Mercè Rodoreda - The Selected Stories

“They count them carefully: six for you, six for me. I’m certain everyone eating dinner counts the asparagus they’re served. Six. The same number of years you and I. .”

A train whistled. You could hear the sound of hammering on wheels mixed with the station boys’ cries and the noise of the loud speakers announcing departures.

“Oh, oh! The glass. .”

It had been knocked over while he was reaching for a slice of bread from the little basket. Beer spilled over the paper that served as a tablecloth, spread to the edge of the table, and began to drip onto the floor.

“Move the suitcase!”

“Fortunately I didn’t break the glass.”

A tall, thin gentleman entered, wearing a raincoat the color of café amb llet. With a glance he surveyed the entire room, took a watch out of his vest pocket, checked it against the clock on the wall, and walked slowly away.

They continued to eat the hake. They ate mechanically: neither of them was hungry.

“When I think about you leaving with no money. . I’ll be worried about you.”

A black cat had just wandered by and the dog let out a few barks and started to chase it under the tables. A gentleman who was dining alone, a little further away, turned red, protesting with an air of great dignity.

“Better not to think about it. Ah. .! That reminds me: I forgot to tell you I left your ironed shirts on the top shelf of the armoire, the socks in the right-hand drawer, where we kept the aspirin and the electric bills. . Don’t you like the mayonnaise?”

“Yes. .”

“Then why don’t you eat it?”

“I mean. . I don’t like it much.”

The gentleman in the raincoat entered again, carrying two large suitcases. He crossed the room and sat down at the table where the lady in the hat with the pheasant feather had been earlier.

The waitress took the plates away.

“Grapes for me. And you?”

“Grapes.”

“Grapes for both of us.”

The waitress went over to the man in the raincoat, set the tray full of plates down on the table, and wrote the order in her notebook. A man and a woman entered. The man had one eye covered with a black cloth and was carrying a guitar. He started to sing with a hoarse, weary voice. From time to time he brushed the strings with his fingertips.

“I thought that was against the law.”

“What?”

“That. Begging. Do you want to smoke?”

He handed her a cigarette. He took another and put it between his lips. The cigarette shook. He lit a match and the flame shook also.

“The last two I have. I gave you the whole one. Mine has a little hole.”

“Shall we swap?”

“Oh, I’ll just cover it with my finger.”

The large hand of the clock moved and jumped a minute. The waitress brought the grapes and then served the gentleman in the raincoat a bowl of soup. At the same time she served him the plate of hake, with the lettuce leaves, the asparagus, and the mayonnaise.

“Let’s see if he counts them.”

They began to eat the grapes one by one, smoking from time to time. All of a sudden they laughed. The gentleman in the raincoat had put on his glasses: first he examined what was in the bowl, then he took his fork and calmly separated the asparagus, moving his lips slightly.

“Are you cold?”

“No. .”

“You looked like you were shaking.”

“Really?”

Through the window you could see the branches of a plane tree shining in the light from a street lamp. The leaves were yellow and shook gently in the early autumn wind.

“The leaves are already yellow. Did you notice?”

“But it’s still not a bit cold.”

“Perhaps I’d better start getting ready. Why don’t you ask for the check?”

She took a tube of lipstick and some powder out of her purse. She painted her lips, spreading the lipstick with her tongue, and powdered her face. In the mirror her eyes were hard, expressionless, still a bit congested. Suddenly she felt an infinite weariness.

The man with the guitar approached them and held out his hand. A dark hand, large, with long fingers. He gave the man a coin.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t linger.”

She didn’t answer him. A hand like his, the man asking for charity, began to tighten around her throat gently, gently.

“Do you want me to walk you to the platform?”

No, she couldn’t answer. It was as if she were choking. The hand was tightening around her throat. It was painful in two or three places.

“Do you know which platform it is? I’m afraid you might get lost. .”

The gentleman in the raincoat had opened a suitcase and had taken out a bottle of wine. He poured some into the glass and started to drink slowly. He had eaten the asparagus, stems and all.

He called to the waitress.

“I’m sorry, really sorry. I think without me you’ll find yourself. .”

It was starting to pass. The hand wasn’t so tight now. She was even able to say:

“I’ve always liked traveling by train. . I loved it as a child. . Did I ever tell you that once. .? Oh, there’s no point in my telling you now.”

The waitress brought them the check. They paid. She picked up the suitcase.

When they were at the door of the restaurant, she told him: “Don’t come. It’s better. Do you hear me? Don’t come.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. Again she felt her throat tightening.

He took her by the arm: “Don’t you think we could. . don’t you. .”

He started to kiss her. She turned her face. He felt her whole body stiffen, and he released her arm.

“Good-Bye.”

From a distance he saw her hand the ticket to the control officer. “I won’t see her again,” he thought, “ever again.”

“Excuse me.”

The man with the guitar wanted to get by. The woman was behind him. She was short and plump, wearing a soiled black dress, very shiny.

He let them through and went out to the street.

“Hush, little thing, hush.”

She set her dirty old purse on the grass. The metal glaze that covered the clasp had started to flake off, leaving her fingers smelling of nickel. She rubbed them on the edge of her jacket as she unbuttoned her blouse with one hand. Her sagging breasts were pale and lined with dark blue veins. The baby began sucking hungrily, then slowly closed her eyes; when she opened them again, they had a steady, vacant look. A drop of milk trickled from her mouth.

The girl stood motionless, gazing at the river. The wind droned as it whipped through the iron rods of the high bridge, creating ripples on the water, swirling her skirt, playing with the grass. The baby choked, let go of the breast, then searched for it again with an uncertain gesture of her head, like a blind, newborn kitten. Her fists had been clenched the entire time, but they gradually opened, like a flower.

The bridge shook. The shadow of a train sped across the water, letting out a long whistle that blended with the sounds of the bridge and the wind. A cloud of thick smoke slowly began to dissipate beneath the bridge, downstream.

She gave an indifferent glance at the man beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach, nor did she know from what direction he came. He stood in the light, and the sun cast a circle of light on his tattered clothes, which were covered in a yellow dust that sifted as he moved. The neck of a bottle protruded from a leather pouch he was carrying and a half-filled sack rested on his back. He had small, blue eyes, and his mustache and beard were very white. The man glanced at the sleeping baby, her head canted, the skin glistening where the milk had trickled.

“Must be hungry.”

The girl didn’t reply but clutched the baby against her chest, to protect it. The man didn’t notice the gesture. With his finger he gently stroked her rosy forehead.