by Josep Pla
Their dinner was on the silent side. Anyone who didn’t know them would have said they’d been married for four or five years. Mascarell was visibly shocked when Eulàlia was greeted warmly by two portly gentlemen who were dining four or five tables behind them. For a moment a really Catalan thought passed through his head: what if he was just acting the country bumpkin?
When the waiter brought the bill, Mascarell picked it up with a flourish and gabbled tactlessly: “Will you allow me, Eulàlia …?”
Eulàlia looked at him as if she was hallucinating. She wondered for a moment whether he was being sarcastic or merely stupid. The look on her face seemed to say: what’s this simpleton playing at?
“I don’t like,” continued Mascarell, “to mention such vulgar matters, but I’m always afraid of doing the wrong thing in Paris … When it comes to paying, people can be very iffy.”
“He’s still going on about it …” Eulàlia whispered.
“Believe me, I find these day-to-day things really trying …”
Eulàlia thought: Pay for heaven’s sake and let’s forget it. What’s this guy after with all this nonsense? But she said nothing.
When they left the restaurant, they started to walk slowly back to the hotel. It was a very warm, pleasant night, and spring seemed to make everything delightfully languid.
“Mascarell,” said Eulàlia, “you’re so sad and lugubrious. What on earth’s wrong with you?”
“It’s how I am. People like me seem very odd in Paris, because Parisians are so fun-loving … That’s not the case in our country.”
“People are always so irritable there!” exclaimed Eulàlia with a grimace, her brow somber as if she was remembering something truly unpleasant.
“What can we do about that? Every land fights its own battles.”
“But why is your character like this, Mascarell? Don’t you think you’ve got it all wrong? What’s the point in wearing such a long face?”
“Oh dear, what do you expect me to say? I must be made this way.”
“You must be in love …”
“I’m sorry, that’s not true! I would like to be in love, but that’s quite another matter.”
“And you haven’t found anyone in Paris to take your scowls away? Don’t make me laugh!”
“It’s true, Eulàlia. I would like to fall in love because I need someone to keep me company; I feel lonely, do you see?”
“You feel lonely? But how can you be lonely here? Please don’t let on to anybody, because they won’t believe you.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“You spend every day stuck in the hotel. Why don’t you go out more?”
“Where do you want me to go?”
“If you weren’t a man, I’d feel sorry for you …”
“Thank you so much, Eulàlia.”
Mascarell reacted strongly to the word “sorry.” He thought his friendship with that young woman had suddenly deepened.
“Did you enjoy dinner, Mascarell?” Eulàlia then asked, suddenly changing tack.
“Far too much!”
“Why ‘far too much’? Don’t make me laugh! I see nothing has changed in Barcelona.”
“Of course, I feel fine next to you, you know. I’m speaking generally …”
The last two sentences made Eulàlia want to burst out laughing but she had to restrain herself so as not to seem rude.
“I’m sorry,” said Eulàlia. “What do you mean by ‘I’m speaking generally …?’ ”
“I mean that I don’t like you when you are so cheerful, you don’t seem as nice as when …”
“You prefer me when I have headache …”
“Absolutely. On days when you are cheerful I feel we aren’t such good friends … as if I weren’t so close to you, do you understand?”
“What nonsense!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mascarell, I beg you, don’t get me going! I forbid you! For God’s sake don’t wind me up!”
“But I’m not, as far as I can see. Can’t I say that I hold you in high esteem?”
“No! Not with that sad face! You can joke as much as you like, but, please, don’t ever speak seriously to me. I ask that as a favor. Don’t ever speak to me seriously …”
“Why not? This is really shocking …”
“You can be shocked as much as you like. That’s how it is.”
“Why don’t you want me to speak seriously? Don’t you like me one little bit?”
“Please don’t force me to say anything I’d rather not! Why do you do that? Why do you ask me questions that compel me to be unpleasant? Why are you so nosey? Why are you so rude and bossy?”
