In the big old house on Carrer de Sant Pere més Baix, all that planed and polished wood engrafted with metals and nacre, gleaming with exotic varnishes and gums, affecting potbellied protuberances or Gothic spires, had a reason to exist and a reason to take up space because the big old house was just like that furniture, and the walls and the decorations supported each other and gave each other meaning. A meaning that was a bit absurd, as we have already noted, but with its elements of grandeur. In that apartment on Carrer de Mallorca, the only thing left was the absurdity, exaggerated even more by the meager space and the agglomeration of the pieces. To the eyes of an outsider who didn’t know what it was all about, every piece of Don Tomàs’s historic furniture, every memory loudly clinging to every stick of wood, would resemble a wretched gang who had taken refuge from a fire in the first convenient place they had found. You couldn’t tell if they were crying, begging, or brazenly showing off their cracks and worm holes because they knew perfectly well that they were done for.
Presiding over the bric-à-brac of tradition hung a painting yellowed with linseed oil that portrayed Don Tomàs de Lloberola i de Fortuny, the Marquès de Sitjar i de Vallromana, stiff inside the uniform of the Order of the Knights of Saragossa. The painter had captured his physiognomy on his deathbed, and though he had done all he could, the portrait came out with the Dies Irae already grazing his lips. Fortunately he had daubed his galloons with silver and his lapels with an impulsive red, and he had lingered over the curls of the gray forelock and turned the sideburns hiding the dead flab of his cheeks into furling escaroles.
The jowls of the Marquès de Sitjar rested uncomfortably on a high, rigid military collar, so stiff you could slice bread with it. It appears that the marquis had only donned this asphyxiating item of clothing on two occasions: the day he was married and the day he was carried to the cemetery.
Beneath that portrait, in a ceremonial friars-chair, sat the grandson of the Marquès de Sitjar, Don Tomàs de Lloberola i Serradell. The grandfather’s braided uniform had given way to the grandson’s colorless, shapeless suit jacket with the odd stain. Don Tomàs’s shirt collar was unbuttoned, and he had sort of swaddled himself in a silk scarf of a hardy and indeterminate shade. He still had all his whitish hair, which he hid under a scholar’s cap. Over his moustache, streaked in salt and pepper, advanced the prow of an enormous red nose with cratered skin and aggressive nostrils. It was the nose of a peasant from the time of the remences, the late medieval uprising of the indentured servants. Don Tomàs’s milky blue eyes defended themselves behind gold eyeglasses, and his long monastic cheeks and receding chin sank with a bit of coquetry into the cool fabric of the scarf that swathed his neck, as if dipping into a silken bath. Don Tomàs was a tall, swollen, apoplectic man, slow to react, whose movements were sluggish and whose breathing was fatigued. An indefatigable cougher, he cleared his throat out of mere habit, because in point of fact, there was nothing there to clear.
Frederic’s visit surprised him in the midst of one of those earthshaking coughing fits. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, Don Tomàs peered over his glasses, wrinkled his brow, made a face and then quickly bowed his head, looking askance at his son with an expectant and wary expression. Frederic walked over to his father’s desk, and Don Tomàs extended his hand, which Frederic kissed not with effusion but rather with some repugnance.
“Hello, my boy! One might think you had all been brought up in an orphanage. You don’t seem to recall that you have a father, or that your father has been ill, and very ill at that …”
“But, Papà, I didn’t know anything about it. Mamà just told me right now.”
“Oh, you didn’t know. You didn’t know. Must we tell you everything? Your wife was here just the day before yesterday. Didn’t she have the sense to tell you? That’s right, poor old granddad … Everyone likes to kick a man when he’s down. Father has a headache? It will go away! And your sainted mother, putting up with it all. You only have a thought for us on the day of your monthly allowance. No better than a servant, a man with no love of hearth and home, just waiting around to come into what little you all haven’t already spent on me. Oh, Lord, if I could only …”
“Papà, please, for the love of God, don’t get started. Then you wonder why we don’t come to see you.”
