by Joan Sales
“Forgive me for turning up like this, senyora! I’m the uncle of your . . . husband.”
He hesitated before he said “husband”, just like the priest who baptised us. I took him into our drawing room and sat him down. He apologised for having a “long and complicated” story to tell: at the beginning of the revolt, he said, everything had continued as before in the factory thanks to a committee comprising the accountant, the main overseer, long-serving employees and some of his most skilled workers. The first decision taken by this “factory committee” had been to vote to designate a “responsible companion” and there was unanimous agreement – not just a majority – to appoint him, Uncle Eusebi told me proudly, as they thought him the best man for the job. This way, as a “responsible companion” and backed by the factory committee, he had continued to be at the helm of management as if nothing had happened, the only headaches being those that stemmed from the situation in the country: the shortage of raw materials, breakdowns in the transport system and the loss of markets in central, western and southern Spain. But a couple of weeks previously some anarchist agitators had stirred up the labourers and a large number of unskilled workers had replaced the skilled ones on the factory committee. The person in charge now was a warehouse porter – “a sort of gorilla,” said Uncle, who couldn’t write or sign his name, but signed with a thumbprint, “and into the bargain hailed from Medellín”.
“Like Hernán Cortés?” I exclaimed.
“Exactly like Hernán Cortés,” Uncle replied. “Did Hernán Cortés also sign with a thumbprint? A time comes when anything seems possible. The fact is that this soup-pasta Hernán Cortés is a vicious fellow and his first ukase was to sack me. He shouted at me never to set foot in the factory again because they didn’t need me. So I was living at home, resigned to being as bored as a comatose crocodile, when the accountant rang this morning – a man I trust wholeheartedly – to tell me to go into hiding, that the anarchist strongman had just come to the office in the filthiest of tempers and let it be known that the business was going so badly since I left because I was sabotaging it from the outside and as a result it was necessary to ‘do me in’ like all the bourgeois of Catalonia . . . ‘Until we’ve got rid of every single one,’ he raved, ‘this country’s industry won’t get back on its feet.’ ”
Uncle Eusebi has a round, sweet-tempered face, but now and then a nervous tic make his bright little eyes go on the blink and that happens when he comes out with one of his shafts of wit, which is what he likes to do, and when he does he always stammers the first few words: “An . . . and it’s obvious he and his lot know much about managing industry! If Hernán Cortés had earned a fortune in Medellín, why the hell would he have decided to go and try his luck in Paraguay?”
“So then, Uncle, what made you decide to come and hide in our house?”
“You know, my dear, I didn’t know where I could go that would be safe; you are the only agitators I know. Besides, I was dying to meet you. I’m a nosey parker, you know, and that’s hardly a crime, is it?”
By now the maid had dressed Ramonet as it was the time he got up, and she brought him in washed and combed. He’d just had his third birthday: much to my surprise, for he is generally prickly with strangers, he ran right over to Uncle and stood there scrutinising him: “Who is this gentleman?” “It’s Uncle Eusebi.”“Yes, my lovely little boy, I’m your uncle,” replied Uncle, picking him up and sitting him on his knees. “How could I have such a darling little nephew and not know him! How can that be right, Trini? Am I such a monster for Lluís to treat me in this way? Just think how the boy came running the moment he saw me and how happy he is to sit on my knee. The voice of innocence! What did you say his name was? Ramonet? I can tell you that when Lluís was very young, no more than six or seven months old, I tried to take him in my arms and he played up like a little demon. How he bawled! He wasn’t six or seven months and already he couldn’t stand the sight of me. He’s obviously from noble stock and I’m a mere pleb, you know, a common or garden Ruscalleda . . .”
I burst out laughing.
“You must be joking, Uncle. How do you expect a six-month-old baby to . . . ?”
“Joking? Well, not entirely, Trini! I’ve seen such peculiar things in my lifetime: you end up suspecting that these old manias never die in these people, that they’re born to them . . . They possess them even when they’ve forgotten they ever existed and are totally unaware of them! I could tell you of so many unexpected actions and reactions . . .”
