by Josep Pla
Although I had exposed his body, he didn’t budge. I then tried every means to restore him to the land of the living, but as I didn’t make the slightest headway, I grabbed him and deposited him in the passage along with his clothes that he’d meticulously folded on a bedroom chair. I rang the bell and while I ordered clean sheets terrible howls went up in the passage.
The dwarf had at last woken up and was clamoring loudly. He was shocked to find himself transplanted into the passage. He had come to in the filthiest of tempers. He let out a stream of swear words and spine-chilling curses. As he was much the worse for drink – as I soon confirmed – I was afraid he might lose his temper and inflict grievous damage. I decided to go into the passage and try to soothe him. I stood up to him and said what had to be said. I told him that I found his intrusion into my bedroom space absolutely unacceptable.
“Do you really think it is right to use someone else’s bed and room?” I asked the dwarf who was struggling to put his feet into his tiny trousers.
“I am not to blame …” he said, in a gloomy, cavernous voice that a bout of whimpering soon interrupted; “it was the landlady who pointed me to your room. She thought you’d be out, like every afternoon.” And then he continued after a pause: “My name is Theodore, at your service … Do please accept my humble …”
His eyes glistened and he almost burst into tears.
I couldn’t say what had caused that transformation. The rabid, bizarre dwarf had turned into a wet rag. Perhaps alcohol had softened him, perhaps he was responding to my reasonable complaint.
The experience led me, personally, to believe that the effect of alcohol can have many sides; sometimes what a drunk thinks is black suddenly turns white. Irony doesn’t exist for a drunk. Everything unravels in dazzling flashes that can create, at any moment, situations that are definitive, rock-hard, set in concrete.
There was a happy ending. When I went into the kitchen, I found the dwarf sitting on the lap of the landlady who was playfully tweaking the ends of his mustache, to everyone’s loud laughter. The moment he saw me, the little monster contracted his body and rebutted her pleasant caresses. His expression became sterner than usual and he seemed really upset by the situation he reluctantly found himself in. It was a display of respect that compensated for the fact I had found him in my bedroom enjoying an unforgivable snooze.
The presence of the band in the lodging house produced the musical cacophony I’ve tried to describe. That unbearable situation was compounded by a neverending influx of visitors into the flat. The musicians received a countless number, and you know the kind of visits artists get, they came at any hour of the day or night; then the friends returned a second time with their friends; the doorbell never stopped ringing; the endless noise of footsteps in the passage … the interminable conversations in bedrooms … There was a time when there was no control over who was coming in and going out; those departing opened up for the newcomers, you could always find complete strangers in the neighborhood, dubious characters that could just as easily have come to steal as to look after someone who was ill. It was a strange situation that bypassed the landlady completely, because she was so sold on the musical arts.
Roundabout that time I became ill. An attack of flu that kept me in bed, a logical consequence of the hours spent out in all weathers, in streets and squares, driven out by the musical din. A friend visited me – a friend of quite some standing, older than myself, with very close, endearing ties to me. I watched him walk in – escorted by a maid – smiling radiantly and ready to help. I had a temperature of 38.5 and felt soporific. When I saw he wasn’t carrying his hat or walking stick, I screamed: “Are you off your rocker?”
“Not yet!” he replied with a grin.
“You usually bring a walking stick, don’t you?”
“That’s right. I take my hat and stick with me everywhere … You know me, don’t you?”
“Where have you left them?”
“In the umbrella stand in the lobby … why get so alarmed about that?”
The way I glanced at the maid was enough to send her running off. By the time she reached the umbrella stand, she registered that the hat and stick had flown.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I asked in a relatively coherent, though feverish state, and not totally with it.
I don’t remember what he answered.
In fact we didn’t have a minute’s peace in that lodging house until that entire musical troupe, giant and dwarf included, set off on another one of their fabulous tours in their wonderful canary-yellow bus.
Counterpoint
My eyes suddenly opened and I was shocked to find myself under that low ceiling in a strange, purple light. It lasted a second: an abrupt jolt of the train cleared my head and woke me up. The first movement I make every day when I come back to life is to stretch out an arm, grab a cigarette and smoke it, stretched out on my back. I mechanically pulled my arm out of the couchette. It fell into the void … While I retrieved my hand and put it in the pocket of my jacket that was hanging over my feet, I thought what a highly uncomfortable place a sleeper is for a man of sedentary ways. Reclining in my bunk, taking my first puff, I looked through the crack between the window and the curtain. Two lights shone outside illuminated by a distant, hazy glow I took to be the moon.
I tried to lie so I could have a relaxed smoke when I remembered that a traveling companion was sleeping in the couchette underneath. I was tempted to put out my cigarette. Then I thought it was more than likely he was sleeping like a log. I peered down. The hazy purple light in the compartment was bathing my companion’s face in a mauve sheen. He was flat out with his two hands behind his neck and deep in the dark I could see two open, motionless eyes.
“I really must apologize …” I said, showing him the match apologetically.
