Josep Maria de Sagarra - Private Life

Clearly this grotesque comment on the part of Antoni Mates, this groveling to justify something as simple as accompanying his wife, was simply pathological. In point of fact, the baron barely knew what he was saying, he tripped over his tongue, he muddled about stupidly, because, though he was no genius, neither was he an idiot. Guillem spent a moment of cruel voluptuosity listening to these “theories” on attentiveness, understanding, or lack of understanding, but, since Guillem was also standing on shifting sands and felt a little frantic himself, he cut the baron’s comments short with these words:

“Senyor Baró, please. Enough theatrics. I asked you what you were doing at six o’clock in the afternoon. There is no need for you to tell me. I know as well as you, or perhaps even better, what you were doing. It would not be elegant to go into detail. You and I are both perfectly aware.”

Now the baron was like one of those boxers felled in the ring, who hear the count of five, six, seven, eight …, who are aware of everything, who want to make an effort to get up, but whose legs are glued to the mat.

“Are you taken aback, Senyor Baró, at my speaking with such confidence? There are only two people who could know what you were doing yesterday at six o’clock in the afternoon, is that not true? La Senyora Baronessa and an … other, a …, well, it doesn’t matter, call him what you will. And I am very surprised, Senyor Baró, that you have not yet realized that that ‘other’ was I.”

If Antoni Mates had been a normal man, a man physiologically like the majority of men, perhaps he would have reacted like an orangutan, going for the jugular of that cynical creature, attempting to strangle him, trying to do something — something a man would do. Instead, a suppuration of sad misery escaped from his closed lips, and with his eyes on the ground, his cheeks livid, like an absolute idiot, like a martyr disposed to be beaten, the Baró de Falset could not say a word. Perhaps within a few seconds he would have found a way to articulate words, but for the moment it was no use. Guillem, who was perfectly aware of what was going on, and who was enjoying how well the scene was going, took a pistol from his pocket.

“Senyor Baró, I admit that what I am doing here is an unspeakable fraud. And I offer you a solution because it can come to an immediate end, if you so desire. All you have to do is shoot; the pistol is at your disposal. At such a short distance, even if your hand trembles, the shot will almost certainly be on target. But think what you expose yourself to. It would be difficult, you understand, to justify a murder in this salon, at this time of day, in these circumstances. I don’t recommend suicide; it would be grotesque. What’s more, to commit suicide requires a measure of valor. Until now, only I know about ‘this.’ Your wife knows about it, too, and Dorotea Palau knows (but naturally not in full detail). It is in your interest, and in mine as well, but much more in yours, that no one else should be privy to ‘this.’ The procedure is very simple: the promissory note for fifty thousand pessetes, which you extended to my brother, should immediately be transferred into this satchel.”

Antoni Mates had found a way to articulate words. Not a particularly clever way, because in fact he was beaten. Even if the man blackmailing him had possessed all the facts needed to compromise him, if it had been any other than the very person who had “collaborated” in the secret liaison at the dressmaker’s house, he would have felt in possession of at least a scrap of dignity. But the fact that it was that very person produced such an intense shame in him, such an unbearable collapse, that everything Antoni Mates did manage to say must be considered of great merit, because his natural impulse was to abandon himself to guttural moaning, and to wailing like a wild beast. Strange as it may seem, Antoni Mates had never, never, considered this possibility; it had seemed inconceivable to him that such a thing could happen. And this way of seeing it is perfectly normal for a man of Antoni Mates’s stripe. Any person who has a shameful flaw that essentially obligates him to behave differently from others is the victim of a certain innocence, because his desire outweighs everything else, and he cannot measure the consequences. When someone provides him a way to satisfy his abnormality, no matter how few guarantees are offered, he madly pursues its satisfaction, despite the insufficiency of the guarantees. And herein lies the innocence of these deviants. It consists in their believing in the good faith of others, in the good faith, above all, of the accomplice, and in hoping against hope that the thing will remain hidden. And sometimes this takes place in imprudent circumstances, in circumstances in which it is impossible for the secret to be kept. But the poor deviant doesn’t see it. Sad to say, he gives in; he will run any risk, like a child incapable of foreseeing danger. And when he realizes that the secret is no secret, when he realizes there could be a scandal, and in the enormity of the scandal, the poor deviant, if his name is Baró de Falset, becomes demoralized, and loses all control, all his masculine integrity. In the case of Antoni Mates, the type of amusements to which he had surrendered himself aggravated the situation. He had debased himself, he had debased his wife, he had engaged in an indefensible conjugal monstrosity. Antoni Mates was aware of it all; he saw all the consequences of the extortion clearly. A strong person, a real scoundrel, could have confronted the consequences, would have found thousands of ways out. He could have forged ahead and neutralize the perfect swine who had lent himself to such a vile ceremony for three hundred pessetes. But a pirate is needed for such occasions, and Antoni Mates only revealed his ragman’s fangs at the meetings of the board. In a contest such as this the only teeth he showed were weak and womanish.

“I see. You want the fifty thousand pesseta note? That’s what you want, you say. And what if I say I don’t care to give it to you? Then what? You can spread the rumor, you have a thousand ways of spreading whatever rumor you like about me. Who will believe you?”

“Everyone.”

That “everyone,” those three grave monotone syllables, spoken with the solemnity of a death knell, had been intoned by Guillem with such conviction that Antoni Mates truly saw that “everyone” would believe it, that “everyone” knew. Before his eyes paraded the equivocal expressions, the telling smiles, the whisperings. He saw himself infected with a special leprosy, as if his clothing gave off a smell that could not be disguised. Even so — and completely irrationally — he came up with these audacious words:

“So what?”

“You know best.”

“But where is the proof, where is it …?”

“What greater proof than my own confession, than my own debasement? When a man lowers himself so far as to be able to tell the tale I can tell about both you and me, they will have no choice but to believe him. Do you understand? No choice.”

Naturally, Guillem said this because he was sure that he would win the bluff and there would be no need for him to tell the tale. Moreover, if the need arose, he could find a way to tell it without going into certain details.

“You …, well, clearly you … what can I say … You are a …”

“Say no more, Senyor Baró. It would behoove us to treat this whole affair as if it were a business deal; to go into explanations would be too unpleasant. I am offering you an absolute guarantee. You have my word. To be frank, I think you’re getting off quite cheaply at fifty thousand pessetes.”

“I have been known to be … Well …, how do I know what I am capable of, poor devil … But you, and your cynicism …”