth, though I couldn’t confirm any, even though being a constant presence at the pharmacy does place one, to an extent, in the very heart of village gossip. This village’s pharmacy isn’t home to a constant group of conversationalists, but, as everyone passes through, it might as well be. I’ve been working in this hut for more than twenty years; I never heard a single reference to his presence on this earth, that is, before he showed up again. He must have been away for years, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, but one day he
did
return and that gave the poor gentleman more than one upset, of the sort experienced by this kind of person who uproots, then comes back to his native soil. Some said he came back a rich man and others – the majority – flat broke. Neither camp had any information to support their claims; they talked, I imagine, because
they liked the sound of their own voices. It was about passing the time of day, as usual. Those who said he returned a rich man based their claims on Sr Vinardell’s smart, dapper appearance, the unmistakable look of a man who has never known what it is to work. But this country is full of knaves and shysters, and they usually tread on firm ground, because they start from the idea that appearances are deceptive. In this village, gossip about this or that individual usually lasts two and a half, maximum three months. Then its stops and people want to turn a new page, even if issues surface worthy of further comment. It’s strange, but when they decide something’s run its course, there’s nothing one can do: it has run its course. Sr Vinardell as a subject for gossip lasted a whole autumn. As tongues chattered, one saw him setting up comfortably in the Central Tavern. Sr Vicenteta’s husband was still alive … The fact that he established himself in the tavern was grist to the mill of those who argued that Sr Vinardell was wealthy. For locals of humble means, the words “tavern” (living in a tavern) and “hotel” (eating at a hotel) have a specific resonance and are an indication of wealth for the people who don’t frequent such places, who are usually on their uppers. You know – ha, ha! – the fruits of ignorance. Unfortunately, a few weeks after he moved into the Central, the cleaning maids spread the news that Sr Vinardell never paid. There was no doubt that this was true, given the absolutely trustworthy nature of the source. To answer your queries in terms of lodging-houses, I’d like to tell you the way in which the contract was broken. As I understand it, neither Sra Vicenteta nor her poor husband ever dared to demand he paid the amount they had agreed. For whatever reason – out of admiration, sentimentality, tact, fear, terror or any other reason I am unable to pinpoint – they let him live there for free. They respected him. They showed him positive, perpetual respect: their free-wheeling guest enjoyed the best room and was always served the best food. In a country obsessed
with being paid, Sra Vicenteta and her husband never tired of paying out. It really is a mystery, as far as I’m concerned, a mystery I can’t explain at all … I don’t think one has ever seen …”
“I beg you, Sr Comes, don’t generalize. Don’t get carried away.”
The apothecary’s cigarette was smoked, and he lit up another. Then he continued: “Of course, Sr Vinardell’s situation in the Central didn’t do his reputation any favors. It was a victory for those who had argued he had returned a bankrupt. Coinciding with this blow dealt to his standing, a series of declarations started circulating around the locality that were attributed to Sr Vinardell – statements I felt to be rather serious. Meanwhile, however, another coincidence struck: Sra Vicenteta was widowed … One assumed that Sr Vinardell would depart the tavern and find a refuge that was more discreet and show more respect for the calamity that had befallen the tavern owner. Widowhood has always been respected … Nevertheless, there was no visible change in the situation of the individuals concerned. As a widow, Sra Vicenteta seemed to be as ready to maintain Sr Vinardell as when she was married. However, as I said, some innuendo began to circulate – serious stuff, in my view – to which I alluded previously. Apparently Sr Vinardell said one day, in the presence of respectable folk, that a part of the wealth (in land) of Sr Figarola would some day be his, because it had come into their possession in an unlawful, improper way. A very few days later, Sra Vicenteta repeated the assertion in a local household, and added the strangest twist: she said that one day part of the Figarola family wealth (a farmhouse) would fall to Sr Vinardell, because that family had taken it unfairly, and that the property would later, only naturally, fall to her. Conclusion: at a quiet, private moment together, Sr Vinardell had promised Sra Vicenteta something that has never failed to impress the human heart: an instant route to wealth. And how could she have refused tenderness when tied to private property …?”
