Josep Pla - Life Embitters

“It’s been resolved in a reverse manner to what I anticipated. If I begged you to accompany me, it was to find a bed and room for him; it turns out he’s now established in mine.”

“The spaghetti, dear Tintorer, the spaghetti!” I said in a spontaneously dreamy air, still in awe at the substance and quality of the contents of that tray. “Spaghetti, parmesan cheese, and a half liter of Chianti!”

“I don’t see the connection …”

“You still can’t see the connection? You don’t grasp the fabulous amount of emotion invested in that tray? If you don’t, it must be your poor eyesight. That tray might have seemed the most natural thing in the world, but it came loaded with a bullet. My dear friend, that was the precise moment I deduced you’d end up sleeping anywhere except in your own bedroom. Did you at least sleep soundly? I hope you didn’t catch cold? The snow is attaining absolutely sacred levels, in true Slavic style. Don’t catch cold, Tintorer! If you catch cold and your nose freezes, we’ll have to give you such a terrible beating!”

“I can never tell whether you speak in jest or seriously …”

“And is that young man feeling better?”

“The young man is so-so, or so they say. I’ve not seen him, because she’s not let him get up today and has banned visits.”

“ Niente … lettere …! ”

“Precisely, Niente, niente …” Apparently, however, he didn’t enjoy a very good night. He’s been alternating bouts of sweating and chattering teeth. Formiguera is exhausted, obviously …”

“Yes, of course, he is exhausted, emotionally exhausted, to use that word in its broadest sense, to make myself clear. He’s drained. His recovery is only a matter of time. He can look after himself, don’t you worry on his behalf …”

“In any case, it was a wretched night. At around two, Sra Piccioni knocked on the junk room door in a state of panic and said: ‘Perhaps you should go for a doctor. Darsonval isn’t feeling well.’ ”

“And what did you reply?”

“That I’d put my trousers on right away.”

“Quite the thing to say.”

“What would you have done?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d have done. In any case, I’m more than happy to learn that you did what you did.”

“She was alarmed because his symptoms were so extreme. His chest seemed congested. His breathing became fast and feverish. Fortunately, as the morning proceeded, her anxiety receded and I could rest. Then I felt as if I’d been asleep for days and it did me a power of good.”

“You’ll soon see him back dancing in places where Toselli’s serenatas are all the rage.”

“In any case, Sra Piccioni gives the orders and she says how things should be done. She’s become deeply attached to that young man and you know how dynamic she can be.”

“Don’t be unduly anxious, dear Tintorer. It’s only a matter of very little time.”

“Be that as it may, she’s cosseting him like a child. Although she’s only known him for a couple of days and can’t be sure he likes her house, she’s caring for him better than she would her favorite niece. It’s all hot water bottles, cups of brodo , I mean broth, and treats of very kind. Everybody seems to be at the dancer’s beck and call. Can you believe it? When I moved to the junk room, Serafí refused to join me. Some days are so pernicious they seem tailor-made to destroy principles one thought were rock solid. And I always thought a dog was a man’s best friend!”

“Now who is fiddling while …? Please don’t start being hard on canine caprices! Only poetic truth, my dearly beloved philologist, is truly liberating … Goethe dixit ages ago.”

There was a short lull. Tintorer’s humble glass of coffee had gone cold. I suggested fortifying it with a shot of kirsch and luckily he got the message. That man worried me. Whenever I looked through the crack in the curtains and out on to the street, I saw a cold, unfriendly night out there and thought he’d have been better off keeping to our climate. “If he falls ill in his present lodgings,” I thought, “what decision will Sra Piccioni decide to take? Will she suggest he go to hospital? Will she tell him that she’s done her duty by sick men? Will she leave him in the junk room?”

“Is there a way to heat the room you’re in now?” I asked.

“No stove, no light, no brazier, no fireplace.”

“So what will you do? How do you see things?”

“I don’t know. My brain is tired. All in all, I don’t think it would be a good idea to break with him or her.”

“In principle, I think …”

“He’s a good lad. I’ve known him for years. We have bumped into each other in different countries. He’s done me no end of favors. He has no side to him. He is generous, genuinely so, I mean I don’t need to flatter him for you to see that. But he has one terrible weakness, though he’s no side, he’s never his own man. He’s a plaything in the hands of the people he meets from day to day. When I met him in Paris in a small restaurant on the Rue Blanche that was packed out with fair-haired, jovial young toughs who lived well though they had neither a trade nor income, he was exactly the same as he is now. Don’t think that this doesn’t have its merit …”

“What merit might that be? If it’s a feature of elephants to have trunks and of squirrels to have long tails, are you of the opinion that a squirrel’s long tail earns it merit?”

“If you only knew the people Formiguera has had to suck up to, or entertain, you would be astonished!”

“But that’s no merit in itself. It’s in his nature. Was he dancing in Paris?”

“It’s all he did. He could earn as much money as he wanted. But it was a wretched life. I’d ask him, ‘Aren’t you ashamed? You’re a pleasant, nice young man. Any activity could earn you enough for a decent life. If you want maintenance without ever doing anything, a certain notion of marriage might be the solution.’ I brought him to tears, but all to no avail. Everything dragged him back to that way of life. He was vain, money ran through his fingers, and he’d come to take that world seriously. He was a rural lad intoxicated by patent leather shoes and gleaming white teeth. He liked being in that dazzling cesspit — the corrupt sentimentalism of late nights and catchy tunes. It’s a world where you laugh yourself to death. It made Formiguera cry and quiver with emotion. And strange to say he was from Granollers, from the rural-domestic hearth of the symphony that is Vallès. It’s beyond belief. Cabarets are the running sores of modern life. That a boy from Granollers should find himself in Berlin and giddy on cabaret at this particular moment in history is at once tragic and miserably grotesque.”

“That’s for sure.”

“You saw him yesterday. He looks in a bad state, the distilled pallor, the three- or four-day-old beard, his nose’s cold anguished lines, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, blotting-paper ears … I’ve seen him like that a number of times, and I’ll tell you one thing: even when ill, his kind is lucky. Do you know what I’ve heard some ladies say about Formiguera? That he’s got lovely eyelashes …”

“Is Sra Piccioni of the same opinion?”

“I must confess I’ve reached a point when I understand nothing.”

“All the same, you must reach a decision in relation to her. The room you’re in now is not what you call comfortable.”

“Of course, but the poor have so little freedom of maneuver. I must do something or other, but so far I dread even to think about it. Perhaps it will be best …”

“What will be best?”

“Perhaps it will be best to wait for her coup de foudre to cool. Sometimes the stronger it starts, the quicker it fades. Formiguera is no caged bird. When he’s recovered, he’ll do whatever he feels like. He’s footloose and …”