Uncertain Glory

by Joan Sales

  “Bah . . . what about the commander?”

  “The finest person imaginable.”

  “Nobody will dispute that, Cruells. What I wanted to know is whether he too drinks to forget.”

  “You can be sure of that; everyone who drinks does so to forget.”

  “To forget what?”

  “They don’t usually remember.”

  He said that in all seriousness. His tortoiseshell spectacles made him look more owlish than ever while he tried to persuade me that the doctor, the commander, Gallart, Ponsetti, all those “still on the baby’s teat” – so says the commander – drink wine to drown their feeling of emptiness, “the first step to religion”.

  “As much as to say,” I retorted, “that they take it on the totter.”

  “You give the impression,” he persisted, “that you don’t feel any inner void, that, as yet, you never have.”

  “You mean you’d like me to get drunk?”

  “Just forget it.”

  •

  I received a letter from Trini, and it made me think about my conversation with Cruells. “I am sure you’ll understand one day; till now you have fled from happiness as if it horrifies you . . .” “If you like, we could start afresh, despite being apart, despite the bad times you’ve put me through . . .” “You still refuse to accept that I exist. I don’t mean you don’t love me, but you carry on as if I don’t exist. Sorry to speak to you like this but there are times when I can’t stand it any longer and need to let off steam. It may not hurt you to feel alone in the world, or at least so far you’ve not realised that’s the case; I, on the contrary, can’t bear it. You’ve not written to me in a whole month . . .”

  A month . . . It must be about that.

  Ramon, I vaguely suspect that I’m a complete scoundrel. Much more so than the lieutenant doctor, who at least plays the violin. Even Soleràs seems a saint by comparison. You know nothing about my life since you left. Even a man’s entry into the Order of St John of God can harm someone else! You left me alone in that house . . . Do you remember that double bed on which we slept when we were children? I’d sometimes wake up with a start and grab the tail of your nightshirt to get over my fear of the dark. If only you knew how often I’ve felt nostalgic for the tail of your nightshirt! You told me stories about Father; you’d known him personally, you knew the details of his death in Africa, you spoke plainly and simply, like someone going about an everyday task. Did you never suspect that when you left you made me desolate, feeling as if I was lost in the middle of a forest? Nobody since has spoken to me about Father except in roundabout ways, random words that meant very little and were hurtful. And Julieta scared me, with those eyes I thought were sucking me dry and her vampire mouth that I felt all of a sudden one evening in the garden where we still played with her, Josep Maria and friends from school. Josep Maria, our cousin, the poor fatty with the fluty voice, I don’t think he noticed how the atmosphere in the garden got so heavy when darkness fell; I’d at least like to do him the honour of thinking he didn’t notice, since one of those involved was Julieta, his sister. I couldn’t stand Julieta; I couldn’t stand her at the time, when we were fourteen, because I found her so scatterbrained that she grated on my nerves. And then that kiss on the lips I wasn’t expecting . . . It is strange how a kiss – such a trifle – can make such an impact when we are in the process of abandoning childhood. As far as I was concerned it was the revelation of an aspect of life that I still feel is repugnant: female sensuality.

  I think sensual women are quite monstrous.

  All that seems like a thousand years ago, but it’s only ten or twelve! How can we change so much in such a short time? Trini, on the other hand, acts as if she never experienced any turbulent transition, that she went imperceptibly from childhood to young womanliness. The sect her family belonged to published a newssheet, La barrinada, perhaps the only anarchist newspaper published in Catalan. I even wrote for it and sold it on the streets with Soleràs and Trini, though I never read it. Conversely, I never failed to post it to our uncle every week and that was really all about shocking him with the idea that I’d become an anarchist. One day, when we’d finished lunch and were chatting over coffee, he told me to come and see him that evening in his office.

  You must remember only too well the depressing black leather chairs and that bust of Dante on the filing cabinet. Uncle was busy with his accountant and I had to wait a long time in one of those chairs trying to imagine what the connection was between Dante and the manufacture of pasta for soups. The accountant left and Uncle eventually looked up, glancing at me half pityingly, half mockingly. He extracted a newspaper from his inside pocket; it was, of course, the latest issue of La barrinada, where they’d published an article by me.

