by Joan Sales
“You don’t know how lucky you are; because it’s a nasty burden and horrible to bear. We know nothing about ourselves and are full of things we haven’t a clue about. That’s why we appear to be so opaque, particularly to ourselves.”
Trini appeared not to be following my thread.
“I’m sorry, but you did encourage me to talk about whatever I wanted – didn’t you use those very words? Let’s go back to the beginning: what does being in love mean? Nobody knows. One says one is Catholic, spiritualist, Mormon, fascist, republican, in love, but what do these words mean? What does any of this mean? Are these names any more precise than our dreams? What are our dreams? What are faith, ideals and love? Everything is so confused . . . We all carry a pit within us that we never plumb, that is, if there is a bottom . . . We occasionally descend that far, in our dreams, but once awake it’s all a complete blank again. I’m sorry” – she still looked as if she wasn’t following me – “but you did ask me to say what I wanted to say and as straightforwardly —”
“If that’s what people call speaking straightforwardly,” she retorted.
“Alright, I will say it as simply as I can: love is a tree, like faith; it spreads its leaves in the fresh air and full light of day, but its roots are mired in the mud. I can’t say it more simply: we are burdened with a double standard that is both incomprehensible and intolerable. On the one hand fresh air and light beckon to us, and on the other muddy earth drags us down. You asked me if I knew what it was to be in love; I don’t, but nor do you.”
Silence fell; she seemed to be reflecting on what I’d just said.
“I’d never thought that,” she said finally, “but you may be right, Cruells. Anyway, what do I care? If only you know how little I worry about being in love, whenever. It’s there, and that’s it.”
“Dr Gallifa . . .”
“That Dr Gallifa again?”
“But . . .”
I felt sad and tired. He was Dr Gallifa! It had to be him with that expression without conviction but full of faith, the most ordinary of apostles, an eighty-year-old bent double by the afflictions of age, defeated yet invincible. It had to be him, it couldn’t be anyone else, but how could I tell her? Would I ever be able to pluck up the courage to tell her I’d read her letters? You saw him, it was him, it couldn’t have been anyone else, I’d have liked to scream, like you do in nightmares when your voice is strangled in your gullet. I stopped myself just in time. Say everything I wanted to say? Impossible! I was dying to talk about her letters to Soleràs but I couldn’t; I felt the heat from my shame rise to my brow, the disgrace that came from reading them.
I made an effort, because I could see the mocking glint in her eyes when she saw I’d gone so red: “I don’t know how far I have a right to speak sincerely, but as you were encouraging me to . . . With my hand on my heart I can tell you that over the past few weeks I’ve been thinking the ecclesiastical path is not my path to happiness. Don’t interrupt. I’m in love. For the first time ever. So it’s not surprising that I’ve not had any practice.”
I shut my eyes and stayed like that for a while – not saying a word; then, with my eyes still shut – I was afraid to look her in the eye – I slowly said: “I’m free to marry: I just have to change my course of studies. But is she . . . free? Yes, she is. By the terms of canon law, she lives as a concubine. Excuse my use of that word; I don’t like it either, but it is the precise legal term and in any case the right one if we are to understand each other. Either marriage is or isn’t a sacrament; I mean the only thing that can make it indissoluble is its sacred character, which doesn’t derive from any external ceremony as so many people think who don’t know their canon law, but from the express wills of husband and wife. Could we say that such a will has ever been expressed in the case that concerns us? Well, no, we couldn’t. I’ve thought it through a lot before reaching such a negative conclusion. If you, senyora, only knew how often we debated these subtle, entangled issues in Dr Gallifa’s moral theology classes . . . But don’t worry; I’ll not involve Dr Gallifa, I won’t mention him again. I’ll sum up and simply say that after I’d given myself a headache wondering whether the person that interests me is free or not, I concluded that she is and always has been, not for the lack of any external ecclesiastical or civil ceremony, which, at the end of the day, is of scant importance, but because neither he nor she ever wanted their bond to be permanent.”
