Private Life

by Josep Maria de Sagarra

  Leocàdia! That overblown, romantic, inexpressive flower, as full of virtues as an aged ratafia liqueur, whom he had met at a storied ball held in Barcelona to celebrate the first marriage of Alphonse XII. In those days Leocàdia wore a suffocating corset and a pink satin dress with a bustle and a ruffled train, and amidst the combination of stitches and backstitches and the chastity of her chemise breathed the flesh of Leocàdia’s bosom, made of bland white camellias, lacking in fragrance or promise, restrained by her extremely discreet neckline and a great ribbon of sky blue velvet, as tight as a dog’s collar. Leocàdia was escorted by her father, the old Senyor de Cisterer, blind in one eye from a bullet fired by the liberals, taut and plump as a bass viol and having the same deep, hoarse, and solemn resonances as a bass viol. Old Cisterer introduced his youngest daughter, who dared not lift her eyes from the ground, and when the time came to meet the Lloberola heir, who was in those days resplendent, wealthy, and unattainable, a discreet tremor ran over her camellia bosoms in a lyrical and devoted way, as if they were obeying the gentle gust produced by the wing of a dove.

  In the moments of arid vision that followed his distaste at the adulterated cooking oil or the lump in the semolina, Don Tomàs de Lloberola, his eyes half-closed, was fond of discovering, in the failed pretensions of his inner landscape, the Leocàdia of the rose-colored dress clinging to the rigid sleeve of old Cisterer, beneath the innumerable glass chandeliers with their thousand yellow tongues of gas instinctively following the rhythm of the rigaudon. The music of that dance was in some way reminiscent of a military parade, and it gave el Senyor de Lloberola satisfaction to follow the complicated steps of the rigaudon, because it seemed to him that they evoked a tactical je-ne-sais-quoi. That silly music lacking in spirit or passion, infused with the most colorless mechanical frenzy, filled his heart with the trembling of his adolescent hours, the Carlists in the mountains, the barricades and fanfares of the brass bands (that might just as soon accompany a bishop as a thief being led to the garrotte) or the poor cripples dressed up in grotesque costumes for Carnaval who were paraded past the Lloberola mansion, where he would go out on the balcony and throw them a few xavos, the coins that had been used to pay the indemnization for the African war. Over the tablecloth of the dining alcove Don Tomàs relived that earlier Leocàdia and that earlier Barcelona, in which he still meant something. For Don Tomàs everything had changed. To console himself over his current misery he would repeat continually: “In my day it was not so …”, “I am from another world …” His Leocàdia was also from another world; the young woman with the bustle clinging to the arm of old Cisterer was a poor, insignificant old lady, whom no one respected or held in consideration, who would be given no special treatment in a clothing store. Only at the door of a church in the old neighborhood, when Leocàdia would go back for some particular devotional rite, would she come across a woman as anachronical as she herself, who had been begging for alms there for years. When Leocàdia bent down over her alms plate and dropped a five cèntim coin into it, the poor woman would look at her with glacial and obsequious eyes and effortlessly utter:

  “May God be with you, Senyora Marquesa.”

  AS FREDERIC LISTENED to the weak, rhythmic tinkling of a coffee cup subjected to the pressure of a phosphorescent cat’s tongue in Rosa Trènor’s kitchen, some curious scenes were unfolding in Dorotea Palau’s dress shop.

  Dorotea had once been Senyora de Lloberola’s family seamstress. Leocàdia would have her to her house two afternoons a week. Following the tradition of the ladies of old who preferred, whenever possible, for their clothing to be fabricated at home, Leocàdia invested a great deal of her time in the sewing of underwear for her husband and children, among other things of a more decorative nature. In those days Dorotea was a quiet and retiring girl, with a romantic oval-shaped face, and eyes between green and gray, without sparkle, like the wings of those quiet insects that blend into the leaves of plants. Dorotea turned out to be an excellent worker; she was always in the company of a young man she claimed was her brother, who must have been a couple of years older than she. Everyone was convinced of Dorotea’s modesty and good faith until, one day, without anyone’s ever knowing the reason why, Dorotea stopped serving in the Lloberola house, as a result of which Don Tomàs and Leocàdia wore long faces for a week. Later on, as it appears, it came to be known that Dorotea was the protegée of an important gentleman who spent seasons in Paris, and she had married a French hairdresser. Others said she hadn’t married, but had had a child; still others that Dorotea was dead. But all of this is old news, and most likely a pack of lies.

