Life Embitters

by Josep Pla

  Apart from Potelles, no lodger went to that small gathering. For non-family, the occasion was hardly welcome: it forced us to have supper just after ten, and almost surreptitiously. But the encounter strengthened Potelles’ friendship with the household. Angelina was seen out on the Rambla walking with the student a few days later, a slow promenade with a languid, playful air.

  Nevertheless, right from the start Sr Pastells disagreed. According to him – and the act seemed to chime with his specific kind of insight – the material author of the damage was Ramonet Reynals, from an aristocratic Manresan family that had lost its reputation as a family of standing because it hadn’t gone lightly into decline. Pastells had known his father, Don Josep Maria Reynals, whom he described as a man as tall as Saint Paul, who wore blue spectacles and had a cautious, stately, respectable demeanor. Don Josep Maria had sired fourteen viable children with his wife and an elastic band of natural offspring with other different, gray, hazy individuals. Nobody who had dealings with him, said Pastells solemnly, had ever had the guts to praise him. When he was on form – he added – he could perform miracles. And summing up his thoughts on the subject, he quietly added that some gentlemen need only to wrinkle their noses to create havoc and undermine an orderly society. Pastells had a name for this kind of person: “a loose cannon.”

  Pastells spoke in an opaque, elliptic manner, as befitted his profession, but one deduced from what he didn’t say that he thought Reynals possessed a thrust and strength that exceeded the most generous bounds of the imagination.

  Certainly Ramonet was a dissolute character who left artistes and chorus girls gasping; he had been marked for life by his ability to work on the emotions. One year he failed in a number of subjects in his final engineering exams and his father sentenced him to spend the summer in Barcelona, something that delighted him. He lived in a boarding house two floors down from the one owned by Donya Emília. This meant that Angelina and Reynals met and talked on the staircase. One day they even ate an ice cream together in a café on the nearby Ronda. But there was nothing else that could allow one to speculate about a deepening relationship between Angelina and Reynals.

  Pastells’ point of view was ridiculous, however much he’d been influenced by the magical aura surrounding certain privileged beings. To affirm that Reynal’s sole presence in a specific building was enough to affect the different young ladies living on the same staircase seemed to be taking it too far. That young ladies could be defiled without being touched is a typically medieval occurrence, recorded in the history books, and only comprehensible in the light of the dark shadows hanging over that era. The world of today has evolved; contemporary enlightenment is undeniable and science will not allow one to get away with random supposition. But I wasn’t surprised that Sr Pastells’ ideas about this individual were so full of heroic imponderables: he had hobnobbed far too much with blue-blooded people. Despite leading a life in the wide world, surrounded by celebrities and luminaries, and despite warming so many chairs in aristocratic circles and being a man without prejudices, Pastells was a throwback, a man from a bygone age, a relic.

  One learned, meanwhile, that Angelina had shut up like a clam and was in vehement denial of the reality. That gave us an idea of her basically moral ways and we thought she must have been duped in a most caddish manner. Though material proof of reality was obvious from her face, we would have needed little persuasion to side with her, and that says a lot about the frailty of man’s philosophical capacities. Time went by and we just couldn’t get to the bottom of it. Students asked would reply in a huff, hoping – I concluded – to force people to think they were men like any others, or even men whose ambitions flew much higher. “Who do you take me for, senyora, who do you take me for …?” hapless Donya Emília kept hearing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Nevertheless, reality took its course, and finally, Angelina, at her wits’ end, revealed all. The man responsible was one Joan Casas, completely unknown to lodgers and family alike; from a good family, he was a poet who had won prizes in various competitions, an aloof, passionate young fellow who had migrated to France a few months ago, as a consequence of those hard times. There was no news from the seducer. Perhaps he was simply a frivolous chap. Perhaps his silence was due to the economic difficulties overwhelming him. Be that as it may, the boarders were hugely affected and the whole house sank into a state of bitter sorrow.

  It is difficult to describe the silent, inconsolable sadness that swept through the place. Angelina’s carelessness had no excuses. Everyone agreed that she had abused trust and had gone much too far. The disaster wrought havoc on the honest consciences of Niubó the registrar, Sr Pastells and my friend Veciana. They found it hard to bury what had happened under words of reproach because they were stunned, as if they’d been hit by a hammer. Donya Emília stopped coming into the dining room and I’d often hear her muffled sobs from her bedroom that was next to mine. The judge’s visits became few and far between. On the few occasions he did come he went in for a second and then emerged with a glazed, deadly serious expression on his face. Angelina’s finger exercises ended. Her door seemed to have turned into a gravestone. An oppressive atmosphere enveloped the table at mealtimes. Everyone ate in silence, with no appetite, the only sound coming from the cutlery clattering against plates and glasses. At night, in particular, suppers were interminable and we struggled to chew our meat or empty our glasses of water. My friend Veciana attempted several times to initiate general conversation in order to distract everyone. He tried everything to no avail. One day he decided to remind us that a friend of his at the bank was of the opinion that people like Angelina are capable of amazing sincerity. He struggled to finish his sentence. A round of furious glances strangled his words.

