by Jordi Puntí
Then I went on lugging furniture like an idiot, up and down those stairs all day long, because that was what I knew how to do.
In some cemetery of Barcelona, there’s bound to be a marble pantheon, one of the ones that are still standing, and there must be a stone that says:
CRISTÓBAL SOLDEVILA ROGENT
(1940–1947)
For two weeks I did what I could to prolong the life of that boy. I tried but wasn’t able to do it. For me, ever since then, Cristóbal—or Cristòfol, or Christof, or Christophe, or Christopher, whatever variations you want—has meant happiness. Or, rather, a chance to be happy in life. That’s how you got your names, Christophers.
Our father’s gone quiet. Since we didn’t react, he clapped his hands, just once, hard, and the four of us all blinked together.
“What an earful I’ve given you,” he said. “And you haven’t slept for ages.”
It wasn’t that. On the contrary. His confidences had churned us up, and we were overwhelmed, mesmerized. We hadn’t asked that much of him. Still feeling awkward after the revelation, we thanked him a thousand times. He saw that we were somewhat out of our depth and changed the subject to make things easier.
“How about some breakfast? What do you think? My mouth’s dry and my stomach’s rumbling. That’s enough questions. Now you know the whole story, I hope.”
We don’t know anything. Before we didn’t know anything either. That’s the truth of the matter. The story of the first Christopher has filled the veins of our story. The little boy who was sent back to the orphanage has pumped the blood necessary for us to live. This is the paradox: It’s only now that we’ve found our father again that we Christophers have truly managed to capture his past.
And here we are on Sunday morning. We experience every hour that goes by as if trapped in a strange sensation—that of not knowing whether we’re saying good-bye to Gabriel or whether we’ve just arrived. That’s how it will always be. We finally understand what our mothers have said a thousand times. When he arrives he’s on his way out. When he leaves, he stays behind.
The five of us are having breakfast, enjoying our bond of friendship. We feel restored to life, oblivious to the years we’ve missed. The bar’s been filling up with people while we’ve been eating. The atmosphere is warm and unpretentious. Four old men are playing cards, and occasionally a raised voice is heard celebrating some trump or other.
“Now we’re done with all the hard-luck stories, how about asking for coffee and having a game,” Gabriel says, pointing at the other table. “Do you like poker?”
The Christophers eagerly accept the invitation. It will be fun to see him playing after hearing so many stories about it. Our father asks a waiter to clear away the plates and to bring us some coffee and a pack of cards.
“What if we play with cash?” he asks. “Nothing much. Minimum bet of a euro. Otherwise, there’s no fun in it.”
We empty our pockets and spill the change on the table.
“Hang on,” Christopher says. He opens up his wallet and pulls out the wad of banknotes that he swiped yesterday from the table in the Carambola. It’s gambling money, predestined, and we’ll share it out like good brothers.
Gabriel shuffles the cards with the elegance of a croupier and deals. He could get a job in a casino, we think, but that could be too much of a temptation for a professional cardsharp. Each one of us looks at his hand and the betting begins. At last we’re observing the famous poker face. The cards fly on and off the table. We’re keeping an eye on his hands in case he slips something up his sleeve, but at no point do we see anything strange. Then he starts to win and doesn’t stop until he’s pocketed the last cent.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank Stefanie Kremser, Jordi Cornudella, Enric Gomà, Ignacio Martínez de Pisón, Mònica Martín, Toni Munné, and Eugènia Broggi. They have all read the novel at different stages and have been most helpful with their comments, doubts, questions, and suggestions.
Xavier Folch and Bernat Puigtobella were the first to listen to the story of the three truck drivers who traveled around Europe. This was in 2003, and, instead of telling me to forget about it, they encouraged me to present it for the Octavi Pellissa Prize. Thank-you, too, to the jury for supporting the project.
Rita da Costa has translated the novel into Spanish. Her attentive reading spared me several headaches and helped me to polish the original text in Catalan. My thanks also go to Sigrid Kraus, my publisher in Spanish, for her confidence in me in all these years.
Mercè Gil told me her childhood memories of the House of Charity in the 1950s. Albert Romero supplied me with memoirs by, photos of, and readings about the situationists and May ’68.
At several points, writing this book has obliged me to leave home. I wish to thank Miranda Lee and Terry N. Hill, Lise Schubart, and Jan Streyffert, and Montse Ingla, and the publishing company Arcàdia for their hospitality.
In the spring of 2009 I wrote the last part of the novel at the Santa Maddalena Foundation, which has been founded in Tuscany (Italy) in memory of Gregor von Rezzori. Hence I should like to say how grateful I am to Beatrice Monti della Corte for her invitation. I also wish to express my thanks to Bill Swanson and Nayla el Amin for their support. In Santa Maddalena I met the writers Sheila Heti, Tristan Hughes, and Adam Foulds, and I’d like to thank them for their friendly company and fine conversation.
There were four specific sources of inspiration as I was writing the novel, for which I should also like to express my gratitude. The book of photographs that the Christophers buy at the Sant Antoni market—Chapter 5, Part I—is Barcelona blanc i negre (Black and White Barcelona), by Xavier Miserachs (1964). In my references to the Camp de la Bota—appearing at the end of this same chapter of Part I—I am indebted to Francesc Abad’s artistic project of the same name, which he embarked upon in 2004 and which he is still continuing on the Internet. Gabriel’s ear infection and his subsequent visit to the otolaryngologist—in Chapter 5, Part II—were suggested to me when I read The Year of Magical Thinking, the essay on mourning written by Joan Didion. The image of Russian roulette that closes Chapter 6, Part II, comes from a musical number performed on Saturday Night Live by the actor Hugh Laurie on November 25, 2006.
I finally wish to express my gratitude for the digital files of the newspaper archive of La Vanguardia and the magazine Triunfo. They cleared up many of my doubts and frequently acted as a time machine taking me back into the past.
PHOTO COURTESY OF AUTHOR
JORDI PUNTÍ is a writer, a translator, and a regular contributor to the Spanish and Catalan press. Puntí is considered one of the most promising new voices of contemporary Catalan literature. In 1998 he published his first book of short stories, Pell d’armadillo, which won the Serra d’Or Critics’ Prize. Lost Luggage is his first novel. It has been translated into fifteen languages, and won the Spanish National Critics Prize and the Catalan Booksellers Prize.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or de
ad, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Jordi Puntí
Previously published in 2013 in Great Britain by Short Books.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Marble Arch Press trade paperback edition October 2013
Marble Arch Press is a publishing collaboration between Short Books, UK, and Atria Books, US.
Marble Arch Press and colophon are trademarks of Short Books.
Designed by Dana Sloan
Cover photographs by Arcangel Images and Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-1-4767-3031-8
ISBN 978-1-4767-3032-5 (ebook)