Josep Maria de Sagarra - Private Life

Once married, Conxa — who was still what one might call a child — took up her place at the forefront of the women of Barcelona with the greatest success in attracting yearning glances and sighs. La Senyora Mates produced an effect of original and disconcerting elegance that only she could carry off. Other women tried to imitate her, but they could never find the right balance, nor did they possess Conxa’s skin, that exotic and irreplaceable accessory that could achieve whatever Conxa wished to achieve.

When the most sought-after stylists wanted to fob off some overpriced hat on a customer, they would claim it was a model that la Senyora Mates had chosen, and put aside, for one of those reasons stylists could always come up with. This happened everywhere: “We’re making one just like it for la Senyora Mates,” “La Senyora Mates has just ordered three.” “La Senyora Mates is on her way in to try it on.”

It goes without saying that Conxa had been besieged by the crème de la crème of lady-killers, living as she did in the midst of a corps of sweet panthers who saw no incompatibility between the sacrament of matrimony and the existence of a gigolo, or even of a gentleman who at some point might pick up some little tab. But despite the approaches of some and the fabrications of others, no one had gotten anywhere with her. This was odd, because it would have seemed natural that a woman who had been the stuff of legend when she was single might have continued to be the source of stories once married to a man who wasn’t exactly a head-turner. Sad as it may have been for some, the Mates’s seemed united, as if by some anatomical mystery, like Siamese twins. There was not a woman in Barcelona who spoke more glowingly of her husband or affected more constancy to the vows she had taken, and, moreover, behaved accordingly. Conxa had given up golf because her husband’s occupations didn’t allow him to accompany her. She had given up a great many things, and she put up with being criticized for it and taken for a fool by the other married ladies.

Conxa’s attitude was all the more rare in the world she lived in and all that much more opposed to the modern conception of “elegance” when you took into account that her marriage had produced no children, and the maternal tasks that justify so many things could not be adduced in her defense. What no few mature men, devotees of the current market value of adultery, asked themselves was this: “What the devil does a woman like her see in a wet blanket like Mates?”

That “wet blanket,” the Baró de Falset by the grace of the Dictator — because the Mates clan came from Falset, and he had paid to build some schools in the town, and invited General Primo de Rivera to the inauguration — had a history that didn’t go beyond mediocrity. Antoni Mates was the son of a rag merchant and of a woman who had butchered hens in the Born Market. The ragman had been a member of the inner circle of Planas i Casals, a famous local boss, and the fact that he had paid for the construction of two convents in the exclusive Bonanova district without any ill effects upon his fortune, is a perfectly natural thing, which everyone in Barcelona takes in stride. Antoni Mates was a cotton merchant of the highest order. His father had sent him to England for a few years and, despite his unpromising physical complexion for sport, it was said that he had been a good hockey player. In Barcelona, before the war, he had acquired some notoriety for his bright red bowler hat and for a little black horse he would spur on full speed down the Passeig de Gràcia.

Once married, Antoni Mates left horses and bowler hats behind, and turned into a sweet, dull, reactionary, and extremely religious man. His ragman’s fangs only came out at the office and at the meetings of the infinite boards on which he served. Lacking in political convictions and entirely skeptical about life, he had lain down like a dog before Primo de Rivera’s military Directory. Occasionally, of an afternoon, he would go to the Eqüestre to play bridge, and when he was thirsty he would order a Johnny Walker. These were the only two vaguely British things he still clung to. In contrast, if, on the occasional Sunday he accompanied his wife to the golf course, he would stretch out, bored to tears, and listen to the birds sing.

As he did every morning, the Baró de Falset had risen at eight-thirty. While he was still in the bathtub, oblivious to the spectacle of a body that would not have stood up well in a nudist camp, the servant knocked on the door.

“Senyor Baró, there is a young man here who says he must see you.”

“I don’t receive anyone at this time of day.”

“He says that it is quite urgent. He says it is of great interest to el Senyor Baró …”

“What is this young man’s name?”

“Guillem de Lloberola.”

“Guillem de Lloberola? Oh, yes! All right. See him into the parlor; ask him to be kind enough to wait.”

Twenty minutes later, Antoni Mates and Guillem de Lloberola were exchanging the usual pleasantries. When he heard Guillem’s voice, Antoni Mates had a moment of panic, of horrible panic, which he disguised as best he could. The young man’s voice had reminded him of another voice. Oh, yes, Antoni Mates was familiar with that voice, or another that was practically identical. He remembered having heard it recently, in a feverish, or drunken, or dream-like state, in a moment of sweat, of nervous contortion … an inexcusable moment. But, of course, that was impossible. It was mere chance, one of those idiotic and utterly illogical resemblances that crop up in life. The young man’s air, his physique, also gave the Baró de Falset an uneasy feeling, but he couldn’t pin down the memory. There had been so little light, he had been so beyond himself … No, the cotton merchant had fallen victim to a gratuitous attack of panic. It was impossible, absolutely impossible. Guillem de Lloberola … Guillem de Lloberola … He was perfectly familiar with the name, and the boy’s clothing and demeanor reassured him. All these thoughts had run through his head in under three seconds. The moment of panic had passed.

“I do not have the pleasure of having met el Senyor Baró personally, but I believe you are a very good friend of my brother’s.”

“One of my very best friends, indeed. Don’t you ever go to the Eqüestre? Are you not a bridge player?”

“No, no, sir, I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, I don’t play very often. It is quite a waste of time, and I have a great deal of work! I would be delighted to while away the hours as your brother does. But we working men, you understand … So, tell me, what is it that brings you here? How can I be of assistance?”

“It is precisely about a question affecting my brother that I have come to see you. And it doesn’t only affect my brother, but also my poor father. Father is in very delicate health, and any unpleasantness could kill him. Just yesterday he gave us an awful scare. My brother Frederic is a bit frivolous, as you are probably aware …”

“Oh, not at all! A delightful, elegant man, your brother is; a first-rate companion, first-rate …”

“Well, on the social scene he can be very pleasant … and even elegant; you are very kind and have an undemanding concept of elegance … Well, Senyor Baró, I realize that I am robbing you of your precious time. What I have to say is extremely distasteful to me; I find myself in the obligation, not so much for him, but for my poor father …”

“Please, speak, whatever is in my hands …”

“I believe you have in your power a promissory note you extended to my brother …”

“Excuse me, my dear sir; just the day before yesterday we discussed this question of the note, that is, he discussed it.… This is a question between your brother and me.… Frankly, it is hard for me to understand how you have become involved in this affair … Or how your brother has …, well …, has brought you into it …”