by Joan Sales
After this encounter we didn’t see each other for several weeks; he travelled in the Transport Corps van searching for food in the rearguard and as a result he often didn’t appear around the brigade for days. One evening he turned up unexpectedly at the battalion’s first-aid post where I was working. He’d come to that village a long way from Supplies, so he said, expressly to see me for a long chat. After dinner I took him to the basement where my bed was; I carried down another straw mattress for him.
“If I were to tell you that from my earliest childhood I’ve always . . .” – he uttered the opening words of a monologue that was to last for hours the moment we’d stretched out on our respective mattresses – “ . . . I’ve always thought of the universe as if it were a female ocean . . . oh if only you could dive into her lukewarm, spellbinding waters! But one is a Tantalus nailed to the beach. The ocean is very near, but it’s impossible to dive in! The females won’t let one. You can delude yourself that you don’t plunge in headfirst because you are virtuous; I can’t. I’m not allowed any more delusions: I’ve tried everything; they don’t want it to happen! On the other hand, my situation is really complex, because I am fiercely pro-Church. Some people believe in nothing, not even the black mass; naturally, they are quick to tell you that, but they know not what they say. Very, very important people, you know, managing directors of big limited companies, professors of Economics, amazing pedants. They never once suspect that they are worshipping the Anti-eternal Father in person.”
“The Anti-eternal Father?”
“Yes: the Anti-eternal Father. That’s what I call him and if you give it a little thought, you’ll see how it’s the name that best fits. I am sincerely convinced that it is his real name and that if he’s not known by this name it’s because he prefers to go incognito. He likes to assume the most anodyne shapes in his reincarnations, which are much more frequent than you think; he likes to mingle with the drabbest crowd in the street and be adored unbeknown to his adorers. He likes equivocation, ambiguity and mystification; he likes luxury, though he likes it to be shabby rather than sumptuous – the kind that hits you in dens of vice within the reach of all purses: yes, he ensures there are hells available for all, because he too remembers the poor. He doesn’t forget the modest clerks who must make the most of the five-day week to let their hair down. Barcelona enjoys long summers; the nights are short, if hot and oppressive, the unforgettable nights of Barcelona’s dog days! I would escape from Godella, where I spent the summer on my aunt’s estate, on the pretext that the professor of Economics wanted to see me, so I could immerse myself in that world I found so tempting and that I knew so well; I knew it particularly in the winter, but it’s at the height of summer that it opens up like a large fruit which bursts in the heat and reveals its succulently ripe, if not overripe, insides. And there you see them roaming the backstreets, tortured by heat and lack of sleep, like so many butterflies flitting from flower to flower until they find one that seems mysteriously attractive; oh, much more than any other, though they couldn’t tell you why. She looks like the others, standing in her doorway or on her street corner like a sentinel rigorously doing her duty; she has nothing special, nothing the others don’t, but one falls irresistibly on one’s knees at her feet. The fool doesn’t realise this – how many unknowing idolaters there are! – but he is driven by a fascination for the Anti-eternal that the ancients knew so well: ‘fascinatio fugacitatis’, the irresistible fascination for what is fleeting, for what will only last a short midsummer’s night! Idolatry of idolatries! Adoration of what is fleeting! Falling on one’s knees at the feet of what will be ravaged by sickness, old age and death; kiss and adore it! Reject Eternity and rush to be enslaved by Time! At least I’m not the director of any limited company, I never pontificate from any chair in Economics, and afterwards – inevitably afterwards! – I would go, as dawn glimmered over the port, to prostrate myself in a dark, forgotten, deserted church, and fix my eyes on the illumination emanating from the most Holy Son and allow myself to be swept away by sweet repentance. Yes, it’s sweet to be able to say to that crucified, forgotten God: ‘Lord, You taught us this ploy, this fantastic ploy, the prayer of the publican.’ ”
His cantor’s voice vibrated in the dark like the bass notes of an organ; he kept varying his emphasis and it was difficult to separate out emotion from mockery.
