Private Life

by Josep Maria de Sagarra

  But those two eminences were two poor old men of crushing ineptitude and ordinariness. All their value proceeded from the Lloberolas, who had either made them or imposed them on others. The pride of the Lloberolas lay in the fact that both their doctor and their priest were like those linen underpants that Don Tomàs’s mother used to cut out and sew: solid, invulnerable underpants, insured against splitting and laundering. It was because they wore this kind of underpants that the Lloberolas held themselves to be superior to the rest of the Barcelona gentry. Mossèn Claramunt had been in residence with the Lloberolas since his years as a seminarian, and the old Marquès de Sitjar had paid for Dr. Serramalera’s studies. What’s more, since both one and the other had breathed the air of the old mansion on Carrer Sant Pere més Baix, they held the key to the Lloberola foibles. They could read their minds. They would contradict them when a contradiction was what the patient’s subconscious demanded. Often they would not show up for a requested visit because what the Lloberolas desired for their peace of mind was precisely for the doctor to pay no heed to the supposed illness and neglect to pass by.

  Even a person as entirely simple and lacking in imagination as Don Tomàs can offer a psychologist willing to lose a few hours the most novel of wrinkles and the most mysterious of hollows. And a man who knows all those wrinkles and hollows by heart can achieve the most complete domination of the person under study. What Dr. Serramalera or Mossèn Claramunt had not come by through keen perception or psychological skill, they had acquired through practice, routine, and years of contact with the furniture, the dust, and the vanity of the Lloberolas.

  For Don Tomàs and for Leocàdia these men had yet another virtue, perhaps the most important one; but this virtue was appreciated unconsciously, because Don Tomàs and Leocàdia never realized it was there: of all the people who had had dealings with the Lloberolas, the doctor and the priest were the only ones who continued treating them in their decline exactly as they had in their days of splendor. The same respectful and familiar smile Mossèn Claramunt had worn in the salons of the old house as Don Tomàs held forth on how his stable was the best in Barcelona, he wore on entering the little dining alcove of the apartment on Carrer de Mallorca, as Don Tomàs gnawed on a hazelnut with a tear trapped in each eye. On the reverend’s lips, the marquis was just as much a Senyor now as before, and even though, as we said, he was not conscious of it, for Don Tomàs this was tantamount to maintaining an illusion. It meant he could extract from the priest’s sanctimonious pupils the delicate gleam of a white lie that lengthened his life.

  After a series of detours that poured drops of hot wax on his heart, in a state of compressed rage and desperate impotence, Frederic managed to get Mossèn Claramunt into a taxi. Not two hours had passed since his obsession with the stuffed dog with the garter around its neck in Rosa Trènor’s bedroom. Though the comparison was not entirely fair, that monstrous and ill-stitched object appeared to him again, on finding himself in the taxi next to the priest. Doctor Claramunt seemed not wholly human to him, like an ill-stitched creature. To the Lloberola scion those cheeks – over which the father confessor scraped a straight razor every morning, as if on tiptoe, as if it were a metallic virgin stepping timidly over the stumps of a holy field – looked like the stuffed viscera from a museum of anatomy that a perverse biologist had powdered over and wound up. The cheeks of the father confessor quivered nervously, as what little remnant of facial muscle supporting his flabby and pendulous skin jerked up and down. The priest’s lips stretched tightly and his pointy chin thrust forward or shrank back against his Adam’s apple, as if he had such a painful inflammation of the gums that he could not avoid this grotesque maneuver.

  Frederic discovered that one can have the same clinical sensation, the same desire to escape when facing a respectable confessor or a bathtub with two inches of dirty water and a floating sponge.