Frederic had said that because he just couldn’t take it anymore, but he realized he had got off on the wrong foot and tried to make a fresh start.
“If you only knew what headaches and worries Maria and I have to face. While you, in all honesty, only complain about unimportant things. I don’t know what has you in such a foul humor. I can assure you, you are looking quite fine, magnificent, in fact. Indeed, my first glimpse of you made me very happy.”
“How would you know if I am looking or feeling well? Do you think you can play games with me? Don’t I know best how I’m feeling? It’s only natural; old people and sick people are a bother. But let’s not get into that. I know very well that gratitude cannot be forced, much less the gratitude of one’s own children …”
“Papà, please, I have children, too. And believe me, I repeat, I have a lot of headaches that you … Right this moment, if you only knew … I came over here expressly to tell you, to confess to you …”
“To confess to me? What could you have to confess to me! What have you done now, eh? What have you done? Frederic, my son, you’re too old for this. Do you understand? Too old! And I would rather not know …”
“Papà, believe me. I feel more alone than you. I have no one. My wife …”
“Your wife, hmm, your wife. There’s a ninny for you.”
“She is the way she is. She is not to blame …”
“All right, son, get on with it, tell me what’s bothering you … But be mindful, child, be mindful! If you want to see me dead … If you’ve had enough of your old father …”
“Please don’t talk that way, Papà. It’s just not right. Do you think I’m made of stone?”
“No, you’re not made of stone. But when it comes to headaches, you certainly have given me your share …”
“Are you starting again?”
“No, no, go on. Go ahead and tell me: what is on your mind?”
“I am very sorry to have to confess this to you, as you can imagine. But there is no other way. The problem is a promissory note …”
“A promissory note? Another wretched promissory note?”
“Yes, just that. A note I accepted, which comes due the day after tomorrow. I have tried to get an extension but the creditor will not agree to it unless I have another signature, do you see? He wants a guarantor.”
“A signature. From whom?”
“Imagine how it pains me to have to say this, to have to bother you with this, especially now, when you are not feeling well. But they have me under the gun. I could go to prison … It is just a question of the signature. I will pay it down the road; I will have the money. I swear to you there isn’t the slightest danger.”
“There will be no swearing, do you hear me? I don’t know what has happened to you young people. You speak without the least bit of respect …”
“Papà, forgive me. But I beg you in the name of what you most love. I am trapped. I am being squeezed. If you could just be my guarantor …”
“And what credit do I have? Who am I, poor devil? You are asking me to underwrite a debt? This is too much, believe, me, too much. I can’t do it, do you understand? I can’t …”
“But, Papà, I assure you there is absolutely no danger …”
“And what is the amount of this note?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary …”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand pessetes …”
“Fifty thousand pessetes? Have you gone mad? My son, what is to become of you? What is to become of us all? No, Frederic, no. This is all my fault, oh yes, all my fault …”
“But, Papà, I will have the money. This has just come at a bad time …”
&n
bsp; “What about your father-in-law?”
“My father-in-law is of no use to me. I don’t have the heart to ask my father-in-law for anything. Can you imagine …”
“So, naturally, the whipping boy will have to be your poor old father. Isn’t it enough to have done everything you’ve already done? You’re not going to stop until I am even poorer than I am now, destitute, begging alms. Is that what you want? That’s what all of you are after! Fifty thousand pessetes! Let’s imagine the note comes due again, and once again you cannot pay. What, then? What will be left of our household?”
“Papà, there will be plenty left! Fifty thousand pessetes is a trifle! I’m telling you again, there is absolutely no danger …”
“No, no, no, and no again. The time has come to turn off the faucet, do you understand? It is pointless to go on: I will not sign the note. Go find one of those rich friends of yours, find anyone, but under no circumstances will I do it.”
“What can I say, Papà? Frankly, I think your attitude is a bit … unfair.”