“Please go ahead …” he replied, without stirring. And a moment later: “If you aren’t sleepy and don’t mind, switch the light off and open the window. Let a little fresh air in. The air gets foul in these sleeping cars …”
I drew the curtain. A thick, gray light filled the compartment. I glanced outside: a large pale moon hung languidly in the sky. The train was traveling over open, level land fronted by an endless expanse of tall, slender poplar trees that had been planted in symmetrical rows. The land seemed as if it were flooded, because you could see the moon spiraling across the water. When the train passed, the poplars turned dizzily around on themselves. The moon’s silvery light splashed the trees and a soft gauzy blue mist hovered above the soil deep within the blurred, tremulous avenues. The front line of trees hopped in a grotesque syncopated rhythm behind the glass as the sleeping-car jolted and jarred.
Smoking and gazing through the window, I managed to amuse myself until we reached the first station. In the early morning, when a train halts, a deep silence descends at these small stations. Sleeping passengers snore louder; rain clatters on the tin roofs over the platform; if it’s not raining, you hear the wind rustling the leaves on the acacias in the station’s gardens. These gardens that you see only briefly are quite pretty in a modest, impish way and such a consummate resolution of the tiny spare space their presence seems ineffable. In the dim light, you sometimes hear a solitary frog croak or a cockerel cry. The footsteps of a man carrying a lantern drown the mournful echoes. A sleepy passenger walks by, out-of-sorts beneath his crumpled Sunday best. People who travel in their smartest clothes put me on edge and make me feel ill at ease …
I was daydreaming about all these trivial things when I heard my travelling companion start to hum a song that was in vogue. Astonished to hear such a thing at that time of day, I turned round; I wasn’t quick enough: the song was over. I then heard the sound of words, but the train had set off again and prevented me from catching them.
“What was that?” I asked looking at him.
“If my memory’s not playing tricks, last night you said your name was, I’m sorry …”
“Joncadella,
Joan Joncadella …”
“Joncadella …” he repeated with a voice I thought betrayed real curiosity, even a touch of emotion. “Years ago I knew a Joncadella family; he was an architect and, if I remember correctly, married Maria Camps …”
“Maria Camps? That’s my mother’s name …”
“Maria Camps, from Valls. Are you from Valls?”
“That’s right, I am …”
“How strange!” he exclaimed, sounding even more interested, as he sat on his bunk and peered out, smiling up at me. “Maria Camps’ son!” That’s a real twist! I knew your mother very well. You must think that’s rather odd.”
“I think you must be her age …”
“Excuse me, she’s quite a lot younger. She must be nearly forty.”
“Right: she’s forty.”
“What a surprise? You and I meeting up in this compartment, so far from home …”
“Well you know now – it’s a small world.”
“So then, is your mother well?”
“In fine health, thank you.”
The day began to break, though the sparks from the engine still flew past the window. The lights on the outskirts of a town flickered deep in a valley surrounded by a mass of trees. The autumnal night had left the earth white and damp. A flock of birds glided over the town. The trees dripped.
When I was most absorbed by that landscape, I suddenly saw my traveling companion peer out from his couchette and stare at me, as if there was something he couldn’t understand. I was taken aback and didn’t know what to say. After a while, he forced a smile that was far too sweet and said: “Maria Camps’ son! I was on very, very good terms with your mother!”
“On such very good terms?” I asked, surprised he’d been so close.
“Did she never mention me? Allow me to repeat my name: Salvat, engineer, from Barcelona.”
“Salvat … Salvat … That’s right. I have heard of you.”
“Often?”
He said that, straightening up, putting one foot on the floor and resting the other on the bed.
“In fact, I remember just one occasion. When I was sifting through some old papers not very long ago I came across the photo of a young man from the year … perhaps it was 1900. I immediately assumed it was a family photo and was delighted by my find. The way people dressed in those days! I’ll be frank: I felt that the person in the photo had overdone it. It seemed like the photo of a vain, bumptious fellow. I remember how my mother, who was by my side, took it from my hands. She gazed at it for ages; I couldn’t tell you if she was focusing on it or daydreaming. Then she put it in a book and said, “It’s Salvat, Salvat the engineer …”
Listening to me with his mouth half open, Sr Salvat had stood up in the middle of the compartment, in his pajamas. When I’d finished, he glanced at me, with a mocking glint in his eyes, clearly disappointed: “Is that all? Not much …
“Senyor Salvat, you’ll catch cold, believe me! Get back into bed. It’s very early.”
“By the way, excuse me, did you say you thought it was the photo of a bumptious man … You’re young. Aren’t you a bit on the bumptious side?”
“I couldn’t really say … Very likely.”
“Of course … If you weren’t, you’d be rather a strange young man.”
“Senyor Salvat, you are being rather foolish. Get back into bed, you’ll catch cold …”
He didn’t budge and merely responded: “It’s natural enough you didn’t realize … But isn’t chance a wonderful thing? I’ve been turning this nonsense over all night, and in the morning I wake up to this surprise …”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated for a moment and then smiled rather perfunctorily.
“I don’t know how to put this,” he retorted. “It’s possibly rather delicate. On the other hand, it really couldn’t be much simpler … I was in a relationship with your mother …”
“A relationship … what on earth …?”
