Josep Maria de Sagarra - Private Life

To reach this point, the adolescent has drunk the bile of sadness and confusion. No one has prepared him for this moment with solemn veils, or crowns of roses, or magical incense. He will arrive in secret, as if committing a crime, affecting indifference, but with his insides pulsating like the clapper of a bell. There will be no sublime figure for the adolescent to choose, no Venusberg mountain. He may squat among the orange peels and the stench of ammonia on the vilest street corner. He may have no choice but to pierce the shadow of whatever staircase corresponds to the limited sum of money he holds in his fingers. It is very sad, but this is the way it is. These are the pathways to the revelation of Helen’s vulva. We all know it. It is so very common that to carry off the pretense that we don’t give a damn, we make sure to tie a perfect knot in our neckties and we write a few poems that will move the more gelatinous ladies to tears.

The adolescent who pierces the shadow for the first time in his life may laugh at our poems and our neckties. He accepts as a celestial grace the smile of a woman who earns her living at the most despicable trade that exists. This woman is the guardian of the treasure. It is she who escorts him to the foyer of the brothel and she who presents the three goddesses to him. One in a green slip, one in a yellow slip, and one in a red slip. Then, in one of the fifty thousand disgusting brothels of the world, the judgment of Paris is reenacted. The apple this tortured Paris brings to offer to the most beautiful of the three is the whole mystery of his adolescence, all his desire shamefully compressed. Paris’s choice is quick and feverish; he has blood-dark circles under his eyes. In an hour of mercantile physiology, in which she deposits a soul as indifferent as the roasted viands meant to kill the hunger of the impassioned pilgrim, he, the adolescent boy inexpertly and innocently hears for the first time the fateful symphony of sex, which the devil’s coarse bow plays on the tense strings of our nerves.

As the years go by, the adolescent boy may become more demanding, may become cruel and idiotic with these women and with himself. But the temperature of the first time does not allow for anything like this. On that occasion, the most pitiful prostitute’s womb might as well be composed of the most tender petals of the most tender roses, like the womb of Chloe under the inexpert thrusting of Daphnis.

And perhaps — because these useless paradoxes are the stuff of the spider web from which we all hang — the last prostitute, when faced in the most mechanical and primeval way with the latest inept Daphnis of all epochs, will exude a core of human mercy and an apparently wicked diligence, mingled with a blend of servility and maternity, a blend of angel and beast, in whose embrace the feverish adolescent will feel so close to the stars that never again in his life will the love of any woman be able to offer him a higher plateau.

As time goes by, the adolescent boy made man will not want to think about this; he will forget about his first Chloe, his anonymous Chloe of however many (naturally very few) pessetes. He will consider it to be the vilest dishonor to value the intensity of his first adventure over the intensity and pomp of later, much more literary, loves. Yet it is possible that what he considers to be a dishonor is the truth, a truth men never want to confess because their pride does not admit useless paradoxes.

The young man who had heard the two shots that killed a man on Carrer de Barberà, and who later devoted all his capital to the foaming topaz of a sad beer, had just experienced this shady and poetic moment of his existence. Like Paris, he had chosen from among the three goddesses a sordid Italian girl of twenty-five, the kind whose lungs live in a cistern, breathing in only the vegetation of the sewer, but whose continual ephemeral contacts had not managed to crush her siren’s breast, nor had they burned the two moist and delicately hospitable violets out of her eyes.

He was eighteen years old and he was embarrassed to admit the truth, but she understood him perfectly. If the young woman had not been in a hurry, she would have done him all the honors, but in that house on Carrer de Barberà there was work to be done and there were people waiting. The prostitute limited herself to giving free rein to the boy’s rapture, without protest, and to anointing his lips with the kind of cold, servile tenderness found on the snouts of ruminants.

The fact of having a woman all to himself, in a room with a door, without witnesses, without censors, without limits, drove him wild. His two years of hesitation and, above all, fear of a repugnant illness, howled like a dog atop a cushion of devastated flesh in the form of a woman. The selfish creature sought vengeance on moral pieties in pursuit of the revelation of pleasure. He said nothing, he simply listened to his sensations, noting the secret nervous harmony that begins to blossom into a fierce rhythm, till it reaches the desperate violins of a spasm that expires in a slow, flat and deflated chord. Biology coldly explains these things that the most fundamental modesty silences. But with his nails sunk into Helen’s flesh and his eyes sinking in the well of her eyes, in that crescendo that for the first time in his life made his lungs bounce off the wall of his ribs, electrified by the unexpected sensation, nothing shamed him, and his only desire was to cry out long and hard, for everyone to hear him, to hear the joyous bellow of an eighteen year-old male who has a woman all to himself, even if it is a woman who clings at night to the threadbare jacket of a day worker, even if it’s just for an hour, even if it’s in a brothel, none of that mattered. None of that was enough to water down his cry of joy. The filthiest bed sheet, the flesh of the most enslaved body, can reproduce any myth.

After the desire to shout, after the great discovery, he began buttoning his shirt, with trembling fingers, wishing he could respond to her tawdry words with his own tawdry words, the words of a real man, a character who has seen it all before. But his heart, still bursting with the wine of enthusiasm, spoiled his words with a child’s luminous and inexpert syllables.

On the staircase, he heard the shots, and he saw that dead man carried by the two policemen, at the very moment when he, generosus puer , thought he had just taken possession of life. Later, his pockets empty and his lips white with beer foam, his childish brain superimposed contradictory images: chiffon stockings, the patent leather of the policeman’s cap, the blood on the cobblestones, a toothbrush stained with blood-colored toothpaste, the soapy inexpressiveness of the water in the bidet, the man’s dirty jacket hanging from the arms of the two guards, the woman’s sex and the dead man’s mouth, and all of this projected onto the moving curtain of the Rambla, onto that backdrop of mechanical faces, rubber cheeks, eyes with a nebulous destination: onto anonymous, ordinary, inexplicable life.

Life and death side by side, as in the prelude to Tristan. An incomparably cheap and shameful love; an insignificant criminal murdered by another criminal; all of this in a festering neighborhood and in his eighteen year-old heart, protected by a castoff jacket dyed black because he was still in mourning for his grandfather. Only six months before he had seen him laid out in a uniform let out in the back, with moth-eaten red satin lapels. His grandfather! A being from a very distant clime. His dead grandfather was a wax figure, a repulsive old doll, who left no impression on him. But that dead man on Carrer de Barberà, he was the real thing, with his open eyes and his hair full of blood.

He paid for the beer. In an apartment on Carrer de Pelai, a classmate was waiting for him with the notes from Mathematical Analysis. Because that eighteen year-old boy was a student at the School of Architecture, a communist, by the name of Ferran de Lloberola.