by Josep Pla
Embarrassed by her extravagant circumlocutions – which remind me of the language used by gentlemen in my childhood – Don Víctor tries to sidestep her and slip away, as best he can, using us as his excuse.
“What a peculiar individual!” I exclaim.
“That’s Lídia, daughter of Sabana, the last great witch we’ve had in Cadaqués. The poor woman thinks she is the Ben Plantada.”
“Xènius’s La Ben Plantada?”*
“Absolutely, Xènius’s La Ben Plantada.”
“That’s curious…But does the female character in Xènius’s novel have any connection to hereabouts?”
“That would be a tale long in the telling, you know, it’s a very complicated business. In the first place, I should tell you that when people say that La Ben Plantada was constructed from elements of Barcelona, they don’t really know what they’re talking about. The Ben Plantada does have traits suggested by the poor woman I’ve just been speaking to, traits from Lídia and others related to a beautiful, majestic woman from Figueres. La Ben Plantada is a book that contains lots of elements from the Ampurdan and Cadaqués. Only minor details come from other places.”
“Do you think the theory behind the book also stems from the Ampurdan?”
“I couldn’t say. I’m hardly a man who deals in theories…”
Don Víctor understands why I’m curious and, as we walk slowly along, he recounts the following: “One day, when I was here, I received a letter from Doctor Ors, a colleague of mine working for the charity services in Barcelona. In this letter he told me that one of his sons, Eugeni, was planning to spend a few days in Cadaqués, because his health was rather delicate and he needed rest and a suitable diet. He added that his son would be bringing a friend. He then begged me to find an adequate private house that would treat them in the considerate, generous fashion the young man’s poor health required.
“At the time, there was a very nice, well-mannered, good-looking fishwife by the name of Lídia who was the daughter of old Sabana, the town’s last witch. She was married to a first-rate fisherman from Cape Creus and the couple had two small children. Lídia lived in La Riba in a house that was excellently situated, clean, well appointed, a house next to one owned by my cousin Tianet Rahola, the apothecary, who would later become harbor master. Lídia was a wonderful cook and managed a buoyant business to boot: the best fish taken from Cadaqués waters passed through her hands. I arranged terms: the two lads would stay in Lídia’s house and pay four pessetes a day for full board.
“Subsequently, the mail coach deposited the two friends in Plaça de les Herbes: Eugeni Ors, who later converted to Eugeni d’Ors, and a young man by the name of Jacint Grau Delgado, also a writer, who spoke Spanish with a lisp. Grau Delgado has graced the Spanish stage with various works that have attracted a variety of comments. As for Eugeni d’Ors, one has only to mention his name these days: he is renowned, and controversial and has done very well for himself. As the two youths had come with my recommendation, I went to see them settle in at Lídia’s house, and after a few days I felt duty bound to see how they were faring. I found they were fascinated, literally dazzled, and very happy with the house where they were lodged. It seemed they couldn’t find sufficiently ecstatic words to describe their bliss.
“ ‘Thiss, Sssenyor Rahola,’ Grau Delgado told me, ‘iss sso splendid. Good God, thiss lady cooksss us such fissh! She’sss such a wonderful cook! We’re delighted! We couldn’t be better looked after…’
“Indeed, both looked extremely well, had recovered their color and seemed in magnificent health. Eugeni Ors gave me a detailed and voluptuous description of the quality of the lobsters and crabs, black scorpionfish, Cape Creus mussels, groupers, sea bream and dentexes that Lídia habitually served. They couldn’t credit what had come their way. I realized that the succulent local cuisine, prized for its quality, had led the two friends to see themselves as Renaissance men, according to the cliché in vogue about such individuals: a mixture of respected spiritual figure, man on the make and artist, which is usually the case when people feel they are at once Aretino, Boccaccio and Borgia. This rush of self-esteem usually happens when food is full of nitrogen and nitrates, and has the prodigious richness of victuals from these parts. What’s more, there is excellent game near Cadaqués, so the fish was followed by partridges, rabbits and meaty woodcocks…In short: from my visit to their lodgings, I concluded that the euphoric well being of those young men of letters was both splendid and entirely visible.”
