Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (14 page)

«
Ai, I
’
m very grateful!
»

They hugged, and now the cobbler
’
s grief burst wide:

«
Ai, poor, poor me! Thirty years of being cuckolded by Federal. And I lived so happily, without suspecting a thing!
»

The sacristan and Rossenda consoled him:

«
The dullards are always the last to figure it out, that
’
s well known, and on the other hand you
’
ve performed a work of mercy.
»

Pancra
ç
conceded:

«
That I have.
»

This was Ventura
’
s profound final commentary:

«
A mournful scene. We are no one.
»

Pancra
ç
growled:

«
Thirty years! This is what I
’
ll be remembered for, not for my skills as a cobbler, I swear.
»

And he was about to cross the threshold. Charitable and snide, Ventura made a final wish on his behalf:

«
Make sure you don
’
t bump scatterbrained into the lintel now and smash your tottering noggin up there.
»

The cobbler had already learned how to bellow with pride. And he left the abode with dignity and without any further damage. Already alone, Ventura and Rossenda went about dressing the stiff, and the popular and edifying fable ended there.

10
A word for God in Cal
ó
, commonly referred to as the language of gypsies, a mixed Romani and Romance language.
–
RrP

To Jaume Vidal Alcover, in homage to his great art as a writer.

I

They talked afterward, it
’
s true, about Moore, Shelley, Dryden, and thirteen old Italian
maestri
, but their long conversation, full of interesting things, didn
’
t blot out from Quildet
’
s memory Athalia
’
s first question:

«
Have you ever been to England?
»

And, martyr to the truth, Nogueres responded amid the most arduous of silences:

«
No, never, but I should like to go there.
»

It was truly an arduous silence. Until Maggie Brown finished nibbling her umpteenth toast of the afternoon.
«
I believe you to be quite unhappy, dear,
»
Athalia said.
«
This is my most intimate opinion,
»
Nogueres confessed.
«
But pretty Thalie, the fault is completely yours,
»
Pamela assured her.
«
You ought never to begin a chat about a theme of grammatical character.
»
«
I share that opinion,
»
Melussina said.
«
Not all African gentlemen have been to England, although it is appropriately charming that they seem regretful for not having been.
»
Quildet coughed. Aretusa and Phoebe turned pale on hearing that and fled to wreathe their heads with white oleander.
«
Pre-Raphaelites!
»
the refined Pamela praised.
«
Shocking! Why did you cough?
»
Athalia, quite bothered, asked. Quildet reddened.
«
It is that Miss Melussina,
»
Nogueres said, stammering,
«
did me the honor of mistaking my place of birth.
»
«
No matter,
»
Maggie said as she finished swallowing her toast.
«
On the other hand, she did call you
gentleman
.
»
Quildet, surrendering, lowered his head. And now the conversation drifted toward Bigordi and multiple aspects of English poetry. It finished just at sunset.
«
How beautiful, the dying sun today!
»
whispered Athalia. And she cried out to Aretusa and Phoebe to dance the Dance of Farewell.
«
Delicious!
»
Melussina said, applauding.
«
It is a love of rhythm.
»
«
It is a love of rhythm,
»
sighed Maggie.
«
They have smashed the ineffability of the moment to pieces,
»
a regretful Athalia Spinster scolded.
«
Ah, Maggie!
»
Meanwhile, night imposed itself all around, and the bumblebees and mosquitoes freely crisscrossed the vast empire.
«
My dear legs!
»
Melussina lamented. And yet, despite it all, it was an intense hour of poetry. Aretusa and Phoebe had stopped dancing and now chased fireflies and other gentle extenuating circumstances of the dark.
«
The moon!
»
announced the little voices of the two girls.
«
The moon, the prune
—
or the gloom?
»
Athalia repeated suddenly; and questioning, just because. The barn owls began to gasp far off in the oak wood.
«
If it is permitted that I may say so, I
’
m scared,
»
declared the fragile Melussina.
«
The gasping of the nocturnal birds frightens me. It is, in a certain way, a bankruptcy of civilization.
»
And she went off toward the bath, attached to Pamela
’
s hip. Then Maggie, in a very low voice, began to speak at great length about calid and disturbing deviations of feeling. To highlight these, she recited from a letter, in reality a fragment from one of her unpublished novels, which takes place in the most fruitful period of the Italian Renaissance. We would not think of depriving you of a taste of the wasted novelistic talents of Maggie Brown, who died, as the chord of her youth turned sour, not very long ago, of an excess of exquisite hydronium. It seems to us appropriate, we insist, to transcribe, translating with utter care and proper license, the letter that Maggie recited that memorable night to Lady Athalia Spinster and Quildet Nogueres.