“Woman is the Ocean, man the Sahara. These two vast, hostile expanses, water and thirst, are side by side and never mingle. If they were to mingle, the most glorious of continents would come into being, but that’s impossible. In the depths of the Sahara, where the dunes are most scorched by the sun, a species of cactus grows to a great height; from afar the very occasional caravan of Touaregs has glimpsed the only example of the species, a species of which there is only one specimen. Its vertical silhouette projects a shadow over the sand that extends to the horizon; Touaregs have glimpsed the shadow, not the cactus. Now, as well as being the single living specimen of the species, this cactus has another unique feature: it lives a thousand years only to flower for a second and die. You see, the Sahara is remarkable from more than one point of view.”
“I’ve never heard of this cactus.”
“Haven’t you? That’s astonishing. Finally, the moment to flower comes: ‘Bah, what would be the point?’ it asks and prefers to expire without ever experiencing its moment of glory, that moment it has been preparing for, for a thousand years. ‘Flower? What’s the point?’ it asks when the time comes. Yes, when the time comes it says ‘Bah’ and expires without deigning to flower. Have you really never heard of it? That’s astonishing. Uncultured folk, as Captain Picó says. It is a renowned cactus, the Cactus solerassus. Are you really unfamiliar with it? What about the insects? Haven’t you heard about the insects either?”
“Which ones?”
“Which? All of them! All insects! Insects, no matter which. It’s strange how insects, quite unlike ourselves, begin life in a state of decrepitude; which of the two systems works best? Some drag themselves painfully around for years in order to enjoy a youthful instant, a nuptial flight: at root it’s the story of the Cactus Solerassus retold; everything meets the same end, as if everything was made specially for the nuptial flight, for that moment of glory, though we are only allowed to taste a single drop, a single moment! And for this single drop, for this single moment, for this glimmer of uncertain glory . . . Bah, one wanders astray in a labyrinth of absurdity. For example: when animal life had barely moved beyond the insect stage – given that we’re talking about insects – vegetable life had already experienced the most splendid flowering; the most monstrous, terrifying orchids had already blossomed in the heart of the densest, hottest jungles when our granddaddy, the eyeless earthworm, was slithering along. Then you might have thought that vegetables were destined to the highest glory; we now know that was not to be. God wanted descent from the earthworm, not the orchid: please confess that trying to understand a scrap of all this is driving you crazy.”
It was futile to attempt to interrupt his soliloquy; his rhetoric was driving him on, his cantor’s voice became increasingly resonant. I knew he was gesticulating too, because the luminous tip of his cigarette traced strange arabesques in the pitch dark of that basement. He jumped from one topic to another and I think even came to forget I was there: “The least we can say is that everything is unfathomable – apart from nothingness. It’s amazing that people don’t realise this, via an infallible algebraic equation, non-belief in nothingness = belief in nothingness; if nothing existed, there’d be no problem, everything would be as clear as water. Nothingness is the only logical, rational thing that is free of mystery, perfectly simple and understandable; but nothingness is the only thing that doesn’t exist – by definition – and all existence is a mystery. Which all goes to show that thinking is a waste of time, since one can never reach a conclusion: either there is nothing or, if something is out there, it is an unfathomable mystery. On the other hand, we were talking about so
mething else; let’s return to our thread. I was telling you that they – not I – are the ones who don’t want to let you, because I assure you that the lily of chastity is hardly my strong point. As you are a priest, or are going to be, you are duty-bound to listen to my confession on this subject, which makes up ninety-nine per cent of the content of all confessions, I imagine. So here’s the essential point: they won’t let you – naturally, with honourable exceptions, but who has ever been interested in exceptions? The exceptions, those that do let you . . . if I were to reveal that from the moment they let you . . . if I were to reveal that from the moment they let you I lose all interest . . . One must admit there is a mystery here: a mystery everywhere! We only feel a real need with those who won’t let us; perhaps atheists, damned atheists, could explain this mystery to us. But no, they can’t explain any mystery or anything that’s worth its salt; they can only talk about progress. They stun you with their progress! They go to America and start selling