by Joan Sales
“One day you’ll be forced to admit I was right. Lluís is hiding a capacity for plunder that so far he’s only revealed in relation to women. But let’s forget him for the moment; I find conversations about Lluís particularly deadening. I didn’t want to talk about Lluís or Llibert as individuals, but about their race in general, this race of winners that so disgusts me. Everything that isn’t success is stuff and nonsense as far as they are concerned. They think the only worthwhile success is of this world and that it must come quickly, not be drawn out or bring on a sweat. Well then, as you know, I am a geologist, or, more modestly, a teacher of geology. In geology the centuries are but a breath of air, and millennia a dream; things only begin to possess substance for us after a million years. Don’t worry: I don’t intend boring you stiff with geology. All I’m wondering is what the success of these winners represents in terms of geology – less perhaps than that of a mosquito from the Carboniferous Age that manages to become a fossil in a drop of amber?”
I looked through the window and said nothing; I was trying to guess what I should be answering, how I would lead the conversation where I wanted it to go. I’ll have to say something shocking, I thought, but what?
“A mosquito?” I replied. “A mosquito from the Carboniferous Age? I beg you, Lluís is no mosquito! Not even Llibert . . . I wouldn’t want to deny – it’s so clearly the case – that with our efforts we can never become more than dust scattered by the wind of centuries, much less than a mosquito in a drop of amber. I know that to be fossilised is an amazing stroke of luck. For a non-believer, then, death is complete failure. That’s why non-believers are so obsessed with success. But we should be understanding and indulgent with these poor non-believers! They only have success – success in this world that they enjoy now, this very minute; it’s all they have to give meaning to their lives. You dub them winners; you could also dub them the self-satisfied in life, since it’s all pretence with them. They pretend to be satisfied by making us believe they have won; we should feel sorry for these people who go through life looking satisfied, all those who, if they even considered the possibility, would like to be fossilised for eternity wearing an expression of contentment! But are they really as satisfied as they pretend? Of course not: far from it. They are satisfied with themselves, not with other people or with things. You should never lose sight of this, Trini; if being self-satisfied is laughable, being satisfied with other people and things isn’t simply being good, it’s being saintly.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she replied. “I wasn’t talking about saints, but about Lluís and Llibert.”
“I don’t know your brother and wouldn’t want to refer to him; it’s always rash to judge individuals. I simply wanted to refer to a way of being without pinning it on anyone in particular. I was referring in general to people who live their lives obsessed with success and continually simulate successes that end in failure, since every moment draws them closer to the death that represents irrevocable failure in their eyes – because they are non-believers. Blessed is the man who feels he has failed! The feeling of failure is the first step on the road to the only possible achievement. Where is the success of those who feel satisfied – I mean those who are self-satisfied? They are the great failures and that’s why they are so obsessed with success. I didn’t intend any allusion to your brother Llibert: God spare us from making judgements on others. Only God knows the innermost souls of individuals; only He can judge them. Invariably – you too must have experienced this – when a man or woman reveals their innermost soul, they only arouse pity or compassion. We are all worthy of pity! People rarely bare their innermost soul because no-one likes being pitied.”
“Yes, we’d prefer to explode than allow others to imagine that we are unhappy.”
“So let’s leave Llibert then. As for Lluís . . .”
Just then Ramonet interrupted us to show me the house he was drawing in his exercise book: “A wolves’ house,” he said, “and the wolves have got everything, peppers, hammers, scissors, and grandparents.” I suggested he should add a cooking pot so the wolves could make soup. Talking to that child took a weight off my shoulders; I felt so inhibited by his mother. Trini was beginning to frighten me.
