by Joan Sales
“If I could only get you to grasp the pleasures of phantasmagoria! To be and not to be at the same time – poor Shakespeare; to be oneself and another: to be and not to exist, to exist and not to be, all at the same time! A split personality, total escapism, the heady feeling that you can only lead a double life! I won’t attempt to describe the knocking shop, which was like they all are: sordid, stale-smelling and dank, inhabited by the three or four same old whores – morphine addicts in their fifties. And, naturally, a print of Our Lady of Lourdes on the wall. All these knocking shops are the same. Now and then a pervert would drop in and enliven the place a bit. If it hadn’t been for the print tacked to the wall, I might have mistaken that den for a little corner of hell: it was a cheap-rate little hell: a hell for all pockets. The most disgusting anisette was on offer, distilled from wood, I expect; you could buy morphine and cocaine at a bargain price and people came out with the most wonderful obscenities and didn’t bat an eyelid. At the time you refused to accept that I visited such places; you always suspected that I went off for secret lime infusions, blessed at most with a few drops of El Mono anisette; eppur si muove, you know? I was sixteen and already fed up with all that. In a minute I’ll tell you the only thing that interested me in all that. I’d come home between five and six in the morning with a skinful and desperate to . . . I hung on because that was the best part. I hung on because there’s nothing like being desperate to do . . . whatever! When I was a boy I hung on and didn’t drink because of the joy water gives when you are really parched. Maybe pleasure is only grief in reverse; maybe pleasure par excellence is grief that’s been mysteriously turned on its head. However, to return to my thread. When the night watchman opened the door to the street, I was so desperate I had to make a supreme effort not to piss in my pants. The fellow gave me a lit candle, something they still did in my neighbourhood, and locked the door, leaving me inside, gripping my candle and desperate, a desperation spiralling into the acute phase, the unbearable phase: you know, after lots of glasses of anisette, lots. I reached the landing on the second floor in an extreme state of tension, about to explode. I hadn’t mentioned that Auntie rented a second-floor flat – the house is hers – to a highly respectable family: a notary, would you believe? And the notary had a daughter who was almost fourteen at the time; an angelically rosy-cheeked girl. With two plaits of dark hair, bright eyes and tall and thin as Desdemona. By her side Nati would have seemed an animal – remember Nati, the tenant farmers’ daughter. Where’s your little packet then?”
After rolling a little cigarette he continued his soliloquy: “Both Auntie and the notary had got it into their heads that it would be a tremendous idea to marry us off: when we came of age, obviously. First I had to finish my degree; by then I’d have started with the notary as a clerk and studied for the entrance exams, and once over that hurdle . . . off to the parish church! But, you know, didn’t I say we’d never make it to notary? It was a tremendous idea, except they’d not taken me into account. There I was in front of their door, gripping the candle in one hand and unbuttoning my fly with the other. I stood there for a few seconds feeling it like a pistol, holding on in one last supreme effort to test my strength of will, because, as Dale Carnegie says, you need strength of will to triumph in this world. What’s that? Do you think it odd that I’ve done Carnegie? I’ve done it all, I tell you! I’ve even done Bossuet’s Funeral Sermons! And to be frank, there’s one book that’s a sight more deadening and that’s Das Kapital. I think I’m the only person in the entire world who’s swallowed that whole! In German too! Hey, and I didn’t do that to cover myself in glory. Marxists . . . mmm . . . are only Hegelians, left-wing Hegelians; that is, they’ve taken the imagination out of Hegel. And, believe me, don’t ever trust people who don’t have imagination. I’ve told you that more than once. They are terrifying! There can be no sense of humour without imagination. In the same way that they would chop the heads off half of humanity to force Das Kapital on every infant class, the day they feel like a scrap of exhaustive erudition. Lluís, it’s a real shame you’ve never believed in my gifts as a prophet – a real shame! Up to now you had to be a Krausist* if you wanted to be appointed to a solid, permanent university post in pedantry; so here’s another prophesy: the day will come when all pedants will be Marxists. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, Carnegie? Strength of will? Yes, strength of will! I was telling you about how I was exercising my strength of will in front of the door to that notary’s second-floor flat. When I had tested out my maximum level of strength of will, I finally released a violent stream of piss, aiming at the crack under the door so it hit their lobby. I wished I’d had reserves of pee to flood the whole flat, including the bedroom where that innocent lily must have been dreaming of meringues and angel cake: oh to flood out notaries in the whole wide world! Well, that’s me. But I was soon empty, horrifyingly empty with a feeling of such impotence . . . I walked up to our flat, second door on the fourth floor, a desperate failure, feeling terribly sad, melancholy eating me alive. I was sixteen: the age for such things.”
