Sembobitis
To Jordi Elias i Campins, one-of-a-kind altruist, with vindictive thanks.
Off to the side, where he rested from the extreme brightness of the afternoon, Salom saw a cart advance along the road. Slowly, at the ass’s pace, the cart approached. One of those little junkman’s bells marked the rhythm of the animal’s efforts. He led a strange figure, seated at ease up top. Soon Salom could make out the figure well enough. It was an old man with a brown face and an extremely long white beard. To cover his head he wore a tall skullcap like an orthodox pope, but it was yellowish. He wore a type of very loose tunic of an ennobling greenish tone, with purplish fringes, and full of stitched repairs. The cart drew up to the observer.
«Sembobitis,» Salom yelled out as a welcome.
«Eh?» said the other. «Is there any rabbit hide?» he began to sing in an automatic voice. The cart stopped.
«Sembobitis, by God, don’t make me an object of your curses,» Salom said as he rose to greet him. «Why are you here before me, enjoying yourself, disguised as a junkman? To me you were always a kind wizard. I’ve known you for a long time, don’t you recall? When I was small, you joined King Balthazar in a race after a star. To frighten me, to amuse me during my long afternoons of illness, you endured a metamorphosis to cardboard, put up with being handled, without much respect, by a sad and febrile child. From the stage of the portable theater, you performed your pity with enormous dignity. You were Balthazar’s advisor, lover of Belkis of Saba, and you presided with fairness over that madness under the Memphis sky. You discovered the miracle star and in great peace you showed it to Balthazar. The Black King broke the anachronistic spell and rode off after the splendid light. I know the details of your pilgrimage across the desert, all the way to the far-off portal. I listened to the lessons with which, at night, protected by the bonfires, when the caravan slept, you dictated your wisdom. I followed your learned disputes with Gaspar and the other old man, your companions on the final stages. Your pupil Balthazar was young and argued vehemently, but your stare imposed serenity upon him. The Black King was easily swayed by sudden impulses, by ingenuous thoughts. Sometimes he even prompted me to smile, just the smile of a lonely invalid. You don’t know how I loved you, Sembobitis. I’ve been hoping for this day, Sembobitis, hoping to meet you, finally, in flesh and bone. And now that the miracle is realized, you deny your identity and disguise yourself as a junkman. But your clothes don’t fool me. They’re the same clothes that the cardboard Sembobitis wore—although a little more patched up, it’s true.»
«Before moving on, I have to confess that I don’t understand a thing you’re going on about,» the other man, interrupting him, said. «My name is Antonet Quel·la, fairly well known across all of the plain and in the seaside towns. As far back as I can remember, I’ve had a lumpy face, much hair in my beard, and a weakness for rabbit skins. If that weren’t the case, what would I boil in my cauldron? My parents didn’t leave me—easy, boy!—a thing, no savings, not a drop of inheritance. I had to get a move on, you know? I made it through hunger and humidity, I could tell you a thousand stories. I had to make a fool of myself—I made this mask you see, from one corner to another, going after rabbit skins. At first, when they saw how I looked, the children stoned me, but being stubborn, in the end I made headway and now I’m popular. From a far hour away, people recognize the ring of my little bell. “Quel·la is coming,” the neighbors hurry to say to each other. And I fill my sack with the skins of sacrificed rabbits. I’m telling you, sir, I take in—I alone—more business than all the rest together, in this line of work. It’s always satisfying, sir.»
«Sembobitis,» Salom cried out to intervene. «I’ve run all afternoon across vine-strewn hills, through the pines that dominate the sea. Each hill, each pine tree, each shoot of vine, each bit of herb on my land, all of them have extremely concrete personalities. All afternoon I’ve cut across my homeland-like-none-other, the countryside of Sinera held in my eyes with neither sorrow nor force; this perfect countryside that will destroy me. My lips can name every corner. It’s a countryside without fog, of low sun, of sardanes danced on hillsides fading in the distance. At times, lookout towers and agaves evoke memories of the vanished shadows of Algerian pirates. The breeze blows by the grates of reeds and lies down over the fennel and Monk’s Pepper. A small cart climbed up-creek toward Remei, and I pondered how the hoes drew grooves in the crops, and I stopped to talk with friends in our own tongue, the tongue of farmers and aristocrats, that tongue that ought never to die. After, I descended to the beach, to contemplate, quite quietly, motionless, how the dolphins jump and slip away. I took a break from the plenitude of today, and that’s when you arrived, Sembobitis. But you arrived transformed into a junkman, and I’d waited for this moment for so long! Reveal yourself as you truly are and make this day even more complete. We’ll discover together, at dusk, the secret of the stars, and you’ll teach me the ins and outs with your guide. Your little copper ass will lead us through the darkness, and the little bell will ring through all the drowsy marsh. It will overcome the silence of the farms, the dog barks, the ric-ric of the crickets, the splashing of the oars of boats being launched into the calmness of the water. Later, I’ll tell you things about the countries on the other side of the sea. I have visited lands beloved by you, Sembobitis. Everything has changed so much that you wouldn’t recognize it. Memphis is now just a murmur of palms. Will you grant me your attention, Sembobitis, or is it that you’re angry at me without my suspecting it?»