  In the taxi, Doctor Claramunt was talking to himself. Frederic had given him a vague idea of what was going on. His eyes glued to the nape of the driver’s neck, the priest was emitting a string of very empty, slightly honey-coated words:

  “Bueno, bueno, bueno,” he said in Spanish. “So, el Senyor Marquès. Bueno, bueno, bueno,” – now he switched from Spanish to Catalan, “Of course, of course, of course! Yes, yes, yes, naturally. I understand, I understand. Bueno, bueno, bueno …” “An argument, at his age, eh? An aggravation? Bueno, bueno … His heart, of course, his heart! Bueno, bueno, bueno … Yes, of course, he is feeling anxiety. All the Lloberolas suffer from anxiety. Bueno, bueno, bueno …”

  The father confessor rubbed his hands together, as if detecting the smell of the cards and the partners for a game of tuti, a courtly precursor to bridge. The gesture betrayed a touch of the pure, dispassionate concupiscence that is the province of theologians.

  Frederic’s untimely visit to the father confessor had actually put him out. He was a methodical man with a strict routine and, indeed, if it had not been at the behest of Don Tomàs, the priest would never have left the house at the very moment he devoted to his prayers and to the classification of his herbariums. Because, in fact, Claramunt was a reputed botanist. He had begun his studies of plants because they were not unlike his idea of chastity, and what he had started in some sense out of morality and lyricism ended up turning into a proper scientific vocation.

  When they reached the apartment on Carrer de Mallorca, after a brief word with Leocàdia, Dr. Clarament went into the patient’s room, and Frederic went into the dining room, to smoke a Camel and swear under his breath.

  He did not swear alone for long, though, because Guillem had just rung the bell. When he heard that Don Tomàs was doing poorly and the father confessor was in house, he headed straight for the spiral of smoke curling out from under the lamp in the center of the dining room. Elbows on the table, his head hidden between his hands, Frederic was letting the minutes tick by, without even enough drive to take a puff of the Camel that was burning out on its own. When he heard his brother’s footsteps, he lifted his gaze and looked at him with utter indifference. Guillem took three hundred pesseta bills out of his pocket and examined them in silence. Smiling the forced smile one adopts on leaving the dentist after he has extracted a molar, Frederic said to Guillem:

  “You seem to be flush?”

  “Yes, a little business, very minor, nothing much at all, three bills. Blue bills, the pale blue of the month of Mary. I don’t know why they tint money such an innocent shade of blue. Look, King Philip II – what a face, huh? Don’t you think Papà bears some resemblance to Philip II in the portraits of him as a youth? He has the same mouth and protruding chin, and eyes that always seem to be watching a Corpus procession. If Papà had been Philip II he would already have had me killed, just like the Infant Don Carles. Speaking of which, I hear he’s not well, and Mossèn Claramunt is in there humoring him.”

  “We had an argument, yes. Let’s say I’m responsible.”

  “I don’t know when you’re going to learn how to deal with Papà. Don’t you see there’s no point in arguing? We will never be able to get along with him.”

  “I assure you, if it weren’t out of pure necessity, I wouldn’t say as much as half a word to our father.”

  “You take the wrong approach. The two of you don’t get along because you’re as alike as two raindrops. You are just like Papà … a little bit more modern, at best.”

  “Look, Guillem, I don’t want to hear this cr …”

  “Watch your words, brother dear. If Mamà should hear you …”

  “Guillem, I tell you I’m in no mood, eh?”

  “All right. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s none of your business. It’s not as if you could do anything about it.”

  “You never know, my dear brother. I take it you argued about money?”

  “Look, Papà has a way about him that’s just not right. I asked him to co-sign a promissory note. There is absolutely no danger to him, for now, at least. A year from now is anothe
r thing. And he flew into a rage!”

  “It’s entirely natural. I don’t know how you dare propose such a thing to him.”

  “I’m not joking, you know.”

  “Neither am I!”

  “You must understand, even if you’re just a kid, that there are moments of gravity in life, and I …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if he doesn’t want to sign, he is perfectly within his rights. But for him to say by way of justification that I am this or that, and to threaten me with damnation …”

  “Just a bunch of words. Does any of this matter to you?”