  The dining room perhaps livened up slightly at the end of meals. Then everyone grabbed a toothpick and trilled like a songbird. The room became a birdcage. This was followed by a pause to roll cigarettes that generated the only spontaneous exchanges.

  “Sr Pastells, invite me to a smoke …!” said the registrar.

  “Veciana, you wouldn’t have a paper by any chance?” asked Sr Pastells.

  “Sr Niubó, a match if you don’t mind …” piped the debt-collector.

  This had been happening for years. It was proof of the friendship the three men enjoyed. This swapping of small items was common among recalcitrant lodgers. If anyone at the end of the year had counted the cigarettes, papers, matches, buttons, shoelaces that Veciana, Pastells, and Niubó had exchanged, each man’s contribution would have worked out exactly the same.

  Even so, when the meal was over, we stood up with a sense of release, shut ourselves in our bedrooms, and breathed again.

  Afternoons in the boarding house thus became drawn out, mute, brooding occasions. Silence thickened the air and not a word broke it. The line of doors on both sides of the passage always remained closed. If someone went in or out, they were like a weightless shadow no sound betrayed. The cat padded voluptuously through the hushed house. That was clearly an overreaction. It was a great misfortune, but what was behind everyone’s pitiful face? Weren’t they perfect strangers? I found it wearisome and, though the place suited me, I decided to tell Donya Emília that she could dispose of my room.

  A few days after I’d told her I was surprised by a conversation in the room next door. No doubt about it: it was Donya Emília and Veciana the debt collector.

  “Poor girl! What a calamity!”

  “For God’s sake, Veciana, don’t ever mention it again!”

  “So what’s happened?”

  “I can tell you. I’ve written to the whole of France.”

  “And nothing forthcoming …”

  “Not a word.”

  A long lull. Stillness. Stifled sobs.

  “So how will you fix this, Donya Emília?”

  “Fix this? What on earth do you mean, Veciana?”

  “One can fix anything …”

  “Can one?”


  “Yes, one certainly can, senyora. It’s easy …”

  “You think it’s easy?”

  “Yes, senyora, very easy.”

  “Even if she is bearing someone else’s child?”

  “Yes, senyora, even if she is bearing someone else’s child …”

  A long lull. Stillness. A flood of tears.

  “One can fix anything, senyora.”

  “And how can one fix this, Veciana?”

  “By marrying her off …”

  “By marrying her off to whom? Who will ever want to marry her in such circumstances?”

  “I’m not sure how to say this … Yours truly, senyora, and you need look no further.”

  “You, Veciana? Are you insane? Poor Veciana!”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve said it now. It’s up to you … You must decide and dispose. And rest.”

  “Veciana, my poor Veciana …!

  Footsteps. The door closes. A waterfall of tears.

  Several days went by. Nothing changed in the boarding house. The same bleak oppression. It was Saturday afternoon. It was sultry and silent in the almost empty apartment. I heard muttering in Donya Emília’s room. It was the registrar’s nasal croak.

  “Niubó, many thanks …”

  “Donya Emília, please, I beg you!”

  “It has been a dire misfortune, an irreversible misfortune …”

  “Have you had no reply? Haven’t you received a single letter?”

  “I’ve written everywhere … Not a word.”

  “Calm down, Donya Emília. These upsets could kill you.”

  A long lull. Stillness. Muffled sobs.

  “He’s not going to answer, Donya Emília.”

  “How do you know? What else have you to say to me?”

  “I think … there’s no reason to despair, even so.”

  “Niubó, for God’s sake, you of all people should understand.”

  “I do. And I would say that Providence sometimes provides the most surprising solutions.”

  “Solutions? What possible solution could there be?”

  “Providence is almighty and it is sinful to despair.”

  “Some things cannot be forgiven …”

  “Everything is forgivable, Donya Emília, if one has faith.”

  Long lull. Stillness. A waterful of tears.

  “Yes, Senyora Emília. Providence does provide solutions …”

  “What solution do you see, Niubó?”

  “It’s obvious enough: marry her off.”

  “Marry her off?”

  “Yes, senyora, marry her off.”

  “By the Virgin Mary, Niubó, marry her off to whom?”

  “It’s rather a delicate matter … But, given certain conditions, I might be willing to marry her …”

  “Would you marry her, Senyor Niubó?”

  “Yes, I would, senyora. However, I don’t wish to trouble you any more now … You need rest. We can talk later. A good afternoon to you …”

  “Niubó, Senyor Niubó!”

  Long lull. Stillness. Stifled sobs.

  The day after was Sunday. Most of the boarders went out in the morning. I was relaxing on my bed smoking a cigar. It was early on and I was suddenly surprised to hear voices next door. Sr Pastells had just made an entrance.

  “Senyora, I’d not come before …”

  “Oh, Pastells, this is such a wretched stroke of misfortune …!”

  “Poor child!”

  “Child …? What do you expect me to say?”

  “Do you have any news?”

  “I’ve done everything in my power to find out where he is. For the moment nobody knows what’s become of him.”