At that precise moment Ramonet pulled on his mother’s skirt: “Mummy, I’m hungry . . .”
“Go and play a bit longer. Can’t you see I’m talking to this gentleman?”
The child was miffed because we weren’t paying him any attention and went back to his drawing books near the brazier, but immediately came back and said: “He isn’t a gentleman, he’s Cruells.”
“Don’t disturb us now, Ramonet. Please continue. I’m interested in everything you’ve started to tell me; you were saying the person in question is living as a concubine according to canon law . . .”
“In fact that’s no longer the case. Even that obstacle has vanished! She is as free as I am; she has broken with him. They are both trying to keep up appearances and act as if they are still together. How ridiculous! If you’re a concubine, what’s the point in trying to keep up appearances?”
“You’re right: there’s no point at all.”
“There’s the added element that she has since become a Christian. From the moment she became a Christian, she has to decide one way or the other: either she sanctifies their union or she makes a clean break. And then . . .”
“Then you and she . . .”
Her green eyes looked at me disenchanted, as if the outcome was too predictable. That disenchantment was cruel but even so I kept my self-possession.
Then I sighed like someone who feels released from a crushing weight: “Yes, my story is disappointing and would barely provide a plot for a sentimental story for twelve-year-old girls. But it’s mine. I don’t have any other. And I find it . . . quite beguiling. Just to think that one day I could be sitting next to her by the fireside on an autumn or winter’s evening . . . Because one should sit so from time to time; man didn’t come into this world simply to stay standing. Now both sides demand that we get up on our feet; both sides keep telling us to stand up: ‘En pie, españoles!’ ‘Dempeus, catalans!’ And yet one must sit now and then; a life standing up would be intolerable. Man was born to sit by the fire, on a winter’s evening, accompanied by his beloved wife. As you can see, my story is naïve, the plot is on the thin side and soon comes to an end. But I find it enthralling.”
“But she . . .”
“Now they’ve fallen out, shouldn’t she decide to strike out for her freedom? You think it over. Their relationship can’t be sustained indefinitely; it’s a comedy that won’t hold up. It is . . . foolish.”
“I agree.”
“There’s one factor that complicates matters,” I said, feeling my hands start to shake: “Namely that I’m a close friend of his.”
Her eyes glinted, even more disenchanted. “What a coincidence!” she rasped sarcastically.
“And he’s still in love with her and has never stopped loving her: he loves her more than ever and is very unhappy because of her.”
“Yes, because of her – the mistress of the castle.”
“Please, stop trying to make fun.”
“Or is it the doctor’s wife?”
“Stop trying to make fun,” I repeated. “The doctor’s wife? What’s the doctor’s wife got to do with this mess . . . ? The doctor’s wife is a fool!”
“I agree entirely. Though she hardly needs to be Madame Curie for what he’s after. Bottles of eau de cologne, packets of Camel – what didn’t he bring her from no man’s land?”
“Stop trying to make fun. I’m trying to be serious. My friend, like everyone else, has taken the occasional wrong path. But she won’t forgive him. Yet she’s a Christian, you know . . .”
“A Christian . . .�
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“Forgive me: you’ve still not grasped how the whole of Christianity is contained within a single word: forgiveness.”
“It’s as well to know,” and tears welled up in her green eyes that she had to wipe away.
“And do you think I’d be acting cheaply, that I’d be betraying my friend, if I were to reveal my feelings to the person I’m talking about? What should a man do in my position?”
Trini sobbed and wiped the tears away as she pushed away Ramonet who was pulling at her skirt again, wanting to show her a new drawing.