  “Well, even if he is my father, he has no right to say such things. And I didn’t bite my tongue either. I gave him an earful. I’ve had enough of all his virtue and saintliness and …”

  “For God’s sake, Frederic, stop shouting. And enough of this offensive rubbish. You have no sense of diplomacy, my boy. One more episode like this and he’s a goner, and then it will be even worse. Ludicrous as he is, there are still a lot of things that don’t collapse because he’s around – don’t you realize that?”

  “You know what, I just don’t care anymore. Let it all go to rot!”

  “Listen, how much is this note for?”

  “Fifty thousand pessetes.”

  “And do you know anyone who would still lend you fifty thousand pessetes?”

  “Don’t be an idiot! Of course I can find someone. I can get an extension, they just want Papà’s signature.”

  “And who is this very … cautious person?”

  “You don’t know him. He’s one of my card partners at the Eqüestre.”

  “And his name cannot be revealed?”

  “Oh, yes, sure. It’s Antoni Mates, the cotton dealer …”

  “Antoni Mates? Oh, this is just too rich! Ha, Antoni Mates.”

  “What are you talking about, Frederic, you’re too young to know him. What’s with all this silly laughter? He’s a friend of mine, you know, a perfect gentleman.”

  “Antoni Mates! The one who bought his title – el Baró de … what was it?”

  “Yes, yes, El Baró de Falset.”

  “And you spend your time with pigs like him?”

  “I am telling you, he is a perfectly respectable person, who did me a great favor. I abused his generosity, and now the man naturally wants some security.”

  “All right, Frederic, all right. Congratulations on the friendships you keep.”

  “Listen, Guillem, do you realize you’re being a jerk?”

  “I do. But, look, let’s speak frankly now, man to man.”

  “Don’t get all uppity on me now.”

  “Frederic, I assume you do not have fifty thousand pessetes.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Nor will you have them a year from now.”

  “That’s very likely.”

  “And Papà wants nothing to do with it.”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “And there is no one you can go to with your sob story.”

  “No one.”

  “So now what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will Antoni Mates swallow the debt?

  “How naive can you be?”

  “You’re the one who’s naive, thinking he’s such a gentleman and such a good friend. Now let’s imagine Antoni Mates wants the debt to be paid, and this takes precedence over your friendship and your bridge table. Do you think Antoni Mates is capable of such a thing?”

  “Not only do I think he’s capable of it, I’m certain that’s exactly what will happen.”

  “And your great friendship …?

  “Well, friends, maybe we’re not friends … when there’s money at stake, there’s no such thing as friendship. In any case, Antoni Mates is under no obligation to me. He must have been in a generous mood. Maybe he had had a little too much whiskey. Lately our relations have changed a bit …”

  “Listen, Frederic. Do you want to get this note you signed back? Do you?”

  “Guillem, unless I pay, I don’t see any way for the note to come back to me.”

  “You’re being obtuse. If it were a question of paying so much as a penny I wouldn’t have asked the question.”

  “Do you mean I should steal it?”

  “Steal? What an inelegant word.”

  “Then I don’t get it.”

  “Your ‘good friend’ owes me a sort of favor that could obligate him to a an act of absolute generosity. Do you understand now?”

  “Listen, I like to play clean.”

  “Will Antoni Mates play clean if you don’t pay up?”

  “I don’t know, but he will play legal.”

  “And to hell with you?”

  “All right, that’s enough. If you want to play games, you can play with someone else.”

  “I’m not playing games. I want to save your skin, don’t you get it? If you want to play the gentleman, you can pay your debt to Antoni Mates, if you feel so inclined, when you are able. But for now, allow me to speak in our self-interest. I am just as much your father’s son as you are, I carry the same ‘illustrious’ name as you, and, understand me, Frederic, I will also suffer the ill effects of your ‘irregularities’ if the Lloberola name is left at the mercy of the first Antoni Mates who comes along.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that it is in my interest for you not to pay off this note and for Antoni Mates to send it to you as if he were sending you a box of cigars. I do this not only for you, but for me, as well, and for Papà, and for my own personal business dealings.”

