Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (11 page)

«
You haven
’
t heard?
»
asked Emma Raquel Baladre.
«
A little giraffe was born in our zoological park.
»
«
When?
»
asked diligent voices.
«
Today at dawn,
»
Emma clarified, pleased by our attention.
«
Our zoo can rival the best in the world now. Actually, it
’
s among the most important. Do you all know what it means that a giraffe was born in our city, in our climate? The treatment that had to go into the long gestation period, the discretion, the interest. Ah, our modest little zoo! People, I
’
m telling you: we don
’
t have to be jealous, in this respect, of any other in the world,
»
perorated the renowned patriot Carranza i Brofegat.
«
Have you ever tended to any part of a giraffe?
»
Tomeu asked him.
«
No, but that doesn
’
t mean I don
’
t know what I
’
m talking about,
»
responded Carranza.
«
Ah, if you could all see the giraffe!
»
continued Emma Raquel Baladre.
«
So precious, so light, so little!
»
«
It will always be bigger than a wolfdog,
»
Tomeu pointed out, not being one who easily developed a soft spot for animals.
«
Yeah, man, the same for you,
»
Emma protested, slightly indignant. But she soon calmed down.
«
This morning, when I heard the news, I went to see it with my niece,
»
she continued.
«
She was so enthusiastic! And she wasn
’
t scared at all.
»
«
How old is she?
»
inquired those good souls Cl
à
udia and Mel
à
nia.
«
Not yet three,
»
Emma said.
«
The little thing!
»
Cl
à
udia and Mel
à
nia said.
«
It
’
s been a while since we
’
ve seen her. You have to take us to her.
»
«
It will be my pleasure,
»
Emma said.
«
Thank you,
»
Cl
à
udia and Mel
à
nia, ever good girls, said.
«
And you say the giraffe didn
’
t scare her?
»
«
Not at all; they even became friends. She cried out to it and the giraffe came to her as though it had known her all its life. The parent giraffes ambled backwards, very pompously, satisfied with their paternity. It was moving.
»
«
Listen,
»
screamed Justi Petri, upon entering.
«
There
’
s just been a new run-in between the troops and the extremists. I saw three or four soldiers with my own eyes laid out on the ground with shrapnel
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Bloodcurdling!
»
«
I don
’
t feel bad for them, I just don
’
t,
»
responded Emma Raquel Baladre, who was, during that period, a pioneer in those revolutionary ideas
—
ideas as full of hypocrisy as firm gravitas
—
that flourish today.
«
Four or five? It should have been more!
»
«
Why?
»
Tomeu asked:
«
I have to enlist, and you well know it, some time in the near future. What would you say if I were one of the dead?
»
«
Don
’
t come to me now with complications,
»
Emma cut him off.
«
All I know is that gunning down lots of people, when they
’
re your people, is abominable.
»
«
But what do you want those boys to do? They
’
re under orders, they can
’
t do anything else,
»
Tomeu said.
«
Disobey,
»
Emma didactically offered.
«
They would shoot them on the spot for insubordination,
»
Tomeu countered, irritated.
«
Well, they would then win my complete respect,
»
Emma granted.
«
Right, but I
’
m not interested in that; it
’
s the same stuff every day. We were talking, Petri, when you arrived, of real news: a little giraffe was born in our zoo.
»
«
I
’
m surprised,
»
Petri confessed. And the conversation stretched on, with renewed drive.
«
The little giraffe died last night, Emma,
»
Mel
à
nia said the following day.
«
Don
’
t any of you talk to me about it! I was having breakfast when I found out and I couldn
’
t put down another bite,
»
Emma lamented.
«
And what did it die of?
»
the patriot Carranza asked.
«
There are multiple stories, as you
’
ll see. Some say that her mother, while asleep, crushed her. Others that it was the brutal jealousy of the father. Others, perhaps the closest to getting it right, said that it was due to complications from the birth. The thing is that it
’
s dead. The mother is going to suffer badly, poor thing! Without a doubt they
’
ll reduce its food. Because they feed it. Just think: besides the foliage, an entire bucket a day of milk to make it strong during lactation.
»
«
I
’
ve had enough of giraffes!
»
Tomeu suddenly cried.
«
I
’
ve had enough of them! Thank goodness it
’
s squashed.
»
«
Heartless jackass!
»
Emma shot out.
«
You deserve
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
«
Guys!
»
our Justi Petri, bursting in on us, said.
«
The funeral for the fallen soldiers from yesterday is passing by now. Attending it
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
«
Poor giraffe!
»
melancholic Emma Raquel Baladre remembered.
«
Our modest zoo didn
’
t have to be jealous, in that respect, of any other in the world!
»
added, quite measuredly, the renowned patriot Carranza i Brofegat.

«
A machine,
»
I explained once,
«
caught my friend Eleuteri while he was working
»
(during his short life he did nothing else)
«
and cut off his right femur. They say Eleuteri let out three or four extremely sharp cries. That he sprawled out on the floor, soaked in an expanding pool of blood. Some collapsed at the sight of him, others went to find help. The doctor showed up and gave many useless orders. Eleuteri was moved to an improvised ambulance, and they went off in search of an undiscoverable cure. Once his body had been well studied, they finally decided to carry him home to his mother. Folks piled up at the door, making much racket.

“
What
’
s this, what happened?
”
the old woman asked.

“
Ok, don
’
t get frightened. Eleuteri, at work
 
.
 
.
 
.,
”
began the tragic heart.

“
He
’
s dead!
”
the old woman shrieked.

