Authors: Josep Pla
While Tintorer silently helped me on with my coat, a bell rang. It was the bell to the door the philologist opened immediately, with the officious flourish of an expert performing a role that doesn’t form part of his expertise. A small, plump, blue-eyed young woman stood there, her cheeks red from the bitter cold amid the steam from her own mouth. She wore a tiny leather hat, a feline fur coat that made her look bulky, and the usual rubber boots. The moment the door opened she began to benefit from the temperature inside and unbuttoned her coat, giving us a glimpse of her ornately adorned plum-colored evening dress. Conversely, it also meant a handful of snow on her hat now started to melt, and that explained why her hat and coat were wet, why her coat and gloves were dripping and why her face looked so ruddy. Standing opposite the philologist, she removed her gloves, opened her purse and extracted a deeply suggestive pale lilac envelope.
“This letter,” the young lady said, “is for Herr Darsonval …”
“One moment!” replied Tintorer who turned to ask me to wait for a second.
When the letter passed by me, I noticed the perfume in the air – how that place’s usual dank dampness had been suffused by a sweet charm that didn’t belong to everyday life, as if the memory of something distant, unwarranted and rather disagreeable had popped up.
To judge by the vociferous shouting that went up shortly, at the other end of the passage, from Sra Piccioni’s hoarse, cracked voice, I guessed that Tintorer’s appearance with the letter for Formiguera was producing a genuine
finimondo
. The good lady must have decided the sick man was in no fit state to receive scented epistles, pale lilac missives fatally destined to upset his feelings. “That letter,” she must have thought, “is an intolerable impertinence, an absolutely obscene disruption of the peace.”
“Niente, niente!”
I heard her shout from the entry hall. “
Darsonval! Non riceve lettere, imbecile!
” stormed Sra Piccioni, breaking into a sweat, quite beside herself.
Obviously the philologist bore the brunt, and nobody thought how Tintorer had simply carried out his errand in the quickest, most correct manner his officious attitude would allow. At no time during the lulls in the Italian lady’s indignant outcries did I hear the dancer pipe up. His reaction to the letter must have been completely deadpan, not only because acting blasé is the style in the cabaret world, but also because the lady was screaming too loudly to attempt to interject. He didn’t even ask from where or whom the letter had come. The philologist tried to say something – concretely, that there was a young woman at the door waiting for a reply – but the mere mention of her presence sparked such a spectacular surge in Sra Piccioni’s indignation, furnished it with such fruity vocabulary, that he decided it was vital to reverse the clock, as if nothing had happened. Still holding the letter, he swiveled round, sped down the passage and into the hallway, where the young woman in the plum dress and I were stood like two stuffed dummies,
apparently unnerved by the screaming we’d just heard. Tintorer was a nervous wreck. He handed the letter back to the young woman and eerily parroted Sra Piccioni’s “
Niente, niente … lettere …! Niente!
”
The young woman acted as if she’d understood nothing. She buttoned her coat up, put on her gloves, bowed, swept through the door and disappeared.
Now we were alone once again, the philologist gave me a look that seemed to say nothing in particular. It could just as easily have been a purely reflex action as the attitude struck by a man trying to be his normal, intelligent self …
“This woman’s so full of energy, as I told you …!” he squawked, obviously pleased with himself.
“So I see …”
“You know, she is not one to fiddle while Rome burns …”
“Of course …”
“He’ll be back to normal soon, you just see! In a couple of weeks he’ll be back dancing in cabarets. We’ll have a party. I know Sra Piccioni …”
“I’m sure! Well, good night …”
“When will we meet again?”
“You know where to find me. Call me … I’ll very likely drop by the café one of these days …”
“Yes, we should meet up.”
“Whenever you feel like it …”
The second I walked out the door it struck me we’d be seeing one another much earlier than we anticipated. The outcry I’d just heard, as a result of the young lady’s letter, confirmed all my conclusions. The upshot from that scene was so obvious and quite amazing given the extremely short time the dancer had been living in the household. But some women are like that:
they throw themselves at the object of their desire – whatever
that
might be – with a quite unexpected vehemence.