Don Víctor pauses before continuing: “One of the undoubted reasons for good cooking is, as you know, the passion of love: good cooking can arise from love, in the hope that it will arouse an amorous response from the person loved. There are women who, when they fall passionately in love, tend to become patient, skillful, excellent cooks, all for the object of their love. Lídia had always been a good cook, but the degree of perfection and generosity she now brought to her culinary wisdom made me think she had fallen in love with the man who was later to be known as the Glosser. If it weren’t for the intervention of a real, profound movement of the heart, that table would never have attained the level of distinction it did. Lídia’s cooking brimmed over in a flood of tenderness transmuted into sauces, gravies, soups and broths. It was an apotheosis of palpable pleasures, exactly what is most appreciated by those who devote themselves to dry, philosophical word games.
“When I have sometimes reflected on these developments, I have concluded that Lídia’s striking generosity and emotional abandon must have impressed Eugeni Ors to a degree that any normal person will understand. There was another decisive factor: the youth of this country is always at once turbulent and uptight…Youth is the only stage in life when a Catalan male isn’t finicky, self-interested and ironic.
“Meanwhile, young Ors had begun his literary career through his surprising, controversial Glossary in La Veu de Catalunya. Perhaps the intuition of La Ben Plantada, the idea of La Ben Plantada, was previous to Ors’s arrival in Cadaqués. I am in no doubt that in an attempt to repay Lídia’s generosity, to thank her for the undeniable power of her culinary-emotional rapture, Ors did tell her at some stage that she was the Ben Plantada. It was a sincere compliment, though a rather measly recompense for the tasty feats of a passionate fishwife. The drama, the real drama, began when Lídia believed him…Perhaps you will ask: ‘How could she have possibly believed him? Was she really as Ben Plantada as the compliment indicated?’ Physically perhaps she was nothing out of the ordinary, but by any yardstick she was extremely curvaceous and lively; a veritable presence. I mean to say, she was as well set up as any woman in this land.
“Nothing untoward happened while the young literati stayed in Cadaqués. One day, however, they had to bring their sojourn to an end. They left on the mail coach, a bit plumper and weightier than when they arrived, to the sound of the things usually said in such situations: till next time…or till next summer…That departure was the beginning of that poor woman’s ruination. For ages she sent the best fish she had to the Ors household in Barcelona. One day she even dared present herself, with her jaunty, common ways and a basket of fish, in the office of the Glosser himself. His family had no alternative but to invite her to lunch. They were embarrassed and quite at a loss as to how to handle the situation. Poor Lídia!
“That was when Ors began to publish La Ben Plantada in the Glosser’s section in La Veu de Catalunya. Lídia found out and at once started telling people: ‘You do realize I am the Ben Plantada, don’t you? Yes, that’s me, I am the Ben Plantada…’
“ ‘Hey, here comes the Ben Plantada…’ people started to say in Cadaqués.
“ ‘You don’t believe me? Ask the gentleman who lived in the house in Riba del Poal, ask Xènius…’
“And it was impossible to chase this obsession away. Lídia’s obsession with Xènius and the compliment he’d paid her that one time became a delirious mania.
&
nbsp; “Naturally, a book like La Ben Plantada contains highly amusing episodes. I am quite sure that specific details related to young Ors’s stay in Cadaqués are in the book. Lídia is one of the many anecdotes held within its pages. However, nothing authorizes one to think that Lídia served as a model in the construction of La Ben Plantada as a category. But that’s what the poor woman believed from the moment Xènius left Cadaqués, which happened to also be the point at which that good lady began to be a hazy memory, fading fast from the mind of that young man of letters.