newspapers on street corners; they make huge fortunes and come back to tell us how they did it, as if this was of any interest. Progress is to blame, because in other eras those who went to America never returned to bore the pants off us. As you see me now, I too have sold newspapers on street corners, unsellable papers, La barrinada, can you believe it? Though not in America, where one would undoubtedly have made a fortune, but on the Ramblas of Barcelona. It’s amazing how these fellows who come back from America aren’t ashamed of the fortunes they’ve made: they keep telling you about it and never blush, unable to grasp the profundity of a phrase my aunt came out with. She had been introduced to a very suave tycoon: ‘A very polite fellow,’ she said later; ‘they say he’d made a fortune by himself, a self-made man, but I think that must be a slander.’ Perhaps this big tycoon started off selling newspapers on street corners in New York; it’s highly regarded there, it’s the thing to do, the first thing all millionaires have ever done. They’d be ashamed to have sold papers on the streets of Barcelona, but in New York it’s the cat’s whiskers. And you see that’s another mystery, the business of shame, and I’d like our wonderful atheists to explain that to us: of all the things I have done what I’m most ashamed of is replying to an advertisement in La Vanguardia that promised a ‘confidential prospectus’ on how to get an athlete’s muscles in a couple of weeks. For fifteen pesetas: a peseta per day. So yours truly was able to spend fifteen pesetas in exchange for the secret key to athletic muscularity. And while I’m in confessional mode, why don’t I reveal all to you? I even went so far as to attend a ‘private consultancy’ given by Madame Zoraida, ‘an expert in the psychology of amorous conquests’. Of course, I never made any conquests; not even of that Zoraida who was, nonetheless, the most shameless of gypsies. You don’t believe me? What if I were to tell you that I even bought a tube of Barbyl, not the small two-peseta tube but the super-giant effort that cost forty; when I shave, I’d so like the blade to rasp . . . I managed one extra hair; only one, but it was a hell of a long one.”
He sighed as if suddenly burdened by a painful memory and immediately launched back into his monologue, now switching to geology. At the time I couldn’t see why he’d brought geology into his soliloquy: “I’ve even sunk so low as to cram on geology; I’ve swallowed volume after volume not understanding one jot. Because they adore geology, did you know? All to no end! The only chink of light I extracted was the knowledge that we only make it to fossilisation if we’re extremely lucky; you see, we’re not even granted that consolation. Because in another era I did find minimal consolation in the idea that one day I might be a fossilised skeleton in a museum display cabinet labelled Homo solerasssus antiquus, scaring children from primary and secondary schools. Farewell, beautiful dreams of lost innocence! I had to swallow a frightful tome to rid myself of any illusion on that front; I will never be a fossil unless it is an extraordinary case of serendipity. I now declare that it was all a waste of time and effort: the Barbyl was as big a failure as Madame Zoraida’s course in psychology and those sessions cramming geology, as was everything else I had a shot at. By the way, what does make our hair grow? We do, of course; we do, but not our conscious will – that would be too easy – it’s a quite different will, one we are completely unaware of, buried deep within us, another will we don’t even suspect exists which makes our hair or nails grow, that shapes our body and face; everybody has the face he wants, but hush! Nobody is aware of this other will. Hush, hush! Do not stir the murky waters at the bottom of our well. I could say so much on this . . . because I’ve thought long and hard about these issues. My whole lifetime! And that leads me to tell you about my childhood and my aunt who is so different from yours. Your aunt thinks life is as logical as a current account in the bank: how many good works have you paid in? How much have you withdrawn from your account? What’s the remaining balance? That’s how yours lives. But mine thinks everything is mystery, pitch black and strange; she floats quite naturally adrift in the supernatural.”
“Saint Philomena . . .” I ventured.
“Let Saint Philomena rest in peace,” he interrupted tetchily; “many or not so many celestial visions hold no surprises in the end. I have much better things to tell you, because I want to tell you all tonight – when will we ever have a better opportunity? This is why I came to see you. I’m sure you won’t let on to the others in the brigade, because you’re a priest and must keep confessions secret; remember I’ve told nobody that you are a priest. They are such beasts in this brigade, bright sparks ready to do their worst . . .”
“I’m not a priest.”
