Life Embitters

by Josep Pla

  Mascarell fell for Signor Giacomo’s flattery, and that was the route by which they came to converse, more or less. I don’t mean that the barber “came to take a stroll within his private life,” a phrase I’ve read in a novel that’s just been translated. No. They never became close, but they were friends.

  “You seem sad …?” Sr Giacomo asked one day.

  “Oh no, sir! It’s not that bad …!” replied Mascarell, rather shamefaced.

  “You are sad, and I know why you are sad … You are an intellectual …”

  Mascarell instinctively felt he should retort: “You are wrong; there’s no substance to what you’ve just said!” The truth was, however, that he didn’t protest at all. He let it go. His vanity put the brake on.

  “Yes, you are sad!” the Neapolitan continued. “And it’s because you work too hard … Lei lavora di notte col cervello …” he said in a somberly melodramatic tone that would have seemed laughable if Italians didn’t talk like that all the time.

  When Signor Giacomo uttered that gem, three or four customers were waiting; he turned to them, as he was saying it. These gentlemen gave Mascarell intrigued, respectful looks.

  Mascarell was immediately tempted to hurl at the barber’s head a small bottle of Rêve d’Amour or Roses du Crépuscule that were within easy reach of his chair. However, when he noted the other customers’ fascinated looks, he restrained himself. This brief moment of flattery broke the ice between two men who were so different.

  Over time they became friends. The Neapolitan had one defect: it was literally impossible to imagine that he could ever not appear a complete idiot. Mascarell saw that clearly enough. He always thought the barber was a laughingstock. But it didn’t mean he didn’t think he wasn’t very knowledgeable about life, that his noisy, clownish exterior didn’t hide considerable experience and a real and astute grasp of reality. The fate of gawkers is to fall foul of the first little mirror placed in their field of vision.

  Mascarell’s life was clouded by his obsession with Eulàlia’s accusation: “You are un homme fatal!” Her comment had been accompanied by a gesture that had made her drift quite explicit. But Mascarell thought she’d said it when in a bad temper, and, consequently, that it wasn’t so serious. Even assuming that her judgment was meant literally, he thought the literal meaning was diluted by the force and passion of the moment. Yes, Eulàlia had lost her cool, had overstepped the mark. That was clear … Nevertheless, her words remained. You are un homme fatal. Even if one interpreted them as a bad-tempered boutade, what did they mean?

  Mascarell thought about it, much more often than it seemed on the surface. His first inclination was to ask Eulàlia to explain herself. Eulàlia was leading her usual life, was living in the same hotel, but he never saw her. If he hadn’t known that from the lips of Monsieur Paul, he’d never have believed it: he never saw Eulàlia. Initially, his modest pride had led him to believe that Eulàlia was so upset by their rift that she had deemed it necessary to stop living under the same roof. But that was all pure speculation on his part. Eulàlia hadn’t changed her normal routines one iota. Reasons existed, however, to believe that she was adept at avoiding his presence.

  Seven or eight days after the scenes we have described, and totally depressed by his inability to talk to Eulàlia, Mascarell decided the very moment he sat in his barber’s chair to broach the matter with the Neapolitan. The idea came spontaneously, but he instinctively put the brake on. As he wanted a haircut and his hair wasn’t so short – meaning the job would take its time and he’d have plenty to decide what he should do. In the end: nothing very much. It simply came down to asking Sr Giacomo, who knew such a lot about life, what those words – un homme fatal – actually meant. The meaning of these words, not referring to anyone in particular, but in general: always speaking generally, of course. It was a very naïve question and meant he’d be baring himself to Sr Giacomo. But Mascarell was obsessed by Eulàlia’s remark and had to talk about it with somebody or other. It is in the fatal nature of obsessions that they must be aired.

  The haircut proceeded in absolute silence. The barber didn’t seem to be in the mood. There was barely anybody waiting. When Sr Giacomo had given the final brush to Mascarell’s jacket collar, the latter addressed him rather worriedly: “I’d like a couple of words with you …”

  “Take however long you need … That’s up to you!” replied the Neapolitan forcefully, with a friendly chuckle.

  “When a woman says to a man: ‘You are un homme fatal,’ what do these words actually mean?”

  “Did someone say that to you?” asked the barber, suddenly looking serious.

  “Of course not! Who’d ever have said such a thing to poor old me? No, I’m speaking in general, take my word for it, absolutely in general …”

  The barber didn’t reply at once. He looked blank and uneasy. He glanced briefly at Mascarell. Then peered at the glass panes in the entry door … And glanced back at him. He looked to all the world like a man who didn’t know which way to go to avoid putting his foot in it.

  “You sure it doesn’t?” he asked finally.

  “I told you! Really, I am talking in general terms.”

  Sr Giacomo hesitated for a second. There was another long pause, with the corresponding, perplexed looks.

  “I’d like to know why you’re asking me such a strange question …” he said staring at Mascarell.

  “Oh, for no reason in particular. Simply out of curiosity …”

  “If that really is the case, I will say, speaking strictly in general terms, that when a woman tells someone of the opposite sex that he is un homme fatal then it means that he is a moron, an out-and-out moron …”

  Mascarell couldn’t stop himself turning slightly pale, but he responded rapidly: “Meaning?”