“The person who really counted in the creation of the Ben Plantada as a category – to use Orsian terms – was the beautiful lady from Figueres I have already mentioned. Xènius’s ideas about the elegance, grace and rootedness of ladies on this earth, the subtlest observations the book contains about life in this country, were driven by that woman. That lady was absolutely the Ben Plantada; she had perfect poise, was full of character…However, Lídia’s obsession now verged on lunacy. And as the minute details of his stay here were relegated to the recesses of the writer’s memory, the fishwife became more obsessed and broken by the vivid relief of her own memories.
“A series of tragic consequences followed. The family life of the wretched lunatic was destroyed. Lídia went into a limbo, immersed in her obsessive illusions, distanced from any practical matter or concern for hygiene. Her flourishing fish business was as neglected as the house in La Riba. Her husband, an excellent fisherman, went to live as a recluse in the rocky solitude of Culip and died in obscure circumstances. Her two children, who were twins, went mad and died on the very same day. As the years passed, the lunacy driven by her tragic obsession transformed Lídia into the spectacle you have just witnessed: the most depressing spectacle hereabouts.
“When Xènius, now at the peak of his renown, was the main judge in the Jocs Florals of Ampurdan held in Castelló d’Empúries, Lídia heard the news and went to the festivities. The whole time the Glosser stayed in the Ampurdan, Lídia didn’t leave his side for a second. When he decided to go to Sant Pere de Roda, the poor madwoman didn’t abandon him. The saddest of stories!
“The presence of that strange woman, dressed so eccentrically, her lunatic manner and insistent declarations that she and only she was the Ben Plantada intrigued society ladies in Figueres and Castelló and several visitors at the festival. Someone insinuated she might be Xènius’s wet nurse. One lady dared ask him who she was.
“ ‘Senyora,’ replied Xènius, in an astonishingly solemn tone, with a hint of melancholy, ‘Senyora, that woman is an atonement…’ ”
On our return from a most dismal Port Lligat, Don Víctor gives us lunch in his house. He offers us Cape Creus mussels, rice with grouper heads, bream stew, local cheese, coffee and French cognac. The lunch is indescribable.
After lunch, Hermós offers to play tresillo. Surprise all around.
“But Hermós, do you know how to play?” asks our friend gleefully. “Who do you play with?”
“Don’t be so surprised…” says Hermós, glowing with local patriotism, “everybody in Palafrugell knows how to play tresillo. Even the ladies play it on the quiet. Donya Rosa Barris, whom you know and I serve, plays a fine hand.”
“Good God!” laughs Don Víctor. And he instructs his maids to seek out two other players.
“Call in at the rectory,” he says, “and tell the rector we shall start tomorrow. Today we’ll have a school.”
While we await the two gentlemen, Hermós, who is smoking a cigar and exhaling impressive clouds of smoke, tells us, enthused by the compliments he’s been paid, that there once was a gentleman in Palafrugell, who is dead now, old Senyor P., who personally taught his children to play tresillo. When they were very young, their father took them for walks as soon as the good weather started. In the summer, Senyor P. sought out the shade of cork and pine trees, took a pack of cards from his pocket and gave his three children a lesson in tresillo.
“Did they turn out good players?”
“First class.”
Hermós conveys to us that one of the best legacies Senyor P. left his children is their knowledge of tresillo. Don Víctor is amused. Our fellow players soon arrive: a doctor and an americano from the Cuban town of Camagüey. Very likable people.
The game lasts the entire afternoon. The room is filled with dense smoke and bliss: the players look to be having a wonderful time. If anyone is suffering, it is perhaps Hermós, because he has to concentrate too much and that inhibits him. No matter, he is happy. In this country, after lunch, tresillo players are a kind of incarnation of the highest form of happiness one can attain on this earth.
I spend the afternoon looking at the books in the library. Other people’s libraries always hold pleasant surprises.
We say goodbye at supper time. In any case tomorrow morning Senyor Rahola wants to tow us behind his motorboat as far as Portaló. Hermós is beaming: he is a resolute supporter of this kind of sailing.
Back on board we have a bite to eat and get into our cots. Our vessel is anchored on the shore of El Poal. My final survey of the town gives me an overwhelming sense of remote solitude. Its small lights glint faintly on the mysterious, black harbor waters.
