Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (2 page)

Many years ago, Ariadne guided you, for half an hour, through a simple but singular labyrinth. She went ahead of you. You walked among odd voices and shapes. If you felt faint you could sit down in a peaceful corner of your own choosing. You didn
’
t have to encounter the Minotaur. The labyrinth was insignificant, harmless, for tourists. When you tired, diligent Ariadne would attend to you and, at utter peace, show you the point of departure. But if she sensed you were feeling bold, she benevolently left you the illusion of having discovered the way out on your own
—
though without her you would have been lost. Ariadne was discreet; she barely spoke, insinuating the path for you to follow with a soft gesture. Ariadne was modest; and I advised you how best to reward her: you had to invite her, once she got off work, to tea and a dance. If you were to her liking
—
educated in Germany, Ariadne, was a romantic
—
and you requited the feelings of that affectionate girl, then it was good to remember that Naxos was always at hand. Upon waking, the sleeping beauty complained of the silence, but was soon consoled: just off the coast, Dionysus gathered Ariadne
’
s destiny. Hard times followed nevertheless; and that destiny was ruined, as was mine, as were perhaps all of ours.

To Maria Aur
è
lia Capmany and Lloren
ç
Villalonga, in homage

and with the promise to never revise this story again.

I

«
It doesn
’
t count, it doesn
’
t count yet: you
’
re looking. You have to close your eyes and you have to turn your back to us and face toward Santa Maria. But you have to focus on the route first, it goes through Carrer dels Corders, past Carrer de la Bomba, Behind-the-Bakery, Carrer de l
’
Esgl
é
sia, and the little square. No streams, because we
’
d sink; and the route is long enough as it is; if we tried it we
’
d never get it done, and besides it
’
s really tiring. The rectory: the safe wall
—
okay? Now now, we don
’
t need to cheat. Teresa stops
—
come on!
—
we run. It doesn
’
t count: she was peeking. Teresa, kid, I already told you that you have to turn your back to us and face Santa Maria. If you do that then you don
’
t have to close your eyes, but you can
’
t move till we yell out. Let
’
s see
—
do you guys understand me? Yeah, we
’
ll take Carrer de la Torre; let
’
s go over everything one more time. Not through the stream since the sand can trip you up. You
’
re asking us to count again? We counted earlier, Teresa. That
’
s not good enough? We
’
re wasting time! It
’
ll get dark, they
’
ll bring the boats back in and we won
’
t have even begun to play. What? The
Panxita
is coming back from Jamaica? That
’
s no big deal. My father went further, all the way to Russia even. He came back with a fur coat and hair everywhere: he looked like a bear. My father always tells the story about when he went to give thanks to Friar Josep d
’
Alpens
—
who was on the pulpit
—
for the safe trip back, and he greeted my father with curses, like he was the devil. Come on, are we going to play or not? It
’
s like yours was the only frigate in the world. Ai, kid, you
’
re so stubborn! Let
’
s count
—
and no complaining about whoever gets picked.
Macarr
ò
, macarr
ò
, xamb
à
, xibir
í
, xibir
í
, manc
à
. It
’
s you again, little Teresa; that
’
s tough. Everybody spread out! You
’
re limping, Bareu? Wait up, guys. Bareu is limping. Does he get special rules or does he guard the area? Okay, then he helps keep an eye on it. Don
’
t complain, little Teresa, you won
’
t be doing the seeking by yourself. Come on. At last. Hey, facing the wall! Limping or not, if Bareu
’
s the gatekeeper it
’
s going to be impossible for us to get near the rectory. Who screamed
“
ready
”
? No, Teresa, no, we haven
’
t hidden yet. Don
’
t come down the stairs, little Teresa. I said don
’
t come down the stairs
—
some good-for-nothing shouted out too early. Excuses? Me? A troublemaker? Me? Because I see I
’
m caught? You really don
’
t want to play, do you! And you
’
re mad that you have to stop, that
’
s it. Don
’
t come down the stairs, you hear me? Don
’
t come down. Fine, get worked up about it. Sure, go ahead and run after me. I give up.
»

II

«
You haven
’
t seen them? Boy, where are you coming from? They
’
ve been back since yesterday! It was a noble three-month voyage this time, through the Baltic, then through Germany, Switzerland, Milan, Venice, and Florence
—
overland, of course. They left the
Panxita
in Danzig. It
’
s strange
—
they didn
’
t have to go to Italy. Their route was solely sea-bound: a commercial route. They must have persuaded the captain to change it to a pleasure trip, a romantic voyage. Their father gives them everything they ask him for. Today they
’
re radiant, restrained and tireless. They brought back mountains of magnificent objects: glassware from Trieste, porcelain from Capodimonte, marbles, silks, medallions. They were seen in Fiesole with Vicen
ç
de Pastor, or he went there to find them, because he loves Teresa. I suspect his return wasn
’
t very triumphant: he
’
s glum, his confidence has sunk. Yes, they
’
re very pretty girls; and Teresa is more beautiful than J
ú
lia, no? No, I don
’
t buy that: Teresa is more beautiful. Above all, since they
’
ve returned I
’
ve noticed a splendor in her eyes, a distant light captured, a joy hidden and revealed at the same time. J
ú
lia is more delicate. Her mother died of tuberculosis, keep that in mind, and that was a tremendous blow to the captain. I think he
’
s in Trinidad now, surrounded by blacks and white trash. He married a Creole woman, perhaps she was even mixed; they have a wretched child
—
a hunchbacked daughter
—
and I believe they
’
re going through lean times. They
’
re coming closer. Look how they come down the church
’
s steps, barely brushing them. Teresa is exquisite
—
you can stick with J
ú
lia. Go ahead and laugh about it, go ahead; but they look like duchesses. And this afternoon, at the arbor dance, they
’
ll be queens.
»