“I almost married her …”
“You did?” I said, my eyes bulging. I struggled to control the feeling of disgust his words provoked. It was precisely that: a surge of repulsion. After that unpleasant remark, I felt as if I was suspended in mid-air and sweating, stressed at finding myself face to face with that strange piece of news. Who was this man? Why was he talking to me like that? The matter-of-fact, familiar tone of voice seemed incredibly fake and intolerably hypocritical. I looked hard at him. I thought he was appallingly vulgar, standing in the middle of the compartment, eyes down, posing thoughtfully, hands inside his dark pajama pockets, his thin frame with messy gray hair and ravaged yellow features. Nevertheless, I felt that this man might be concealing – as any man foreign to your habits and your usual field of vision might – a mysteriously elusive element, something that could smash the images essential to your well-being, the ones you have cherished so dearly – an intolerable shock to your system. As I stared at him, I remembered my mother’s face … and her face seemed more idealized than ever. I couldn’t think why. Stunned by that image I felt my blood and inner humors had been sucked dry, and felt as stiff as a board. From then on, on the outside I acted normally in every way, but I wasn’t completely there. I made no effort to behave in that man’s presence as anyone else would have done.
“In effect,” I heard him say quite casually. “I almost married her. We were in a relationship for three years. We were never betrothed, but what difference does that make? It was a deep friendship. I even reached the point,” he said smiling bitterly, “of selecting the witnesses. Forgive me for saying this: I think it’s very odd that …”
“Perhaps I did hear something once … many years ago …”
“Who mentioned it?” he rasped.
“Perhaps it was my mother … or perhaps it was someone else, I’m not sure.”
“And what did she say?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t … It was so long ago! Besides, Senyor Salvat, you should realize that I’m not really interested, not at all, to be blunt.”
I now struggle to remember how I could have said that courteously, even shyly. He probably noticed and laughed nervously, in a mocking, self-satisfied tone that depressed me even more.
“In any case, it wasn’t that long ago!” he exclaimed clearly appalled. “Why do you want to make me any older than I am? You youngsters are sometimes far too cocky. Your time will come too … Time forgives nobody, Senyor Joncadella. Well, as I was saying a moment ago, I knew your mother intimately. She was a splendid specimen, a charming woman. And very pretty …”
“And still is!” I interrupted him, with a chuckle.
“I don’t doubt it. She was very pretty and extremely nice. She was so fond of music. I whiled away many a delightful hour listening to her sing as she played the piano. If I remember correctly, I gave her several albums of songs by the Romantics … What else could one do in Valls? I expect you’ll agree that Valls is a sleepy little town. At the time I was assigned to the Railways Division. My position was hardly onerous. I was acquainted with very few families in the town, three or four at most. We used to meet at the Ricards, a young married couple who were childless. We enjoyed their company. What ever happened to the Ricards? We met, went for walks, went on excursions, and made music. Everyone admired Maria Camps and I think all the men were in love with her. She must have been fifteen or sixteen and was always laughing. I shouldn’t say this, but she did have a soft spot for me. She made a great impression on me. I think we came to love each other. It was a drawn-out process, because we were going out for three or four years. By the end, I think we really were in love …”
He paused briefly, and began again:
“She and I …”
“Hey!” I shouted, cutting him dead.
“Go on …”
“Are you mad or simply acting as if you were? Do you know what you are saying? It’s quite intolerable …”
“Quite intolerable!” he repeated modestly, crestfallen, his he
ad lolling on his shoulder. “Why do you attribute to my words a meaning they don’t possess? I think it’s what one does: people in love kiss and that’s that. What’s wrong if they do? Don’t you agree? You too must have been in love. Would you think it right if I spoke slightingly of your loves? So many things happen, so many small, indescribable things when one is in love! Trifles, really. Kisses … Who would ask for anything more? It’s so harmless and varied! However, there’s something else that you will never understand, and that is the way people were in love twenty-five years ago. It was – how should I phrase it? – warmer, more tender, more musical … Naturally, material matters were as important as they were then. Enough said: I was poor, I had a wage, and was a young engineer just out of college, I had nothing to show I might be a man with brilliant prospects. There’s the rub. She very likely wanted to marry me, but I was so paltry! She married your father, laughing with the same smile on her face as if she’d been marrying me. Odd, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t think what to say. Then he rattled on: “I’ll never say what I was thinking about last night … No. I will tell you because you’ve been such a surprise. Listen: The Camps family, in Valls, lived in a house on the outskirts with a huge garden fenced off at the rear by a line of cypresses that hid a low wall with a gate. Beyond that were fields and open country. In the evening I used to stroll there and watch Maria’s lighted window: I could sometimes see the moon behind the cypresses. At that hour of the day, they seemed to be tickling the earth. A moist glow above a thousand small sounds and movements, the fresh green grass glistened, the irrigation channel swallowed water, crickets and toads sang and croaked endlessly in the distance. I would sit on a rock near the cypresses and spend ages gazing at the window, and sometimes saw a shadow pass behind the light curtain. One day … Perhaps you’d rather not know? If not, just tell me …”