Josep Pla - Life Embitters

“So, Sr Ferrer, what do you intend to do?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. I do think that you are right; but, on the other hand, I think the matter is too delicate to make decisions too quickly or lightly … I think it’s better not to jump in at the deep end … At my age, Sr Riera, everything causes stress. In fact, one can only conclude that changes bring little in the way of benefit … Besides, Riera my friend, I’d like to be absolutely frank. You deserve some straight-talking. As you know, Sr Riera, I am an understanding kind of fellow. Very understanding, don’t doubt that. You’ve heard me say as much a thousand times at the dining table and everywhere. Well, I think I understand a few sides to the life of Sra Paradís (I said a few , just to be clear) or at least I think I’m in a position to understand … What can we do, Sr Riera? Women will be women …”

Riera’s glared furiously in Ferrer’s direction and cut him short in mid-sentence.

“I had taken it for granted, Sr Ferrer,” Riera drawled frostily, “that you were small-minded and permanently unstable. However, forgive me if I say this: I would never have thought you could have stooped so low …”

“Please let it drop, Sr Riera …” Ferrer riposted. “I can see you’re not interested in what I have to say. Nothing much we can do about that! Tomorrow is another day. Sleep well, good night.”

And, jumping up from his chair, he very gingerly opened the door, shutting it a bit harder.

It was a struggle to wake up Boada. When I left the room, helping the future pharmacist on his way, Sr Riera still stood in the middle of his room, looking rather manically at the small carpet that lay parallel to his bed.

Two or three days after these scenes of everyday life, Sr Verdaguer, who was strolling along the central Rambla decided — as he often did — to go into the Cafè Orient. He crossed the large room that looks over the Rambla, turned down some stairs and entered the basement. Those large, rather dark, low-ceilinged places were very animated. A big throng bustled in the fug, the noise of cues, billiard balls, dominoes, drinking glasses, and cups made a real racket. The beige of the billiard tables, fully spotlighted, took on a spectral hue in the murk. At the back was a tiny room for playing tresillo .

Don Natali Verdaguer glanced across this last room — where the smoke levels were considerable — and spotted Sr Riera among the crowd. Riera was snooping behind a tresillo table. He seemed fascinated by the cards being played. He was taken aback to hear someone say: “So we’re on the snoop, are we, Sr Riera?” When he looked up and saw Sr Verdaguer, he was even more astonished. After the scenes in the charabanc he had concluded that Verdaguer would never speak to him again. It was time to decide one way or the other: send him packing or start a conversation. An internal — almost wholly unconscious — mechanism made him opt to converse. When one scrutinizes the way men act, it soon becomes clear that psychological rationalism doesn’t work systematically. Almost all our passions — self-esteem, sense of the absurd, or inertia — get in the way or derail it.

“Yes, senyor,” said Riera, “a little idle snooping …” There are two things that really excite me: the theater … and tresillo … tresillo , I mean, simply watching people play.”

The former tobacconist exhaled light blue smoke through his nostrils.

“By the way, Sr Riera,” said Verdaguer acting shyly, “I’d appreciate a couple of words …”

“Yes, of course, senyor, there’s a table right here …”

As it was a smallish space, they sat at the adjacent table — almost next to the card players. If the spot lacked anything it was privacy.

Sr Verdaguer was perfectly aware of the intrigue Riera had tried to set in motion in his room a few days ago with Ferrer, the students, and the Swiss. He probably also knew that it had all turned out badly for him.

“Sr Riera,” began Verdaguer, “I like your kind of man. You act as you speak. You’re not a hypocrite. When you dislike something, you say so straight out …”

Sr Riera, who had anticipated a very different tone at the start of this conversation — he was expecting a short, sharp attack — felt a sense of relief. He was absolutely repelled by this man, but not enough to refuse contact with him outright. Immediately he felt deflated. He was reacting much more sincerely — above all much more politely — than he could ever have imagined.

“As you know the state of play,” he said, “let me fill you in on the detail. I’ve decided that Bramson and that other Swiss fellow are a couple of jokers; they are peculiar, and quite beyond the pale. The students are a dead loss, pure lightweights … Ferrer is something else: that man is bad news …”

“Good heavens!” said Verdaguer. “Ferrer is mad about Sra Paradís, the lady has put a spell on him …”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, hardly a spell. In any case, I thought you were the one Sra Paradís had bewitched …”

“I …” said Verdaguer, rolling the whites of his eyes and circumflexing his eyebrows.

“Yes, senyor, you … Besides … I have proof of what I say …”

“You’ve got it wrong. In any case, your information is out of date …”

“I’m sorry, Verdaguer! My sources are impeccable. You’re now telling me it’s not true … Very well! But you must understand — and this hardly needs saying — that I doubt your sincerity, I hope you will furnish proof of what you’ve just said …”

“Of course, all the proof you want …” said Verdaguer, rising to the bait, “our boarding house, like all such places, has its mysteries, and you’ve not heard the latest.”

“Now that I’m with you, we have a new ingredient: the presence of Don Martí Dalmau …”

“Precisely! But forgive me, what can you tell me about Don Martí Dalmau? Sr Riera, you don’t know the half of it, where he’s concerned. In the first place you should know that this gentleman we call Don Martí Dalmau is an absolutely mysterious character. People sometimes knock on the door, ask after him and call him Sr González or Sr Dalmau, and others use names I’d rather not recall. In my opinion, Sr Riera, this is intolerable. Who is this man? In my opinion, people should be transparent, yes, above all transparent … How do you expect me to live in a house with people like him, even contributing to his upkeep like a complete nitwit? Because you should know, Sr Riera, that this kind of situation affects all of us, every last one of us, even that poor fool Sr Tomeu … You get my gist, Sr Riera?”

At this point in his harangue Verdaguer’s voice was swallowed up by a tremendous hue and cry — terrible shouts, violent gesticulating — from the card-players nearby. Riera, who was listening to Verdaguer, smirking smugly, sitting comfortably, gazing dreamily at the smoke spiraling from his cigarette, was reluctantly aroused from his modest level of human bliss. When the din died down — a din sparked by one of the gamblers who had lost his temper — Verdaguer returned to the chase, even more vehemently: “Dalmau or González, or whoever,” he went on, “was born here in Barcelona, but has lived in Venezuela or Colombia for years, I don’t know exactly where …”

“What’s that? In Colombia, you don’t say?” said Riera looking up, closing his eyes with a voluptuous shudder.

“Yes, in Colombia. Do you find that odd?”

“Only, you know, I had a friend, Conxita, who came from Colombia …”

“And which Conxita was that?”

“ The Conxita, naturally, the one and only! Now that was a real woman, my dear Verdaguer! She was passionate and unassuming at the same time! What a contrast! She was such a classy dame, dear Verdaguer …”