  The Neapolitan panicked for a moment.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked, uneasily. “You ask me a question. I give you a clear answer. What do you mean, ‘meaning?’ Are we or are we not speaking in general?”

  “In general!” said Mascarell, rather hoarsely. “Absolutely in general. I told you it was simply something that had piqued my curiosity. My question was on the spur of the moment. The second you state your view, I assume that it is well-founded.”

  “Don’t doubt that for one moment, I have known many un homme fatal. There are lots in Naples, where I come from. There’s another variety in Marseille. Not mention Paris … If you like, I can introduce you to one: he’s a giovinotto, who has hopes of being nominated an adviser …”

  “No need, no need! I’ve never doubted your experience of life, your knowledge … When you say that un homme fatal is a moron …”

  “Wait a moment, forgive me!” the barber interjected, sounding alarmed. “I didn’t say that! I said that when a woman says to someone in particular that he is un homme fatal it means …”

  “Yes, of course, you are right. Absolutely right. I mangled what you said.”

  “Of course! These things require precision, because it’s the tone that gives them their exact meaning. You know I couldn’t care less. As a barber, I couldn’t care less whether the guy whose hair I’m cutting is fatal or not. Now, it’s different with the ladies! When a lady uses these words in relation to a man, one concludes that she does indeed reckon he is a total moron …”

  “All right! That’s the third time you’ve said that!” said Mascarell, barely concealing his ruffled feelings.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Of course not, sir! You never bother me! In any case, you should clarify one point, if you don’t mind. What do you think drives a woman to say that un homme fatal is a total moron?”

  “Hey, wait a minute, who do you take me for? Do you think I write for the papers or am a professor? Please don’t force me to think, I don’t have the right temperament …”

  “But you’re so experienced in life itself …”

  “Of course, just a little. All of us Italians are experienced in life. If y
ou think about it, it’s all we have.”

  “Exactly, that’s why I dared ask you this question. I’d like to draw on your experience …”

  “Just slow down, please …! You’re always in such a rush. Now, if you want me to reply to what you just asked, I’ll do so briefly. I can only speak at length about things I’m not familiar with. For a woman, un homme fatal is selfish, boorish, arrogant, infatuated with himself, someone who imagines that other people only live to service him, who won’t let anyone live in peace … Now, what else would you like to hear …?”

  At that a customer walked into the hairdresser’s and Sr Giacomo began to offer his usual bows. Mascarell was left standing by himself for a second in the middle of the shop. However, now wasn’t the moment, after repeatedly saying that he couldn’t care less, to show how hurtfully Signor Giacomo’s words had struck home. He hoarsely croaked a goodbye – the connection between the state of one’s soul and one’s vocal chords are very curious – put on his hat, and left.

  He entered his hotel oblivious to everything. Monsieur Paul was in reception, as usual, but Mascarell barely noticed him. He seemed very depressed. He slowly went up the stairs. What had really impressed him was the way that Signor Giacomo had echoed almost the identical words Eulàlia had used that night. It would have been absurd to think some sort of conspiracy existed. Mascarell wasn’t that infantile. The very same, identical words! thought Mascarell. He decided that if everyone used the same words it was because everyone thought the same. Unanimity arose from the environment. But the clearer the explanation, the stranger it seemed.

  Mascarell left Paris two days later, two disagreeable days later. He thought of the situation obsessively during those last hours. For a time he wondered whether he wasn’t living in an environment that was rejecting him, if not clearly and explicitly, at least quite actively. “Even the churches,” he told himself, “are different!” He felt fantastically foreign and displaced, but it never occurred to him that everything becomes even more impenetrable and remote for a conceited man who says he couldn’t care less. Monsieur Paul thought he looked on edge and depressed and rushed to talk to him. But Mascarell was in no mood to play-act. Monsieur Paul forgot his unremitting pessimism for once and invited him to go to the theater and a cabaret one night. Mascarell declined with silly, pointless excuses the hotel owner thought extremely peculiar. In those, his last hours in Paris, he tried to see Eulàlia. But if he had seen her, thought Mascarell, by now in his sleeper, what might he have said? Perhaps he might have said: “Would you like anything from Barcelona!” That would have been fatuous. He imagined how Eulàlia would have laughed at such a question; he could hear her noisy, rude, unmistakable sarcasm, and a virtual noise that became so loud and obsessive in his mind it completely blocked out the continual juddering and jolting of the express.

  A Family in Foreign Parts

  It was summertime, there was little doing for a journalist – the month of July is usually Europe’s quietest – so I decided to spend a week in Ostend.

  I have a sense that people who visited Ostend after the First World War were deeply disappointed the moment they arrived. Ostend is a gigantic cage, erected in the architectural style of a universal exhibition, with dining rooms and sitting rooms that rejoice in the highest ceilings and mountains of plaster as befits a society constructed on the basis of dovetailing commonplaces and worn-out clichés. The splendiferous size of the edifices seemed to express an optimistic belief in the indefinite growth of the bourgeoisie: they were sizes to suit people who are taller and bigger than normal. Everything seemed a loose fit, perhaps because the cage was too big for its birds.