  “Do you think you’ve kept me awake at night? I expect you wrote the phrase ‘the pig getting fat’ with me in mind. One day you’ll be ashamed you signed these articles with every one of your names like a little innocent. Did you never think that, as your guardian, I could send you to a reformatory . . . ?”

  That word came wrapped in a heavenly halo: I’d be a martyr in Trini’s eyes. Uncle Eusebi went on and I now realise he only mentioned the reformatory to frighten me, but at the time I thought he really meant it. He kept breaking off the conversation to scrutinise papers, figures or telegrams his employees brought in: “Next week we have a meeting with the management committee for shareholders. I must balance the books and prepare a report . . .”

  Yet another employee came in with a telegram; he gave it a glance and put it on his desk: “Another telegram from Madrid . . . Alright, let’s get back to you. I know that you go for long solitary walks with an anarchist girl. Is it free love? Not a bad thing at all. I mean, it wouldn’t be if you weren’t a fool. How do I know? You must understand that, as your guardian, I have a man I trust keeping an eye on you. I’d be held responsible for anything that might happen to you, and you haven’t yet grasped that this free love lark would be great fun if it didn’t have any fallout. A fool, that’s right; this young girl . . .”

  He opened a letter that had just arrived with a pair of scissors: “Bah, the correspondent from Caracas . . . Free love will work wonders for you if you don’t watch out. My dear nephew, in a word, I have very little time to devote to you. I want to get a vote of confidence from the shareholders in order to expand the firm; it’s well on its way, you know, but I must draw up a convincing report, weigh my words carefully, check the figures.” He lit up a cigar, sprawled back in his armchair and closed his blank business-man’s eyes. “I really don’t have time to devote to you and it’s a pity you make me waste it on stuff and nonsense, when here,” and he waved vaguely in the direction of his letters and telegrams, “hundreds of thousands of pesetas are at stake. I’ll be brief and to the point: I was intending to send you to a boarding school to save you from a disastrous marriage, which is what free love usually leads to, but I consulted Father Gallifa and he didn’t agree. He says that if I shut you up, I’ll spoil everything. He thinks,” and Uncle Eusebi laughed as if he found it a really amusing idea, “that you are more Christian than the lot of us, him included.”

  Father Gallifa! I’d completely forgotten that old Jesuit. Ramon, do you remember those “talks” he’d give us every Sunday after mass, in the church of San Lluís de Gonzaga, the poor fellow’s boring “talks”? To be frank, I felt disappointed: I wasn’t going to be a martyr and there would be no reformatory. But the mention of Father Gallifa did make an impact. I went to see him as soon as I left that office; the monastery on carrer de Casp was only round the corner . . . He saw me in his cell, which smelled like the typical cramped space that’s never properly aired, what you called “the odour of sanctity” when you still allowed yourself to crack that kind of joke. Everything was exactly the same as when you and I used to go there: the small table, the reed chair, the little iron bedstead that was practically a child’s. He sat on the chair and told me to sit on the bed and I thought how
he’d aged since the last time we met.

  “I’ve not come to listen to any sermons,” I said, “but to thank you.”

  “I’m not interested in your thanks, keep them to yourself. I’d only ask you to listen to me for a short while, not long, as I know you’ve always found me a bore.”

  He said that with a kind of inferiority complex I found disarming. He was like a poor uncle asking for a big handout from his rich, important nephew.

  “You may not have grasped that I too am a bit of an anarchist.” He smiled as if he’d cracked a joke. “The social encyclicals from the popes —”

  “Father Gallifa,” I interjected, “if only you knew how all that business about the industrial revolution, the proletariat, surplus value, a planned economy, leaves me completely cold . . .”

  “So you aren’t an anarchist?”

