Mercè Rodoreda - War, So Much War

At nightfall there were still people in the street. Amid cries, laughter, and insults they threw debris on the miser who had arrived in the village as a young man. At dawn the house was a furnace. The leaves on the acacias were charred and would never grow again. The man in the beret and I moved closer to observe the dead man. Beneath the pile of garbage, only his feet showed.

I CROSSED THE ESPLANADE. A FIG TREE STOOD IN FRONT OF THE door to the café. Inside, everything was a jumble of broken glass. I sat down at a table to think, but I had no time to reflect on things because almost immediately a man with hunched shoulders and a limp entered. He was carrying a straw basket from which he produced a bottle of wine and half a baguette stuffed with bacon. He looked at me, waiting for someone? As you can see, life has come to a halt here. Did you follow the road or did you come through the village? I came by way of the road. So you haven’t seen all the ashes in the street. There’s not a dog left to wag its tail. Shrugging my shoulders, I said I didn’t care if life had come to a stop and I wasn’t waiting for anyone. He took a bite of his bread and a piece of bacon came out, just like the piece of ham had slipped out of the lethargic man’s sandwich that day on the beach. You should remember to work hard, while you’re young. Hand me a knife: second drawer on the right, under the countertop. I should have given him the knife and left; I wasn’t in the mood for idle talk, but I liked sitting in the café, with the profusion of broken bottles and empty shelves, watching the flies buzzing about. The man with the straw basket was drinking wine straight from the bottle, his eyes closed, one hand under his chin to avoid staining his shirt.

He said it was his café, not by ownership but because he had frequented it for as long as he could remember, his entire life. He earned his keep by neutering cats and rendering small services. When the owner of the café was killed. . sad, huh? Distant relatives had ordered the killing after demanding one hundred thousand pesetas from the owner and being told he didn’t have it, which was the truth. But they thought he was simply refusing to pay up, and when things got heated, out came the rifles. That said, this café has always been mine and always will be, because I have nowhere else to go. Half the ceiling of my house has caved in. He paused for a moment as he looked at me, head lowered, eyes raised. Want to see the cat? I glanced outside, trying to appear distracted. I realize I’m rather dull. Unlike my father. . he made earthenware jugs and bowls. When he touched the clay, an object came to life. As he talked, the man with the straw basket kept looking at me and sniggering as though he thought me some pipsqueak who had just flown the nest, so I told him that his father was not his father. He grasped the bottle and nearly smashed it on my head, but managed to reign himself in. His father, I explained, had only made his body; his soul was a lost soul that had searched for a home for years and had slipped inside his body when he had taken his first breath. With eyes full of rage, he asked me if I had been drinking from the fountain of the moon-pulled water. To shut me up, or so I believe, he removed a package from his basket. Want to see it? It was a stuffed cat with its tail pinned to its body and its ears up. A tabby. My wife couldn’t stand the sight of it and I always put it on her bedside table. . That’s what I’d like to do with a lot of people: Stuff them with straw so they would be still and quiet. Fill them full of straw. This cat — this very cat — had belonged to some neighbors. A fantastic ratter, it was. A regal cat. Its owner lavished it with all manner of attentions: It ate from a porcelain dish and slept on velvet. They were rich, these neighbors, and could afford to keep as many cats as they wished. Every night I would bury my head in the pillow, consumed with envy. And I learned taxidermy so I could make the cat my own. I tied a chicken head with a string and lured the cat to the house by dangling it in front of him. He crept warily into the garden — and then he was mine. I’ve slept with the cat next to me ever since. Even on my wedding night. When my wife died — may she rest in peace — I learned to meow, and before falling asleep, with the cat under the covers, I would meow for a while as if the cat were serenading me. And I still do. It helps me fall sleep.

THE DAY WAS BREAKING. I HAD SLEPT POORLY, MY ARMS ON THE table and my head resting on them. The back of my neck was sore and I had a taste of copper in my mouth. Beyond the fog-shrouded esplanade, shadowy figures were getting in and out of a van with its taillights on. Two men were coming toward the café, each with a box on his shoulders. As they were entering, two shots rang out. They’ve finished him off. The cat man woke up, his eyes filled with fear. It’s nothing, grandpa, it’s nothing. Just a salvo. The men started removing bottles of cognac from the boxes and stacking them on the counter.