He sighed deeply, as if he’d just spun me a tale of adolescent love and despair. I was so beside myself after listening to that lunatic, brainless deluge I was at a loss for words.
“After that experience, you can imagine how I react to any prospect of marriage, however remote it may seem. I piss on matrimony and have done from the age of sweet sixteen! Ah, we’d be well out of it! Not me, not likely! One night, when I’d come back from an expedition to the barri xino, I was in bed and saw a luminous vision in the darkness. It wasn’t very big, not a dozen centimetres all told, and glowed dimly, barely visible. It was like a nun in a white habit, completely one-dimensional, with no bodily presence, the strangest thing! Saint Philomena, I thought, terrified. I told you there was no electric lighting in the flat: I’d have had to get out of bed to light the gas and was too scared. I put my head under the sheets but couldn’t get to sleep. Finally, daylight came! I took my head out and look: there, nailed to the wall, was a print and naturally it was Saint Philomena. A phosphorescent print: one of Auntie’s brainwaves. She had found out about my night-time sorties and had thought to edify me with the luminous print trick. She never said anything, then or ever; she said all she had to say with that simple appearance put in by Saint Philomena. The day after, the print was gone, she’d spirited back to her bedroom. No explanation; not a word on the subject. Then one day she let slip after lunch: ‘The notaries on the first floor . . . are so worried about what keeps happening. It’s a real mystery . . . Maybe you won’t do it again.’ ”
He poured a last cup of firewater.
“I came to say goodbye, Lluís.”
“Are you changing brigades?”
“Well . . .”
“You’re not off to join the flat feet, I suppose?”
“You got that mania too?”
“No, I saw them in action in the last round of operations. They’re like us, when all’s said and done. They got the same or a bigger bashing than we did. Have they sorted out your new posting in the division?”
“Maybe . . . And I thought I ought to give you these letters. I’d been holding on to them . . . like an idiot. I’m an idiot too: much more of one than you are when I try. I just put on a front as best I can. I don’t want to hold on to them any longer. You keep them. But don’t look at them now. You’ll have plenty of time when I’m far away . . . I’m off. I don’t want to act the fool again. Goodbye.”
OLIVEL, 20
Ramon, I wish you were here by my side . . . and I’d cry, cry for hours on end! These letters were from my wife to Soleràs . . . How could I ever have suspected? I’d so abandoned her . . . I’ve read them driven by morbid curiosity. This is worse than any battle on a desert plain.
*In 1843 the liberal government sent Julián Sanz del Río to Germany to study German philosophy as a step to combat Spain’s intellectual isolation. He brought back the philosophy of Karl Krause, a minor German idealist/pantheist and “kr
ausismo” became a major influence in Spanish liberal thought – the main source of the pedagogy of Giner de los Ríos, founder of the Institución Libre de Enseñanza in Madrid.
PART TWO
Le malheur est ridicule.
SIMONE WEIL
26 DECEMBER 1936
My dear Juli, Christmas was so dismal yesterday! I was by myself with the boy and he was grouching all the time asking for his father. “Have you forgotten Father is off fighting a war?” “Well, I want to fight as well.” Lluís and his son are so alike it makes me laugh: the same mannerisms, the same way they curl up in bed. If you only knew how lonely I feel . . . I really write to receive your replies; your letters keep me company. He writes so little!
Yesterday, Christmas Day, we had nougat and champagne. At least these are in plentiful supply in Barcelona – I expect because all the factories making nougat and champagne are in republican territory. I tried to celebrate as cheerfully as I could pretend in front of the boy, but I kept remembering the 26 July when Lluís left. A summer storm rattled the metal roof of the estació de França, the stink of wet earth melded into the smell of steam from the trains. I could have cried when he hugged me: tears at moments like that bring relief, but . . . I knew how much he hated tears! Sentimentality, as he calls it, puts him in a foul mood. I’m sorry to be seeking comfort from you – who else can I turn to? If only you knew how lonely I feel, how lonely I have felt over these last five endless months . . .