“Eulàlia, can you believe that I’ve never found myself in a situation like this? Never! You are extraordinary! I’ve never had dealings with a woman who is so independent …”
The conversation had taken such a vexing turn for Mascarell he could hardly contain himself. He struggled to put on a brave front, but so obviously his real inner state was quite transparent. One remark from Eulàlia had particularly floored him. “Why are you so nosey?” Eulàlia had rasped harshly. The meaning of that sentence is clear enough, Mascarell told himself. This young lady wouldn’t accept my presence in her life, not even on the doorstep. Mascarell found this deeply disturbing. His self-esteem suffered a battering. He felt sore. Something he could never have imagined – a person refusing to accept him as a friend – had actually happened right in his face. He felt disgust inside, and looked at Eulàlia with barely concealed contempt. He felt the need to irritate her, to make her feel his presence.
“Eulàlia,” he asked rather smugly, “who were those two gentlemen over there?”
“And what business of yours is that?”
“Are they close friends of yours?”
“Mascarell, don’t wind me up! Don’t be nosey, I beg you! Leave me and my independence well alone! You must realize that things are different here.”
“And you like things to be different?”
“I should think I do. It’s glorious! And now, believe me, let’s put all that behind us! Let’s cool down.”
“And why should we cool down?”
“We should cool down because if you continue along this path I’ll think you’re un homme fatal and you’ll go down in my estimation.”
“So I’m un homme fatal, am I? What exactly is that?”
“Un homme fatal is someone like you, like most men in our country, a boor who won’t let anyone live in peace. Believe me: let’s put all that behind us! We can still be friends, but don’t expect anything more. What do you say?”
Mascarell was in a state of nervous tension he could no longer conceal. The tension was such that he had the good sense to say nothing else. He’d never thought he would ever find himself in such a situation. His self-esteem had been so grievously harmed – his words – that he looked highly disgruntled. They walked on for a while in complete silence. They now looked as if they’d been married for ten years. They said goodbye – Mascarell being so ingenuous – frostily by the entrance to the hotel. Back in her bedroom, Eulàlia objectively reviewed the events of the evening. On the one hand, she was upset by what she’d been forced to say. On the other, however, she realized that what she’d done was the only way to stop Mascarell in his tracks and put an end to what would have been a very boring and trying business.
Mascarell withdrew too, agitated and fraught, convinced he’d been acting like a complete fool for the last three or four hours.
What Eulàlia had said – that he was un homme fatal – had lodged painfully in his brain. He thought it was the most cutting barb in all that Eulàlia had said. He tried to decide what un homme fatal might be, but couldn’t get any clarity at all, in view of which he decided to find out.
A few days later – it was dusk, and so mild and pleasant – Mascarell was strolling through Le Jardin du Luxembourg, on the Rue d’Assas side, and when he was close to the statue of Sainte-Beuve he spotte
d Eulàlia in the company of a foreign-looking man. And once he’d set his eyes on her, he made the mistake of loitering around hoping to find out more – and so obviously – that it was inevitable they would see each other. Eulàlia seemed very cheerful: she was laughing and talking loudly, sometimes took the arm of the person accompanying her, and was being wonderfully vivacious.
The gentleman by her side seemed rather perplexed. Perhaps he felt the young lady’s gestures were too flamboyant. At any rate, he kept looking fearfully to his left and right as if he was worried about being seen. He’d have probably acted quite differently if they’d been indoors.
Their paths crossed. When Eulàlia saw Mascarell she blanched slightly, bit her lip, tensed her whole body, but said nothing. Perhaps she’d just remembered what she’d repeatedly said that evening to Mascarell about interfering.
The gentleman accompanying her turned out to be a friend and acquaintance of the latter: it was Sr Tallada, from the Rambla de Catalunya, who ran a large outfitter’s concern and came to Paris every year. When Tallada saw Mascarell – they went to the same casino – he blinked for a moment and was briefly at a loss about what to do next. A second later he yanked his arm away from Eulàlia and shook Mascarell’s hand but without his usual noisy bonhomie. The latter seemed very pleased.
