by Josep Pla
A long time went by … We were astonished to find such deep peace, such soothing tranquility on this earth. We breathed in the quiet calm of that afternoon. Finally, Sr Ferrer who was wedged between the Swiss Pickel and Bramson on the bench, leaned his hands on their shoulders, and easing himself up, whispered: “Death, my dear friends, raises problems that are difficult to resolve, that are very complex …”
Up on his feet now, he brushed away specks of ash from a pleat in his waistcoat, took out his cigarette case and invited us to a smoke. Bramson accepted a cigarette. Bramson was a red-cheeked Helvetian colossus, with a large oval-shaped belly and a stolid, drowsily bovine manner. He lit a cigarette with his sausage-like fingers and then produced a green velvet lined case, where he kept a huge, whimsical amber cigarette holder inlaid with mahogany. It was an infamous and impressive holder that weighed next to nothing even though its back displayed an intricate Alpine pastoral scene in the eighteenth-century style. The scene included an exquisitely carved shepherdess and lamb – the work of Saint-Gall. Sr Bramson puffed on his stupendous work of art and immediately remarked, twisting his head and shutting his left eye that the smoke was irritating: “Well, what now? I assume everything is ready and organized.”
“Yes. I’ve got the papers …” said Sr Riera.
“Sr Riera, I hope they didn’t get the wrong corpse …” muttered Ferrer.
“So that’s us, you know?” interjected a rather muted Sr Verdaguer. “By the Virgin Mary! We are so puny! Here today and gone tomorrow …”
And he added in Castilian, with a Lleida accent: “Our time may soon be up!”
Evening was falling and the occasional damp gust blew in from the sea. A yellowish brushstroke of sun striped the plain of Llobregat that kept settling and evaporating in a green sugary haze. The mountains to the west stood out starkly against the gray pearl sky.
Its sails billowing, a schooner sailed between the pincers of the harbor entrance, infused with straw-colored light. The sea was white, becalmed, and lathery. On the southern horizon, streaks of purple floated between sky and sea. A filthy black steamship was slowly leaving port, spewing a trail of smoke that seemed out of a child’s drawing. In the far distance, one could hear hammers hitting vessels’ iron plating, as if they were echoing memories. The vague noise seemed to float in the air.
We all seemed deeply engrossed, as if unconsciously bewitched by the gently soothing quiet of early evening.
“Where’s the coachman?” Sr Ferrer asked all of a sudden.
“He must be with the others …”
“Sr Verdaguer, please be so good as to summon the coachman,” said Sr Riera. “In the meantime, if you are all agreed, we could start to climb in … Sr Tomeu, in you go, if you don’t mind!
We climbed in, one by one. We raised the windows. Sr Bramson was still drawing on his monumental, Helvetian cigarette holder. The coachman rushed up like someone who is late. He untied the horse, tidied away the sack, and jumped up on to the driving seat. He grabbed the reins and, before setting off, poked his head through the front window.
“Tell me where, senyors …” he asked in a rather tipsy voice.
“Home!” shouted Riera, reasserting himself as leader.
The charabanc rolled slowly off.
There were eight places and we were nine. The only solution was to be seated by size: the four biggest on one side and the five thinnest on the other. At the last moment, Sr Ferrer declared that if he had to choose between the perils of catching a cold traveling in the open or being sick inside the carriage, he was decidedly in favor of the second option. Ferrer was a gentleman notoriously sensitive to subtle shades. This ensured we were tightly packed.
The bench with the biggest accommodated Bramson, Pickel, Don Manuel Ferrer and a Majorcan who lived on private income, spent the springtime in Barcelona, and whom we called Sr Tomeu. Sr Tomeu was finicky, stiff, and quite miserly, judging by what he owed the landlady. In any case, he was a gentleman who never poked his nose in, always said yes to everyone, and seemed to specialize in clichés and colorful commonplaces worthy of a conservative provincial snob. Helvetian Pickel was a large, stout young man, who wore spectacles with extremely thick lenses and sometimes sank into recalcitrant silence for long periods as if he didn’t care a fig about anything around him. Then, out of the blue, most unexpectedly, he would come out with a scintillating phrase, or make a barbed comment that shocked everyone.