2 FEBRUARY 1937
When I got home four letters were waiting for me, two from you and two from Lluís, who gave excellent news that dispelled the anguish that’s been dragging me down. I only feel sad now when I think how far away he is on the Madrid front . . .
I’m sad though pleasantly so because – how can I put this? – my memories and hopes have been given a boost. The happy memories of our first moments together: Lluís doesn’t realise that he has a natural gift when it comes to winning people’s affections; his son has inherited this and that makes me glad. My lack of such a gift has made me suffer terribly. I have many reasons to feel hopeful. His last letter is full of affection: he seems to miss me and begin to see how much we mean to each other. The miracle will happen. I believe blindly that it will and you, who’ve been like a brother to him and to me, must have helped it on its way hugely. Don’t deny it. I imagine you’ll do all you can to influence him, to bring him back to me. Obviously you’ll never say as much: you’re too sensitive. Unfortunately very few men are like you: we women are intuitive and rarely get it wrong when we put our trust in someone.
A little excitement in our lives: as the boy often gets a sore throat – another thing he’s inherited from his father – I decided to have his tonsils removed. Lluís has always refused to do this but I didn’t want our little one to suffer from sore throats for the rest of his life when it’s so easy to cure. The operation was quick, though he experienced a highly unpleasant couple of moments. Particularly the second tonsil; the first caught him completely unawares. He’d learned his lesson, kept his mouth shut tight and lashed out at the dentist.
Now it’s over and done with and I’m happy. One less thing on my mind.
I’m thrilled about these letters from Lluís! And about yours too, naturally. Thank you for your soothing words that I don’t need now, thanks to God. They reach me when I feel the whole world has been given a fresh lick of paint.
3 MARCH
How can you doubt that your letters really keep me company? Especially now I’ve not heard from Lluís for weeks and weeks . . . He’d given me such high hopes! His last letter was yet another string of short sentences . . .
If I didn’t have yours, I’d feel so alone in this world! I’m not like Lluís, who can get along by himself in life; loneliness saps my spirits.
7 APRIL
It isn’t that Lluís has taken a dislike to me; that’s not what I meant at all! I know only too well that he needs me and that he will realise it one of these days. Eventually he’ll see that life is only tolerable if you share it with someone else; otherwise, you only experience a scary sensation of walking in the wilderness! One day he’ll realise we all need a helping hand along the way. Otherwise, we are so lost . . . he will realise that eventually. If I can’t sustain this hope, how would I survive?
I’m writing to you and gazing at the wonderful pile of El Pagès tinned milk in the middle of the drawing room. Yes, I’ve had fun removing them from their crates and building a pyramid. The five empty wooden crates are still there next to the pyramid in the middle of the room where you left them after unloading the lorry. I should put them in the cellar but I’m reluctant to – the wretched crates are such good company!
You made me so happy when you turned up out of the blue like that! After not seeing you for so long! How long had it been? I couldn’t tell you! From when the war started, that now feels like the beginning of the world. Barely nine months, nine months like an eternity!
I’m sure he could get away if he wanted. You managed it. And he is my husband and Ramonet’s father . . . He does send me his wages as an adjutant at the front every month. He keeps very little back for himself, but why has he never tried to come and see us?
I can imagine what a sacrifice it must have been to bring these five crates of tinned milk. You wouldn’t admit it but I’m sure they were your daily ration that you’ve been hoarding over weeks and months. They’ll do us such a power of good! I didn’t know where to go to get milk for the boy; it’s one problem after another here. Lluís could never tolerate listening to problems on the home front, or what these hard times mean for us women. I’m sitting in my favourite armchair, next to the window that overlooks the garden, gazing at that pyramid of tins, and I feel so happy, so delighted to be well provided for, and tears stream down my cheeks. It’s a quiet sob, like a spring shower, like the fine drizzle rustling the new leaves on the lime tree.
What a pity you were here for such a short time. We had so much to talk about after all these months! So much, Juli . . . You left almost as soon as you’d unloaded the crates! Can you believe that the pyramid of tins I’ve had such fun building is as high as a Christmas tree? I’m even thinking of decorating it with candles!
12 APRIL
Poor Juli: I’m so lonely that I cling to your letters; they’re all I have to keep me company! I’ve kept every one you’ve written and reread them from time to time. You’ve written me many more than he has; the difference between your pile and his – I’ve kept every one – is astonishing! He’s not written for a month: a whole month and not a single line!