Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (12 page)

«
Believe me, I am sorry,
»
the Director said, offering his condolences while lighting a fat Havana.
«
You
’
re all receiving proof of my concern, my friends. I have the best opinion of you all.
»
«
Thank you!
»
the subordinates said, down to the last.
«
But I can
’
t do anything about this,
»
continued the Director.
«
I haven
’
t been left any wiggle room to work with in this situation. Our Foundation depends, as you all know, on the State
—
this bankrupt, all-consuming State. Once we
’
ve achieved independence
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
he added, lowering his voice. The subordinates made sufficient gestures of comprehension, immediately entering into the conspiracy.
«
Once we
’
ve achieved independence,
»
the Director continued,
«
these enormous abuses will not happen.
»
«
Are you sure about that?
»
asked the wildly impatient secretary Teresiana Cacao.
«
Uf,
filla
, what questions!
»
the patriotic Director said.
«
Uf, what questions, co-worker Cacao!
»
psalmed like a choir the subordinates.
«
Let
’
s celebrate the triumph of the cause in advance. Here you go!
»
the Director said. And he poured out, in measured amounts, generous glasses of wine.
«
Thank you!
»
said the subordinate choir, reverently.
«
Tothe-health-of-our-Director!
»
they toasted, rhythmically.
«
Good,
»
the Center of Attention said when everyone had had a drink.
«
You have me forever, friends, at your disposal
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
Everyone understood that the conversation was over.
«
So,
»
poor nervous, heretical Cacao said,
«
we
’
re not going to receive the months
’
wages that they rightfully owe us?
»
«
Girl!
»
her oldest co-workers warned.
«
Were you not listening?
»
the Director said very severely.
«
Ah
—
and I, little lady, prevent you from suffering any important distractions while at work. I dare to hope that you
’
ll keep that in mind in the future.
»
Cacao turned whiter than she already was: a championship white.
«
I feel the delay; believe me. This State!
»
the Director said sarcastically.
«
You
’
ll end up being paid, doubter! Good thing it
’
s just about summer, though. You
’
ll deal better with the wait. You know the popular saying.
»
«
A-l
’
estiu-tota-cuca-viu
,
»
⁹
the subordinates recited in good spirits. The Director laughed.
«
Magnificent. Good humor. I like it. Well, see you in October, when we
’
ll talk about this again. You deserve from me, ladies and gentleman, the best of opinions.
»
And he left, savoring his fat Havana. Within a minute his car, with its sounds of optimism, was off in the distance.
«
Now what will we do?
»
the subordinates, on their own again, asked a row of imperious mouths.
«
What are the Director
’
s concepts going to give me? I make fifty bucks a month, I don
’
t have any other source of income, and I have to support six kids, my wife, and, as extra weight, my mother-in-law!
»
exclaimed Benedicte Battistini.
«
And now they
’
re proposing to squeeze me out of my salary. Swindlers!
»
Teresiana Cacao
’
s sister had had an operation. They were orphans, they lived alone, and they were eating what little rations they had. No one anywhere else would want the senior member of the group, Ver
ò
nica Marf
à
, she was too old. Anselm Lloveteres had a degenerate liver and every summer he patched himself up at a health retreat. But even though he needed to go there now more than ever, how could he leave the city if he didn
’
t have a cent? And Baldomeret Moix
í
’
s big son, so tall and thin, half-consumptive, he needed mountain air even more than the bread he wasn
’
t eating. And Querub
í
Torros, and Camil
·
la Misser, and Mitzi Santacana, and Paula Forns, and
Ò
scar T
à
pies, and Semproni Maians, and all the rest, with so many obligations, without savings or other options.
«
Meanwhile, that rascal of a Director rides around fine in a car, smoking Havanas, and he doesn
’
t feel a hit from five bucks or a thousand
pessetes
. It
’
s the State, he says. Hmpf, if the Director wanted it
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
!
»
the subordinates said, each in his or her own way.
«
I
’
ve been an employee here for fifty years and this has never happened to me before,
»
complained Ver
ò
nica.
«
I have six kids, a wife, and an extra weight called my mother-in-law,
»
Benedicte Battistini repeated.
«
What slice of my salary will I have to live from?
»
«
My sister
’
s operation used up what little ration we had for all the things we were dreaming of,
»
cried the nervous Teresiana Cacao.
«
My liver!
»
Anselm Lloveteres exclaimed.
«
Ahak, ahak,
»
Baldomeret Moix
í
’
s big son coughed.
«
I suggest,
»
the sporty and petite Mitzi Santacana enthused,
«
a street demonstration by all of us.
»
«
I
’
d love to,
»
seconded the combative Semproni Maians.
«
That way the public would be aware of our problem.
»
«
Santa cristi
à
!
»
the rest of them cried out against it.
«
Sure, so we can be dismissed when the Director comes back, as excited as he and the people behind him would be to do it.
»
«
I
’
m very sad,
»
said senior member Ver
ò
nica. Everyone wanted to march.
«
How did you all manage through the summer? Well, I hope,
»
the Director said when October arrived.
«
Moix
í
, that poor boy, died; who
’
d have imagined it! I found out about it while abroad. A shame. You, Lloveteres, you have to take care of your liver, dear friend. I
’
m noting with some satisfaction that the others are enjoying some enviably good health, enviably good.
»
«
Thank you!
»
the subordinates said.
«
Regarding our affairs, it seems as though things are going well, but you
’
ll all have to have a little more patience, no big deal, nothing more than two or three months. All in all, I
’
m very sorry, I am so pleased with all of you! Yes, you are excellent collaborators, and I have, believe me, the best opinion of you all.
»
«
Thank you!
»
psalmed the subordinate choir.
«
This won
’
t get solved in one go while our country
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Let
’
s drink, because our country
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
added the Director under his breath. And he lit a fat Havana and shared with each of them a highly scrutinized glass of liberation wine.
«
Thank you!
»
sang the subordinates, complicit in gesture and tone.
«
So, Mr. Director, we
’
re not going to get paid now either?
»
suddenly shrieked the poor little nervous, heretical secretary Cacao.
«
Miss Cacao!
»
censured the Director, with stern seriousness.
«
Co-worker Cacao! But, my God, co-worker Cacao!
»
the subordinates, unanimously, warned.