“
Yes, it
’
s true; you had to be told,
”
admitted the
coreuta
, a neighbor with the tested mettle ideal for these situations.

“
I want to go where my son is, I want to see him,
”
bellowed the unfortunate woman.

“
Marieta, calm yourself, woman, you
’
ll get yourself worked up,
”
prophesied the kind souls. But the mother made headway and embraced her son
’
s remains.

“
How white!
”
everyone weighed in at the sight of him rigid on the bed.
“
Of course. He doesn
’
t have even a drop of blood left in his veins. How did it happen? It hasn
’
t sunk in.
”

»
There were multiple stories of what had happened, and none of them were satisfactory. The cadaver meanwhile had a smile on its thin lips. The horrified, agonized grimace gone, his peaceful features reminded his mother of the boy
’
s infancy, a world unto itself. Poor, little Eleuteri
—
so quiet and insignificant in life
—
had grown up, controlling this moment with supreme hierarchical power. Everyone revered the noble, marble man, the splash so new in the silence.

“
Is the body all mangled?
”
the heart continued.

“
No, and after a little bit of work by the doctor, sewing him up, you all wouldn
’
t even know it. A deep gash on the right leg and that
’
s it.
”

“
He barely suffered while it was happening, surely,
”
the doctor responded, swelling with pride from the praise.
“
The impact was so utterly violent that his sensory functions shut themselves off.
”

“
He was my son,
”
Marieta panted.

»
Rows of solicitous witches mobilized and returned with orange blossom water, lime blossom tea, and piping hot tisanes.

“
Drink it, Marieta.
”

“
This woman won
’
t be able to handle it, as delicate as she is, and maybe it would be for the best.
”

»
Others opined that that wouldn
’
t be the case, because who then would pray for poor Eleuteri? And they surrounded Marieta, they massaged her, joined her in wailing out her pain, each wanting to be the first to give thanks and praise. All of the women thought:
“
If it were to have been my boy at home!
”
And they terrified themselves, they wanted to distance the portent, and they hugged Marieta when it was their turn
—
and God willing, no one else
’
s
—
to be in that, the bitterest of roles.

»
The brother and fianc
é
e of the deceased, having been urgently told, arrived. The brother was married, had a family, and for this reason he was immediately shut out from the front line of the grieving. The fianc
é
e, on the other hand
—
poor girl!

“
Almost a widow.
”

“
You said it. They were getting married within the month, in November!
”

»
The upheaval of Nepomuc
è
Garrigosa, Eleuteri
’
s boss, was far more telling. He
’
d loved Eleuteri like a son, so much so that he
’
d taken him on as his apprentice! Eleuteri was so honorable, so good, and could do anything, and was so humble, so very prudent, and satisfied with little: he contented himself with a fifth of the salary he deserved.

“
This is the first displeasure he
’
s ever caused me. He had my complete confidence, I didn
’
t even give him orders anymore, because he knew his obligations and never stopped working. If he had to work fifteen, twenty hours? He did it like that. And now this stupid, inexplicable death. I loved him like a son, I tell you, Marieta. The lady of the house didn
’
t dare come, forgive her. You
’
re in mourning, no? None of you would be able to keep up with her, she
’
s even made herself sick.
”

»
The tender discussion provoked spectacular weeping. What else? Eleuteri was watched over the entire night, and the following day the entire town accompanied him to the cemetery.

“
The boy was insured, Marieta. With the new laws in place you
’
ll receive at least fifty bucks, which is always a consolation. And don
’
t you worry about the burial and the services, that
’
s all on me. And what
’
s more, here you have the wages for the week that poor Eleuteri didn
’
t get to complete. Are you happy?
”

»
Mechanically, Marieta said
Yes
, and the boss left to calm his sick wife and he never went, nor did he ever have to go, by the house of the poor woman again.

“
You
’
re receiving fifty-thousand
pessetes
, serious money, in compensation; I
’
m sure of it,
”
her neighbor the choralist assured her.

»
Marieta earned a pension of thirty-nine
pessetes
a month
⁸
, as the law demands, but folks envied her for the other, illusory amount. And everyone, excluding his mother, forgot about their friend Eleuteri.
»

«
Well, yes, the topic of the honorable worker, of the usually sensible boss, and the mother in misery,
»
Pulcre Trompel
·
li, who was listening to me, said.
«
Follow my advice: don
’
t talk about Eleuteri any more.
H
é
las, h
é
las, la b
ê
tise humaine!
»
whistled the clean-asa-whistle Pulcre. And I responded immediately to that intelligent invitation to return to my senses.
«
Since Pulcre is correct, I have to bid you a final adieu, honorable, kind-hearted, hard-working Eleuteri, beloved friend,
»
I thought.
«
I have to not talk about you, because you
’
re a topic. But do you remember how we ran soaked in sun, drenched in sweat, chasing each other through streams, across fields of reeds, toward the beach? The whole group of us ran without taking a breath, drenched in sweat. And after, much later, you sprawled in your own blood, and now the earth covers you, and I won
’
t talk about you any more, sorry, because Pulcre Trompel
·
li said you
’
re a topic. And you know what? You wouldn
’
t understand, but Pulcre is right. And it
’
s terrible for me that Pulcre is right, my honorable, kind-hearted, hard-working, beloved Eleuteri.
»

8
In the currency pre-dating our war. In order to obtain satisfactory biceps from today
’
s social provisions, the reader ought, perhaps, to resort to
—
at least!
—
the weight and gymnastic strength of a potent zero. Or two.
–
S.E.