“Don’t be under any illusion, Cruells. You can’t imagine how much Lluís has made me suffer! And I only lived for him and his son . . . He had me by his side and didn’t even see me; whole days went by when he said not a word” – Trini was upset and kept wiping her eyes – “weeks and months without writing a line . . . It’s not that stupid affair in Olivel, as you seem to think. Let me speak and don’t contradict me. What do you know about my life? You don’t understand my situation at all! Forgive me for saying this, but you’re always distraught, you’re always coming out of a daydream; don’t be offended, what I want to say isn’t at all insulting; now let me be frank with you: you’re way off mark, Cruells! Didn’t you notice how he and the doctor’s wife have been flirting for weeks? Yes, he and the doctor’s wife . . . Do you think I let them out of my sight? Ay, Cruells, you don’t know us women! In cases like this, we don’t miss a thing, I can assure you. The lady of the castle, the doctor’s wife and so many others I will never know . . . You’ve preached me a long sermon, Cruells; I found a way to swallow the lot; now it’s my turn to have my say. So then, you’re wrong about me. This rubbish you’ve come up with about Soleràs . . . yes, this rubbish . . . and you’re . . . exactly like Lluís . . . like them all . . . Why do you all hate him? Why? Well, I’ll tell you, because he’s a thousand times better than the lot of you together, than this whole filthy brigade, than the whole universe . . .”
She started sobbing, much to the astonishment of Ramonet.
VII
Some of the country people began to return to the two villages in the middle of February. The peace had held locally for weeks, even months, encouraging them. They repaired their ruined houses as best they could to have a bed and a fire to cook their meals on; then they ploughed some of the terraces by the river, close to the village. They used donkeys for this because they’d lost their mules, requisitioned by one or other of the armies. They were more cautious that we’d been and didn’t for the moment dare bring back their wives and children.
That was why we began to hear the almost forgotten sounds of peacetime among the ruins, donkeys braying, goats and sheep bleating and hens clucking; the beginnings of the resurrection, however halting, seemed like a dream and no doubt helped confirm a sense of profound tranquillity that events would soon shatter so brutally.
Teruel seemed further away than ever since the news, via the daily papers, reached us days late, often weeks, and moreover it came bowdlerised by the wartime censors. Our battalion – or rather what was left of it – kept body and soul alive in the back of beyond around those two villages as if nothing else existed. We scarcely had any contact with the rest of the army; weapons and recruits hadn’t yet arrived. They never did. I later learned that this was true for many other battalions, covering large areas to our left and right that were also dubbed “dead fronts”. Hundreds of kilometres of the Catalan front – the Aragonese front – were thus unequipped and the soldiers sank into even greater lethargy from the combination of an absolute lack of activity and the deep snowdrifts of a long winter.
Convinced that the children were much better off with us than in Barcelona, we kept postponing the date for Trini and the commander’s wife to depart. The beginning of March was thus upon us, barely twenty days to the start of spring; we decided they would make the return journey on the fourth of the month, without fail. They’d been with us almost three months.
Then Ramonet woke up with a temperature. Nothing to be alarmed about – children get temperatures so easily!
“It’s a straightforward case of flu,” was Dr Puig’s diagnosis, “but he’ll have to spend a few days in bed. He can’t go on such a long, difficult journey in this cold with a temperature of thirty-nine and a half degrees.”
The commander’s wife got into the Ford alone with Marieta; she didn’t want to delay their journey any longer; she was all set to go. The day after, I went to Santa Espina to see how Ramonet was. I was on the point of opening his bedroom door when I heard Trini and Lluís arguing quietly with a latent violence they made little attempt to suppress.
“You are quite unable to understand,” said Trini softly.
“And you have such a mania about being understood,” retorted Lluís. “I expect that’s why you wrote him so many long letters: apparently, he did understand you.”
“Shut up.”
There was silence for a second. I was going to rap at the door when I heard Lluís’ voice once again: “What’s the point in understanding? If you think you understand me . . . You imagine that we are having a ball at war cheek by jowl like this. If you only knew . . . It can be as numbing as peacetime!”
“What about me? I suppose you think I was having a ball starving in Barcelona while you were making heroic advances on every bit of feudal skirt that —”
“Every bit of feudal skirt? What are you prattling on about?”
“Not to say medical. Yes, feudal and medical!”