“Unfair! Unfair, you say? Unfair! Are you not ashamed of yourself, at your age, with three children of your own, to have come to be such a good-for-nothing, a degenerate …”
“Papà, please, you can’t go on like …”
“Can’t go on? Am I wrong, by any chance? Is this what brings you to visit your ailing father? Is this what reminds you of your poor mother? This nonsense will be the death of me. Haven’t you done enough? You’ve been doing this all your life. You will never change, never, it’s no use, never!”
“That’s enough, Papà, enough! Enough sermons! I’ve come to ask for your help, not your sermons. I’ve heard enough sermons …”
“You don’t want sermons, eh? Well, you’ll just have to put up with them. Because I am your father, and I have every right. Do you hear me? They don’t want to hear sermons! What nerve. Spoiled, pompous little brats. Believe me, I would never, but never, have dared to address my father in the tone in which you address me. I know, times change. Today there is absolutely no respect for age. The elderly, let them die. Parents, poor things, don’t count at all. Shame on you! We sacrifice in every way for them, we satisfy all their desires, we give them everything they want and then they dare to raise their voices. Don’t dare say a word, for they’re made of sugar – they might melt! They take offense! Their father offends them! I tell you, I would rather die than see such things, that’s a fact. I would rather die. Yes, may our Lord Savior deliver me soon, I’m not meant to … I’m not meant …”
“Believe, me, Papà, you do not understand. You deserve every respect, but frankly you must take a bit more stock of things. You don’t understand, and when you get this way …”
“When I get what way! I declare! What way? You are so shameless as to come and ask for fifty thousand pessetes because, truth be told, this note is just a bit of nonsense; when the day comes they will be at my throat and to avoid a trial I’ll have no recourse but to pay, you understand, pay and pay again. For forty years I’ve done nothing but pay, and I am an old man who cannot earn a living, and I have no more money! Much less for your degenerate vices!”
“Papà, for the love of God, I beg you! You know, I have a slow fuse, but …”
“A slow fuse! What you have is debauchery! Between the allowance I give you, your earnings from the bank, and the remains of your wife’s dowry, you should be living like royalty! Fifty thousand pessetes! You useless idler! Do you think I don’t know that you spend your days and nights gambling at the Eqüestre, and other things I prefer not to know because my ears would burn with shame. My father taught me that I should die before yielding to such frailties. And I say frailties out of kindness, do you hear? A Christian, a Catholic, a gentleman, a decent man, a family man would not …”
“Enough, Papà! Enough!”
“Enough! That’s not the half of it! You are a bad son. Do you hear what I say? A bad son! Look, look here, this is your great-grandfather. Do you know who this man was? He was a man of conscience. You know the story of Uncle Manuel, don’t you? You don’t? Well, Uncle Manuel committed a heinous act, the kind pious persons refrain from mentioning, and my grandfather, the gentleman you see here in this portrait, who was his father, chose never to forgive him. He didn’t even forgive him on his deathbed. He condemned him! Do you hear me? He damned him to hell. Uncle Manuel spent his whole life with the sting of his father’s malediction in his heart. What do you think of that! And Grandfather was a saint, an upstanding man, of the kind that are no more in Barcelona. No more. Do you understand me? So now, listen closely: what do you want? What do you expect of me? Do you want to be the Uncle Manuel of our family, do you want to be the family disgrace? Do you want your father to condemn you?”
“Enough, Papà. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I could care less if you condemn me, do whatever you like. You don’t want to give me a hand? That’s just fine! This endless stream of sermons is just mean-spiritedness, the fear of losing fifty thousand pessetes. Very well, sir, very well. You and your saints, and your airs, and your good conscience. When all is said and done, what have you ever done? You lost your fortune in the most ridiculous way! Have you ever so much as bent down to lift a blade of straw from the ground? Have you ever done anything worthwhile? What kind of education and what kind of example have you provided for us? Maybe I am a no-good idler. Whose fault is that? And let’s not get started on debauchery and piety! You have done everything everyone else does, you have not denied yourself a thing. Don’t start in on how virtuous you are as an excuse not to give me your signature. We both know perfectly well what Mamà has gone through with your affairs.”