“The other day I was thinking about that ‘gala lunch’ in Villar,” she said. “You’d told me about the unhappy wretches ‘who barefacedly deny that they are’. There are lots, you said; people prefer to be seen as barefaced liars rather than as unhappy wretches. Most would rather be thought of as smart operators, or even skunks, than miserable good-for-nothings. Just think, you continued, of the way all the words that mean ‘worthy of pity’ sound or are beginning to sound pejorative: ranging from ‘unhappy’ to ‘wretched’, sorry, ‘miserable’ . . . we are as ashamed of wretchedness as we are of the most shocking ridiculousness. You said so among many others things at that ‘gala lunch’ and it all came back to me yesterday; you also told me about that teacher of yours in the seminary, whose name escapes me at the moment. I gathered you love him dearly. Didn’t you say your seminary teacher was the Jesuit who’d been leader of the congregation when Lluís was there? Lluís mentioned him occasionally, a Father Garrofa or Pellissa, or whatever, but in terms very different from yours . . . !”
“That ‘gala lunch’ ended deplorably,” I replied, “but now we’re talking about something else. I basically agree with you, though we shouldn’t exaggerate. There is such a thing as legitimate success; good Christians suffer failure with resignation, but to search it out on purpose would be akin to committing suicide. This was one of Soleràs’ mistakes; he seemed intent on failing in everything and that isn’t Christian because it isn’t human. Blessed be failure when it comes in the form of poverty, sickness, incomprehension and aloofness, or in defeat or dissatisfaction with some deep longing we’d felt was our very reason to be alive. Blessed be failure when it comes, since it comes to improve us, though it’s not right to seek it out deliberately. Blessed be death when it comes, but it isn’t right to anticipate it! Soleràs was sorely wrong on this point as on so many others; he even told me once: ‘If I’ve never got round to committing suicide, it’s because I’d rather be a suicide that’s failed – failure even in suicide!’ Yes, he did really say this once, those very words; perhaps it was just one of his shafts of wit, but his wit often had real content. And please do forgive me for harping on about Soleràs.”
“Forgive you? But I’ve already told you it’s Soleràs I want to talk about. Or is it forbidden to talk about him?”
“I’d gathered at that ‘gala lunch’ that you didn’t like people talking about him.”
She went quiet and stared at me: “What do you imagine there is between him and me?”
“Oh, I’m certain there’s nothing. I simply recognise the influence of his ideas on yours and that’s not surprising, since he’s swayed all of us. It’s impossible to know a character like Soleràs and not feel his influence! Strange how three boys without a father or mother between them have ended up in this brigade – Lluís, Soleràs and me; three orphans raised by their aunts and uncles. Don’t think that’s funny; whoever’s been an orphan as a child is one for ever. Childhood leaves a mark that never fades. Well then, Soleràs used to say you get the aunt you deserve; if you knew my aunt . . . Aunt Llúcia . . . if only you knew her! Did I ever tell you that all I ever wanted was to be a priest in a shanty town? Well, you know, for the past few weeks I don’t feel so sure of myself; I don’t really know what I want. If only you knew Auntie Llúcia! Quite the reverse of Soleràs’ . . . and that’s the only family warmth I’ve ever known, I only have the haziest memories of my mother; I was four years old when she died. And my aunt’s place offered all the family spirit you could want, but as far as warmth goes . . . I’d come to hate the family and the family spirit, and it was her blinkered attitudes that made it seem hateful. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn’t her family spirit that led her to be a spinster; she is horrified by any man who doesn’t belong to our family
. She’s not aware of this, naturally, but her instincts would lead her to incest: never go outside your family! Even as a child I felt there was something dubious about this family spirit which suffocated me like the stale air in a bedroom that’s never aired. My God, even the holiest things can become so perverted! Because the family is sacred; Jesus lived thirty years within a close-knit family. I now realise Auntie made me hate the idea; in recent weeks I’ve suddenly realised that I’m made to create a family.”
I took a deep breath and silence descended.
“From everything you’ve just said,” she replied, “I think I’ve gathered you no longer want to be a priest. Now, as someone who’s not a Catholic, it makes no odds . . . whether you become a priest or not . . .”
“But you are a Catholic,” I said, rather shocked.