II

«
Andreu, cardinal of the Santa Esgl
é
sia Cat
ò
lica Romana, greeted the Lady Juliana, his wife,
»
Maggie sang.
«
Deliberate cacophony?
»
Lady Spinster, a master orthologer, asked.
«
Historico-onomastic rigor,
»
Maggie pointed out.
«
This prologue makes me happy,
»
Quildet said.
«
I see the cardinal as one of those painted by Raphael, with eyes set on returning to the
born
¹¹
of Lav
í
nia and the entertaining hands of a poisoner.
»
«
Silence!
»
interrupted Athalia.
«
Continue, Maggie.
»
«
My thought, lady, so inclines itself toward you, that I could not say whether, in fact, it is mine,
»
Maggie continued.
«
Memory of and desire for your presence fills all of my scant free time, and you, likewise, lady, soften all the harshness of my time at work.
»
«
I find, in those emotional circumstances, that this highly eminent gentleman has chosen quite a modern lexicon. Would the Lady Juliana understand him?
»
observed Nogueres.
«
If you hinder Maggie so often, the sweet roundness of our moon is going to end up spoiled,
»
Athalia chided. The author continued her talk.
«
What have you done, lady, since we saw one another? Did you think at some point of our servant? Have you perhaps been ill? Tell me, even if it is but one word, remove me from the agony in which I live. You do not know how cruel this long wait is to me. Ovid expressed in a few elegant words this torment that I suffer:
“
Res est solliciti plena timoris amor.
”
Be good, then, lady. Erase my fears and liberate me from this death, returning me to life with news of you.
»
Maggie ran out of air, and Quildet took advantage of the pause.
«
I don
’
t know how the classics manage to transform familiar places into marble,
»
Quildet said admiringly.
«
They were stone-cutters,
»
Lady Spinster responded.
«
Come,
»
Maggie continued.
«
All the joy and all the pain of my life remains compressed in these two words: presence, absence. And I wish you near me. Judge me, then, as your separation from me is detestable to me.
»
«
Daring, Miss Brown,
»
said Nogueres.
«
The following is even more so,
»
the novelist said.
«
In your last letter,
»
Maggie toiled again,
«
you mentioned my ignorance of many aspects of sin and regret. Refuse these ideas, I beg you, because there is no sin in beautiful things, and you are beauty itself. Love is a god, and one of its divine attributes is perfection. I assure you, as a cardinal and as a man devoted to you, that I have nothing sinful to point out to you in your conduct. What are you afraid of, that you separate yourself from me? Or perhaps it is that the friendship of an old man angers your splendorous youth. Come, come at once. I need you, I desire it. I demand it.
»
«
Intense, vigorous, brave. Really,
»
enthused Athalia.
«
What do you think of it, Nogueres?
»
«
Yes,
»
declared Quildet.
«
And more, Miss Maggie?
»
«
Will you all excuse me, forgive my madness, but I do not care about anything in this world any longer, without you,
»
obeyed the author.
«
Live, live and love. The time for regrets is still far off for you, and you do not want to pierce the glory of your life with the sting of remorse. Come, I implore you, and do not forget above all that, with or without shortcomings, you are always lovely. And since, as a man, I am weak and a slave to temptations, it is as a member
—
although unworthy
—
of our highly revered Senate that I absolve you of all fault.
»
«
Enough, Maggie, enough!
»
cried out Athalia, agitated.
«
Your images weaken me profoundly. You shouldn
’
t read the Freudians so much, dear.
»
Without adding even a single word, Maggie freed herself from her synthetic dress and headed, completely nude, toward the nearby stream.