* * *
—
4 October. Don Víctor, in the stern of his vessel, sails swiftly toward ours before nine. It’s a sparkling day: a northwesterly breeze, a limpid sky, a delightful sun, cool, fresh air. We secure the towrope, and embark by Don Víctor’s side, intending to pull our boat without using the rudder.
“We’ll go as far as we can…” says Don Víctor, as his sailor starts the engine.
“The weather looks good,” I reply.
“We’ll see by Cape Creus…”
We hug the coast as we follow the bay round, entranced by the silence of the olive trees on land. We sail around the island of S’Arenella, which belongs to our friend. Hermós admires Don Víctor hugely, but when he discovers that he owns an island, his enthusiasm grows in leaps and bounds. His eyes gleam when he glances his way; he is thrilled to be so close to him. I anticipate how often Hermós will boast that he knows a man who owns an island…Then we turn into Mar d’Avall and marvel at the rocky majesty of the landscape. Don Víctor, at the tiller, knows every single coastal contour and name.
When we sail by Port Lligat, I think of the tragic story of Lídia, which my shocked subconscious links to the previous day’s splendid lunch. I can’t resist the temptation to tell Don Víctor that one eats extremely well in Cadaqués. He listens and can hardly hide the pleasure my compliment gives him.
“Yes, senyor,” he says. “One eats wonderfully well in Cadaqués. In my book, better than anywhere else. I don’t know if you have ever traveled abroad.” I shake my head. “I have a little. I’ve not found a cuisine like it in the whole of Europe. For my taste, cooking with butter is inferior to the cooking here, even the sophisticated, impressive French cuisine. Cooking with butter is characterless, dull, how can I put it? Cooking that seems touched by the light of the moon…”
“How curious!” I interject. “Garreta says exactly that about French music…”
“What does Maestro Garreta say about French music?”
“He says precisely that: it is music touched by the light of the moon, rather wan, lifeless, lacking sun, that full, radiant, strong, explosive energy…And I don’t mean explosive in the manner of regimental music, but in the sense that it is full of vitality…”
“Exactly so. The cuisine of Cadaqués has three unique ingredients: the water, the quality of the fish and the oil from the olive trees you can see now. They offer a culinary base of unrivaled quality. It’s an incomparable cuisine that gives an emphatically solar, beaming, tasty aspect to its raw materials. The fish taken from these waters, which are so pure and driven by such strong currents, cooked with this oil and the light sauces made here, infuse the blood of humans with exhilarating fullness an
d transcendent energy. In other places, the origin of many things may be spiritual; here the source of everything is almost always the substance of the raw material.”
“I don’t understand any of that,” says Hermós, who feels the need to interject, “but I’m sure Senyor Rahola is right.”
“Are you at all familiar with other kinds of cooking?” asks Don Víctor.
“Yes, senyor. I’ve gone to peel cork in the hills of Toledo, in Extremadura and Algeria…”
“If you’ve visited only those places, it’s not surprising you appreciate what I say.”
“Don Víctor, if you only knew how much I suffered away from this country when the time came to eat! May lightning strike them!”
The coast shelters us from the northwesterly and allows us to sail slowly and majestically. As we draw nearer to Cape Creus, the swell visibly increases. Beyond Massa d’Oros we see white horses thrown up by fresh gusts. As we round the cape we meet strong winds and a crashing sea. Neither Don Víctor nor his boatswain says a word: it’s the usual local weather and they find it completely normal. They secure the towrope and, excellent at the tiller, Don Víctor makes the most of every sheltered spot on the coast to avoid the pounding waves and intermittent downpours.
We sail like that for a long time, painfully slowly. Our tug has a small engine and our progress is grievous. Even so, we round the bend into Portaló, find shelter there, and then embark in our boat, after bidding farewell to our generous, unforgettable friends.
“And our thanks to you…” says Don Víctor with a grin, beginning his return to Cadaqués. As we watch his vessel sail into the distance, we see him waving goodbye with the whitest of handkerchiefs.