“If that were the case, Lluís would loathe me more than he does – I’m a sight more pleb.”
He stared at me in astonishment and his little eyes went back on the blink: “Do you say so because you and your people are anarchists? Well, even if you’ve thrown lots of bombs on streets, bomb-throwing doesn’t detract from anyone’s nobility, you know – quite the contrary! Conversely, manufacturing noodles and macaroni is obviously beyond the pale. My crimes find no redemption in the eyes of a genealogist: I don’t just manufacture noodles and macaroni but cannelloni, vermicelli, spaghetti and semolina. Semolina! Did you ever hear of Godfrey of Bouillon setting up a semolina factory in the Holy Land, however much it went with his name? My dear, when I change my clothes too drastically, when I put a dinner jacket on, everyone inevitably mistakes me for a waiter . . . these are the crimes they won’t ever forgive me!”
After giving it a lot of thought we decided he would use the maid’s bedroom that’s at the top of the house under the roof terrace and slightly separate from the rest of the house; the maid would sleep with Ramonet. We told the boy that the senyor had only paid us a visit and gone back to his own house; so Uncle hid in our house for five or six weeks without the boy finding out – moreover, a few days later Ramonet started to go to the kindergarten. We took his meals up to his room and, as the boy often had an afternoon nap or was already in bed, I’d often lunch and dine with him and keep him company. He was really grateful because he was bored to death being shut away like that. He talked a lot about Lluís, and always affectionately, if wryly: “Lluís is exasperated by what he calls my self-importance as the owner of a soup-pasta factory, but my dear, if I didn’t boost my own self-esteem, who would?” He often came out with these funny remarks that made me laugh and would have won over anyone except for Lluís: “Lluís? What can I say? I know by heart all the business of his starting to live with you without getting married, in order to put his family’s nose out of joint! He likes to play the proletarian rebel, but I’d spend thirteen or fourteen hours a day in the office running the factory and he would pop in once a year, when it was dividend payout time.” Uncle told me lots of things I didn’t know: “As his guardian, I could have prevented Lluís from living with you because he had a year to go before he came of age: he was still only twenty. I did think of using this weapon, not to prevent him from living with you – you were pregnant and I’d have thought that a crime – but to force him to marry you. I’d already taken it on board that neither of you wanted a church wedding, but you could have at least had a civil ceremony . . . Whatever Father Gallifa says, I think a couple who’ve had a civil marriage are more respectable than a couple that hasn’t married at all. Father Gallifa knocked that out of my head: ‘A civil marriage is meaningless,’ he said. ‘It’s not worth fighting battles over.’ At the end of the day, I thought, if Lluís comes of age in a year’s time, he can do whatever he wants, so we’ll let him get on with it now and not get in his way. Father Gallifa praised my decision.”
Father Gallifa is a Jesuit Lluís mentioned to me once or twice. I think he taught in his school and, from what I gathered, he was much loved by the family and someone Uncle asked for advice in difficult situations like this. Now I think about it, if this Father Gallifa taught at the Jesuit school then you too must have known him – so how come you never mentioned him? You and Lluís went to the same Jesuit school in Sarrià. Perhaps I’ve got it wrong and Father Gallifa wasn’t a teacher at the school but the directo
r of the Portuguese congregation, and that’s why Lluís knew him, but you didn’t because Lluís was a member of the congregation and you weren’t. While Lluís’ uncle was telling me all this the telephone rang. I ran to pick it up. It was the accountant from the factory; after checking that I was Trini, he asked to speak to Uncle. It must have been after ten; he was phoning from home, not from the office. When he’d finished speaking and was putting the receiver down, Uncle burst out laughing: “Do you know what he just told me? That the ‘companion in charge’, that gorilla from Medellín, wants me to go back to the factory because he doesn’t know how he’s going to pay the week’s wages tomorrow, Saturday. Did you know there was a recent advert in La Publicitat that said: ‘Collectivised enterprise needs capitalist partner’? I saw it with my own eyes as I’m a lifelong subscriber to La Publicitat. It’s quite true! They must have faced the same problem: they’re finding that paying out the weekly wages isn’t as easy as they thought.”