  “How do I know? What does being an anarchist mean? If only one could know what one is, or what one wants. What if I told you I couldn’t care a fig about all that . . . Anarchism! What if I told you it all came from some witty remark Soleràs made, that essentially all he ever wants is a good time . . .”

  The expression in Father Gallifa’s tiny tired, bloodshot eyes switched from one of surprise to shock, and from shock to sadness, “Poor Lluís . . . now you’ve got this far, for whatever reason – who is this Soleràs? A friend of yours? – you should take a moment to think these matters through. You frighten me, Lluís, not because you are an anarchist, but because you aren’t anarchist enough. I mean you should take it in good faith, good faith can save lots of things. Anarchism has lots of excellent points, if you know how to pick and choose . . .”

  I burst out laughing. I found that apologia manqué for anarchism from the lips of a Jesuit so absurd. He smiled vaguely and for a second his expression was that of a blind man – that blind man who begged alms on the corner by the church of Bethlehem.

  “Your uncle told me about a student girl you go for long walks with. I only know what he’s told me, that she’s an anarchist and that she has evil ideas. Do you know what I think? Love her, but with all your soul; love her as much as you can. If you can’t believe in anything else, at least believe in anarchism. The important thing is to believe and to love if you believe in something; if you love with all your heart you’ll eventually come to the right path.”

  He looked at me again with that tired, imploring, sad expression. “Lluís, are you sure you love her, that you won’t leave her?”

  Back on the street, I was only ashamed of the fact that I’d cried. I was thinking about Trini’s family, about the La barrinada group: “Luckily they’ll never find out.” What about Trini? I shall never tell her about this stupid exchange!

  The next day we went for a walk in the Ciutadella Park. We sat on a bench under the leafless limes, not far from General Prim’s equestrian statue. The park was damp, cold and empty; the smell of rotten leaves wafted through the air on a melancholy breeze. I felt old: I’d just celebrated my twentieth birthday.

  “I will do what I feel like doing. They’ll have to accept that.”

  But a sarcastic little voice within me whispered: what about Father Gallifa? I told her the Jesuit had spoken in my favour without going into detail; but what with one thing and another, everything came out as if I’d been talking to myself. I think that happened because she was listening so attentively; she was sixteen at the time. And I came out with what I’d wanted to hide from her: that I had cried at the end of the meeting.

  “You see, I acted like a coward, or worse, like an idiot.”

  Trini said nothing. And then I told her about you, Ramon, because if she’d ever heard people talking about the Jesuits – and you can imagine the tone of voice – she’d never heard of St John of God. She said nothing and listened to me intently. I’d not yet mentioned you to her, isn’t that unforgivable? Ramon, if you’d seen her eyes – they aren’t pretty eyes, they’re homely and round and a dull shade of green, though they look at you with such childish naïveté, ready to swallow whatever is good, noble and generous . . .

  III

  Six bulls limped out,

  all six were lame,

  that’s why churches

  were set aflame.

  – Popular song, 1835

  13 AUGUST

  Captain Picó has organised a “republic”, that is, a group of officers who dine together. It is the second to be organised in Olivel; a few days ago the commander and the doctor founded the first with Captain Gallart and the Publicist in support.

  The great Picó has hoisted the anti-alcohol banner and as he is a pipe smoker the pipe has become the symbol of the new brotherhood, as against the “republic of the baby’s bottle”. The ex-porter has discovered a chef from the Hotel Colón among the machine gunners who rejoices in the name of Pepet – like so many other misunderstood geniuses – and is a silent, solemn man. Poor old Olegària can’t compete with a rare bird like him, so I was quick to join the “republic of the pipe”. I hardly need add that the nurse has also rallied to the pipe’s cause along with two lieutenant gunners: we could have constituted a republic as ideal as Plato’s if it weren’t for a last-minute intruder. Like all intruders, at first he seemed to be the brightest pearl imaginable.