«It seems to me, on top of everything you assure me you’ve done, that you’ve had a bit to drink.»
Salom thought this over for a moment, with a certain amount of admiration.
«Tubau,» Antonet Quel·la said to the ass, which, during their dialogue, hadn’t brayed even once. «Tubau, don’t pay him any mind: you’d end up nuts. He’s not all there, poor guy. I’ve known him for years: Am I or am I not Antonet Quel·la, the junkman? And how! On the other hand, he doesn’t have any rabbit skins to sell. What say we get on our way, Tubau, my child? It’s getting dark, you’ve rested, we’ll get there late, and you’re faint-hearted and between two twilights, I’ve always known that. I’m not telling you to run away from this guy, don’t get frightened, he’s harmless. Just do as you think fit, Tubau, my child.»
Having talked everything over, the man approached the ass and won him over, cautiously, with a slight crack of his whip. The ass protested noisily, but obeyed. The old man spelled it out for Salom:
«First, you have to approach him with finesse, because he’s shy and, if you don’t, he’ll plant himself down. Okay, fare thee well.»
«Sembobitis!» Salom still cried out after him.
«Rabbit skins, any rabbit skins?» sang Antonet Quel·la, the junkman.
Little by little the cart rode off down the road beyond.
The Moribund Country
The country that had lost its soul sat facing the port with its hands empty, looking out sadly at the dead water, when I arrived. «I’ll soon be like them,» it exclaimed, «I already see it, I express nothing, nothing of my authentic self. Soon I’ll be like these waters, a mirror of indifference.» «No way!» I said back. «You are a great, a formidable country.» «What do you know about it?» cried the poor old country, slightly revived now—since nothing’s so prone to short-lived revivals as a poor old country. «What do you know about it,» it said, falling once more into despair. «I’m a shadow, a carcass. You already see it; he was the center and the path of my glory,» it said, pointing at the port. «All of the ships that set off on their conquests, the wise laws of the sea, the proud flag, all of that came from him. Now, on the other hand, he’s old and moribund like me. And his old age is covered, like mine, with backstage make-up. The cadence of my imperial tongue has been lost. Now it’s screamed more than spoken, no sentences finished, steeled by swear-words, blasphemies, coarse, brutal gestures suitable for hominidae. I’ve been turned into a literary patois, into a Volapük with
neither intimacy nor refinement, without nuance, hardened by cold, pedantic, enigmatic, unbearable words. No one reads it, and the writings a few people shape—generally speaking, they’re rickety, shapeless, gray, with no personality, no rigor, not even craft, and often propose to do nothing more than serve bastard interests. Aliens to a tradition of profound culture and refinement, my children don’t interest themselves in that spirit of things. Materialists that they are, they imitate the techniques of foreigners. And precisely now, moribund and exhausted, a mean grimace, I live on the strength of a grotesque masquerade, on the calculations of a few minds ambitious and quick to betray. I’m just an anachronistic medieval silhouette.» «No, you are a great country, a country of the future, dammit!» I interrupted. «A medieval silhouette? So what. Do you have any idea of the importance in that? Haven’t you read Spengler, Berdiaev (or however it’s transcribed from Cyrillic), among other as or more eminent essayists, the honest muddles of the press, the people who without blinking have contemplated a god or an other face to face, the skeptical debunkers of myths that passionately start up other, untouchable myths, the university-descendant hypercritics of the prophets? It’s your time, the time of your sea, of your tongue, of your empire, of your glory, of your wisdom.» «The sharpest and most balanced in the world,» said a far-off and patriotic heart. «You’re rich, you’re cultured,» I continued. «What do you think of your dance?» «The most beautiful in the world,» cried out the heart. «And of your popular song?» «There’s not another like it: la, la, la,» the heart sang. «And of your prosperous hospitals, your orderliness, your citizenly neatness, the kindness of the inhabitants of your countryside? You can’t be satisfied any longer with shoddy work and filth, you can’t shift shameless beggars around in cars any longer, you can no longer ignore what you’ve been ignoring. Everything has a limit, you’ve reached it, you don’t have to dig deep for more effort. Moribund? Who possesses your health, your drive! Do you want proof of it? What more do you need than your great, anarchic, exemplary, pretentious, nouveau riche, comfortless city-hamlet?» «The best of them all,» exalted the heart. «That’s true. It can’t be denied that no other is as gutted, nor as eternally patched-up,» the country agreed. «Add to that the harsh acerbity of Lavínia’s neighbors, and those residing in their sphere. Listen to them,» I said. «One can’t live in this tribe,» said the voice of Efrem Pedagog. «What will the Korongos of Nubia think of us?» «Hélas, hélas, la bêtise humaine!» sang the harmonious throat of Pulcre Trompel·li. «We are a fifth-, maybe a sixth-tier country,» affirmed Ecolampadi Miravitlles with evident satisfaction. «The Germans organized a colossal competition not long ago. The theme to develop was: “African bases for cretinism in men and in towns.” We ended up the winners.» «Us, champions? A single bit of good news!» the eminent poet Aina Cohen excitedly said.13 «Do you not hear the nightingale singing for victory? There, in the house of the old folk, while the good old man
Listens to the sweet song of the small bird
and weighs figs in the kingdom of sleep.