I went to a restaurant, had a light supper, and was back home at ten o’clock, with the help of a taxi that drove through the falling snow with due caution worthy of appreciation and reward.
It snowed throughout the night and was still snowing well into the morning. Rather too much snow for my liking. Nothing in excess; surfeits unnerve me. A few days before, Nicolau Tatin, the Russian writer, had given me a description of snow in Russia, presenting that meteorological phenomenon with the solemnity, gravitas, and grandeur of something sacred. However, sacred meteorology bores me. I don’t think snow is in any way sacred nor, for that matter, is the yellow, sticky, dusty African sun of our summer climate. I like mild climes, shades of green, rain, pleasant temperatures, and sunshine. Nothing in excess, as I said.
A surfeit of snow stuns and creates such hypochondria that men begin to behave like rabid dogs whose frenzy finds release in all kinds of unnatural and crazy deeds. I went out in the early evening in search of some normal café conviviality. Berlin was an impressive sight with brigades out clearing the way for all kinds of traffic. I was lucky and could take the usual tram.
Tintorer was seated at the table we usually occupied. He didn’t look at all well, and knowing he was susceptible to the cold and remembering the scenes from the time his nose froze, I wasn’t boundlessly optimistic. He greeted me in a limp, weary fashion.
“My dear philologist,” I remarked, “the weather couldn’t be worse! So where did you sleep?”
“How come you know?”
“I know nothing. I’m simply formulating as a question a concern that keeps buzzing round my head.”
“I slept in the dingy room next to the kitchen, where there’s little space and lots of junk.”
“That was predictable!”
“Do you mean human ingratitude is always predictable?”
“No, I mean there was every reason to expect that would happen!”
“Sra Piccioni is an ungrateful soul. She has given the dancer from Granollers my bedroom and stuck me in the junk room.”
“So the matter is finally resolved?”
“What matter?”
“The one that led you to take me to your house yesterday, on foot in that foul weather, to experience some of the most unpleasant moments in my life. I mean the matter of lodging.”
“It’s been resolved in a reverse manner to what I anticipated. If I begged you to accompany me, it was to find a bed and room for him; it turns out he’s now established in mine.”
“The spaghetti, dear Tintorer, the spaghetti!” I said in a spontaneously dreamy air, still in awe at the substance and quality of the contents of that tray. “Spaghetti, parmesan cheese, and a half liter of Chianti!”
“I don’t see the connection …”
“You still can’t see the connection? You don’t grasp the fabulous amount of emotion invested in that tray? If you don’t, it must be your poor eyesight. That tray might have seemed the most natural thing in the world, but it came loaded with a bullet. My dear friend, that was the precise moment I deduced you’d end up sleeping anywhere except in your own bedroom. Did you at least sleep soundly? I hope you didn’t catch cold? The snow is attaining absolutely sacred levels, in true Slavic style. Don’t catch cold,
Tintorer! If you catch cold and your nose freezes, we’ll have to give you such a terrible beating!”
“I can never tell whether you speak in jest or seriously …”
“And is that young man feeling better?”
“The young man is so-so, or so they say. I’ve not seen him, because she’s not let him get up today and has banned visits.”
“
Niente … lettere …!
”
“Precisely,
Niente, niente
…” Apparently, however,
he
didn’t enjoy a very good night. He’s been alternating bouts of sweating and chattering teeth. Formiguera is exhausted, obviously …”
“Yes, of course, he is exhausted, emotionally exhausted, to use that word in its broadest sense, to make myself clear. He’s drained. His recovery is only a matter of time. He can look after himself, don’t you worry on his behalf …”
“In any case, it was a wretched night. At around two, Sra Piccioni knocked on the junk room door in a state of panic and said: ‘Perhaps you should go for a doctor. Darsonval isn’t feeling well.’ ”
“And what did you reply?”
“That I’d put my trousers on right away.”
“Quite the thing to say.”
“What would you have done?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d have done. In any case, I’m more than happy to learn that you did what you did.”
“She was alarmed because his symptoms were so extreme. His chest seemed congested. His breathing became fast and feverish. Fortunately, as the morning proceeded, her anxiety receded and I could rest. Then I felt as if I’d been asleep for days and it did me a power of good.”