Other men were approaching, speaking in loud voices. The last man to enter the café, his face drained of color, was the only one who turned to look toward the esplanade. The one who seemed to be in charge was tall, with a small head, a straight nose, and a scar across his cheek. He had a thick mustache and was wearing a shiny jacket and a wide-brimmed hat with a feather. A still-smoking rifle was slung across his shoulder. He had someone open a bottle and downed half of it in one swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. From now on I’ll be able to enjoy what I never had before: a bed ten spans wide so I can sleep lengthwise or crosswise. Whichever way I want. And in the next room I’ll keep myself some captives, two or three rich man’s whores who will pay homage to yours truly with fearful faces and gowns that leave their tiny breasts exposed. He turned to face us: The guy we just dispatched along with his adopted son was my cousin, the owner of all the vineyards in this county. We only intended to kill the old man, but the son wanted to hug his father one last time, so we sent them both to heaven in an eternal embrace.

The man in charge sat down at our table, and after staring at it with a vacant look for a few moments, he gave the cat a kick, sending it tumbling toward the door. I am the heir. And he shouted: A bottle! And glasses! One of the men pointed to the floor. There are no glasses. The man in charge looked at the old man. Instead of parading about with that stuffed animal that’s already given you everything it had, you’d be better off if you came with us and cleaned our rifles, that goes for you too, kid! The barrel of my rifle is always hot and I wouldn’t want it cooling off before this war is won. The cat man laughed so hard he seemed about to break, and everyone stopped drinking to stare at him, and then the cat man said that none of them were their father’s sons. A scrawny man wearing a blue shirt and a red scarf around his neck lunged toward him, brandishing a bottle, threatening to smash it over his head if he repeated such nonsense. It’s not me, it’s that boy who said so; according to him, parents merely create a child’s flesh and bones and with its first cry, the infant is infused with a soul that has been waiting for that moment. The tallest man in the group gave me a cold stare: Show us the soul! I stood up, charged into the scrawny man, who was blocking my way, and bolted out of there, tripping on the cat and sending it flying onto the countertop. The cat man meowed and meowed. Outside the fog had thickened, and perhaps that is why they didn’t kill me, though they shot at me like maniacs.

I SAW HIM AT ONCE, THE MAN TILLING THE FIELD. AND HE SAW me, for, shading his eyes with his hand and shouting loudly, he asked if I was headed to the chapel. Without giving me a chance to respond, he explained that the chapel was farther up, above the holm-oak forest, behind a thicket of strawberry trees and heather. Treading on clods of turned earth, he moved closer, and when he was standing next to me, he pushed his cap back. He’s not like the rest of us. Who? I asked. Aren’t you on your way to see the hermit? No. Well, you should pay him a visit. He’s the grandest man on this earth. A giant. Not even the most angelic of angels can compare to him. His eyes were already filled with God when he arrived in these parts, he already breathed the breath of God. . The chapel was in ruins, the ceiling had caved in, and two of the walls were gone. It was a den of serpents and lizards. The previous hermit had died of old age years ago. And this man, of whom I can only say that he is a saint, arrived here in a wretched state, skin and bones, barely able to stand, but with his sight set on the heavens. I went about helping him at once: Though I never had much of anything to spare, I took him whatever I could. . a sliver of lard, a crust of bread, even if it meant I would have little to feed the chickens that night. Sometimes a few apples, sometimes a pot of honey. One day, without daring to look at me, the hermit told me he had prayed that God would reward me for the good I was doing him, and apparently God had conveyed to him the message that I would be admitted into His saintly glory on the day I breathed my last. And I live in peace. Ever since then, my vegetable garden has been the lushest, without even watering it, really, because as soon as it is thirsty the sky sends down rain. I harvest more grapes than ever. The earth is soft and black. And, as I work, my spirit lifts heavenward toward the blue and the clouds.