“Good heavens, Mascarell,” said Tallada. “I didn’t know you were in Paris.”
“Well, here I am …”
“Do you know Srta Fanny? We met in the Café de la Paix and she’s been so kind as to keep me company for a while.”
“Yes indeed, I do know her. How are you, senyoreta?”
Eulàlia shook hands but said nothing. That fellow’s appearance seemed to have changed her completely. She must have been aware of the transformation, because she made a visible effort to hide her sudden deflation. She acted as if she couldn’t care less about Mascarell, as if she felt contempt for him.
They spent a long time walking around the park chattering about nothing in particular. They observed the Palais du Sénat at great length that looked wonderful at twilight and left through la Porte de l’Odéon. They then walked as far as the Panthéon tavern that was almost on the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Michel and the Rue Soufflot. The big bulk of the Panthéon, its stone a light chamois tone, loomed at the end of this street.
“What’s that?” Tallada asked the young lady.
“It’s the Panthéon …”
Tallada put on the most admiring expression he could manage, took a couple of steps so he had a better view of the building and then said, with an air of great conviction, “You know, it is rather nice, isn’t it?”
If Eulàlia hadn’t been so downcast, she’d have burst out laughing at Tallada’s comment. All the same, she found his remark reeked of Barcelona.
When they reached the tavern door, Eulàlia assumed that Mascarell would take his leave, but not so. Mascarell stayed on. He seemed increasingly interested in what Tallada had to say. Eulàlia assumed that his interest was simply a pretext to annoy her, to justify a presence she found deeply wearisome.
They took a table inside and ordered aperitifs. It wasn’t crowded. They were playing a cloying sentimental ballad.
“That music is so lovely …” said Tallada, looking intense.
Eulàlia thought it was time to send Mascarell packing. She placed her head on Sr Tallada’s chest, in step with the melody, in an admirably French gesture. Mascarell averted his gaze and Tallada was choked and turned a bright red. Eulàlia concluded that Sr Tallada’s small-mindedness had ruined her ploy. It would be difficult to get rid of Mascarell. Eulàlia thought how un homme fatal has never been characterized by a keen sense of his own foolishness.
Shortly after, Tallada glanced at his watch and got up. Mascarell did likewise. While the former was settling the bill with the waiter, he spoke to Eulàlia, smiling rather sadly: “Fine. Duty is duty, Fanny. We’ll meet, as agreed, at half past eight, right here. If you like, we can go to the casino.”
“That’s a wonderful suggestion!” replied Eulàlia, smiling, but with rather despondent eyes.
Tallada and Mascarell departed, leaving Eulàlia alone with the empty aperitif glasses. A few moments later, she walked off in the direction of the hotel, looking visibly down.
At eight o’clock that evening two express messages were delivered to reception. One was for Fanny; the other for Mascarell. The chambermaid took them up to their respective rooms. Both were from Sr Tallada.
The first said:
Fanny: a telegram was waiting for me at the hotel. I must leave. My elder son is ill in bed. I’m very worried. I’ll be back next month, God willing. I’ll let you know. Think of me. T.
The one for Mascarell was somewhat longer.
Dear friend: I can admit this to you, Mascarell. Chance always seems to catch me one way or another and my first thought was how to make my escape. However farcical, my monogamy is definitive and rock-hard. I’ll bring greetings from you to our mutual friend Camps Margarit. Be discreet and see it in a good light. I’m leaving tonight. May Paris do you good! Enjoy yourself! Tallada.
Eulàlia knew that could be the only conclusion and thus read the message quite casually. For her it was past history. In respect to Mascarell, she felt burning rancor. On their way back from dinner that night, she’d said he was un homme fatal, but had said so with no hidden agenda, simply because she thought he was basically a fool. That was no longer the case: she now thought he truly was un homme fatal, that is, a boor who wouldn’t let anyone live in peace. The type of man Eulàlia hated most.
The next day they met in the hotel reception and Mascarell acted with his usual lack of tact, or with his customary boorishness.
“Did you receive anything, Eulàlia?” he asked.
“No, why?”