III

«
Don
’
t greet Teresa. Don
’
t greet her. She doesn
’
t see anyone. How she
’
s changed; she used to be so happy! It
’
s that there
’
ve been so many blows, one after the other. After such slow agony, after fighting courageously for so many long months, J
ú
lia died. The day after her death, the
Panxita
got stuck in the mouth of the Rh
ô
ne. No, no, it won
’
t be so great a financial loss, since Vallalta
’
s rich; but he loved his frigate so much. Since it sank he
’
s hated sailing and hasn
’
t set out again. He just passes his days on his estate
—
the
“
Pietat
”
—
contemplating the sea at a distance, surrounded by trees and books. He was so strong before, but now he is a dithering, decrepit old man. No more stories of sea adventures from him, he
’
s lost his memory. What a man he was! They say that last century, in his younger days
—
thrill-seeker that he was back then
—
he even took part in Barcel
ó
’
s expedition against Algiers (although perhaps these stories don
’
t add up), and after he was everywhere: Iloilo, Mexico, the Nicobar Islands, Newfoundland, Odessa; but now the captain wants nothing more than to die surrounded by the peace of his groves. His daughter looks after him, keeps an eye on him. Yes. Teresa is a woman of maybe forty years, maybe more, and Vicen
ç
de Pastor is still waiting for word from her; but Teresa loves no one. Don
’
t greet her, it
’
s useless, she won
’
t see you. She descends the stairs lifelessly.
»

IV

«
Pay attention to how she descends the stairs. What a woman! Lady-like, slow, measured, and at the same time quick, at the pace no doubt of some practitioner
’
s school, some lost style. Yes, Teresa is very old, you already know that; she
’
s my age. Do I remember? We played together so often, right here in this square: tag, tic-tactoe, planted soldier, leapfrog. All of that
’
s way in the past now. The town seemed bigger to us back then
—
immense, richer in color and character. Running around we always discovered a hidden, new corner. Each afternoon, we waited in the sand for the boats to dock and the occasional return of some sailboat from America or China
’
s remote seas. My father was a pilot, too, and he
’
d go as far as Russia, crossing frozen waters, skirting small glaciers. He
’
d return dressed in furs, like a bear; he scandalized the church with such luxury. Everything happened. One day, in the early evening, we plunged into the damp canebreak, chilled by the shiver of forbidden adventure. We groped our way forward, and it spun us round with the premonition of miracle. There was perhaps a cobweb of fog over Remei and a witches
’
storm-cloud at its heart, above the Muntala. And upon returning we told our grandparents about our run-in with a ghost. Everything happened. We grew up, and I married. Teresa and her sister J
ú
lia, who died from tuberculosis years ago, traveled with Captain Vallalta in the
Panxita
. Later, the frigate sunk, and a little while afterward J
ú
lia and the old man died. And there you have it. Teresa passes right by me without even a glance, with her hunchbacked niece
—
with her dog
’
s shadow
—
behind her, she brushes up against me and doesn
’
t even look, and my family is at least as old as hers, and I have to address her like I was an artisan. Everything happened. Teresa is a sad, old woman. She doesn
’
t know how to laugh. And the town seems to me, and to her as well, I
’
m sure, so small, so empty and ramshackle! And way back when, we imagined it limitless, as if in a cloud. Carrer de la Bomba, Rera-la-fleca, Carrer de la Torre. Teresa used to come down the church steps so quickly. And now look at how she descends them. Still so ladylike, nevertheless
—
with a lady
’
s step.
»

V

«
You
’
ll say, isn
’
t the box of the
“
Frigata
”
made of good wood? And away she goes
—
the niece is stingy, come on now, but she wouldn
’
t skimp one cent on a detail of such supposition. They carry the same blood from head to toe, and she won
’
t expose herself to people
’
s harsh tongues. Look, from caregiver, or worse, to executrix: the paths of life. Senyor Vicen
ç
de Pastor is so hunched over! He looks like an axiom. Don
’
t fool yourself, he
’
s so old and so isolated, and they say he always loved her
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
who knows. Yes, quite a crowd; you don
’
t see this sort of spectacle so often: women like the
“
Frigata
”
don
’
t die every day. Uf, very rich
—
calculate it to be at least two hundred thousand gold pieces and you
’
d probably be short. All that money, all for the humpback. Ai, no, daughter, no, she
’
s of no interest to me. God gave me a straight back and good health. I prefer that. Let
’
s leave it at that! Look at how they surround her. Yesterday they were practically driving her off with the cracks of their whips; and today, look how they kiss up to her. Everyone is there: bouncy B
ò
til, Coixa Fita, Caterina, Narcisa Mus. These last three ladies, all three of them, wrapped old
“
Frigata
”
in a shroud, because Paulina
—
the niece
—
wasn
’
t capable of doing it, and they
’
re already passing her the dish, the evil schemers. Do you know what Narcisa told me? Come here
—
while they were searching for her mantilla they found a box with some blond locks in it and the portrait of a man, the portrait of a young, tall, strong man. And, hold on, there was a name at the bottom; a strange Frenchie-sounding name. And no one ever suspected anything, given how much she traveled! And she was so hard, so proud. She wouldn
’
t say hello to godmother
—
my godmother
—
because, God forgive her, she was poor; even though they played together as children. And now you see it: one, behind your back. Let
’
s go. It
’
s all just guessing. The thing is, maybe she never did anything wrong. Hush, they
’
re bringing her down now. She must be heavy, and these stairs are narrow; I hope they don
’
t slip. The wood is expensive, no doubt about it; it
’
s expensive, I already told you that. The pallbearers are sweating, shameful, just look at the way they
’
re sweating. Let
’
s see if they crack it open at the bottom of the steps.
»