III

There was noise and splashing about in the cold water.
«
What purity of flesh, kissed by the pale star,
»
Athalia said.
«
Ohhh!
»
admired Quildet. Silence reigned, disturbed only by the laughter of Aretusa and Phoebe, now bathing companions of slender Maggie.
«
This is an expression of near ritual unction,
»
added Athalia,
«
the water
’
s virginity unsoiled by clothing. Oh, Franciscan Maggie! Oh, humble religious woman!
»
Quildet whistled an unfavorable tune between his teeth. But, against all reason, Thalie approved of it.
«
What a melody!
»
she said.
«
Is it from your land of hard sun? Oh, kiss me!
»
What could he do: Nogueres kissed her.
«
Well,
»
uttered Athalia.
«
I thank you for this experience.
»
And she also proceeded to undress.
«
Dear Lady Spinster, you see that I
’
m just an African,
»
Nogueres believed himself obliged to say.
«
You will not impose upon me any idealized performance, I dare hope, dear Lady.
»
«
Alas! When I wanted to ask you your opinion about J. de Nazareth!
»
Athalia exclaimed.
«
I only know,
»
Nogueres responded
«
that religious feeling must be supported now, distinctly, and above science.
»
«
Agreed,
»
agreed Athalia.
«
The formula is this: the really beautiful, etc., and whatever liberating type of syncretism to round things off.
»
Nogueres
’
eyes passed over Athalia
’
s brown skin.
«
Ah, syncretism, Lady Spinster!
»
Quildet said.
«
I have always been partial to theories of syncretism.
»
And he bent down forcefully, more out of duty than willingness, to pick up Athalia, intending, altruistically, to carry her off to the brush of the oak wood with its barn owls.
«
No, not this, I
’
ll scream,
»
the woman warned. Nogueres breathed: Athalia was heavy.
«
Are you condemning me to an idealized performance?
»
asked, with sweet reproach, Quildet, the hypocrite.
«
This is a vile subject, my dear,
»
Athalia attenuated.
«
Let us talk about other, more elevated things, it is preferable.
»
A Sandow
¹²
of silence stood between the two people equally but oppositely affected.
«
A thinness of ideas has never, ever taken me for a victim; and I
’
m not just saying that. And now, on the other hand
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
Athalia said bitterly.
«
Don
’
t pay any attention to it, we all find ourselves there. I, myself
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
consoled Nogueres.
«
Perhaps everything would work better if you were to get dressed,
»
he concluded, a bit bored.
«
Oh, I understand; thank you!
»
the middle-aged Athalia responded to an ambiguous Nogueres. And she dressed. The spring-like nakedness of Maggie and her companions continued to cut a profile in the moonlight. Athalia looked at the suspended Nogueres and gave it a shot.
«
A pedagogical conversation is probably the best therapy for an engrossed savage,
»
she said, subconsciously betrayed by the memory of a poster of the Methodist Missions.
«
How many times smaller is the moon than the Earth?
»
«
Forty-nine,
»
Quildet, answered mechanically, hypnotized, spying off into the distance. The stubborn silence
’
s dominance returned, but Athalia didn
’
t lose heart. She searched her memory again, with application and honesty.

«
Have you ever been to England?
»
inventive, she finally said with a flash of hope in her eyes.

The polite Nogueres suddenly reacted, in an unexpected way.

«
No, never,
»
he bellowed.
«
But I should like to go there.
»