Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (5 page)

That afternoon Salom had seen
M
, a German film about as unpleasant as Konil
ò
sia and Alfaranja on the lips of Lav
í
nia
’
s devoted bourgeoisie. It was the story of the vampire of D
ü
sseldorf. The tragedy of that lymphatic monster left Salom, as he confessed to himself, impressed. He left the cinema unsettled, in a rush, without the desire even to lift his head; he didn
’
t have a handle on his nerves. Did something sinister threaten him that night? Hell, the sky was filled with stars and the wind rocked a fat moon. The moon chilled him. The clear, metallic moon. He walked through already well-deserted streets. A vagabond crossed his path. He was a thin and ambiguous man. His left arm was cut off above the elbow: he showed off the piece of it remaining to the prying air.

«
For the love of God, a bit of charity.
»

Salom picked up his pace.

«
God will take it into account.
»

He ran, calling after Salom:

«
A bit of charity!
»

«
Go away, brother, I
’
m not carrying any cash on me,
»
Salom said to him. The other man did not respond. He limited himself to bringing his mutilated arm closer to Salom
’
s face, closer to his skin. A deep whiff of neglect, lust, and pus rose up his nose.

«
Well, what do you want from me?
»
Salom asked him. The other continued generously revealing to him the secrets of his flesh. Salom, growing curious, allowed him. The man began to sweat and turn pale. The moral of his complex business lost, he screamed.

«
What nerve, you make me sick! What, don
’
t you have any guts
or
any decency?
»

«
Only a smidgeon of disgust,
»
Salom, pronouncing his words neatly, said; because it was true and because he was defending, among other things, his property.

The stench receded, and Salom, satisfied with his behavior, smiled. If he saved some principle and his money, the rest was basically empty words, sentimentalism. What had happened had toned his nerves, and he was already devoting himself to optimistic dreams when, from behind, an unknown began to whistle a tune. Salom recognized the notes. Yes, he had heard them not too long ago in the cinema: the whistling of the vampire, of the
Kinderm
ö
rder
. His blood iced over. The whistling grew closer. It rang in his ear. Salom closed his eyes. The neck, his neck, murderer! A young man passed, innocent and pacific. Why did such a ridiculous terror overcome Salom? His nerves, he lacked nerve. He went on with his life. A soldier and a girl embraced and kissed each other delightedly on a corner. Salom smiled again, understanding. Yes, it was already so now: this girl had already run into her
Kinderm
ö
rder
. But what did it say? Where was it? The street, deserted. The stones, humid. The asphalt, gleaming like a mirror. Behind a mound of trash, under a tremulous and very weak streetlight, a black cat twirled its whiskers and scraped clean the skeleton of a herring. The tail cleaned the municipal slabs of waste particles. It was a wise cat, with an insolent stare, and its attitude offended Salom. Little by little, practically on tiptoe, with the available foot
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
The cat guessed it. The herring fell from its snout and tumbled to the asphalt with the trash. Salom
’
s foot fell back to its normal position, and his voice sweetened, full of flattery, but the cat
’
s kittens spied Salom fixedly, as though he were a herring, and he could read in that moment a firm and meditated ill will. He fled from it. Then the last old-style seller of newspapers yelled out, full-voiced, the day
’
s goods. Corruption; shoddiness; violence; wars; crimes; social ills; sky-high inflation; manipulated statistics; snide triumphalism; conspiratorial, anti-establishmentarian social climbing; vacuous, unencumbered freedom of speech. The same as always.

«
Thief, thief, grab him!
»

Uproar from a porter
’
s lodge. Expectation. Some police came down that building
’
s stairway carrying, detained, an extremely frightened albino boy of about nineteen years old. A country bumpkin asked:

«
’
Scuse me. Has someone died?
»

Upon hearing this the woman-who-usually-takes-care-of-the-entrance let out a hysterical yell:

«
Worse: he stole thirty
sagrades
from me. He broke into my dresser drawer.
»

Everyone felt sorry for her:

«
Poor Secundina! Poor Secundina Llopart!
»

They calmed her:

«
Enough, enough, they already got it back. Poor thing, it
’
s the jolt. I
’
ll take care of it. Would you like some lime blossom tea, Secundineta?
»

Salom separated himself from the group of neighbors and finally arrived home. He was affected, feverish.
«
These nerves,
»
he said to himself.
«
Perhaps I will have to start to concern myself with this in earnest. Will something worrisome have to happen to me? My nerves, imbalance, too much work, perhaps. I
’
ll have to rest for a while.
»

