Josep Pla - Life Embitters

“When a woman says to a man: ‘You are un homme fatal ,’ what do these words actually mean?”

“Did someone say that to you?” asked the barber, suddenly looking serious.

“Of course not! Who’d ever have said such a thing to poor old me? No, I’m speaking in general, take my word for it, absolutely in general …”

The barber didn’t reply at once. He looked blank and uneasy. He glanced briefly at Mascarell. Then peered at the glass panes in the entry door … And glanced back at him. He looked to all the world like a man who didn’t know which way to go to avoid putting his foot in it.

“You sure it doesn’t?” he asked finally.

“I told you! Really, I am talking in general terms.”

Sr Giacomo hesitated for a second. There was another long pause, with the corresponding, perplexed looks.

“I’d like to know why you’re asking me such a strange question …” he said staring at Mascarell.

“Oh, for no reason in particular. Simply out of curiosity …”

“If that really is the case, I will say, speaking strictly in general terms, that when a woman tells someone of the opposite sex that he is un homme fatal then it means that he is a moron, an out-and-out moron …”

Mascarell couldn’t stop himself turning slightly pale, but he responded rapidly: “Meaning?”

The Neapolitan panicked for a moment.

“What’s this all about?” he asked, uneasily. “You ask me a question. I give you a clear answer. What do you mean, ‘meaning?’ Are we or are we not speaking in general?”

“In general!” said Mascarell, rather hoarsely. “Absolutely in general. I told you it was simply something that had piqued my curiosity. My question was on the spur of the moment. The second you state your view, I assume that it is well-founded.”

“Don’t doubt that for one moment, I have known many un homme fatal . There are lots in Naples, where I come from. There’s another variety in Marseille. Not mention Paris … If you like, I can introduce you to one: he’s a giovinotto , who has hopes of being nominated an adviser …”

“No need, no need! I’ve never doubted your experience of life, your knowledge … When you say that un homme fatal is a moron …”

“Wait a moment, forgive me!” the barber interjected, sounding alarmed. “I didn’t say that! I said that when a woman says to someone in particular that he is un homme fatal it means …”

“Yes, of course, you are right. Absolutely right. I mangled what you said.”

“Of course! These things require precision, because it’s the tone that gives them their exact meaning. You know I couldn’t care less. As a barber, I couldn’t care less whether the guy whose hair I’m cutting is fatal or not. Now, it’s different with the ladies! When a lady uses these words in relation to a man, one concludes that she does indeed reckon he is a total moron …”

“All right! That’s the third time you’ve said that!” said Mascarell, barely concealing his ruffled feelings.

“Does it bother you?”

“Of course not, sir! You never bother me! In any case, you should clarify one point, if you don’t mind. What do you think drives a woman to say that un homme fatal is a total moron?”

“Hey, wait a minute, who do you take me for? Do you think I write for the papers or am a professor? Please don’t force me to think, I don’t have the right temperament …”

“But you’re so experienced in life itself …”

“Of course, just a little. All of us Italians are experienced in life. If you think about it, it’s all we have.”

“Exactly, that’s why I dared ask you this question. I’d like to draw on your experience …”

“Just slow down, please …! You’re always in such a rush. Now, if you want me to reply to what you just asked, I’ll do so briefly. I can only speak at length about things I’m not familiar with. For a woman, un homme fatal is selfish, boorish, arrogant, infatuated with himself, someone who imagines that other people only live to service him, who won’t let anyone live in peace … Now, what else would you like to hear …?”

At that a customer walked into the hairdresser’s and Sr Giacomo began to offer his usual bows. Mascarell was left standing by himself for a second in the middle of the shop. However, now wasn’t the moment, after repeatedly saying that he couldn’t care less, to show how hurtfully Signor Giacomo’s words had struck home. He hoarsely croaked a goodbye — the connection between the state of one’s soul and one’s vocal chords are very curious — put on his hat, and left.

He entered his hotel oblivious to everything. Monsieur Paul was in reception, as usual, but Mascarell barely noticed him. He seemed very depressed. He slowly went up the stairs. What had really impressed him was the way that Signor Giacomo had echoed almost the identical words Eulàlia had used that night. It would have been absurd to think some sort of conspiracy existed. Mascarell wasn’t that infantile. The very same, identical words! thought Mascarell. He decided that if everyone used the same words it was because everyone thought the same. Unanimity arose from the environment. But the clearer the explanation, the stranger it seemed.

Mascarell left Paris two days later, two disagreeable days later. He thought of the situation obsessively during those last hours. For a time he wondered whether he wasn’t living in an environment that was rejecting him, if not clearly and explicitly, at least quite actively. “Even the churches,” he told himself, “are different!” He felt fantastically foreign and displaced, but it never occurred to him that everything becomes even more impenetrable and remote for a conceited man who says he couldn’t care less. Monsieur Paul thought he looked on edge and depressed and rushed to talk to him. But Mascarell was in no mood to play-act. Monsieur Paul forgot his unremitting pessimism for once and invited him to go to the theater and a cabaret one night. Mascarell declined with silly, pointless excuses the hotel owner thought extremely peculiar. In those, his last hours in Paris, he tried to see Eulàlia. But if he had seen her, thought Mascarell, by now in his sleeper, what might he have said? Perhaps he might have said: “Would you like anything from Barcelona!” That would have been fatuous. He imagined how Eulàlia would have laughed at such a question; he could hear her noisy, rude, unmistakable sarcasm, and a virtual noise that became so loud and obsessive in his mind it completely blocked out the continual juddering and jolting of the express.

It was summertime, there was little doing for a journalist — the month of July is usually Europe’s quietest — so I decided to spend a week in Ostend.

I have a sense that people who visited Ostend after the First World War were deeply disappointed the moment they arrived. Ostend is a gigantic cage, erected in the architectural style of a universal exhibition, with dining rooms and sitting rooms that rejoice in the highest ceilings and mountains of plaster as befits a society constructed on the basis of dovetailing commonplaces and worn-out clichés. The splendiferous size of the edifices seemed to express an optimistic belief in the indefinite growth of the bourgeoisie: they were sizes to suit people who are taller and bigger than normal. Everything seemed a loose fit, perhaps because the cage was too big for its birds.

The Hotel Excelsior gave me a room with sea views, and, as the hotel was excellently situated, there was a wonderful panorama from my balcony. At bathing time, especially, the spectacle was truly stirring and varied. A sulfurous yellow that turned a damp gray when the sun went behind a cloud, the beach was home to every kind of human beast, male and female, dry and wet, young and old. It was a particularly strange ambience because of the preposterous airs people gave themselves. It was an endearing scenario.