“I wanted to be one. I did want to be one, but perhaps only because he is one. And of course I’m not talking about Lluís; that would be ridiculous . . . And where is he now? For without him . . . Catholic! What does the word ‘Catholic’ mean? Something like Buddhist, spiritualist, Muslim or Mormon? There are so many religions . . . why choose one in preference to any other? Catholic . . . what does that mean? Let’s not say ‘Catholic’, let’s say ‘Christian’, that’s broader. Even so, what does ‘Christian’ mean? Nobody knows! On the other hand, lots of people do know where Soleràs is.”
I knew nothing about his whereabouts at the time and the turn in Trini’s conversation took me by surprise. What did she mean? How could she think someone knew where Soleràs was when we’d had no news of him at all? It’s true I’d more than once wondered at the range of goodies Picó and Lluís found in no man’s land – as did Dr Puig. I’d suspected, or rather was certain, they came from wheeling and dealing with the enemy – swaps – but I’d never thought they might be connected to Soleràs’ disappearance.
“Please, don’t make such a face,” said Trini sarcastically. “They know only too well where Soleràs is, but they won’t let on. You may remember that Lluís and I took the boy for a walk on Christmas night. Lluís was carrying him swaddled in his arms; we walked very slowly because the military boots the captain had given me sank almost to my knees in the snow. Then we heard bells trilling, almost imperceptibly, a long way away, and Lluís let slip: ‘Perhaps Soleràs is listening to midnight mass.’ ‘Is Soleràs in fascist territory?’ I exclaimed, angry that Lluís could suggest such a thing. ‘Everything is possible where Soleràs is concerned; perhaps in essence he is simply a traitor.’ That’s what Lluís told me and then he refused to say another word, however much I badgered him. So much toing and froing in no man’s land, so many unexpected finds there, so much reticence about the whole operation . . .”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing in particular. I can’t get to the bottom of it either. They said and still say that one fine day Soleràs disappeared from the brigade and they’ve had no news of him since; well, I repeat, I feel that you gentlemen know only too well where he is.”
I didn’t, and protested my innocence.
“Don’t try to deceive me, Cruells. This is why I so wanted to talk to you today by yourself, taking advantage of the others’ absence. I want you to tell me where Soleràs is; I don’t want you all laughing behind my back, and I mean all of you!”
Strangely enough, while she was talking about Soleràs I thought about Lamoneda, but how was he connected to Soleràs or his disappearance, or indeed to Trini? I was thinking about Lamoneda and the disappearance of Dr Gallifa, about whom we had no news, as we had none of Soleràs.
“I don’t know where he is,” I replied, “or whether he is dead or alive.”
“Soleràs is not dead!” she shouted.
“I didn’t mean Soleràs, but Dr Gallifa. He may have been sold by a Judas; yes, he had a Judas by his side, like his shadow. His name was Lamoneda . . .”
“Now you’re joking at my expense,” she cut in bitterly. “What’s the relevance of any of this?”
“What’s the relevance?” I’d liked to have retorted, and to have added: “How the hell should I know? Everything is so confused . . . perhaps if I were to say that Lamoneda, in a way, is like a caricature of Soleràs. A monstrous caricature, I grant you! I expect they’re not connected at all, but the fact remains I can’t think of one without the other coming to mind.” I’d have liked to react like that but I said nothing. The expression on her face was her way of suggesting she wouldn’t follow me along this entangled path, where even I was losing my way.
“I’d like you to know,” I muttered, “that this Lamoneda is the first person who enabled me to understand things you could hardly imagine . . . I don’t know if you, from a family of anarchists, have ever heard of Baron de Koenig?”
“Now you’re talking about Baron de Koenig!” she exclaimed and her expression became mocking, almost cruel. “What do I care about Baron de Koenig? Why don’t you talk to me about Soleràs?”