“No matter, you will be; you look the part. One has only to glance at you and feel driven to confess – confess everything, even the saddest, nastiest, most hurtful secrets. As if one’s shame were rising from one’s gut to one’s gullet and turning thick and sweet like honey. Yes, Cruells, tonight you shall listen to my nonsense because tonight I don’t feel sleepy and am in the mood to talk till daybreak, as you will soon see. It’s all stuff and nonsense, of course, but it marks you out for life. I breathed rarefied air from my innocent childhood to the outbreak of war. For many a long year, for endless years, but even so I’d not change my aunt for yours on any account. Justice, according to Papinianus, is about giving each person what is his; so let each man stick with his own aunt. Suum cuique tribuere.”
“The quotation is from Ulpianius, not Papinianus.”
“Please let’s not argue over trifles. There are so many phenomena that are beyond us . . .”
I could feel the hesitation and unease in his voice that he tried to hide behind his wisecracks until the moment came when he fell into a long silence; that was after he’d made the remark about “so many phenomena”, which I found disappointing because it was really banal. His cigarette had gone out and he was so still I thought he must have nodded off.
“There are so many phenomena that are beyond us,” his booming voice repeated after the silence. “Do you think when it started Christianity was any more respectable than a band of spiritualists? I mean in the eyes of the profane – please don’t lose your temper – in the eyes of the eternal jokers, that are and will forever be the most numerous of sects. I beg you to hear me out before you hit the roof; you are in fact one of the few people who might understand since, as you once told me, you’ve had several attacks of sleepwalking in your past. Every man must put up with his own aunt, and as far as mine is concerned . . .”
When I was twelve, shortly after Aunt Llúcia gave me that telescope to reward my outstanding grades, I did in effect suffer an attack of sleepwalking and Soleràs was the only one in the brigade I’d told. They found me walking round the side of the terrace of the mansion where we lived in Sarrià, as if I was looking through the telescope while walking, but with my eyes shut. If my aunt hadn’t said anything, I’d never have known, for when you wake up you don’t remember a thing. At the time I had this conversation with Soleràs there’d been no repeat performances, so that early attack was put down as an isolated case; soon a
fter Lluís joined the brigade I had my second: some soldiers on night patrol found me sleepwalking on the streets of Olivel de la Virgen, again as if looking through my telescope, but this is all beside the point now.
This conversation took place towards the end of November and the rain began to beat furiously down on a skylight that wouldn’t shut properly; gusts of cold wind blew in tiny drops of rain. He re-lit his cigarette and I saw his face for a moment: like an apparition. It seemed skinnier than ever and he looked as if he was suffering an attack of migraine. With a cigarette between his lips and a match between his fingers he wiped his left hand over his forehead and stared at me myopically, seemingly to communicate a shameful kind of suffering one would prefer to keep secret. Then he disappeared back into the darkness and resumed his soliloquy: “In her case, without electricity, far from fresh air and daylight, like a pharaoh deep in his pyramid, my aunt – who has pots of money, Cruells – has created a secret world for her own private use. This is the only enviable advantage the wealthy enjoy – the ability to create such a haven, to do what they want and ignore what others might think. Some nights I’d hear the scraping which I’ve always heard and recalled in my most distant memories. It wasn’t very loud but sounded eerie, as if it came from within the wooden furniture. My bedroom is at the other end of the flat, a long way from hers, and looks over a convent school. Auntie had chosen the smallest, innermost bedroom for herself; as it is a nineteenth-century building – she always refused to move – it still has inner bedrooms without natural light and hers is one, the only opening being the door that leads straight into the hallway. One night, when I was almost thirteen, I heard scraping that sounded louder than usual; it came from the sitting room next to my bedroom, as if someone was sawing through the mahogany console or sliding their fingers along it. The strange noises grew louder and louder and now sounded like a horse galloping in the distance or a rubber ball being bounced rapidly up and down. I was intrigued and jumped out of bed; a moonbeam filtered through a crack in the shutter to the back of the sitting room and was reflected from the blurred console mirror onto my grandfather’s portrait in oils. A breeze blew in from the nuns’ garden heavily scented with orange blossom: it was a night in June. I walked barefoot; the noise stopped the second I entered the sitting room. Shortly after I heard it again, fainter, and not in the sitting room but in the hallway. I headed in the same direction; the noise receded as if it were running away from me. I chased after it and found myself quite unintentionally in Auntie’s bedroom . . . Are you still there?”