“Ah, you wicked child! Wicked! My children! Can these be my children …? You are killing me. Just kill me now … I can’t go on!”
Don Tomàs de Lloberola was seized by a terrible congestion. He tried to cough, but he choked. In a word, he was suffocating. Convulsed, he gripped the wooden arms of the chair, and when he could finally catch his breath, he released a sob that could not have been more shattering and intense. Frightened at his father’s appearance, Frederic tried to approach him, but Don Tomàs brushed him away violently.
“Don’t touch me … you want to kill me … let me be … Leocàdia, Leocàdia, I’m dying … they’re trying to kill me …!”
Accustomed to these scenes, Leocàdia walked in at a resigned and practical pace, didn’t so much as say a word, and stood by her husband’s side. He took her hands and, sobbing as he spoke, almost suffocating, he said:
“Mamà … poor Mamà … Now you see it. These are our children … This is what you’ve brought into this world … poor Mamà …!”
Leocàdia cast Frederic a dry and timid glance of reproach, of pity, even of understanding, and still without opening her mouth, helped the enormous Don Tomàs get up. Hobbling and crying out, “Ai …! Ai …! Leocàdia, I’m dying …! Mamà, I’m dying …!”, he vanished into his bedroom. Frederic stood flabbergasted in the middle of the room. Chewing on his lips, he said under his breath: “What a farce …! What a farce …!” as he listened to his father moaning from the bed in which Leocàdia had helped him lie down.
A few minutes later – Frederic could not have said how many – Leocàdia appeared.
“My son! Can’t you see what a state he is in?”
“But, Mamà, there is nothing wrong with him!”
“There is something wrong. You don’t see him as I do! He’s asking for Dr. Claramunt, he wants to see Dr. Claramunt above all else. He wants to make his confession.”
“Mamà, this is absurd. It’s ridiculous! People will say we’ve gone mad.”
“This is how it goes, you know that. It’s the only thing that calms him down.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, my dear son, I’m asking you this favor. Do it for me, my son … for your poor mother.”
“For the love of God, Mamà, let’s not get all worked up.”
“Please do me this favor. Go and fetch Dr.
Claramunt – you’ll find him at home. Tell him what’s going on. Dr. Claramunt knows him well.”
“All right, Mamà, all right. But, frankly, this is too much …”
“Right away, my son. Don’t be too long.”
For many years now, there had been two indispensable figures for the Lloberolas: one was Dr. Josep Claramunt, the spiritual confessor of the cathedral. The other was Don Ignasi Serramalera i Puntí, who was a medical doctor, a full professor at the University, an academic, a director and member of the board of several hospitals, and the Lloberola family doctor. These two persons, when spoken of by a Lloberola, received dual consideration. In the first place, the consideration due to a magical and sublime eminence. In the second place, the kind of consideration, selfish and condescending in equal measure, that traditional families develop for an object, an animal, or a person who belongs to them, whom they have the exclusive enjoyment of, whose excellences are known only to them, and whom they can squeeze to the bone. When Don Tomàs spoke of the family doctor or the family priest, he did so with the conviction with which he would speak of a medicine to which he owed his life. For Don Tomàs there was no better doctor than Dr. Serramalera, nor any wiser, more prudent and more virtuous priest than Mossèn Claramunt. If anyone dared to touch a hair on the head of one of these two men, Don Tomàs would fly into a rage. Needless to say, the immunity, the prestige, and the superstition they enjoyed was comparable only to the effect produced by a witch doctor with animal blood in the heart of the most pagan tribe of Africa. Anything one of these two individuals so much as hinted at was considered an article of faith. They were the definitive arbiters of both the temporal and the eternal health of the family.
When some distant relative died, Don Tomàs would say: “They got what they deserved, for being stubborn. They didn’t want Dr. Serramalera to visit them and naturally they have a doctor who’s not up to the task …”
Private Life Page 7