  “That’s natural enough …”

  “Natural enough? Pastells, do you really think it’s natural?”

  “Youth is wild … We’ve all been young in our time. Perhaps it’s best to accept that.”

  Long lull. Stillness. More stifled sobs.

  “Donya Emília, try to put it behind you …”

  “Believe me, if I could …”

  “Make an effort … Sometimes the most complicated situations can be resolved …”

  “How can you resolve this one, Pastells? It offers no way out, it’s an absolute dead end.”

  “Time is a great healer, Donya Emília … Don’t be so anxious.”

  “You are very kind, Pastells, but you are forgetting how terrible such misfortunes …”

  “One never knows, Donya Emília, one never knows …”

  “One never knows, you say!”

  “I repeat that one never knows …”

  Long lull. Stillness. A waterfall of tears.

  “I feel for you, Donya Emília …”

  “I didn’t deserve this.”

  “Of course you didn’t! Don’t act this way …”

  “So how do you expect me to act?”

  “Sometimes, those who stay put can replace those who depart …”

  “And what is that supposed to mean …?”

  “It wouldn’t be difficult to marry her off …”

  “Who would you like to marry her off to?”

  “What if we were to say it’s something we might discuss?”

  “Would you marry her, Senyor Pastells?”

  “Stranger things have happened under the sun. I don’t know why we might not discuss …”

  “Poor Pastells! Would you marry her?”

  “Why not? Who knows? Let’s talk about it anon. Forgive me if I’ve made things worse …”

  “Pastells, poor Pastells …!”

  Footsteps. The door closes. A flood of tears.

  I stayed on in the boarding house for a few more days. I was very surprised these conversations didn’t echo further abroad. Everyone acted as if nothing had happened. I thought for a moment that it would be amusing to pass on the conversations I’d overheard. I only needed to speak to the maid. That elemental soul had a natural ability to turn the simplest matters into a wonderful hue and cry. I didn’t dare. I felt it would be cruel to play with everyone’s woes. In effect everything had taken the same road and we were all in this together.

  At mealtimes, the deep seriousness of the boarders showed no sign of giving. My friend Veciana made one last effort to break the ice: it was hopeless. A series of indignant looks convinced him that the case of Angelina’s frailty had received its final sentence. She had gone too far. It was intolerable. Niubó assumed an air of righteous respectability, faced up to Veciana, and told him to be quiet. Pastells was evidently overjoyed.

  The dining room became a highly unpleasant place. One could hear the flies buzz as the clatter of plates and cutlery faded. The clatter seemed to lighten the egg stains on the napkins. We struggled to swallow a mouthful of water and chew our meat. We had lost our appetite and thirst. We were like a collection of specters, and the maid passed round plates in a daydream. I looked at the row of them, Niubó the registrar between Sr Pastells and the bank debt-collector under the print of Romeo and Juliet on their idealized romantic balcony. One could say they were extremely subdued. Knowing what lay behind their ashen faces, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Their cordial manner upset me. They exchanged affable glances when each one was hoping his two colleagues would disappear to a far corner on the face of this earth. I discerned successive changes in their tired eyes. Sometimes one seemed to look perkier, as if his personal situation had improved. Generally, however, they reflected an awareness of the implacably impossible nature of things. They were like three broken-toothed, shabby old lions, down-and-out, ready to leap at anything, waiting for the right moment …

  Every day toothpick time would come when the dining room turned into a cage of canaries as the lodgers trilled. Followed by the roll-a-cigarette moment …

  “Sr Niubó, do invite me for a smoke …” said Sr Pastells.

  “You wouldn’t have a paper, Sr Pastells?” asked the debt-collector.

  “Sr Veciana, a match if you don’t
mind …” piped the registrar.

  These exchanges never ceased. It was a phenomenon that triumphed over any sporadic contingency.

  When the meal was over, we all stood up looking relieved, shut ourselves in our bedrooms, and breathed again.

  Afternoons were sultry and oppressive. Donya Emília continued to be engulfed in disconsolate sorrow. The judge’s visits became less frequent, and when he did appear he simply asked the maid for the essential news, in that sardonic, roundabout way of his. Angelina’s room remained becalmed in total silence. The maid gave up the rocking chair completely. The sun lingered on the ideal print. Now and then a wraith emerged from the gloomy passageway. Then the lavatory would flush, making a horrible, appalling, shocking racket. Later on, the cat went on the prowl and you could hear its nails grate on the mosaic tiles …

  The first of the month eventually came around, and I left without making a fuss, so as not to bother …

  A Death in Barcelona

  Sr Verdaguer, who had spent his life going in and out of boarding houses, used to tell me rather pompously: “Young man, a boarding house is a way of working …”

  I also lived a lot in lodgings in my student days. I didn’t experience the classic establishments in the old quarter of Barcelona: dark and dirty, with huge, dimly lit, freezing bedrooms. On the other hand, I did experience many in the Eixample: pretentious places that were, in fact, shamefully poverty-stricken even if they kept up appearances and paid lip service to current fads and clichés.