This comforting stance collapsed, however, a few weeks later, when little cousin Gerarda was born: again with an extra finger, which again was on her left hand. The case therefore was no longer exceptional and the first serious doubts were raised. Postponing the decision until Abelard and Gerarda were nine no longer made sense. An uncle, who was a shorthand typist and keen on French jazz, was brave enough to ask if there was any point in carrying on with that absurd tradition. It was the provocation the family needed. The reaction was unanimous. A tradition going back centuries could not be questioned just because two children happened to be born with six fingers. The dissident was made to feel that his question was unnecessary and inopportune and, with great solemnity and resolve, the date was fixed for the next gettogether, in one month's time, at the beginning of December.
A week later, however, came the news that in Barbastro a third cousin (more or less removed) had been born with six fingers. Suddenly it became clear that it was inappropriate to speak of chance and that putting off the decision for nine years would not solve anything. Some members of the family took the view that there was no need for alarm: the appearance in the family of children with six fingers on one hand was the product of a logical evolution. Uncle Reguard himself suggested that many centuries (some said millennia) of cutting off the left-hand ring finger were eventually giving rise to a mutation whereby, in order to compensate for the finger they would lose at nine, they were being given an extra finger at birth. This idea was considered absurd by other members of the family, who rejected the notion that such a large mutation could take place over a short period such as centuries or millennia. Actually, it was irrelevant who was right. For the first time, there was a profound schism within the family, capable of splitting it apart. On one side, those who believed that children born with six fingers had to have two fingers removed (the ring finger, as usual, and this new finger between the ring finger and the middle finger which has no name) and that there was no need to wait till the children were nine; instead it should be done now, as a show of force to stifle dissent. On the other side, those who held that if tradition dictated the removal of one finger, then no matter what anatomical modifications appeared, they should carry on being faithful to the tradition and cut off just one finger. When the debate was at its height, a third stance, initially a minority one, was adopted by the shorthand typist uncle and two sisters-in-law, who denounced the custom itself as an act of barbarity.
The fact that it was the sisters-in-law who put forward this denunciation was particularly serious, because people who married into the family had always been the most fervent defenders of the customs, having become convinced of its merits during courtship. In fact, one of the key moments in any courtship (and a common source of jokes on family occasions), was when the family member, thinking things were getting serious, approached their future spouse to say that, before they got engaged, there was something they should know Something that would almost certainly seem very strange at first, though in actual fact it wasn't, and which would have to be taken into consideration if they were to have a future together. Then they said it: `When the children in the family get to the age of nine, we cut off the ring finger of their left hand.'
The initial reaction was always hesitation (was it a joke?), and then afterwards (when it was clear it was not a joke) horror. The same objections were always raised: `How can such a barbarous custom survive in this day and age?' `What's the point?' `I hope you don't think you're doing that to our children!' So the task of persuasion would begin, hours of conversation, of justification. Days and days drawing subtle distinctions, clarifying details and explaining, until the future partner finally understood. From that point on, they turned into the most ardent defenders of the practice and even (though in theory nobody asked them to do so) offered their own ring fingers, in order really to become part of the family. They were also the first to demand, when their children turned nine, that the ceremony should be carried out immediately, strictly according to custom, and the first to volunteer to hold down the hand.
Hence it was a serious matter that the revisionist tendency should emerge from that faction of the family, the converts, apparently the most ardent devotees of the custom. However, that consideration began to lose its importance: soon there were no differences and the initial faction formed by the shorthand typist and the two sisters-in-law was joined by everyone else. A fourth cousin was born with six fingers. Crisis point had been reached. People were beginning to drift apart and the get-together that had been arranged for the beginning of December was postponed sine die. `Until a definite decision is reached.' However, many suspected that this was just a polite formula and that this would be the only decision taken, although it appeared not to be a decision.
Armand was given a harp. He was enrolled for music and harp lessons, every Tuesday and Thursday, after school. He practised every weekend, with a diligence and conviction not always rewarded by the results. Once it became clear that the family custom of cutting off fingers was a thing of the past, Armand's interest gradually waned and the harp ended up in a corner gathering dust until years later, when Elisard, one of the cousins with six fingers, showed an interest in it. Every time there was a meal at Armand's house (nowadays there would only be six or eight people, whereas before there had always been more than twenty), Elisard would go off to Armand's room to play the harp. Each time he came, his playing got better, until he could play pieces by Halffter, Milhaud and Ginastera and (to please the family) some Paraguayan tunes and a little Mexican number that he played over and over again, each time with more brio. Armand's parents suggested giving him the harp. Armand took this as a criticism (reproaching him for having first made such a thing of his vocation as a harpist, then losing all interest in it); to avoid giving them the satisfaction, he said he couldn't care less what they did with the harp. His parents decided they would give it to Elisard the next time he came.