  This new hero in the army of Catalonia arrived in Olivel a couple of weeks ago. We thought he’d come to organise the battalion’s Communications section, as that was what the commander kept asking the brigade for: he was the Communications lieutenant we needed. The commander, who was floating adrift on hot air, didn’t bother to look at his papers; it was enough to know he bore the Catalan surname of Rebull. He arrived in shirtsleeves, without stripes but clenching a big pipe between teeth gleaming white, as if advertising toothpaste. His shirt was spotless, his teeth amazing and, even better, he came haloed with the reputation for culture that is the hallmark of all Communications officers. “A true man of the world,” as the commander put it.

  Picó was as quiet as a cat burglar, but he’d already put all his pieces into play to prevent this outrageous pearl from joining the “republic of the baby’s bottle”. Right now, we’d happily hand over our acquisition. He turned out to be a poet. He recites verse from his own pen, and may they string us all up if we understand one jot. When we’re having lunch he tells us we are prosaic, that times have moved on since Baudelaire and that we don’t “experience the feminine”. He also reckons we don’t know how to smoke a pipe and gives us encyclopaedic instructions on the subject. But worst of all, he was never a Communications officer: he is . . . a political commissar!

  When we finally got that out of him, there was consternation all round.

  It’s not that he’s a communist – he doesn’t even make it to socialist. What generated consternation was the threat of a fresh political barrage – new courses in republican education, lessons in rights and civic duties – and in effect he took no time at all to summon the whole battalion, commander, officers, petty officers and the ranks, to the castle’s baronial hall to harangue us with the most pedantic speechifying on the subject of fascism and republicanism. Halfway through his speech, as we were dropping off, the commander stood up, livid, waving his arm, and exclaimed, “They are the baddies and we are the goodies and that’s all there is to it! We know that by now, no need to tell us, we’re fed up of being told, so start acting as a Communications officer if you don’t want us to make your life a misery. If you don’t know how, learn!”

  There’s another new, more interesting development in the battalion: it turns out that Cruells also knows Father Gallifa and calls him “Dr” Gallifa. In retrospect it’s not really surprising that we both knew him but hadn’t met each other, though it seemed like an extraordinary coincidence at the time. He told me things I didn’t know: that, at the time of the laws against the Company of Jesus, Gallifa was forced to leave the monastery and go to live with a brother who owns land on Plana de Vic, or les Guilleries, and lives in a very old flat on riera del Pi. He says he lived there as
a lay chaplain and came to the seminary as a teacher, and that’s how he got to know him and why he always calls him “Dr”. “Dr” Gallifa strikes me as very odd! I also find it hard to imagine him outside his cell. Ever since he found out that I know him, Cruells never stops talking to me about him.

  “But he’s so interesting,” he assures me, astounded that I found his Sunday “talks” in the church of San Lluís de Gonzaga so boring.

  The days and weeks seem long as if they are really dragging and I try to find distraction in battalion gossip, but there are moments when I feel absent, in a void, as if I’ve been struck on the head and am floating in a state of semi-consciousness. A letter from the carlana is obsessing me. This woman is disconcerting: she’s sent me a letter when I live just round the corner! The battalion postman delivered it to me; it was franked in Mora de Albullones – I haven’t a clue where this village is. Who can have posted it there? It isn’t dated or signed and the style is so ambiguous I didn’t understand a word. She listed the names of the murdered friars. “These were the ones who were definitely murdered, the ones whose corpses were found.” And she reminded me of that famous favour she’d mentioned the other day: “It will be so easy for you.” So easy . . . to start with, I hardly know what it’s all about. I still go to the monastery almost every day, I inspect the piles of books; I look through documents in the sacristy and the cells. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Such a large monastery, sacked, ravaged, burned and finally abandoned to the elements for months and months . . . Worst of all she forbade me from going to see her until I’d found this certificate: “Don’t try, I won’t see you.” Her ban upset me to the point of making me lose all sense of what’s ridiculous: I wrote to her – I don’t know what I wrote! I was drunk, but on what? Is this what they call passion? At any rate, it was something I’d not felt till then. I don’t know what value a feeling like this has; I’m not really bothered either. All I know is that the sting of desire is so great that even if she caused me more torture, I’d still want to feel that sting, and even more intensely . . .