I sat on the other bench with Don Natali Verdaguer, Sr Riera and a dapper old man who had only been lodging with us for a mere four or five days, one Don Martí Dalmau, and a young pharmaceutical student from Tarragona by the name of Boada. Don Martí Dalmau was a smartly dressed, respectable gentleman; slightly hunchbacked, his skin was so ivory white it seemed bled dry; his skull and features were cold and flat and his impressive teeth, gold-capped. He wore a magnificent blue suit with piping and patent leather shoes. Apparently he had come to the boarding house on the recommendation of Sr Verdaguer, but then gossip suggested he had known Sra Paradís for years.
When a spectral analysis of Sr Dalmau got underway in the boarding house, some lodgers said he passed himself off as a journalist, and others that they’d met him as a croupier in a music hall. All unanimously agreed he was not known to have any trade, source of gain, or substantial income.
There are always two basic groups in lodging houses: the group of those who pay and the group of those who don’t and who never intend to as a matter of principle. In this class of establishment when the payers are generous, easy-going, and unconcerned about the small detail, preferring to nurture the business of living, then peace is guaranteed and a system accepting of parasites develops naturally and successfully. However, sometimes the payers don’t feel like being generous and aspire rather to a situation where everyone keeps to the straight and narrow. In this case the issue of eradicating bugs inevitably generates huge conflicts. Don Martí Dalmau had been a lodger for very few hours and had already signed up – intuitively, we would say – to the free, gratis, and for nothing group. This reinforced the majority view that his arrival would mean the Maggi got Maggier by the day, the hake came even less fresh, and the steak would be even more symbolic. This personage was thus most unwelcome and Don Natali, who had introduced him, fell into bad odor with almost every lodger.
Despite the rumors Sr Verdaguer never attempted to justify himself. In fact, he became increasingly unpleasant and bad-tempered, a vociferous grumbler. It was curious how Don Natali remained neutral or at least silent when faced by things that truly demanded a response yet, conversely, any trifle that one could swallow with a grain of good will unleashed his fury and he literally lost it. All this coincided with the news that Sr Verdaguer was about to open a shop that promoted typewriters. After the pertinent inquiries had been made, it turned out that this was a simple misunderstanding. He wasn’t going to open a shop or embark on any business involving that type of machine. A lifelong friend had simply set up a small repair shop and had suggested he could work a few hours cleaning the keys of damaged typewriters with special brushes and thus earn a small income. That confusion didn’t help his credit rating. Quite the opposite.
It was dark by this time. The horse dawdled along the Can Tunis road. No one inside seemed in the mood to talk. The atmosphere was dense with smoke. Everyone was staring at the front of the coach and focusing on the broad nape of the coachman’s neck. The spindly, stunted trees along the roadside went by at a frustratingly slow rate. The potholes were hellish and the carriage juddered alarmingly down and up. It creaked and squeaked. If by chance wood and metal were quiet for a moment, the dull, muted rumble of the sea could be heard in the distance. The road was quite elevated and we could see the port and its red and green lights reflecting on the thick, black water. Lights sporadically lined the roadside and seemed to promenade in front of our carriage.
Sr Ferrer rolled another cigarette, lit up, and suddenly spoke to Don Martí Dalmau: “Sr Dalmau, you seem on edge …
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“On edge? I won’t deny it … Death does prompt one to philosophize! Just think how peculiar it is that the first, might we say, official act of mine in the boarding house has been to go to a colleague’s funeral …” answered Sr Dalmau in a slightly shrill tone, looking indirectly at Sr Ferrer.
“You are quite right, quite right …”
“Anyway, to tell you the truth, I’m rather inured to these mishaps. You know, I’ve been a widower twice … what more could I suffer? I don’t think there is greater misery … Of course, I could die. But don’t I already belong to the living dead …?”
“Come, come, Sr Dalmau, it can’t be that bad, it can’t be …” suggested Sr Ferrer ironically.