I interrupted Sr Comes: “Sr Comes, your case collapses.”
“Collapses? Why does it collapse?”
“True parasites in the establishments we are discussing don’t need to promise anything in order to stay put. They need only to breathe to justify their privileged position. They are people who live off the dark mysteries at the heart of human relationships. The genuine parasite is as barren and elegant as the cypresses that adorn our landscape. It’s a pity. But do tell me how it ended …”
“Yes, it’s getting late. I would only be telling you the absolute truth if I were to say that Sr Figarola was the last person to find out about the statements Sr Vinardell and Sra Vicenteta were making. When he did become aware of what was being said, he acted immediately and had Sr Vinardell summoned to the local magistrate’s court. ‘This fellow is giving away fields, vineyards, and farmhouses that aren’t his to give so he can live at the tavern without paying a cent!’ said a furious, indignant Sr Figarola. ‘He’s a complete crook and I want him locked up! Some people make a living by dazzling others with things that don’t belong to them … I tell you, I want him locked up!’ Things didn’t go that far. They didn’t even reach the magistrate’s court. A few individuals intervened, and Sr Vinardell offered his apologies to his distant relative – apologies that were accepted. That was the moment of truth: as the house of cards collapsed, people expected Sr Vinardell’s situation would be settled there and then. That’s to say, one imagined that Sr Vicenteta would feel she had been deceived, wantonly deceived, and would react by sending her permanent lodger packing. Everybody was anticipating a dramatic scene. However, nothing happened, and Sr Vinardell continued to live in the tavern as if nothing had happened …”
“Sr Comes, the case gets better and better by the minute. The events you have just described show that Sr Vinardell is the classic guest. He is probably a professional at procuring systematic, long-term invitations. It is really
remarkable, because many people believe human relationships in small villages are different, generally quite the opposite, of those in large towns. I’d almost swear these differences are invented and have no basis whatsoever in real life. These relationships are the same everywhere.”
With that, we were back opposite the pharmacy and Sr Comes took an ancient, incredibly large key out of his pocket. We bid each other good night; he opened the door and disappeared into the darkness.
I stayed on in the village a few weeks more, doing nothing, breathing the fresh air, going to the springs to drink glasses of water. I tried to discover if the village or the surrounding countryside was home to any archaeological remains but failed to find out. In fact, the most interesting part of my stay was the tale from the Central Tavern – an experience from the early days of my travels as an inveterate nomad.
Although he was exceptionally tall and stout, people always called Sr Pere Ametller, Sr Peret. The diminutive stuck when he was young, and for ever more he was Sr Peret.
At the beginning of this true story, Sr Peret, the owner of two farmhouses, a house in Torrelles, and a large amount of land he rented out, is reputed to be a wealthy man. Perhaps, however, he isn’t really wealthy, in the usual meaning of the word. In this country nothing could be more relative than wealth. Anyone who is poor, genuinely poor, thinks everybody not in the same state is wealthy. A properly wealthy man, one dripping with money,
thinks nobody is. This kind of snooty person disparages the wealth of others, sticks his nose up.
By dint of his situation, Sr Peret was able to lead the life he wanted. He married in the normal course of things and over ten or twelve years gave his good lady five children: four girls and a boy. Obviously, they wanted a boy, and finally they produced one. His good lady, who was very pretty when she married, evolved naturally. The moment came when it seemed she could either turn to fat or to lean. Finally, leanness won out. White, plump, and golden haired as a young woman, she became dark-skinned, big-boned, and black-haired. Her loss of fat led to a change in her character, and that was probably very positive for Sr Peret’s family interests. If his wife had been fat, sluggish, and disagreeable, he would probably have been forced to sell the farmhouse. As she was now skinny, energetic, and active, he had no need to worry, because his wife always toed the line.