His venerable head grows drowsy
to the rhythm of simmering paellas.
«Don’t forget, brothers, that we are the chosen ones of Our Father,» added the smooth reciter, after releasing and receiving some enthusiastic applause. «Did you hear Aina, did you hear her? Are you not convinced now?» I asked the country. «Yes,» he said, relenting. «But I find myself so decrepit! It’s so cold, everything is spinning, I’m dying!» he suddenly screamed. The heart attack struck like lightning, and I didn’t have time to help him. His body fell with a splash in the calming waters, in a solitary place, and I was the only witness to the small event. «Am I going to get wet for him?» I wondered. «We’ll find another soon enough that will stand out to us even more. I’m going to telegraph the news. It’s more essential than trying to save him. What a journalistic hit this will be!» I thought, as I distanced myself from the spot. «What’s this idiot saying,» my fellow citizens asked upon reading the telegram the following day. «What does it say? “Old country drowned yesterday in waters of port. Cadaver has not been identified.” Here, the country died, hurrah! We have a country that dies on us. Wow, I want details about that.» That day the write-ups were churned out feverishly, and with their increase balanced the meager publishing industry: at least some fifty copies were sold from piles of newspapers in the language of our land, that language they later called, intelligently, with such delicate love, a vernacular.
Barcelona, 1934 – 1935.
Revised in Sinera, August 1949 – July 1964. And in Lavínia,
October 1967 – July 1974 – December 1980 – July 1984
* * *
13 I christened my character thus because I didn’t believe it right to name her anything else: Aina Cohen, the model creation from Mort de Dama, the admirable novel by «Dhey,» the great Catalan writer from Mallorca, Doctor Llorenç Villalonga. –S.E.
SALVADOR ESPRIU (1913–1985) is considered one of the Catalan language’s most significant postwar writers, producing fiction, poetry, and drama. Two volumes of his Selected Poems are available in English translation.
ROWAN RICARDO PHILLIPS is the author of The Ground: Poems as well as numerous essays, poems, and translations.
Copyright
Originally published in Catalan as Ariadna al laberint grotesc
© Estate of Salvador Espriu, 1975
Edicions 62, S.A., Edicions 62
Peu de la Creu, 4, 08001 Barcelona
www.edicions62.cat
Translation copyright © 2012 by Rowan Ricardo Phillips
First edition, 2012
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Espriu, Salvador.
[Ariadna al laberint grotesc. English]
Ariadne in the grotesque labyrinth / Salvador Espriu ; translated by Rowan Ricardo Phillips.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“Originally published in Catalan as Ariadna al laberint grotesc, 1935, by La Rosa del Vents, Barcelona”—T.p. verso.
ISBN 978-1-56478-772-9 (pbk. : acid-free paper)—ISBN 978-1-56478-732-3 (cloth : acid-free paper)
I. Phillips, Rowan Ricardo. II. Title.
PC3941.E84A913 2012
849’.9352—dc23
2012013726
Partially funded by a grant from the Illinois Arts Council, a state agency
The Catalan Literature Series is published in cooperation with the Institut Ramon Llull, a public consortium responsible for the promotion of Catalan language and culture abroad.
www.dalkeyarchive.com
Cover: design and composition by Mikhail Iliatov
Printed on permanent/durable acid-free paper and bound in the United States of America
Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) Page 12