  “Go on, Guillem, you must be kidding. I assure you Antoni Mates will not be so generous. It’s impossible, I tell you. Impossible.”

  “What do you bet?”

  “A thousand pessetes.”

  “All right. On one condition. If I lose, I pay nothing, because I don’t have a thousand pessetes. But if I win, you will pay me.”

  “That is a ridiculous condition, but I accept. Listen to me, let’s stop talking nonsense, because I don’t believe in miracles … or in your little games …”

  As the brothers went on like this, Doctor Claramunt let his voice be heard from the corridor:

  “Bueno, bueno, bueno, now that he is reconciled with the Lord God, el Senyor Marquès has found some peace of mind. Bueno, bueno, bueno, yes, a bit of peace. It was nothing, really nothing, nothing at all … Anxiety, a bit of aggravation. A shame, a shame, that such pious families … Bueno, bueno, bueno,” he trailed off in Spanish.

  Frederic escorted the good father out and Guillem slipped off unobtrusively to his bedroom, so as to avoid Father Claramunt’s tiresome theology.

  When the name Antoni Mates fell upon Guillem’s ear, he felt a voluptuous and utterly depraved fingernail softly trace the surface of his medulla. Guillem had hid this inexcusable sensation from his brother with a glacial and almost imperceptible smile. Guillem had combined this sensorial gangue, which not everyone can feel, even if he wants to, with a tender, noble, almost childlike sentiment. Because Guillem was not precisely a bad person in the strict sense of the word. He was just a weak, amoral, and selfish person, a man lacking in dignity. A product of the family degeneration, hapless, in a way, capable at certain moments of affection and pure sentiment, and above all capable of that biological bond that exists between two fruits of the same tree.

  It is not uncommon for two brothers to be indifferent to each other, or to dislike or even hate each other. Fratricides are relatively frequent events. But all this is no obstacle to the existence of a very special sentiment that is only registered in fraternal relations. This is the sentiment that leads one brother to help another, and in a moment of danger even to give preference to his brother over everything else. We know of families in which two brothers do nothing but insult each other, between whom the physical and moral differences could not possibly be stronger, and in which each aims his life toward a different or even opposite path. But in a moment
of true danger – true dangers almost always involving the physical or economic health of a person, because in the face of such dangers, emotional health takes second place – these brothers come together, and they do what they would not do for anyone else. What’s more, the sacrifice made for a brother doesn’t bear the weight of a sacrifice made for a friend, because it is seen as something natural, biological, a fateful obligation they share with each other. In these moments of danger a family apparently dispersed by circumstance contracts to become a defensive, homogeneous mass. The memory of the maternal entrails that created a series of apparently distinct individuals becomes imperative and turns into a solid cord that binds the hearts of brothers in mutual aid.

  We have known families that, even after the most inhuman quarrels, have erased their differences and their distance and their pride in the face of death, a difficult operation, or economic disaster. Thus brother could stand by brother, in such a way and with such expression as perhaps to be the only integrally disinterested and loving sentiment in the world. Because, as we have said, brotherhood does not obey the will, or affection, or any other kind of sentimental fancy. No, it is a purely biological product that falls into the category of the instinct for preservation that all human beings share.

  Guillem certainly didn’t have any feelings for his brother. He kept his distance from him, just as he kept his distance from his parents. In ordinary circumstances, they were two brothers united by indifference. But when he heard the name Antoni Mates, Guillem saw the chance to save his brother. It is possible that in his circle there might be some fellow for whom Guillem felt great affection, but it is also possible that if this fellow found himself in a similar situation, Guillem would not have come up with such a rapid, imperative, biological plan to save him. And since in this world good feelings are so often entwined with awful feelings, besides seeing a way to save Frederic, Guillem also saw a chance to do some mischief. The kind of mischief that would require unbelievable sangfroid to pull off. It was a despicable chantage. Naturally, the object of this extortion was by no means immaculate, at least not in Guillem’s eyes. But even so, the act the young man was prepared to carry out was certainly repugnant and, depending on the circumstances, perhaps even risky.