  Twenty years after leaving the service of the Lloberolas, Dorotea Palau was a single woman over forty, rich, generous with others, and the head of her own fashion house, which was patronized by very well-known ladies from the finest set. That afternoon, a man who couldn’t quite seem to decide whether or not to press the doorbell stood before Dorotea’s door. On the door was a plaque that proclaimed “Palau-Couture” to anyone who could read. It was a young man whom no one would have guessed to be more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old, though he must have been past thirty. Dressed in the style of the young men of the day concerned with being in vogue, his garments were clearly refashioned hand-me-downs. Biting down on a dying cigar that was unraveling like an old broom, the young man squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the brim of his hat down over his nose. After contemplating the plaque, he shrugged his shoulders and rang the bell with the puerile force and ill will of a boy crushing an ant’s belly.

  IN THE FOYER, Dorotea greeted the young man with a profusion of smiles, and then, to break the silence, she said, in a maternal voice:

  “It’s not even five in the afternoon! You certainly have come early today!”

  “I was tired of walking around, Dorotea, and as you know we have a bit of business beforehand. I am like a great actor; I need a good bit of time to apply my makeup.”

  “Please don’t talk so loud, for the love of God! I have more than twenty-five girls working in the front workshop and two ladies waiting in the dressing room!”

  “Oh, Dorotea, always putting on airs!”

  “Not airs, my boy; this is work. And in the midst of my workday to have to look after these things that, naturally, are not to our liking, neither yours nor mine.…”

  “You need not worry your head about me, Dorotea!”

  “But, you must understand, she is my best client.”

  “Indeed, and I can certainly say she is my best client, as well.”

  “Well, aren’t you the cheeky one!”

  “Be that as it may, Dorotea, I don’t think I can spend all day here in this foyer.”

  “Yes, fine, go on in. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Is there anything in the dining room, Dorotea? Because I’m a bit hungry.”

  “Go right ahead, you needn’t stand on ceremony.”

  The young man stood on tiptoe, as if by doing so he could breathe in more easily the feminine air that emanated from the workshop. He turned his back on Dorotea and went down the corridor to the dark, deserted dining room of the house. He turned on the light and starting rummaging around on the sideboard. Throwing away the cigar that tasted more or less like a crematorium, he stretched out on the divan that Dorotea used for her naps, and started in on an improvised sandwich.

  When he was down to the last crumb, and just as he was wiping a bit of grease from the fat of the cured ham off his fingers and onto the dining room curtains, Dorotea came in:

  “Time to get started?”

  “Just a moment, I’m not sure everything is ready.”

  “No need for such a fuss, Dorotea.”

  “Oh, that’s easy for you to say. They are very elegant people.”

  “You have a strange idea of elegance, Dorotea.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t pass judgment on personal tastes … But come along, come along …”

  Dorotea led her visitor into a bedroom off the dining ro
om. It was her own room.

  Family portraits, an oil engraving of Our Lady of Sorrows, a mahogany bed covered by a great pumpkin-colored comforter, and on top of the comforter a package of clothing wrapped in a kerchief. Dorotea inspected the package.

  “Yes, I think everything is here.”

  The young man sat down on a low chair and began to undo his tie and take off his clothing piece by piece, replacing it with the dirty, torn and pitiful clothing Dorotea had put in the package on the comforter.

  “What most riles me, Dorotea, is that you make me put on this Frégoli the impostor act.”

  “If you like, you can come just as you are! No, I haven’t quite lost my mind yet. They think that you … just imagine … if they suspected you were …”

  “Uh-huh, sure, any day now we’ll slip up on something, and that will be a show worth selling tickets to.”

  “God forbid!”