“You’ll soon see him back dancing in places where Toselli’s
serenatas
are all the rage.”
“In any case, Sra Piccioni gives the orders and she says how things should be done. She’s become deeply attached to that young man and you know how dynamic she can be.”
“Don’t be unduly anxious, dear Tintorer. It’s only a matter of very little time.”
“Be that as it may, she’s cosseting him like a child. Although she’s only known him for a couple of days and can’t be sure he likes her house, she’s caring for him better than she would her favorite niece. It’s all hot water bottles, cups of
brodo
, I mean broth, and treats of very kind. Everybody seems to be at the dancer’s beck and call. Can you believe it? When I moved to the junk room, Serafí refused to join me. Some days are so pernicious they seem tailor-made to destroy principles one thought were rock solid. And I always thought a dog was a man’s best friend!”
“Now who is fiddling while …? Please don’t start being hard on canine caprices! Only poetic truth, my dearly beloved philologist, is truly liberating … Goethe
dixit
ages ago.”
There was a short lull. Tintorer’s humble glass of coffee had gone cold. I suggested fortifying it with a shot of kirsch and luckily he got the message. That man worried me. Whenever I looked through the crack in the curtains and out on to the street, I saw a cold, unfriendly night out there and thought he’d have been better off keeping to our climate. “If he falls ill in his present lodgings,” I thought, “what decision will Sra Piccioni decide to take? Will she suggest he go to hospital? Will she tell him that she’s done her duty by sick men? Will she leave him in the junk room?”
“Is there a way to heat the room you’re in now?” I asked.
“No stove, no light, no brazier, no fireplace.”
“So what will you do? How do you see things?”
“I don’t know. My brain is tired. All in all, I don’t think it would be a good idea to break with him or her.”
“In principle, I think …”
“He’s a good lad. I’ve known him for years. We have bumped into each other in different countries. He’s done me no end of favors. He has no side to him. He is generous, genuinely so, I mean I don’t need to flatter him for you to see that. But he has one terrible weakness, though he’s no side, he’s never his own man. He’s a plaything in the hands of the people he meets from day to day. When I met him in Paris in a small restaurant on the Rue Blanche that was packed out with fair-haired, jovial young toughs who lived well though they had neither a trade nor income, he was exactly the same as he is now. Don’t think that this doesn’t have its merit …”
“What merit might that be? If it’s a feature of elephants to have trunks and of squirrels to have long tails, are you of the opinion that a squirrel’s long tail earns it merit?”
“If you only knew the people Formiguera has had to suck up to, or entertain, you would be astonished!”
“But that’s no merit in itself. It’s in his nature. Was he dancing in Paris?”
“It’s all he did. He could earn as much money as he wanted. But it was a wretched life. I’d ask him, ‘Aren’t you ashamed? You’re a pleasant, nice young man. Any activity could earn you enough for a decent life. If you want maintenance without ever doing anything, a certain notion of marriage might be the solution.’ I brought him to tears, but all to no avail. Everything dragged him back to that way of life. He was vain, money ran through his fingers, and he’d come to take that world seriously. He was a rural lad intoxicated by patent leather shoes and gleaming white teeth. He liked being in that dazzling cesspit – the corrupt sentimentalism of late nights and catchy tunes.
It’s a world where you laugh yourself to death. It made Formiguera cry and quiver with emotion. And strange to say he was from Granollers, from the rural-domestic hearth of the symphony that is Vallès. It’s beyond belief. Cabarets are the running sores of modern life. That a boy from Granollers should find himself in Berlin and giddy on cabaret at this particular moment in history is at once tragic and miserably grotesque.”
“That’s for sure.”
“You saw him yesterday. He looks in a bad state, the distilled pallor, the three- or four-day-old beard, his nose’s cold anguished lines, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, blotting-paper ears … I’ve seen him like that a number of times, and I’ll tell you one thing: even when ill, his kind is lucky. Do you know what I’ve heard some ladies say about Formiguera? That he’s got lovely eyelashes …”
“Is Sra Piccioni of the same opinion?”
“I must confess I’ve reached a point when I understand nothing.”
“All the same, you must reach a decision in relation to her. The room you’re in now is not what you call comfortable.”