Josep Pla - Life Embitters

The whole charabanc burst out laughing. The coachman’s face appeared at the front window, looking intrigued. Conversations in boarding houses — and this was in fact a boarding house in motion — are always like this: shot through with unimaginable vulgarity and poor taste.

Our carriage finally reestablished contact with the cobbles and, exerting himself, the coachman finally managed to stir the wretched pony into a slow, mechanical trot. The charabanc juddered over the cobbles with a peculiar clatter that particularly affected the panes of glass. The continual vibration produced the usual strange phenomena: a moment came when Sr Riera realized to his alarm that the wool, straw, or flock or whatever stuffed the padded cushion where he sat kept shifting along to more fortunate derrières. Yes, Sr Riera could feel his flesh hitting stark naked timber. On the other hand, Don Natali sensed, with a voluptuous shudder, that the base of his seat kept gaining bulk, volume, and warmth. Ferrer, who quickly cottoned on to the readjustment, asked sardonically: “You all right, Riera? These cushions are first-rate …”

Riera, who was going from bad to worse, struggled to hold his temper. He laughed dutifully and replied between gritted teeth: “Yes, of course, I am.”

The question was meant to be a hurtful dig and, given Riera’s temperament, the consequences were disastrous. Sr Ferrer’s little quip kept jarring in his mind while the hard pressure from the timber and the cruel ridge along the edge of the seats kept irritating him. The narrowness of the carriage and its dinginess played on his nerves. He became increasingly agitated — at times he didn’t know where to put his hands or his feet — and it got worse as he registered that neither Don Natali nor Sr Dalmau budged an inch; in fact, quite the contrary — they seemed to be luxuriating in the pleasures of the heightened sponginess of their share of the cushion. Don Natali, especially, seemed to have positioned his butt wonderfully.

The charabanc was crossing the pale white glow from a powerful streetlight when Riera glanced furiously at his companions on the bench, and, beside himself, bawled loudly: “Verdaguer, Dalmau … on your feet!”

Confusion hit the carriage momentarily. Don Natali and Sr Dalmau gazed at the outside world with a considered air of surprise — an air that coincided with the blank, innocent smile spreading over Sr Tomeu’s face. By virtue of the fact that Sr Tomeu never involved himself in anything, Sr Tomeu was constantly out of it. From the seat opposite, Bramson and Ferrer looked at Verdaguer and Riera with a degree of alarm, anticipating the inevitable.

Riera waited for a moment, brows knitted, mouth shut, arms folded over his chest. As he was taller than the carriage ceiling, he was forced to twist his neck and constrain his body. Although new to the house, Dalmau grasped that Riera hadn’t spoken idly, struggled to detach himself from his seat and, scraping the charabanc walls, managed to stand up. Riera’s reprimand sounded like the patter of rainfall to Don Natali’s ears. He occupied the corner seat. He pulled his hat down and continued to stare at the back of the coach-driver’s neck.

In the pink light from the nearby street the dark olive-green hue of Sr Riera’s face darkened dramatically. His lips quivered in a nervous chuckle. Everyone now focused on that man who remained in the middle of the coach, tall and stooping like the bearer of a baroque float. Dalmau, on his side, was struggling to keep on his feet as the coach juddered up and down: he held himself erect by holding tight to the mullions of a window with both hands. Verdaguer soon lost his presence of mind. He chewed his mustache and screwed up his face: it lengthened, shrunk, furrowed or flattened out as his feelings ebbed and eddied.

“Verdaguer!” Riera said brusquely. “I must ask you a second time: will you please get up from your seat?”

“Who? Me? Why?” answered Verdaguer in a mock polite tone, giving the impression that he’d been taken by surprise, and mechanically taking off his hat.

“Yes, sir, I’m addressing you, you parasite …” Riera rasped harshly.

Don Natali’s nostrils and lips quivered. His pale perspiring face turned the color of chlorine and his body twitched for a moment. His left eye shut, something that happened when he was in a state, and his right sought out a friendly face among those present that might encourage him to formulate a worthy riposte. His open eye reviewed the others, to no avail. He found no succor, only indifference. So he didn’t say a word. Not a single one.

When he began to make an effort to stand straight — not without difficulty — his legs tottered, sweat poured down his cheeks and his head seemed on fire.

Now that Riera had them both on their feet, he howled with sardonic, rude laughter. Ferrer displayed a set of cheerful, off-white teeth. Out of it, as ever, Sr Tomeu lowered his head mournfully. The Swiss remained absolutely deadpan.

With three erect bodies, that amalgam of human flesh in the scant light from the street — we were going up the Ronda de Sant Pau — must have seemed a very odd, chaotic mess. Ferrer then redistributed the small amount of wool in the cushion along the edge of the seat. It was a labor on behalf of equality. They sat down again, however, a moment before the carriage had lurched violently when a wheel dipped into a tramline and it caught Sr Dalmau in time to bang his head hard against the charabanc ceiling and see stars. From the look on Riera’s face as he sat down, it was evident he wasn’t satisfied with his victory.

Bramson offered him his cigar case. Verdaguer said nervously: “Yes, thank you, a cigarette …”

There was a lull. The vibrations of the coach drowned the noise of the match being struck. Riera took advantage of the phosphorous glow to glance at Verdaguer’s corner. Eyes half closed, Don Natali was leaning back and inhaling furiously. Now and then a wisp of smoke emerged from his nostrils. There was a stunned silence inside the carriage. Nevertheless, all of a sudden, Sr Riera rasped abruptly: “Ferrer!”

“The floor is yours, Sr Riera …”

“Look! We must speak frankly once and for all … I intend making the most of the fact we are all gathered here to speak my mind: this cannot continue a single day more … I cannot stand these fellows!”

“But, Riera, perhaps …”

Riera puffed his chest out and, leaning his face provocatively into Verdaguer’s, rattled on in the same tone of voice: “We must know where we stand! We must tell Sra Paradís what we think! Right away! Decisions must … It’s urgent!”

“Riera, calm down, for God’s sake!” Ferrer replied nervously. “We will broach their position. Perhaps now isn’t the time. We must proceed calmly. These matters are very delicate, as you yourself are aware …”

“Know what I think, Ferrer? Your mincing and mollycoddling will get us absolutely nowhere.”

“And why will it get us nowhere?” asked Sr Ferrer indignantly.

“Because it won’t! It won’t get us anywhere …”

The conversation dried up. Neither Sr Dalmau nor Don Natali tried to utter the slightest whimper of protest. They had shrunk, their bodies seemed to shrivel. Light from successive streetlamps illuminated the inside of the carriage for a moment. Nobody uttered another word.

The charabanc reached the Plaça de la Universitat and turned up Aribau as far as Consell de Cent. When we reached the corner of this street, it turned right and the horse went as far as one of the houses behind the Seminary, on the third floor of which Sra Paradís ran her boarding house.

The day after, Riera summoned the Swiss lodgers Bramson and Pickel, Sr Ferrer, and me to his bedroom at 11 P.M. At that hour, Sra Paradís was snoozing in her wicker rocking chair in the gallery, while the cat and Murillo, lying at her feet on a tiny thin carpet, digested their food which, as with the lodgers, was hardly an onerous task.