But Elisard never visited Armand's house again. Gradually, without the ceremony to bind them together, the family reunions came to be held less and less frequently; those that took place attracted fewer and fewer people and soon everybody began to make excuses not to attend: if it was winter, they were going skiing; in summer, they were off to the beach; and at any other time of the year, they had a previous engagement they could not possibly cancel. Within a few years, family reunions had become a thing of the past and even the closest relatives were strangers who spoke once a year, if that, and then only on the phone.
Elisard was the only relative of whom everyone continued to have news all the time, for over the years (some said his anatomical peculiarity was a factor) he became an outstanding harpist, who restored to the instrument the status and prestige it had lost through the excessively simple use made of it in previous decades. Armand took a different view. He considered him a child prodigy who had had a brilliant period but who, as he grew older, had become a pathetic figure: him, his harp and those ghastly tunes. Leaning on the bar counter, Armand sees Elisard yet again on the television set next to the line of bottles. He turns round, heaves an exaggerated sigh, makes some slighting remarks in a loud voice and proposes a revival of the custom of cutting off ring fingers, beginning with the celebrated harpist. The other people in the bar don't even look at him. Since nobody is paying him any attention, he tells the story of his family. A couple of people who do finally listen to what he is saying take him for a drunk or a madman or both. Just one girl looks at him with a certain interest, and when he finishes, she comes over. She's beautiful, with an attractive smile and a lock of chestnut hair falling over her face, in that style some women use to disguise the fact that they have one glass eye.
© Joaquim Monzo
Translated by Annella McDermott
One morning the beetle emerged from its pupal state, and found itself transformed into a chubby boy. He was lying on his back, which was surprisingly soft and vulnerable, and if he raised his head a little, he could see his pale, swollen belly
. The number of limbs was drastically reduced and the few he could feel (four, he would later count) were painfully fleshy and so thick and heavy that he just could not move them.
What had happened to him? The room now seemed tiny and the smell of damp less penetrating than before. On the wall there were hooks to hang the broom and mop. In a corner, two buckets. Up against another of the walls, a set of shelves with bags, boxes, jars, a vacuum cleaner and, leaning against them, an ironing board. How small those things looked, yet before they had been so huge he could hardly take them in. He moved his head. He tried to move to the right, but his now gigantic body was too heavy and he could not manage it. He tried again, and a third time. After that, he was exhausted and had to rest.
He opened his eyes again, anxiously. What about his family? He turned his head to the left and there they were, at a distance difficult to estimate, staring at him in alarm and fear. He was sorry they were scared; if he could, he would have apologised for the awful experience he was putting them through. His attempts to move and approach them were grotesque. He found it particularly difficult to crawl along on his back. Instinct told him that if he turned face downward he might find it easier, although with only four legs (and those not particularly agile) he was not sure how he was going to manage to advance. Luckily there were no noises to suggest there were humans in the house. The room had a window and a door. He could hear raindrops drumming on the metal window sill. He hesitated whether to make first for the door or the window and finally decided to make for the window because from there he could see exactly where he was, though he was not sure what good it would do him to know exactly where he was. With all the strength he could muster, he attempted to turn over. He was strong, but it was clear that he did not know how to control his strength; each movement was separate and disjointed, there was no coordination. Once he learned to use his limbs, things would be so much better, he would be able to join his family. Suddenly, he realised he was thinking, and that made him wonder if he had also thought previously. He would have said he did, but in comparison to now, the earlier thinking was decidedly elementary.
After many failed attempts, he managed to put his right arm over his body; having done that, he threw all his weight onto his left side and, with one final effort, managed to turn his body over and slump heavily face down. His family quickly moved out of the way; they stopped some way off, afraid he might make another sudden movement and crush them. Feeling sorry for them, he laid his left cheek against the floor and stayed still. His relatives came to within millimetres of his eyes. He could see their antennae waving, their jaws clamped in a grimace of consternation. He felt afraid of losing them. What if they rejected him? As if she had heard what he was thinking, his mother stroked his eyelashes with her antennae. Of course, he thought, it's what she must find least changed in me. Moved (a tear ran down his cheek and formed a pool around his sister's legs), he tried to respond to the caress; he moved his right arm, lifted it and then, unable to control it, he let it fall heavily, whereupon his relations ran off and took refuge behind a bottle of fabric softener. His father poked his head out, cautiously. He was convinced they knew he meant them no harm, and understood that all those dangerous movements were the result of his lack of skill in controlling the monstrous body. This was confirmed when they approached him once more. How tiny they looked, how small and (he found it hard to accept this) distant, as though his life and theirs were about to set off in two fundamentally different directions. He would have liked to ask them not to leave him, to stay until he could go with them, but he did not know how. He would have liked to stroke their antennae without that caress destroying them but, as events had just shown, his awkward movements posed an obvious risk. Face down, he began the move towards the window. Slowly, with the help of his limbs, he crawled across the room (his family still on the lookout) till he reached the window. But the window was very high up and he had no idea how to reach it. He yearned for his former body, small, agile, hard and with plenty of legs, which would have allowed him to move easily and quickly, and another tear rolled down his cheek, this time a tear of impotence.