9
In essence, that during the summer it is relatively easy to be healthy and well fed.
–
RrP

A hard slap on the back stopped me as I was crossing the street.

«
I wasn
’
t expecting to see you here.
»

And suddenly, intimate details about those eternal themes: money and women. And the intimate details blended with manifestations of joy. My friend was robust and accustomed to eating a lot. During his golden era all sorts of feminine hearts sighed in his wake, with more or less interest, according to what could be gained.

«
He causes quite the commotion,
»
folks said with envy.

Later, rheumatic, married with children, the poor guy didn
’
t even provoke pity. Life is like that.

But on that day he still spoke to me effusively.

«
I tell you, it
’
s worth the trouble.
»

He drew up a plan:

«
With these ladies right here. What do you think?
»

He resumed:

«
You
’
re a piece of work, man. No doubt about it. Come with me.
»

Down narrow streets, we soon lost ourselves among the shrieks of children and the voices of street vendors selling peanuts. Dusk. Swelter. Calmness glided above Lav
í
nia. Dust, idleness, bust-ups, blasphemies. From time to time a shower of trash fell from the terraces. Dogs threw themselves onto the waste and fought over every crust they found in the filth. A man passed, his face covered by a mask of pus. From the doorways, women called out to us.

«
You want dinner? We can spend some time together.
»

We entered a tavern. A man came out from behind the bar to greet us; a plump, bent-legged man with a hunchback and a shrill voice. He introduced himself to us in a long, thin room, full of tables with stained cloths. The remains of some thirty castaways sought refuge there. Roar, the stench of extremely cheap tobacco, the squeak of knives on the cartilage of dead meat recommended on a chalkboard with the highest possible praise, the rhythm of sips. Each dish had to be paid for in advance. No one trusted the person beside him. A black man, tall as Saint Peter, stirred his thick broth. He spilled it. His stirring had picked up speed and caused a motion in the stew he couldn
’
t stop; it coaxed a groan out of him. But then he had a change of heart and joyously licked up the stew-soaked spots. Meanwhile, a freckled girl entered accompanied by a louse. The man asked her for more money. She resisted. Without a sound, the thug began roughing her up. Everyone watched indifferently.

«
That fly will get tired at some point, I
’
m telling you,
»
the black man said, fraternizing during a pause in his hunt for the stew. And, convinced, he scratched an ear.

«
Ready?
»

We left, not very full, though we
’
d been there a while. We turned a corner and my friend pointed out an electric sign for a music hall.

«
Here.
»

Some couples swayed with great difficulty and pain, holed away in that reduced space. Blanched faces, fatigued glances. And sweat. A sticky, greasy sweat. A waitress sat with us, though she was soon called away. When she came back she was breathing heavily.

«
Everything for four cents. And it
’
s still good,
»
she said. Some inverts passed by, making a huge fuss as they did, and the woman named them all for us: the one with the plucked eyebrows was the Crazy Virgin; and the one with the body of a snake and the fleshy lips, Skin and Bones. And Pitoperume, with the white flannel pants and mallow-colored silk shirt, like a farmwoman
’
s dream blouse debuted beneath the awning of a village fair. And Little Pigeon, a really fat woman with enormous haunches, and Golden Pheasant, and the Lion, and Iris and his lover, Chrysanthemum, with bracelets, blonde hair, and bangs. With a woman
’
s scorn the waitress detailed the works and miracles of that troupe.

«
And this is where they run down their prey
—
the cretins.
»

The ragtag band struck up a Charleston. Cymbals, bass drum,
violinassa
. Heads, bellies, legs waved about.

«
That
’
s her!
»
my friend suddenly screamed.
«
Eh, what do you think, was I exaggerating?
»

And he got up to reunite himself with his Aphrodite: a stupid, old, and very ugly goose.

«
And if it
’
s Josep Sereno!
»
I protested.

He didn
’
t hear me.

«
I
’
m leaving,
»
I told the haze.

Strange love absorbed him. I left.

«
How exciting!
»
said Pura Yerovi, a little woman married not long ago.
«
I
’
ve never been to Lav
í
nia
’
s ghettos. You have to take me there, I want to have a good time,
»
she demanded of her husband.
«
And you will all accompany us.
»

«
No,
»
I responded sharply.
«
I have neither the interest nor can I be bothered to set foot in that faithful but terrible clich
é
, ever again.
»

«
This is a city of perfect beauty, the admiration of all the land,
»
said erudite and stupid Salom, with no exactitude at all.