“Believe me! It’s true! I have had my share of worries in life. When my second wife died, whom (if you will excuse my being so blunt) I loved most deeply, my head was filled with strange fantasies and nonsense. I even came to think her death was unjust and that a time would come, sooner or later, when my unhappiness would go into reverse. Fully convinced, I told myself, ‘You will see your wife again …’ And nobody could gainsay me. I took it absolutely for granted that I would encounter her in the next life more or less exactly as when we lived on the Carrer de Vila i Vilá. Yes, it became an obsession, an idea that lodged right here,” he pointed to his forehead, “and which lodged there for months on end … But a friend finally helped me to dispel those phantoms …”
“Go on, Sr Dalmau, do go on …”
“Well, you know, one day I went to see Gatell who has also passed away. He was a theater impresario on the Paral·lel. Gatell and I were like brothers. I told him what I’ve just told you. When I finished, he guffawed most rudely. ‘You are a widower for a second time,’ he said, ‘if I’m not mistaken.’ ‘That is correct.’ ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do when you meet up with the pair of them in the next life … How will you manage?’ Though it may be improper for me to say this, I found Gatell’s perspective to be most original. ‘Do you want my advice?’ asked Gatell after laughing for a good long while. ‘Here you have it: Dalmau, don’t be such an idiot and forget this spiritualist stuff. You’ll be a wiser man, if not a richer one.’
The whole charabanc burst out laughing. The coachman’s face appeared at the front window, looking intrigued. Conversations in boarding houses – and this was in fact a boarding house in motion – are always like this: shot through with unimaginable vulgarity and poor taste.
Our carriage finally reestablished contact with the cobbles and, exerting himself, the coachman finally managed to stir the wretched pony into a slow, mechanical trot. The charabanc juddered over the cobbles with a peculiar clatter that particularly affected the panes of glass. The continual vibration produced the usual strange phenomena: a moment came when Sr Riera realized to his alarm that the wool, straw, or flock or whatever stuffed the padded cushion where he sat kept shifting along to more fortunate derrières. Yes, Sr Riera could feel his flesh hitting stark naked timber. On the other hand, Don Natali sensed, with a voluptuous shudder, that the base of his seat kept gaining bulk, volume, and warmth. Ferrer, who quickly cottoned on to the readjustment, asked sardonically: “You all right, Riera? These cushions are first-rate …”
Riera, who was going from bad to worse, struggled to hold his temper. He laughed dutifully and replied between gritted teeth: “Yes, of course, I am.”
The question was meant to be a hurtful dig and, given Riera’s temperament, the consequences were disastrous. Sr Ferrer’s little quip kept jarring in his mind while the hard pressure from the timber and the cruel ridge along the edge of the seats kept irritating him. The narrowness of the carriage and its dinginess played on his nerves. He became increasingly agitated – at times he didn’t know where to put his hands or his feet – and it got worse as he registered that neither Don Natali nor Sr Dalmau budged an inch; in fact, quite the contrary – they seemed to be luxuriating in the pleasures of the heightened sponginess of their share of the cushion. Don Natali, especially, seemed to have positioned his butt wonderfully.
The charabanc was crossing the pale white glow from a powerful streetlight when Riera glanced furiously at his companions on the bench, and, beside himself, bawled loudly: “Verdaguer, Dalmau … on your feet!”
Confusion hit the carriage momentarily. Don Natali and Sr Dalmau gazed at the outside world with a considered air of surprise – an air that coincided with the blank, innocent smile spreading over Sr Tomeu’s face. By virtue of the fact that Sr Tomeu never involved himself in anything, Sr Tomeu was constantly out of it. From the seat opposite, Bramson and Ferrer looked at Verdaguer and Riera with a degree of alarm, anticipating the inevitable.
Riera waited for a moment, brows knitted, mouth shut, arms folded over his chest. As he was taller than the carriage ceiling, he was forced to twist his neck and constrain his body. Although new to the house, Dalmau grasped that Riera hadn’t spoken idly, struggled to detach himself from his seat and, scraping the charabanc walls, managed to stand up. Riera’s reprimand sounded like the patter of rainfall to Don Natali’s ears. He occupied the corner seat. He pulled his hat down and continued to stare at the back of the coach-driver’s neck.