As the minutes passed, he learned to move his limbs, to coordinate, to apply the right pressure with each arm. He learned to move his fingers and used them to grasp the window ledge. Some time later, he eventually managed to raise his trunk. He considered that a triumph. Now he was sitting, with his legs under him and his left shoulder leaning on the stretch of wall under the window. His family were watching him from a corner with a mixture of admiration and panic. Finally, he knelt and, with his hands on the window ledge so as not to fall, he looked out of the window. On the other side of the road he could clearly make out a part of the building opposite, a long building, made of dark material, with symmetrical windows to relieve the monotony of the facade. The rain had not stopped, but it was falling now in isolated drops that could be seen splashing onto the pavement. With one last effort he managed to push himself up and stand. This vertical posture delighted and alarmed him. He felt dizzy, and he had to lean on the wall to avoid falling; suddenly his legs felt weak, so he sank gently down until he was kneeling on the floor once again. He began to walk on his hands and knees towards the door. It was ajar. He swung it open, with such force (he had problems working out the exact effort required for each movement) that it hit the wall, rebounded and nearly closed. He tried again, less brusquely this time. Once he had got the door open, he went out into the corridor, still on his hands and knees.
Would there be humans in any part of the house? If he met some now (he supposed) they would not do him any harm: he looked like one of them. The idea fascinated him. He would not have to run away for fear they would trample him underfoot. It was the first positive aspect of his transformation. He could see only one drawback: they would want to speak to him and he would be unable to answer. Out in the corridor, with the help of his arms, he pulled himself upright again. This time he did not feel so dizzy. Little by little (his legs were taking his weight better now), he walked along the corridor, his confidence growing. At the end of the corridor there was a door. He opened it. There was the bathroom. The toilet, the bidet, the bathtub, and two washbasins, each with its own mirror. He had never seen himself, but he knew right away that this was him, naked, fat and soft. Judging by the height his face came up to on the mirror, he was not an adult. Was he a child? A teenager? It was odd to see himself naked, though he could not explain why, because walking around naked had never bothered him before. Was it the grotesqueness of his body, all those kilos and kilos of flesh and that flabby face covered in acne? Who was he? What did he do? He wandered through the house, growing steadier on his feet. He opened the door of the room next to the bathroom. There was a pair of skates by the bed. And loads of pennants on the wall. There was also a desk, exercise books and school books. And a set of shelves with comics, a football and photos. One was a photo of him (he recognised himself immediately, looking just as he did in the bathroom, plump, with acne, dressed for five-a-side football, in a blue jersey with a white stripe down each sleeve). In the cupboard he found some clothes. He took out a pair of underpants, a vest, a sports shirt, tracksuit bottoms, socks and gym shoes. He put them on.
When he got to the door of the flat, he looked out through the spy hole. Outside there was a landing, and the doors to three more flats. He went back to the living room and ran his finger along the spines of the few books on the shelves. He stroked a china vase. He pressed a button on the radio. The music was loud, and the words incomprehensible:
He pressed the button again. Silence. He sat on the sofa. Picked up the remote control. Turned on the TV. He flipped through the channels, sharpened the colour contrast as far as it would go, turned the volume up to maximum. Then down to minimum. It was easy. A book lay open on the sofa. He picked it up, convinced he would not understand a word, and yet as soon as he laid eyes on it he read it with no great difficulty. `I have moved. I used to live in the Hotel Duke on a corner of Washington Square. My
family has lived there for generations and I mean at least two or three hundred generations.' He closed the book, and just as he was putting it back where it had been, he remembered that he had found it open, not closed. He picked it up again and, as he was searching for the right page, he heard the sound of a key in the lock. It was a man and a woman, clearly adults. The man said `Hi'. The woman came over to him, kissed him on the cheek, looked him over and asked: `How come your trousers are inside out?' He looked at the tracksuit bottoms. How was he to know they were inside out? He shrugged. `Have you done your homework?' asked the man. Oh no, homework! He imagined (it was as if he remembered) an earlier time in which there was no homework and no trousers inside out. `Hurry up.' It was the woman again. He stood up reluctantly. Before going to the bedroom to do the homework, he went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out a bottle of Diet Pepsi and, as he was struggling to open it (he was still clumsy with his hands), he spilled half of it over the floor. Before they could tell him off, he went to the broom cupboard and, as he was getting out a mop, he saw cowering against the wall three beetles, which froze for a moment then tried to run away. With a certain distaste, he put his right foot on top of them and pressed down hard until he heard the crunch.
The Dedalus Book of Spanish Fantasy Page 20