Josep Maria de Sagarra - Private Life

“You’re just a lazy bum. And you’re full of baloney. It’s okay to live like a bohemian for a while and pretend to be a cynic, but you should be working at something, anything. You can’t spend your whole life pretending to be misunderstood and never producing so much as a handful of paragraphs. Just start something and stick with it for real. If it’s no good, you throw it into the fire and you let it go, like me. I don’t mean to make myself out to be a saint. I’ve been just as much of a deadbeat as you. And all those unpleasant and ignominious things have gone on in my house, too, and I’ve gone along with it, but one day you just say enough, that’s behind me now. Now I’m working. I’m earning a good living, and I intend to get married. And you’re no kid yourself. You’re not stupid, either. You’re healthy and good-looking. When you’re a kid, no one can point a finger at you if you behave like a kid, and you can accept favors that would make a man blush, but the time comes when all of that is just not right. You’re too old. I don’t know if I should pry, but, from what you’ve told me, it seems you can’t expect much from your family …”

“Much less than not much! And the saddest thing is that I’m in love now; yes, me, in love!”

“About time. But it’s not the first time you’ve thought you were in love. This must be like the time you were in love with Glòria, that girl who used to buy you dinner every night at the Cafè Lion d’Or …”

“No, I swear, it’s not like that at all! I am in love with the protagonist of my novel. A woman I’ve only seen four times, and spoken with twice. I never said anything special to her. I don’t believe she would ever take notice of me. She is a very unusual woman, cold, twisted, bizarre … Cerebral in a way I don’t believe anyone else in Barcelona is.”

“You see what a bunch of nonsense this is? Do you hear how pretentious you sound? What do you mean, in love? Rotten romantic dime-store literature, that’s all it is. You’re thirty-one or thirty-two years old and you’re still a kid, a rather sleazy kid, not to put too fine a point on it, but …”

“Maybe so. And maybe sleazier than you think. And I’m not ashamed to say so. I swear, there is a scandalous voluptuosity to my sleaziness — you can’t even begin to imagine it. The first time I did something that seemed beneath contempt, I got a knot in my stomach. Later, I started seeking out that knot like a drug, a stimulant. And finally I no longer feel any knots at all, and I don’t know what I’d have to do to feel one …”

“You’re a damn fool. With all these obsessions with your family, with its atavistic past and its gloomy future, you’re going to go so far around the bend that one day you’ll go mad for real and you’ll start wanting to suck children’s blood …”

“I know I’m a damn fool. But I swear, from time to time I land a sweet piece of work. It’s not that I deserve it, it happens by chance. It’s all a question of having a little nerve and grabbing the opportunity. If people here just had a little more nerve, amazing things could happen! Though, if you think about it, there’s plenty of nerve to go around … Still, Barcelona could look like a tale from the Scheherezade … ”

“I can’t imagine what else you want to see happen. Right now it all seems like a perfect mess. Just in the past eight years, we’ve seen more than our share of things, of every variety and color in the rainbow …”

“Not to mention what we haven’t seen yet. And then they say there are no novels to be written here.”

Just as the excitable young man was saying this, a newsboy who was hawking La Vanguardia and El Día Gráfico stuck his head in the door. The young man with the drooping eyelids bought La Vanguardia . On the front page, among the day’s obituaries, the excitable young man saw a name that made him jump up from the bench he was sitting on.

“How can this be? He’s dead?”

“Yes, one of dozens; he’s dead. He was no one to you. The fact that an extremely rich man, and a creep at that, has died, is no reason for you to get all worked up. I don’t imagine he’s left you any spare change …”

“Come on, hand it over, let me see. ‘Has died,’ it says, and nothing more. It doesn’t mention the last rites, the sacraments. The guy must have croaked in an accident, or who knows how. Let me see the local news. Does it say anything about him? Yes, it does! Look here! What? How can this be! This is horrible! Obviously it must be a suicide. They don’t quite come out and say it, of course, out of respect for the position of the deceased. They must have paid them to hush it up. But there can be no doubt … that pig committed suicide! Suicide!”

“All right, so he committed suicide. His business must be failing. What’s eating you? What fault is it of yours if he committed suicide”

“It’s very peculiar, believe me. And very interesting … I wouldn’t have imagined this in a million years … Life is strange, huh? Very strange. Look, do you see what’s going on there, in the other room? There’s my brother, with a tart. And isn’t she gorgeous? I don’t know how Frederic does it … He does the family proud …”

“What? Listen, how many whiskeys have you had?”

“Just this one here in front of me. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re acting as if you were soused …”

“You know, believe me … No, don’t be silly, I’m not soused. But really, life can sometimes turn out in such a way … When I tell you I’m afraid of myself, it’s the absolute truth, and not just romantic dime-store literature, I swear …”

“Listen, kid, go home to bed. Jenny’s stood you up today. When she’s not here at this time of night … it’s a sign she’s picked up some guy … like your brother … Wait, look, he’s leaving! Are you going to pretend not to see each other?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!..”

Frederic de Lloberola had settled up and was helping the French girl into her coat. On their way out of the restaurant they passed by the table where the two young men were sitting. The excitable one grabbed Frederic by the arm. When Frederic saw him, he was a bit surprised, but he showed no concern at all for their being family. He said,

“What are you doing here? What’s up?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Look here: the Baró de Falset has committed suicide.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

“Well, to be frank, I’m not all that surprised. I heard he was going mad … Anyway, that’s how it goes.”

“Hey, what’s that on your forehead?”

“Nothing serious, I got hit with a bottle … nothing to worry about.”

“By the way, the girl is quite a looker.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Do you have a plan in mind?”

“Stop, fool, stop. I’m just taking her home …”

“Okay, don’t get mad. Good night …”

“Good night.”

AS GUILLEM DE LLOBEROLA buttoned up his pajamas, he felt an eerie chill down his spine. His mouth was dry and he had a peculiar headache. In fact, he had a bit of a fever. He took his pulse. It was beating hard and fast. He lay down in bed and tried to read a book. It was impossible, he couldn’t see a single letter. He turned out the light and it seemed as if that repugnant individual were there in bed beside him. He took up all the space. There was barely enough room for Guillem to breathe. It was that very same man, cold and immobile, with a bullet hole through his cranium, and a distinctive little snort, an inhuman snort, still coming out of his mouth, a snort of shameful lust. He couldn’t push him away, couldn’t get him out of the bed. He was pinned there, rigid, in his greasy, white, dead nakedness.