Poor Uncle, one day he was in the mood for telling secrets and revealed a real shocker. It was late night again after supper and I’d stayed on as usual to keep him company. I would take my knitting with me; I’d started on two thick jerseys, one for you and one for Lluís, as we were well into autumn and the end of the war wasn’t in sight. Do you remember how at the beginning we never imagined it could last more than a few weeks or at worst a few months? And week after week, month after month had gone by and we were now in November; winter was upon us and the war looked like it was in for the long haul. I was knitting in the bedroom under the terrace and enjoying long conversations with Uncle Eusebi. We flitted from one thing to another when, unexpectedly, he started to talk about his daughter Julieta and how he’d had high hopes she would marry Lluís. What they say about mutual sympathy must be right: I’d liked him from the moment I first saw him and realised he felt the same about me, and that our instinctive empathy was the reason why he could so surprise me with a family story without offending me a bit.
“I’d have liked Lluís to marry Julieta, my daughter. They’re first cousins – so what? That’s why Rome gives dispensations; pay the piper, and the Holy See will sing! You know, a lot of shares for Ruscalleda’s Son have gone to the Order of St John of God to pay for Ramon’s schemes: at least those belonging to Lluís stayed in the family! I know I can pin no hopes on my son Josep Maria; I don’t know whether Lluís ever mentioned him . . .”
Yes, he had, but not very warmly: his cousin apparently suffers from a serious congenital glandular deficiency and became grotesquely obese from a very early age. Uncle told me they tried all kinds of treatment, consulted every sort of doctor, visited all varieties of spa, but it was all futile. This poor Josep Maria has the mind of an eighteen-month-old baby though he’s older than Lluís and almost Ramon’s age.
“And he’s a good boy, Trini, a good boy! But nothing we can do to help him . . . So Lluís was my only hope to succeed me at the helm of the business. Why do you pull such a face? Do you find it odd that I’d hoped Lluís would follow in my footsteps as director of the firm? You are very young, Trini, and I’m a wise old owl; I’ve seen such changes in my lifetime . . . such astonishing changes! It wouldn’t surprise me if one fine day Lluís settled down, began working like a maniac and turned into one of the most important noodle manufacturers in Europe. I think he’s capable of doing that if he decides he wants to and gives up his mad whims.”
You can imagine how such a wild prophecy made me split my sides! “No, don’t laugh. Greener fruit has been known to ripen. You must understand how appalled my wife and I were – especially my wife – when he got mixed up with you, but there was nothing we could do about that either. Except be very patient. Now I know you, I feel slightly more resigned.”
And as the resigned expression on his face was so comical and so unflattering towards me, I burst out laughing again.