“Soleràs is an enigma, like Lamoneda. As we all are! But Soleràs is more enigmatic than everyone else; you lose your way with him. There are much more disturbing riddles around Soleràs than the one that’s worrying you, because, at the end of the day you could understand if he’s gone over to the fascists. So many others have done so before him! I can tell you that even I did once . . . No, the Soleràs enigma is not that straightforward. I must be frank, Trini. I must tell you about one of the last conversations I had with him. I must be frank: if Soleràs has helped you so far, Trini, from now on he can only hurt you. Irremediably. Soleràs is an enigma and he’ll lead you completely astray. He can only lead you to disaster.”
Her green eyes glinted painfully, wanting more; she listened in awe, hanging on my every word.
“ ‘What does “adoptive father” mean?’ he asked me the last time I spoke to him at any length. I’d no idea what he was referring to. ‘The other’s ghost,’ he went on, ‘will always intervene . . .’ I couldn’t understand him; just imagine, he was recounting an adoptionist heresy! ‘If Jesus had only been God’s adoptive son,’ he told me, ‘the other would overshadow God and we’d all be fucked.’ They were his words, literally. His usual sarcastic barbs, you know. But I’m now beginning to grasp what he was referring to, and it’s my duty to tell you plainly that there are some extremely bizarre sides to Soleràs. Once – and this was ages ago – he told me about a long November evening between midnight and four a.m. in his aunt’s house . . . well, about things that would shock anyone. Was he inventing them? I don’t think so: he seemed ashamed of what he’d done! Things only make you feel ashamed when they are true. And even if he had invented them, because anything is possible and his imagination was boundless . . . he was eternally far-fetched . . . He grumbled sardonically: ‘The other’s ghost would always intervene. Don’t we have enough on our hands dealing with our own? Do you still want to pin another’s ghost on us?’ Trini, stick with the good he’s done you so far and beware of the evil he could do you in the future. Yes, Soleràs could hurt you a lot. And it will be irremediable.”
A cloud full of rain seemed to float across her eyes: “More than evil, much better than any evil,” she muttered contemptuously. “There are things you can’t understand unless you’ve lived them. Why should evil worry me if it comes from him? One loves this kind of evil more than all the good in this world. You can’t understand that – you’ve never been in love!”
“I’ve never been in love? And why not? Do you think those of us who aspire to the priesthood are a different species? We are men like any others, woe betide us . . .”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Why not? To tell the truth, I . . . I’d never have dared speak to you about such things, but as you seem to be encouraging me . . . no doubt only to make fun of me. I’m shy, I know, and I suffer as a result. Shy people suffer most because we know we are shy and that awareness upsets us. Because we know we are shy, we can never decide what to say and what to keep to ourselves; we find it such an e
ffort to say what we ought to say that we end up saying what we should keep to ourselves.”
“Why don’t you just come out with what you want to say? That’s always best.”
“What I want to say?”
“Of course! Just that and say it simply.”
“One might want to say something the other person would rather not hear . . .” I replied, feeling extremely inhibited.
“Say it anyway.”
“What I want to say . . . ? Well, fine, I will: I want to say that love is the only thing that makes life worthwhile; if it weren’t for the love that transfigures us in the eyes of others, we men and women would amount to very little . . . But our dreams lead us so far away from love, plunge us into such pits of darkness . . .”
“What kind of dreams?” she asked.
“I’ve always suffered from nightmares and have even had attacks of somnambulism. I think I may have mentioned them to you earlier. What’s strange about all this – and I’m not referring just to my sleepwalking but to my ordinary dreams as well – is that they belong to a family of phenomena Soleràs told me about one night, a very long night in November I mentioned. I know next to nothing about these things, apart from what Soleràs told me and what I found in the occasional book we read in the seminary. Apparently these phenomena everyone finds so disturbing are closely connected to sleepwalking and hypnosis. Almost everyone denies the reality of the former and accepts the reality of the latter, which is quite incongruous. Besides, without recourse to sleepwalking or hypnosis, aren’t ordinary dreams, the ones almost everyone dreams, quite inexplicable? And yet who would deny that we dream them? We dream them, but who could ever say what inspired them?”
“I never dream,” she said, “or almost never.”