In the pink light from the nearby street the dark olive-green hue of Sr Riera’s face darkened dramatically. His lips quivered in a nervous chuckle. Everyone now focused on that man who remained in the middle of the coach, tall and stooping like the bearer of a baroque float. Dalmau, on his side, was struggling to keep on his feet as the coach juddered up and down: he held himself erect by holding tight to the mullions of a window with both hands. Verdaguer soon lost his presence of mind. He chewed his mustache and screwed up his face: it lengthened, shrunk, furrowed or flattened out as his feelings ebbed and eddied.
“Verdaguer!” Riera said brusquely. “I must ask you a second time: will you please get up from your seat?”
“Who? Me? Why?” answered Verdaguer in a mock polite tone, giving the impression that he’d been taken by surprise, and mechanically taking off his hat.
“Yes, sir, I’m addressing you, you parasite …” Riera rasped harshly.
Don Natali’s nostrils and lips quivered. His pale perspiring face turned the color of chlorine and his body twitched for a moment. His left eye shut, something that happened when he was in a state, and his right sought out a friendly face among those present that might encourage him to formulate a worthy riposte. His open eye reviewed the others, to no avail. He found no succor, only indifference. So he didn’t say a word. Not a single one.
When he began to make an effort to stand straight – not without difficulty – his legs tottered, sweat poured down his cheeks and his head seemed on fire.
Now that Riera had them both on their feet, he howled with sardonic, rude laughter. Ferrer displayed a set of cheerful, off-white teeth. Out of it, as ever, Sr Tomeu lowered his head mournfully. The Swiss remained absolutely deadpan.
With three erect bodies, that amalgam of human flesh in the scant light from the street – we were going up the Ronda de Sant Pau – must have seemed a very odd, chaotic mess. Ferrer then redistributed the small amount of wool in the cushion along the edge of the seat. It was a labor on behalf of equality. They sat down again, however, a moment before the carriage had lurched violently when a wheel dipped into a tramline and it caught Sr Dalmau in time to bang his head hard against the charabanc ceiling and see stars. From the look on Riera’s face as he sat down, it was evident he wasn’t satisfied with his victory.
Bramson offered him his cigar case. Verdaguer said nervously: “Yes, thank you, a cigarette …”
There was a lull. The vibrations of the coach drowned the noise of the match being struck. Riera took advantage of the phosphorous glow to glance at Verdaguer’s corner. Eyes half closed, Don Natali was leaning back and inhaling furiously. Now and then a wisp of smoke emerged from his nostrils. There was a stunned silence inside the carriage. Nevertheless, all of a sudden, Sr Riera rasped abruptly: “Ferrer!”
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“The floor is yours, Sr Riera …”
“Look! We must speak frankly once and for all … I intend making the most of the fact we are all gathered here to speak my mind: this cannot continue a single day more … I cannot stand these fellows!”
“But, Riera, perhaps …”
Riera puffed his chest out and, leaning his face provocatively into Verdaguer’s, rattled on in the same tone of voice: “We must know where we stand! We must tell Sra Paradís what we think! Right away! Decisions must … It’s urgent!”
“Riera, calm down, for God’s sake!” Ferrer replied nervously. “We will broach their position. Perhaps now isn’t the time. We must proceed calmly. These matters are very delicate, as you yourself are aware …”
“Know what I think, Ferrer? Your mincing and mollycoddling will get us absolutely nowhere.”
“And why will it get us nowhere?” asked Sr Ferrer indignantly.
“Because it won’t! It won’t get us anywhere …”
The conversation dried up. Neither Sr Dalmau nor Don Natali tried to utter the slightest whimper of protest. They had shrunk, their bodies seemed to shrivel. Light from successive streetlamps illuminated the inside of the carriage for a moment. Nobody uttered another word.
The charabanc reached the Plaça de la Universitat and turned up Aribau as far as Consell de Cent. When we reached the corner of this street, it turned right and the horse went as far as one of the houses behind the Seminary, on the third floor of which Sra Paradís ran her boarding house.