Mercè Rodoreda - The Selected Stories

“You want me to get you some?”

She turned toward him, her hands together, imploring.

“Would you? That would make me very happy.”

He attached the scissors to the strap and jumped effortlessly over the gate. He walked across the grass without making a sound. But then the grass ended and the path began. The sand grated beneath his feet. He didn’t hear the wind, only the sand. He tiptoed, but the sand seemed to make more noise. He stepped back onto the grass, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The white flowers lay before him. He picked some, wrapping them in his handkerchief. Slowly he retreated, his heart pounding. The champagne, his pulsing blood, his fear — all of it left him in a daze.

“Did you get it?” she called impatiently from the street.

Suddenly, right by the boy a dog began barking furiously. You could hear the noise of the chain rattling as it grew taut, the dog pulling violently on it.

He threw the handkerchief with the flowers to the other side and climbed quickly over the gate. Just as he was about to jump to the street he was startled by the feeling of the back of his trousers splitting.

“My trousers,” he managed to say.

“Did they rip?”

“Pretty badly, I think, but we need to hurry before someone comes out of the house.”

He picked up the handkerchief with the flowers and they set off running.

“Let me see your trousers.”

There was a huge tear at the back of his left thigh.

“There’s quite a hole, but it can be sewed,” she said.

“I know, but they’re rented.”

He said it with a dry tone, making an effort to conceal his sudden irritation. It had only lasted a second.

•

There were no taxis when they reached the tram stop.

“Not a good night for catching a taxi. Especially up here.”

They stood for a while under a streetlight and he could look at her calmly. She was blonde, with very dark skin, well-defined lips — the lower jutted out a bit — her chin gently round with a dimple in the middle. Behind her mask he could see her tiny black eyes gleaming.

“I still haven’t looked at the gardenias, or thanked you.”

She gently removed a flower from the handkerchief, but as she was about to smell it, she said with a surprise, “What kind of flowers did you pick?”

“The ones by the tree.”

“These aren’t gardenias. They have no scent at all.”

She glanced at the unfamiliar flower with an obvious expression of disappointment.

“Don’t give it another thought. If you don’t like them, toss them away.”

Without realizing, he’d used the familiar “tu.” He liked her, standing there absorbed in thought. He would have forgotten about the trousers had it not been for the cold wind that blew through the hole, bothering him.

“Now that I think of it, I’d have been surprised it they were gardenias. What month is it?” she asked in disappointment.

“The beginning of March.”

“And gardenias bloom in the summer, for Saint Joan’s feast day. It doesn’t matter, I’m just sorry about your trousers. I wish I knew the name of these flowers.” She again sniffed the flower, making him do the same. “What do they smell like? Doesn’t it remind you of something? Such a faint scent, almost nonexistent, but it reminds me vaguely of elderberry flowers. You see? Without giving it a thought I’ve discovered what they smelled of. What if they were begonias?”

“They’re smaller. I mean larger. I mean gardenias are smaller.”

“Maybe they’re stunted begonias.”

“They’re probably camellias.” Both had started playing the game.

“Camellias? No, I’d recognize a camellia anywhere. These, I can assure you, are mysterious flowers. Flowers that bloom on the night of Carnival.”

She wrapped the flowers back in the handkerchief and stood there, pensive. He was glad she hadn’t thrown them away, and felt an irresistible desire to kiss her. But he thought, I’m a man , and with a protective tone he said, “There are no taxis, which means we can only do one of two things: wait till the sun comes out, if necessary, or walk. I’ll accompany you to the end of the world.”

They heard a car approaching, coming from Passeig de la Bonanova. When it got closer they could see the inside of it lit up, full of people. It drove right by them. The people were shouting and laughing. The man seated beside the driver, wearing a feather hat, threw them a handful of confetti.

“It’s probably better if we don’t wait. Let’s walk,” she said, adding, “but I live a good ways from here.”

“How far?”

“Consell de Cent.”

“Why don’t we walk down Balmes? There’s always the chance we’ll find a taxi.”

Let’s hope we don’t find one . He took her arm happily to help her across the street.

Barcelona lay below them, gleaming with a reddish halo that blazed across the sky, creating a magical arch of light. To the left, the lights on the top of the Putxet gleamed, but the houses sheltered on the side of the mountain had their windows closed. If the wind stopped blowing for an instant, their sole companions were the silence and the night.

•

They walked for a long while without speaking. She was the first to say something.

“What are you disguised as?”

“A tailor.”

“A tailor?” she laughed. “If you hadn’t told me. .”

“Louis XV’s Jewish tailor,” he stated, sure of himself.

Then he began to explain that he was studying Greek and composed poetry, was writing a book, “Persephone’s smile,” and he’d spent the afternoon at the Carnival parade and was just returning from a party.

“When I finish my studies, I’ll travel. I want to know the world. I’ll leave without a penny in my pocket. Maybe I’ll get myself hired as a stoker. Poets here all tend to die in bed surrounded by family, and the newspaper prints their dying words, describing the force of their last breath, the whole bit. I want to die alone, with my boots on, face down, an arrow in my back.”

Until now she had led the conversation; she began to grow impatient with his outburst of eloquence.

“Ai!” she exclaimed suddenly, her hand on her chest as if her heart wanted to take flight.

“What’s the matter?”

She took a moment to respond.

“Nothing, my heart. I was just dizzy all of a sudden.”

He looked at her in alarm, not knowing what to say, whether he should hold her, let her go. She sighed deeply and ran her hand across her forehead.

“I’m all right now, it’s starting to pass. I have a weak heart. It must be the kind of life I lead.”

“What does your family say about it?”

“It doesn’t seem to worry them.”

“You should lead a healthier life. Fresh air, exercise, get to bed early.”

“I know the story: lots of fish and vegetables.”

“No,” he responded, a bit disconcerted. “That’s not what I mean. I mean to love more honestly.”

“And die of boredom. No thanks. I decided long ago the kind of life I wanted. I plan only to pick the flowers, as my concierge would put it,” she said, lowering her voice and shooting him a quick, amused look.

He was strolling, staring at the ground, distracted, and hadn’t noticed she had looked at him. He raised his head with a certain regret, “And make a terrible mistake.”

“A mistake? Oh, I don’t want to get married, if that’s what you’re thinking. When I’m fifty and look back on my life, evaluate it, I’m convinced that I’ll be pleased with the results. At least I’ll have had love, dreams, kind words. I’ll have avoided — as we do a puddle on a rainy day — everything that was tedious and vulgar.”

“Even so, old age without children—”