“Read this.”
And he handed her the express message from Tallada. Eulàlia laughed at his weird behavior but couldn’t be bothered to take the piece of paper. Mascarell stood there a while offering her the blue piece of paper and looking a complete idiot.
“Is this how you treat me now, Eulàlia?”
“Go away, you fool! Don’t waste any more of my time!”
However, she later felt she might have overstepped the mark.
Mascarell used to go to a barber shop on the Boulevard Montparnasse, two or three doors down from the hotel. He was very fussy about his hair and worried about its appearance down to the last detail. His head was so soigné, his hair clung to his head so unanimously (even though he didn’t use any grease), his cut was so immaculate, that when he gazed at himself, his eyes bulged out of their sockets, (a throwback to his rural forebears), and his head looked more like a model in the hairdresser’s window than a live human appendage.
It was an Italian hairdresser’s and had next-to-no French customers. The French have always required their hairdressers to be lugubrious and silent, in a stiff academic atmosphere. And that hairdresser’s was what we would vulgarly call a stewpot. When the artists in the quartier discovered the place had no French customers – when the exodus of artists from Montmartre on the other side of the river had begun towards Montparnasse – they flooded there. This new clientele obviously didn’t pursue normal, mechanical routines, because a visit to the barbers is for most people a mechanical reflex act. The artists went there when they had a little spare cash – a rare occurrence – and especially when they had nothing else to do. In any case, that gang of maniacs and half-crazed hobos suited the place down to the ground.
Sr Giacomo, the owner, was Neapolitan and had lived in Paris for many years. A small, fair-haired, chubby man with flabby cheeks, his tiny eyes glinted slyly. You might have thought he was an old-fashioned, lax, and skeptical notary. Though he was so short, he wore an undersized coat that made him look a grotesque clown. And naturally he was a great chatterbox. People who had the patience to listen to him – and at first everybody did listen to him – knew he championed the arts of peace, music, his country’s cuisi
ne, and the ladies, whenever they were spoken for.
Sr Giacomo was a throwback to the pre-First World War period, when practically nothing existed in Europe that didn’t have a picturesque, amusing twist.
Music, however, was his weak point. When there wasn’t much in the way of work, that is, when he wasn’t under disagreeable pressure from waiting customers – that was quite common – he reckoned that every beard he trimmed merited a song. The moment he began to wet your face, he’d say: “With your permission, I’ll sing you a canzonetta …”
As he found his pitch, brandishing a sharp shiny blade, you thought: If this benighted fellow can’t let off steam, there might be an upset …
And thus one said, with resignation: “Of course, whatever …”
He began piano piano, then burbled quietly for a time. When he started shaving against the grain, his pitch gradually rose. As his comb gave the last touches to your fringe, he hit a high that made the mirrors and paving-stones rattle.
“Cosa me dice?” he asked point-blank the bewildered person who was the subject of his favors, with the arrogant air of someone who’d just won a huge battle, “i napolitani siamo cosi …”
Then he clutched at his neck with both hands, as if he had parted company with his head and was trying to fix it back in exactly the right spot.
Mascarell didn’t like Signor Giacomo’s barbershop. He found it noisy and gross, and not in keeping with his own intrinsic gravitas. Nevertheless, while he lived in Paris he never went anywhere else. It was so conveniently situated close to his hotel. It nurtured his instincts as a man of the quartier.
Signor Giacomo took note of that silent shrinking violet, greeted him most politely and bestowed on him his most obsequious bows, an art he excelled in as a good Italian émigré. Mascarell’s natural abruptness led him to think, initially, that the barber was making fun of him. But as time went by he began to soften and became more appreciative of the barber’s presence. Sr Giacomo was a past master in the art of flattery. The French always say and write that the motives behind human actions are prompted by self-esteem and vanity, but rarely benefit from their own insights. The Italians readily grant the French their pride in their discoveries, but bring to the vanity and self-esteem of others all the subtle strategies necessary to secure their own livelihood. A huge number of Italians have survived at the expense of the self-preening of others.