“Don’t laugh, just listen. The moment I saw you, I realised you weren’t at all what my wife and I had imagined, and as I’ve got to know you I’ve seen you are a girl with a lot of good sense. Believe me, my dear, I’ve always had my feet firmly on the ground. We’ve stormy weather now, but it will clear up sooner or later, because nothing is so wearying as being perpetually on the boil. As soon as it eases up, try to rectify your situation. A woman who lives with a man she’s not married to will never gain respect. Why let yourself be insulted by women who don’t reach the top of your shoes? Because it will always be women calling you names; we men are more broad-minded. You know, we all crave respect: it is as necessary as bread. And you must lead Lluís down the right path; you might find it hard, but you can do it if you decide you want to. Yes, it will be hard, no need to tell me: these Brocàs aren’t ordinary people, I mean, like you or me. You must remember that his father was an army lieutenant and that there was real drama at home when my sister, may she rest in peace, pledged herself to him. We Ruscalledes have always been busy little bees. My grandfather made semolina in Agramunt – we Ruscalledes come from Agramunt – and the truth is our family has never stopped working or taken its nose out of its account books. Then all of a sudden our young girl marries an infantry lieutenant who hasn’t a cèntim to his name, however many portraits in oils of grandfathers in full military dress hang on their walls or however many handles their names have! My sister Sofia was older than me but after all these years I can still say it was frightening how madly she fell in love with her lieutenant! I think if our father had forbidden her from seeing him she’d have thrown herself off our balcony, and we lived on the sixth floor at the time . . . There was no way her mind would be changed; they married, they had Ramon – who is now a brother in the Order of St John of God – then Lluís, and when Lluís was only a few months old my brother-in-law died in Africa leading his company, for in the meantime he’d been promoted to captain. They promoted him to the rank of Commander posthumously and honoured him with the medal of San Fernando. Sofia died soon after of a broken heart: she couldn’t live without her man. All these Brocàs are bred to drive women crazy! They’re all handsome, valiant and one-track-minded, with the gift of the gab but not a bit of common sense! From what I’ve seen of you, you have much more common sense than I’d have ever imagined; so when these stormy waters become still, it’ll be up to you to lead him gradually back to the right road without him knowing. And it is obvious you can lead him by the nose whichever way you want.”
“Uncle,” I replied, “do you want me to make a bourgeois out of him?”
“Well, if you want to put it that way . . . If marrying properly and acting like anyone with an ounce of sense is what you mean by bourgeois . . . Tell me, what do you get out of free love and all this nonsense? Just a bad reputation? A woman needs to be respected, she needs that more than a man. You’ll soon see for yourself. Now I know you, I’m sure you will want to be as respectable a lady as the most high-falutin’ and that you’ll take an interest in the factory, which is a quarter yours – I mean though it’s Lluís’ today – and a quarter of the factory is a lot. I’ll go further, now that I know you, and say that if Lluís continues to be horrified by the idea of manufacturing noodles, if he won’t relinquish his aversion to soup pasta, who knows whether in the end you might not come to shareholders’ meetings instead of him – he never sets foot in them, as you know. Perhaps you’ll become more and more interested in the factory, and I think you might when you see more of what it does. If Lluís turns his back on the place decisively, perhaps you could be the active partner, the one to give the good advice I’ve so often needed? Because, I can tell you, running a factory as big as ours is starting to be is no easy matter, and the partner Ramon might have been had he not joined the Order of St John of God . . .”
At the end of this astonishing speech he exclaimed, even more amazingly: “Is it a crime to manufacture noodles?”
No, it’s not a crime. Uncle is right. Don’t we all eat noodles? You bet we do! Or rather we did . . . And they were delicious! If only I could find a packet of those
our grocer used to stock, I can see them now in my mind’s eye . . . I don’t know whether it was Lluís or you who was more unfair when it came to noodles. I remember how in one of our meetings of the La barrinada group you both mocked noodle manufacturers so cruelly that my father had to call you to order; after the revolution, said my father, there will still be noodle manufacturers, though they’ll be organised in a combined workers’ production co-operative and not a capitalist enterprise; apart from that, nothing will be any different: the more noodles the better, it’s an excellent proletarian dish. You interrupted him: “If there are still noodle factories after anarchy has been proclaimed, we might as well give up now!”
I think you were having a good laugh at the expense of my poor father’s naïveté.
Ever since Ramonet started going to kindergarten in the mornings, Uncle Eusebi hasn’t had to spend so many hours imprisoned in his bedroom; he’s been able to walk around the house. It was November and we could shut the windows without attracting attention. I am so lucky I can trust our maid; she’s been with us ever since Lluís and I moved into this mansion and this girl from Galicia shows us a lot of affection: she dotes on our little one in particular.
Well, the first day the boy spent the morning out of the house, Uncle wanted a complete tour. “I’m dying to see how you’ve organised the place,” he said. “The mansion,” he added, though I was only too well aware of the fact, “belonged to my sister Sofia, may she rest in peace.”
“It’s the first time I’ve set foot in a mansion where the mistress is an anarchist,” he said, still laughing.