  “Go ahead and look shocked. I can just see myself running into him coming out of the Club Eqüestre on my brother’s arm …”

  “Don’t you believe it. Do you think for a minute he would recognize you? Don’t you realize they are both under the illusion …”

  “What do you think of this underwear, Dorotea? Patched up all over. Mamà makes me put them back in the drawer because of this sudden obsession they have with saving money. I never wear them except on these solemn occasions …”

  “I hear her health is very fragile.”

  “Yes, she hardly ever leaves the house … And what about the shirt? Do I also have to change my shirt?”

  “What do you think! Don’t you realize your shirt is made of silk?”

  “Papà certainly complains enough about it. But, Dorotea, do you really want me to wear this disgusting thing? My Lord, where do you find all these rags? No, no, I am not going to wear that! I’d be afraid of catching …”

  “The clothes are disinfected, I swear it. Oh, and the medallion and gold chain, give them here …”

  “If my mother wouldn’t die of sorrow, I would tell you to keep the medallion. One day at the beach club I almost threw it into the water.”

  “Don’t play the heretic with me.”

  “Dorotea, I think you’re going to have to find someone else … because, really, how long can this go on?”

  “What are you saying! That’s all I need right now. It’s not easy to find someone …”

  “… someone as shameless as I, am I right? Well, I don’t like to see myself all decked out like this. I think I look like a guy about to go out and hunt for cigarette butts and, frankly, even though Papà has gone and blown all our dough, we haven’t sunk that low.”

  “Look here, do you think you can get away with those smooth cheeks? Didn’t I tell you to come with at least one day’s beard?”

  “I forgot, what can I say? Yes, I do look a little too cute; it’s not easy for a kid from a good family to hide it.”

  “Maybe a little dark blue eye shadow …”

  “Not a bad idea! This mascara will do wonders …”

  “No, that’s too much. Wait, let me do it; this will give you a sort of natural grime …”

  “Thanks a lot, Dorotea.”

  “No offense intended.”

  “And you needn’t be such a perfectionist, Dorotea; nowadays everyone knows that even ditch diggers bathe and wear cologne when they have a date with a lady from the aristocracy. Hygiene has become commonplace … It won’t be such a novelty if they find me a bit too clean.”

  “Oh my God, Mrs. Planell must be cursing my name – I’ve had her in the fitting room for an hour and a half!”

  “Who is this Planell woman?

  “Don’t you know her? She’s Don Enric Planell’s wife, a beautiful, bright young woman. Oh, you would like her, all right.”

  “Come on, now, don’t make things any harder. Listen, the doorbell.”

  “I don’t think they can be here, yet, but she’s always so keen to …”

  “I swear to you, Dorotea … if it weren’t for the fact that … Well, no, I’m not going to tell you, you’re too much of a gossip.”

  “Ingrate!”

  “No, what I mean is, I’m fed up with all this.”

  “Be patient my son … three hundred pessetes are three hundred pessetes. Come back here now … to the ‘scene of the crime’ … and for the love of God, don’t make as much noise as you did last time. You can hear everything in an apartment like this.”

  The “scene of the crime” was a room that had been converted into a luxurious bedroom, with a glossy, perfumed, and illicit air, imitating a kind of pomp that is no longer in fashion in homes with good taste, but is very common in certain high-ticket Parisian bordellos, frequented by the scions of South American families. Dorotea Palau had pretty precise knowledge of such places, even if no direct experience.

  In the bedroom, the young man from a good family dressed as a ditch digger was left to wait, perusing the suggestive iconography on the walls with a cynical chuckle and flicking his pocket lighter on and off, while at the door Dorotea greeted a lady and gentleman of honorable appearance with affected amiability, leading them into one of the fitting rooms. Even though the moment of pleasantries had been extremely brief and the couple had already vanished behind a curtain, the lady could not avoid being spotted by Claudina C., who had been torturing Isabel, the chief apprentice of the house, for two hours. Having finished up her business there, she grabbed Dorotea by the arm in high dudgeon and said to her, one foot inside the door and one on the landing outside:

  “That Conxa can’t seem to go anywhere without that pansy of a husband.”