“Stop all this nonsense – it’s gross.”
“Gross, is it? Well, I wouldn’t say any different.”
“We’ve both suffered, Trini, each in our own way. Must we quarrel over this now? We’ve both suffered and it’s not about apportioning blame: supposing I was entirely to blame, is that any reason to go on torturing each other for the rest of our lives? Can’t one be husband and wife in this world, and yet love each other?”
“We aren’t husband and wife,” responded Trini unhesitatingly.
“We could be. It would be easy enough.”
“It’s too late.”
Another silence descended.
“Don’t build up your hopes around Soleràs,” Lluís finally piped up.
“He’s just a neurotic. I could tell you a thing or two . . . but you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Indeed I wouldn’t.”
“In the end he’s simply a traitor.”
“As you say so . . .”
“And I could point you to the exact fascist unit where he is right now.”
“You’re lying. Why would he want to be a traitor?”
“Why wouldn’t he? That’s what he’s always been! He’s always betrayed me, his companion and inseparable friend! How would you describe what he tried to do with you behind my back? And after he’d betrayed me, didn’t he betray you as well? That first hope of marriage evaporated! Don’t deny it: as a lover or suitor, or whatever you prefer to call him, Soleràs is remarkable from more than one angle. He is only interested in loves that are impossible! When they start to seem possible, he disappears, address unknown. If I didn’t know him from years ago, his incongruous behaviour would make me suspect he is a . . . I mean . . . that he’s lacking something . . . But I know him too well; I know him inside out. He’s missing a screw or two. He’s mad. And he never washes his feet; ask the machine-gun captain.”
“It’s all over between you and me,” Trini interjected curtly. “There’s no point indulging in all this slander, just as there’s no point sending me your ambassador.”
“My ambassador? Which ambassador might that be, pray?”
“Yes, your ambassador, Cruells.”
I listened even more intently.
“I don’t know what fool thing you’ve got in your head now.”
“Well, you were the one who singled him out to me that Christmas Eve, when we were coming back from our stroll.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. You noticed the light
inside the church, and whispered to me: ‘Let’s go in and I bet you we’ll find Cruells; we’ll find him kneeling down at prayer, and you’ll see he’s so enraptured that he won’t notice us.’ And you insisted I go in; and I admit that I was impressed by the sight of him enraptured like that, so alone in a church that was dismally cold and dark. Yes, it made a deep impression; I was moved. I didn’t realise at the time that you and he had engineered the coincidence to impress me, with a view to despatching him to me later as your representative. Because he did come from Villar that day, and when I saw him I felt like a good long conversation with him – but I didn’t summon him. He took the decision to come; you’d gone off to no man’s land with Picó: you know, yet another surprising coincidence . . . Then, when Cruells had performed his ambassadorial mission and delivered his edifying sermon, I understood what had happened. How disgusting. Yes, I understood why you were so keen for me to enter the church on Christmas Eve and see him at prayer; he acted out the farce so well and seemed enraptured in prayer as if he didn’t realise that we were watching him . . . there were even tears streaming down his cheeks . . . an utter farce . . . so trite . . .”
“None of this is true. You’re crazy. You imagine such abominable things, Trini; please, be your normal self. Try and calm down.”
“It was all set up so I’d have to swallow his sermon, and a clever set-up at that, I have to admit. I fell for it hook, line and sinker! I listened to him to the bitter end.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Trini; I don’t know what sermon you’re referring to. I don’t know anything about any of this; I don’t understand what you’re implying. But what I do know . . . you can be quite sure . . . yes, quite sure that if ever Soleràs, if you ever gave yourself to anyone else . . .”
“What?”
“If you ever . . .”
“Keep your distance! If you touch me, I’ll scream.”
The sound of a slap rang out. I knocked on the door.
Trini’s eyes were bloodshot. The boy’s temperature hadn’t gone down since the day before. He was amusing himself in his little bed drawing little people, not understanding why his parents were quarrelling. Lluís was looking out of the window.