  The Hotel Excelsior gave me a room with sea views, and, as the hotel was excellently situated, there was a wonderful panorama from my balcony. At bathing time, especially, the spectacle was truly stirring and varied. A sulfurous yellow that turned a damp gray when the sun went behind a cloud, the beach was home to every kind of human beast, male and female, dry and wet, young and old. It was a particularly strange ambience because of the preposterous airs people gave themselves. It was an endearing scenario.

  Unfortunately I have always been extremely short-sighted, and my dismally myopic vision has never allowed me a clear view of what others contemplated with an enthusiasm they constrained and hid. Additionally, one had to pay over the odds for the bedroom’s prime location, and that led me, for various reasons, to ask for a more out-of-the-way room. To meet my request, they gave me one with no views whatsoever, situated in another wing of the hotel. Thanks to this switch, however, I became acquainted with a family from our country, the Fabregat family, about which the least I can say, now that I have accumulated a number of experiences, is that they were a most typical and representative Catalan family.

  Our first contact was the day we went up in the lift together. I was reading a gossipy letter from a friend who was full of promise, the author of a book with a markedly art-for-art’s-sake flavor, entitled The Roast Almond Lesson and Other Prose Pieces. While I read his engaging news, slowly, I gripped the envelope and Sra Fabregat obligingly read on the sly the blurred details of the post mark. The word Barcelona must have made an immediate, unexpected impact, because she suddenly interrupted her husband who was telling her, if I’m not mistaken, about a lady by the name of Antonieta, planted herself in front of me, and with a pretentious flourish of her head and instant blushes she said: “So, senyor, you too are Catalan?”

  “Yes, senyora …”

  “How nice! Who’d have thought it! Allow me to introduce you to …”

  Initially I was rather taken aback, but I then decided the scene was the expression of natural outpourings that were pleasing up to a point. Wherever we go, as people have noted, we are the most open-minded and astonishingly spontaneous of folk. We almost always believe that we have a pressing need to inform others about the trivial ins and outs of our lives – which we inevitably believe to be of paramount importance – never forgetting what goes by the name of ideas, ideas that usually voice our most elemental, highly personal preferences. This often means that, however amenable we try to be, we create a state of reticence and weariness in others.

  By the time we had reached the door to the room – or rooms – of the Fabregats, they had already brought me up-to-date with myriad aspects of their lives: they’d told me that they possessed substantial wealth and enjoyed a fine reputation with their vast range of connections, both with friends and acquaintances. At the same time they peppered me with a series of futile, indiscreet questions that I answered as vaguely as I could. When we were saying our goodbyes, the wife informed me, as she shook my hand, that their young daughter was quite poorly because a pimple had appeared on the nape of her neck that had kept her awake all night. I took advantage of that revelation to declare reasonably emphatically that I was there to help in any way I could and that they had in me a true friend who was entirely at their disposition. I also offered a range of advice in terms of hydrotherapy and heliotherapy – sciences that were in their formative stage – and even ventured that the best thing for pimples on the nape of the neck remained a generous application of tincture of iodine. They seemed wholeheartedly grateful for these learned gems and we went our separate ways, after declaring it would be a real pleasure to meet up that afternoon.

  After lunch we spoke of vital issues as we strolled along streets and through squares, listening, with due reverence, to a selection of pieces from “Lilies under the Snow,” one of the masterpieces from the Belgian repertoire the town band was playing in the park. We then drank fresh lemonade in the casino.

  The family comprised four people: Sr Ramon Fabregat and his wife, a sixteen-year old girl, Maria Teresa, and a thirteen-year-old boy, Lluís. They were the salt of the earth, and, as I hardly need to say, the excellent impression they had made in the morning was confirmed in the afternoon. Unfortunately, however, their initial inclinations strengthened as our relationship shed the stiffness that comes with novelty. They were r
ather too open and forced you to enter their innermost life willy-nilly. Naturally, I thought, it doesn’t really matter because the signs are that they’ll ditch you the day after tomorrow as easily as they’d previously welcomed you inside. They told me lots, all connected to their family, the foibles of their grandparents, conflicts over money and maladies on the home front. They were two thousand kilometers from their country and acted as if they had never left. They inhabited a bubble that was completely impermeable to everything around them.

  Aunt Antonieta, a distant aunt of Sra Fabregat, was one of the people who most cropped up in conversation. They described her as an extremely eccentric lady with lots of manias, and spoke of her warmly or extremely tight-lipped, depending on their mood. If I understood correctly, Aunt Antonieta was an aged – seventy-five-year-old? – spinster who lived in Sant Gervasi devoted to her religion and regular coffee mornings. Despite her advanced years, while the danger existed that the good lady might embrace the state of matrimony, the Fabregats lived on a knife-edge. Sra Fabregat was the one who waxed most pessimistic in relation to that possibility. “Who doesn’t do it as a chick does it as an old hen,” she had maintained for twenty years. When people pointed out that this was a saying that could apply to every potential act of human folly, rather than solely to changes in status, she stuck to her guns.