An active individual, interested in what life had to offer, she performed almost a miracle a day. Husband and wife, their five children, Sra Ametller’s two unmarried sisters, and a maid managed to live on Sr Peret’s rather modest income. The whole tribe had fallen on its feet.
When I first met him, Sr Peret did practically nothing. He got up at half past ten. After lunch he’d go to the café and play dominos with his friends. At three o’clock, in good weather, he would sunbathe. He owned a large plot of land on the outskirts of town that a gardener looked after for him. There was a vineyard on a slope at the top of his land. Ostensibly, it was said that Sr Peret tended his vines. He didn’t tend them at all, nobody had ever seen him touch his vines. He simply went there to pass the time, because he liked it and felt good there. A small house and stone bench sheltered from the wind were near the vines. He sat for hours on this bench. He’d sometimes read the newspaper. He wasn’t in favor of reading in artificial light or when
the light was poor. He read his paper in the bright sunlight, in the open air. That way he didn’t tire his eyes or have to wear glasses. On the other hand, he never worried about the date of his paper. Sra Ametller used the paper for the most urgent needs of the family. She was always short of paper. Her husband read the paper he could find, the one spared from the fire or the need to wrap a parcel. At sunset he’d walk back to town and spend a while in the casino until it was dinnertime. It was very cosy in the casino in winter because they had a splendid fire. At eight o’clock, it was time for supper and he’d head for home. When he walked in – such a tall, sturdy presence – he looked as if he’d just accomplished something noteworthy. The truth is he was a man who seemed to play a necessary, vital role in his small world, though he did nothing at all and never had. Ordinary folk, like Sr Peret, are never a nuisance, and consequently are deemed to be indispensable.
Sr Peret and his wife lived admirable lives. His good lady ruled the roost. He never raised any objections. He wasn’t the kind to object. It didn’t form part of his temperament. His wife’s aspirations always meshed with his. They were a perfect match.
The odd friend would often express to his face a judgment with which he couldn’t possibly agree. Then something would happen that was characteristic of Sr Peret. He would wave his hand, as if to suggest he was about to refute what he’d just heard. His face glowed from the positive efforts he was making to develop an argument. Sometimes, he even uttered a few disconnected words … However, the time to respond passed, and in the end he said nothing. Others resumed the conversation … Sr Peret sat and gaped for a moment and, when he realized he couldn’t voice his objection, he did three things in a row: first he shrugged his shoulders, then leaned back on his chair, and finally just sat there. No. Sr Peret wasn’t a man to raise objections.
On the other hand, he didn’t have any vices. He was unadventurous on
every front. Perhaps, very occasionally, he smoked a cigarette … when offered one. It wasn’t that he was miserly, however. He didn’t smoke because he felt better than when he did, and he instinctively looked after his health in very precise ways. The unconscious plays a key role both in the preservation and the destruction of health. Man is born to conserve as well to destroy. That’s why those who think conservers don’t have fun are sorely mistaken.
Such virtues guaranteed Sr Peret the reputation he deserved. He never became president of anything, but was vice-president of several bodies; he was never elected secretary, but was a frequent vice-secretary. It was once rumored he would be made municipal attorney and he was made deputy municipal attorney. He recognized that these deputizing roles suited him down to the ground. This confluence of circumstances performed wonders: Sr Peret was perfectly fitted to life in Torrelles. The village was made to measure for him. It had twelve hundred inhabitants. It was no longer a rural hamlet. Rural hamlets have many drawbacks. Torrelles was a tiny town. It was essentially agricultural, though the presence of two knitwear factories had changed its internal make up. Torrelles had a cinema, a casino, an orchestra, and a post office. There was a degree of social life. People were always up for a game of chess or cards. Butchers slaughtered daily. Six houses had a bathroom and central heating, heating that objectivity duly compels us to note was rarely switched on. Sr Peret had running water, a wash basin and a rather old-fashioned tin tub. He didn’t have central heating. In this, as in everything else, Sr Peret was a middling man.