Mercè Rodoreda - The Selected Stories

We sat down without saying anything; the room smelled like disinfectant. First they showed a news reel: a girl skated, then there were lots of bicycles and then four or five men seated around a table. At that point he started to whistle and stomp his feet like he was crazy. The man in front of us turned around and they argued till it was over. After that there was a movie with puppets I didn’t like at all: there were all these talking cows. At intermission we went to the bar and drank a Pampre d’Or and he ran into a friend who asked him if he had any Nylons and packs of Camels and he answered he’d have some next week because he was going to Le Havre. I worry a lot when he’s away because even if I don’t say it I’m always afraid they’ll catch him and handcuff him.

On account of the black market we missed the first part and when we were about to sit down everyone complained because the wooden soles on my shoes make a lot of noise even if I walk slowly. The couple in the movie was really in love. I can see we’re not in love like that. There was a woman spy and a soldier and at the end they were both shot. Movies are lovely because if the ones in love are miserable then you suffer a bit but you think everything will turn out for the best, but when I’m miserable I never know if things will end well. And if sometimes things end badly, like today, everybody’s sad, thinking what a pity. The days I’m really desperate it’s worse, because no one knows. And if they knew, they’d laugh. When the saddest part came, he put his arm around my shoulder and then we weren’t upset any more. I told him, “Don’t go to Le Havre this week,” and the lady behind us said, “Shhhh.”

Now that I’ve read what I just wrote, I can see this isn’t exactly what I wanted to say. This always happens to me: I explain things that at the time seem important and later I see they aren’t at all. For example, all that about the blue thread I couldn’t find last night. And then, if anyone were to read this diary they’d say I think Ramon doesn’t love me and I do think he loves me even though it seems like he only thinks about buying and selling a lot of junk. But this still isn’t exactly what I wanted to say. What I’d like to be able to explain is, even though I’m almost always sad, down deep I’m happy. If anyone reads this, they’ll really laugh. I know I’m a bit naïve and Papà always tells me Ramon’s a fool, and finally that’s what makes me saddest because I think the two of us will be miserable. But, really. .

“Here you are, which do you want: lemon-yellow or rose-pink?”

He had bought two ice creams, and he was offering them to her with a sad look on his face. The woman at the cart pocketed the money he had just handed her and was already serving other customers, all the while calling out: “Best ice cream in town.”

It was always the same: As the moment of parting approached, it seemed as if a bucket of sadness was being poured over him, and he would hardly utter a word during the time they had left together.

As the long afternoon was just beginning to unfold before them, he had sat beside her in the park, beneath the whispering trees and the splendor of the sun, happy and communicative. The band played the Lohengrin prelude, and they listened to it religiously, hand in hand. The ducks and a pair of straight-necked swans floated, as if made of plastic, across the blue-crystal lake. The men, women, and children seemed like walking, smiling figurines that were moved by some delicate mechanism in an artificial landscape made for real men.

As the sun began to set, they sat on a green bench beneath the damp shade of a linden tree, and filled with a mixture of shyness and emotion, he presented the engagement ring to her: a small diamond with a clearly visible imperfection. “Swear to me you’ll never take it off.” She spread her fingers to look at it, stretched her arm out, and turned her hand from side to side. With secret regret she thought about her hand only a moment before, without a ring, nimble and free. Her eyes welled up.

They left the park and were walking arm in arm, toward the entrance to the metro.

“Here, take the rose.”

She took it and felt her legs grow weak. They walked a few steps. “Rose, rose. .” Suddenly she trembled and a blush swept over her, all the way up to her hairline.

“Oh, the ice cream.” She had let it drop on purpose to hide her agitation.

“Want me to buy you another one?”

“No.”

Rose, rose. . please, don’t let him notice. Why are you eating the roses? And now we’ll get married, and I’ll have to burn the letters. All of them, even the one from February 15th. If I could only keep it, together with the dried roses. Are you eating the roses? I was holding a bouquet, and he was kissing me as we laughed and walked along. He held me by the waist. His hat was tilted to the side and his eyes shone. I was eating a rose leaf. If you keep eating rose leaves, you’ll turn into a rose. That night I dreamed I was born from an old vine that hugged the wall, and little by little I opened out into petals of blood. He grabbed my arm furiously: Throw the roses away, throw them away. I looked at him with half-closed eyes and kept on chewing the rose leaf. My love. When I climbed the stairs I knew where I was, where I was going, and why. An old man opened the door and stepped back to let us inside. No, that dark room with the faded screen and frayed rug gave off no particular smell. It was sordid and sad. Don’t be afraid. When I opened my eyes I saw his jacket on the back of the chair and his tie on top, green with red stripes. You don’t seem to recall that we have to deliver the violets. The workshop manager scolded me the following day when I was late. I used a wire to string the purple leaves together. How tight he held me! I got a bruise on my arm and had to wear a blouse with long sleeves. When I come back we’ll get married , the first letter said. Do you still eat rose petals? I’ll have to burn them all, as well as the cretonne-lined box. And this ring that hurts my finger. He hasn’t written me in two years, two years with no news. Married? Maybe dead. And if he came back, I’d do the same. . The morning I cried so, the concierge brought the milk up to me: That’s life, and you can thank your lucky stars he didn’t leave you a souvenir. Seventeen letters, seventeen letters I waited for deliriously, sick with so much waiting. Why are you eating the roses?

“What are you thinking?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“Taxi! Taxi!”

A car drove by the girl without stopping. It was one o’clock in the morning, and she was standing on the deserted garden-lined Avinguda del Tibidabo. The only lights still lit shone from the house she had just left. Through the curtains you could see the shadows of people dancing.

“The taxi stand’s further down,” a young fellow told her as he walked past.

“Where?”

“Right by the tram stop.”

The fellow gave the girl a puzzled glance. She was wearing a long, silken cape down to her feet, quite wide but lightweight. She had a shiny star on her forehead. And a mask. The March wind sent ripples through the folds in the cape. Her hair blew to one side.

“And where exactly is the tram stop?” she asked, wondering what his disguise was. The white wig was curious, with its tail curling upward at the neck. The socks were white too, the tight trousers red satin. The frock coat was a shade of beige. Some large cardboard scissors hung from his waist.

“Would you like for me to accompany you? I’m heading that way.”