Josep Pla - Life Embitters

Nonetheless, the presence of that man produced the results we wanted. Many people who were intending to come to our gatherings didn’t when they knew that the professor from Hale would be there. His thick skin inspired dread and people avoided him as the devil flees the cross. The people who comprised the longstanding elements in our gathering were indifferent to his presence because they never took any notice of him.

So an era of complete normality was established. Our needs were catered to. We enjoyed freedom of movement once again, movements that were always very modest anyway. We celebrated the way things had turned out with an excellent dinner at the Kempinski restaurant, washed down by unforgettable wines.

However, when everything was on the right track and shipshape, I had to leave Berlin. These breaks in rhythm happen in life. I was truly sorry to say goodbye to Xammar my old friend, his wife, Mauzi, the Pekingese, and the members of our circle.

Months went by, maybe even two or three years. My memories of that era began to fade. Every now and then I would hear news, usually vague generalities, of the inhabitants of the Kantstrasse apartment. Sometimes, I’m not sure why, I’d remember Gerdy, that lively Polish woman. She brought the charm of a spring sky, an edgy, subtle freshness to the tarnished portrait of Berlin. That was also her main drawback: Gerdy was all over you and it was difficult to have a simple straightforward conversation with her, an everyday exchange. At any rate I noted that she’d left a memory that stood out in the haze left by the march of time.

Then all of a sudden I received news of her.

When I was in Girona, not long ago, I saw big street hoardings advertising a performance of Rigoletto that very evening. I spotted the name of Mattia Bocca on the list of singers and presumed it was the Italian version of the name of the baritone from the Camp de Tarragona. I bought a ticket to the Teatre Principal performance and did indeed see him on stage looking sadder, more wretched and dejected than ever. His voice had flattened and he sang as a baritone bass. He had a limp and the mattress-spring shape the effort of lifting weights had given his body had slackened comically. Afterwards, we went to Ca la Quima to eat pork loin and kidney beans, roasted almonds and a drop of white wine. When we began to gossip, we talked about Berlin, but I thought his memories were embittered. All the same, I persisted and asked him if he had any news of Gerdy.

“Do you know what happened to that amusing young lady?”

“Yes, of course, Gerdy, the illegitimate child of Frau Schoen …”

“Whose illegitimate child …?” I asked, astonished.

“That’s right! Frau Schoen’s. She died only a few months ago.”

“She died …? That can’t be right.”

“It can’t be right? You still have it in you to make me laugh … She died of a dreadful attack of tuberculosis soon after you left.”

I didn’t dare ask him anything else. Fear of the past had chilled me to the bone. We went for a walk along the banks of the Onyar. Maties Boca smoked, was preoccupied with himself, absent, and lethargic. He didn’t seem to want to talk. It was a mild, rather damp autumn evening. I looked at the sky, to pass the time: the usual stars, the same blank, overwhelming, inhuman world. It all inclined you to shut your eyes and be carried away by the morbid pleasures of a memory that was inevitably set to fade. Awareness of the pettiness of humankind induced melancholy voluptuousness: a mixture of dread and tenderness. We carried on walking for perhaps another quarter of an hour.

“Isn’t about time to make our way to bed?” asked the baritone, throwing his cigar at the pebbles in the river.

“Very well, if you like.”

We turned round and headed back towards the city.

“Tomorrow is another day!” said Sr Boca as he bid me farewell and held out his hand.

“That’s very likely, of course.”

“Good night.”

“ Adéu-siau. ”

We went off in opposite directions. Before I turned the corner, I looked back. Sr Boca had also looked back. We surveyed each other from a distance, for one lingering moment. We were at once friends and strangers in the night. In the end, I shrugged my shoulders and continued on my way.

Frau Berends silently opened the door and tiptoed in. It was nearly pitch black in my bedroom. I was lying on the bed at the back smoking. I expect I’d been awake for a while, but I was afloat on a cloud of languid unknowing. Frau Berends stood by my night table, put down my newspapers and letters, and turned to leave.

“Eleven o’clock, Frau Berends …?” I asked in a sheepish, squeaky voice.

Frau Berends replied, groping for the handle to close the door, not looking round, her head sunk between her shoulders, in a pitiful rather than resigned tone:“Eleven o’clock …? Two o’clock! It’s getting dark again …”

She left holding her head between her hands.

I opened my letters. One was from my brother. It said: “Last week I sent two telegrams to your new address. They were accurately written, but both were returned with the comment: not known! They were about the favor Sr N. asked of you, that you promised to honor and never will. If you weren’t so careless and lackadaisical, I’d feel really sorry for you. Where the hell are you? Who is this Marta Berends? Are you really in Berlin? Are you sure? You’ll never change, there’s no curing you: you’re a loose cannon. Your selfishness creates infinite problems for you and makes your life a real mess. You think you’re doing whatever you feel like and the smallest incident sends you off course …”

My first inclination was mentally to agree with my brother. That gave me the pleasure of feeling I’d done my duty. That pleasure would have restored me to my languid cloud, had I not decided to reread the letter. The lost telegrams stirred me. It was indeed odd and disturbing.

Are you an unknown in this household? I wondered, as I laced up my shoes.

I thought about it for a time. It was strange. However, there could be no mistake. I was the only visible subtenant. The other living creatures were Frau Berends, a boy, Roby, a cat, and a kitten. The house contained objects from the intermediate realm — a gramophone, a stove and an alarm clock. Apart from that, there was nothing else with any life.

I worried as I dressed. While I knotted my tie I decided it was true enough, I’d lived in that house for a couple of weeks and still didn’t really know where I was. I’d yet to examine my bedroom properly. At the same time, I didn’t know where the house began or ended. The neighborhood seemed vague and remote, doubly so when I gave it a moment’s thought. Once again I agreed with my brother and now I too felt sorry for myself.

Frau Berends’ alarm clock chimed three. I switched on the light. It was raining outside and the sky was very low. Apart from the distant patter of rain, I could hear nothing. I was definitely in Berlin, but I could hear no city sounds. I listened to the rain and stopped musing for a moment. Then I realized that my things were scattered around the room just where I’d dropped them when I arrived. My suitcase, with my clothes still a jumble inside, was open on the table in the center. My toiletries were lined up by the mirror over the basin. I’d been putting the daily papers on a chair, and the pile had grown. At first glance I thought the things I’d hung up the day before were still in the wardrobe. Then I realized my bowler hat was missing. I searched my bedroom in vain. I went out into the passage hoping the playful kitten had taken it to its somersaulting Paradise. No sign of my hat.