  Not wishing to take sides, Dorotea responded:

  “They are an exemplary couple; he expresses his opinion on everything; la Baronessa doesn’t so much as baste a stitch without consulting him. They are madly in love, and bear in mind that he is no spring chicken.”

  “Go on, woman, go on! The man is a dolt. He should be ashamed of himself. I assure you that if my husband came to me with this kind of nonsense …! I just don’t know what to think.”

  “For the love of God, Donya Claudina, you’re being very mean! Quite a few ladies come here in the company of their husbands.”

  “You’re talking about a different kind of ‘lady,’ now … But you have work to do, and I’m in the way … Everything must be ready the day after tomorrow, eh? I’ll be furious if it isn’t.”

  “Rest assured, Donya Claudina.”

  “Ah! And Isabel showed me that other matter. If you can’t bring it down, just cancel the order.”

  “But we can’t, Donya Claudina. You know that was a special price for you only.”

  “Always the same story. We’ve known each other too long for this, Dorotea.”

  “For the love of God, Donya Claudina …”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “At your service, Donya Claudina.”

  Dorotea closed the door and stepped into the fitting room where the honorable couple awaited her.

  “Have I kept you waiting? Please forgive me.”

  “Is the room quite safe? No one will be able to hear us? There are so many girls here, and they can be such tattlers.”

  “El senyor Baró can put his mind to rest.”

  “Let’s get on with it, Dorotea. Is it the same one as the last time?”

  “Yes, the same one. But with the leave of el senyor Baró, it can’t be done for less than a thousand pessetes.”

  “This is unthinkable, Dorotea. Dealing as you are with a client of my wife’s category …”

  “La Baronessa will understand perfectly. Look at the risk I’m exposing myself to …”

  “You mean the risk we are all exposing ourselves to, surely.”

  “Oh, no, sir. It can’t be done for less than a thousand pessetes. As el senyor Baró knows, I am under no obligation. What’s more, you have requested something that is quite dear and hard to find. I assure you that if the Baró and Baronessa didn’t have these qua
lms, another kind of person could be found, let’s say of a more decent class, more well-bred, a fine young man, in a word; and then the price would be more reasonable.”

  “But Dorotea!”

  “You must understand, there are many possibilities. But who could trust a person like that, a so-called fine young man? What I am offering you is foolproof. He can’t possibly compromise anyone, and what’s more, he’s authentic, the genuine article. This is the truth: it’s hard to find someone like this. You can’t imagine the repugnance one must face, the transactions one must engage in. All of this with kid gloves, for fear someone might have suspicions. What would the clients and even my staff think if they saw a character like that come in my door? I would do anything for the Baronessa, but for God’s sake, you must understand my position!”

  “All right, Dorotea, not another word. A thousand pessetes.”

  “Believe me, I would prefer not to earn this money. It burns my fingers, senyor Baró. If it were not for the esteem in which I hold you …”

  “Enough, enough, let’s get on with it, Dorotea.”

  “Just a moment. I am going to make sure everything is in order, and that the passage to the dining room is ‘free,’ so we won’t run into … You know …”

  “Yes, yes, we know, Dorotea.”

  The couple, now all by themselves in the fitting room, seemed stunned. The man’s features looked boiled, as if sucked in by an inexplicable inner fever. His cheeks had a grayish pallor and his eyes the soft dull stare of a dead hare. They didn’t dare look at each other or say a word, but their lips trembled with the rhythm of a mechanical toy.

  In ethnographic museums you can often find those shrunken heads produced by Ecuadorean savages, in which the features appear to have been reduced by a strange force pulling from the center of the cranium, pressing and compressing the external muscles, sucking away the volume of flesh, until only a minimal, but horrifically expressive, amount remains. And there in Dorotea’s fitting room, his head and her head reminded you of those repugnant little heads, because there, too, it seemed as though there were a force pulling and shrinking their faces, making them more expressive. Surely what was reducing and impoverishing their features, minimizing their flesh, and injecting into them the sharp expression of a specter was the moral suppuration forged by their desire.