Josep Pla - Life Embitters

Mascarell withdrew too, agitated and fraught, convinced he’d been acting like a complete fool for the last three or four hours.

What Eulàlia had said — that he was un homme fatal — had lodged painfully in his brain. He thought it was the most cutting barb in all that Eulàlia had said. He tried to decide what un homme fatal might be, but couldn’t get any clarity at all, in view of which he decided to find out.

A few days later — it was dusk, and so mild and pleasant — Mascarell was strolling through Le Jardin du Luxembourg, on the Rue d’Assas side, and when he was close to the statue of Sainte-Beuve he spotted Eulàlia in the company of a foreign-looking man. And once he’d set his eyes on her, he made the mistake of loitering around hoping to find out more — and so obviously — that it was inevitable they would see each other. Eulàlia seemed very cheerful: she was laughing and talking loudly, sometimes took the arm of the person accompanying her, and was being wonderfully vivacious.

The gentleman by her side seemed rather perplexed. Perhaps he felt the young lady’s gestures were too flamboyant. At any rate, he kept looking fearfully to his left and right as if he was worried about being seen. He’d have probably acted quite differently if they’d been indoors.

Their paths crossed. When Eulàlia saw Mascarell she blanched slightly, bit her lip, tensed her whole body, but said nothing. Perhaps she’d just remembered what she’d repeatedly said that evening to Mascarell about interfering.

The gentleman accompanying her turned out to be a friend and acquaintance of the latter: it was Sr Tallada, from the Rambla de Catalunya, who ran a large outfitter’s concern and came to Paris every year. When Tallada saw Mascarell — they went to the same casino — he blinked for a moment and was briefly at a loss about what to do next. A second later he yanked his arm away from Eulàlia and shook Mascarell’s hand but without his usual noisy bonhomie. The latter seemed very pleased.

“Good heavens, Mascarell,” said Tallada. “I didn’t know you were in Paris.”

“Well, here I am …”

“Do you know Srta Fanny? We met in the Café de la Paix and she’s been so kind as to keep me company for a while.”

“Yes indeed, I do know her. How are you, senyoreta?”

Eulàlia shook hands but said nothing. That fellow’s appearance seemed to have changed her completely. She must have been aware of the transformation, because she made a visible effort to hide her sudden deflation. She acted as if she couldn’t care less about Mascarell, as if she felt contempt for him.

They spent a long time walking around the park chattering about nothing in particular. They observed the Palais du Sénat at great length that looked wonderful at twilight and left through la Porte de l’Odéon. They then walked as far as the Panthéon tavern that was almost on the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Michel and the Rue Soufflot. The big bulk of the Panthéon, its stone a light chamois tone, loomed at the end of this street.

“What’s that?” Tallada asked the young lady.

“It’s the Panthéon …”

Tallada put on the most admiring expression he could manage, took a couple of steps so he had a better view of the building and then said, with an air of great conviction, “You know, it is rather nice, isn’t it?”

If Eulàlia hadn’t been so downcast, she’d have burst out laughing at Tallada’s comment. All the same, she found his remark reeked of Barcelona.

When they reached the tavern door, Eulàlia assumed that Mascarell would take his leave, but not so. Mascarell stayed on. He seemed increasingly interested in what Tallada had to say. Eulàlia assumed that his interest was simply a pretext to annoy her, to justify a presence she found deeply wearisome.

They took a table inside and ordered aperitifs. It wasn’t crowded. They were playing a cloying sentimental ballad.

“That music is so lovely …” said Tallada, looking intense.

Eulàlia thought it was time to send Mascarell packing. She placed her head on Sr Tallada’s chest, in step with the melody, in an admirably French gesture. Mascarell averted his gaze and Tallada was choked and turned a bright red. Eulàlia concluded that Sr Tallada’s small-mindedness had ruined her ploy. It would be difficult to get rid of Mascarell. Eulàlia thought how un homme fatal has never been characterized by a keen sense of his own foolishness.

Shortly after, Tallada glanced at his watch and got up. Mascarell did likewise. While the former was settling the bill with the waiter, he spoke to Eulàlia, smiling rather sadly: “Fine. Duty is duty, Fanny. We’ll meet, as agreed, at half past eight, right here. If you like, we can go to the casino.”

“That’s a wonderful suggestion!” replied Eulàlia, smiling, but with rather despondent eyes.

Tallada and Mascarell departed, leaving Eulàlia alone with the empty aperitif glasses. A few moments later, she walked off in the direction of the hotel, looking visibly down.

At eight o’clock that evening two express messages were delivered to reception. One was for Fanny; the other for Mascarell. The chambermaid took them up to their respective rooms. Both were from Sr Tallada.

The first said:

Fanny: a telegram was waiting for me at the hotel. I must leave. My elder son is ill in bed. I’m very worried. I’ll be back next month, God willing. I’ll let you know. Think of me. T .

The one for Mascarell was somewhat longer.

Dear friend: I can admit this to you, Mascarell. Chance always seems to catch me one way or another and my first thought was how to make my escape. However farcical, my monogamy is definitive and rock-hard. I’ll bring greetings from you to our mutual friend Camps Margarit. Be discreet and see it in a good light. I’m leaving tonight. May Paris do you good! Enjoy yourself! Tallada .

Eulàlia knew that could be the only conclusion and thus read the message quite casually. For her it was past history. In respect to Mascarell, she felt burning rancor. On their way back from dinner that night, she’d said he was un homme fatal , but had said so with no hidden agenda, simply because she thought he was basically a fool. That was no longer the case: she now thought he truly was un homme fatal , that is, a boor who wouldn’t let anyone live in peace. The type of man Eulàlia hated most.

The next day they met in the hotel reception and Mascarell acted with his usual lack of tact, or with his customary boorishness.

“Did you receive anything, Eulàlia?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“Read this.”

And he handed her the express message from Tallada. Eulàlia laughed at his weird behavior but couldn’t be bothered to take the piece of paper. Mascarell stood there a while offering her the blue piece of paper and looking a complete idiot.

“Is this how you treat me now, Eulàlia?”

“Go away, you fool! Don’t waste any more of my time!”

However, she later felt she might have overstepped the mark.

Mascarell used to go to a barber shop on the Boulevard Montparnasse, two or three doors down from the hotel. He was very fussy about his hair and worried about its appearance down to the last detail. His head was so soigné , his hair clung to his head so unanimously (even though he didn’t use any grease), his cut was so immaculate, that when he gazed at himself, his eyes bulged out of their sockets, (a throwback to his rural forebears), and his head looked more like a model in the hairdresser’s window than a live human appendage.

It was an Italian hairdresser’s and had next-to-no French customers. The French have always required their hairdressers to be lugubrious and silent, in a stiff academic atmosphere. And that hairdresser’s was what we would vulgarly call a stewpot. When the artists in the quartier discovered the place had no French customers — when the exodus of artists from Montmartre on the other side of the river had begun towards Montparnasse — they flooded there. This new clientele obviously didn’t pursue normal, mechanical routines, because a visit to the barbers is for most people a mechanical reflex act. The artists went there when they had a little spare cash — a rare occurrence — and especially when they had nothing else to do. In any case, that gang of maniacs and half-crazed hobos suited the place down to the ground.