«
Where would you most like to travel to?
»
he asked his only love, the woman of his life.
«
I must rest:
surmenage
, my nerves, etc.
»

«
I have no clothes!
»
she responded, her pupils wide.
«
A trip? You
’
re so kind, so generous! I
’
ll have to make six or eight dresses and I already have the kinds picked out, they
’
re marvelous. And we can go to Hawaii and also to Venice, if that sounds good to you. Aren
’
t you happy? You don
’
t love me! Ah, ten dresses, don
’
t say no. You feel beat down by your nerves
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Yes, it
’
s typical. Why are you so quiet? You don
’
t like what I
’
m wearing? Something cheaper!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Hawaii, Venice
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
But are you nervous or really sick? Don
’
t get me all worried!
»
she, his only love, the woman of his life, said to Salom, to Salom
’
s immense fatigue. And in that particular, insignificant cell within which the universe presides adrift, Salom was a deflated culprit, with neither relief for his sorrow nor hope for a pardon, another convict among others, among other hundreds of millions, under the Jurisdiction of the trivial stupidities of affection, of style, and of death.

I

«
Trinquis, Trinquis!
»

A
sardana
¹
and mockery round about the drunk woman.

«
Trinquis, Trinquis!
»

The children, not sufficiently satisfied with their screaming, took to their slingshots. One rock sported the tarot of the beggar. Esperanceta Trinquis (inflated nose, slumped stockings, honestly not too sharp) discovered with her doughy tongue:

«
Is this a system to establish follow-up lectures?
»

The children stopped, because a pause in the dialogue was always a drag and no action makes sense without commentary and the luster of the word. They observed a profound cyclic law (vicious needn
’
t be said) with the ignorance of kids and the unfortunate. They yelled from afar and feigned being afraid. Bassot spoke for everyone:

«
Don
’
t you see that you
’
re drunk? Who, if they
’
re not drunk, can penetrate the muddle of what you
’
re saying?
»

They laughed. Trinquis countered:

«
The reasons for my
mui
²
are obvious, despite some shameless opinions here. On the other hand, whether I
’
m here or not here, the lady basically revolts all of you?
»

Bassot responded, making a great fuss:

«
Don
’
t even think it, Trinquis. There isn
’
t even the hint of a grudge on our part. Isn
’
t your booze
—
stuff as good to you as any prestige
—
better than everything else you imagined? Where do you hide the habit? It
’
s always been done this way, and you do it pretty well, you
’
re no pushover. If you were, those bones would be dancing.
»

He pointed to the mountain Mal Temps and the cemetery, the borders of Sinera.

«
Fine, go on, laugh,
»
said Trinquis.
«
Now, just don
’
t hurt me, okay?
»

«
The taunting never gets out of hand,
»
Bassot said.
«
Hey, boys, let
’
s go!
»

«
Wait!
»
Trinquis said.
«
I am, it
’
s true, predisposed to fighting. But do you know who you
’
re exchanging ideas with? A lady, ep!, a lady. These plushies led Neb to his last lather, consider that!
»

«
Neb of which book?
»
asked Bassot.
«
You
’
re delivering sacraments like a troublemaker, Trinquis.
»

«
Hardly,
»
she asserted.
«
That
’
s enough, grandchildren. Hey, writer, take me away from the buzzing of this swarm!
»
she yelled out to me.
«
Don
’
t make me come off like I
’
m getting even more plastered.
»

«
If you are, what can we do about it,
»
I said.
«
History says that we have to throw stones at you now. Come on, lady, don
’
t fight it, it
’
s useless. I
’
m staying out of it.
»

«
Quin deu
!
»
blasphemed Trinquis.

«
Pirandellian!
³
»
I responded, rancorously.

«
Come on, that
’
s enough
—
so many
sorabis
⁴
here
»

«
Break open the five bottles of ratafia, angels!
»

II

«
Since you
’
re in control of it, I can
’
t deny our relation,
»
the old woman said to me biliously.
«
I hate you, you know. Thanks to you, Bassot made me, of course, abandon my protector, and the muddle in me cleared up from top to bottom. And you should have been able to make my destiny easier to manage, and you refused. However, I
’
m your character and I
’
m obsessed with you. Well, then: my story, all larded up. I don
’
t know why you
’
re chasing my shadow after so many years way off in the distance. Melera
’
s life-long friend. To roll by, slap, and that
’
s it. A little drink now and again. Yeah, to forget things, Jesus. And all of a sudden you
’
re here exploiting my fame, and I didn
’
t take any more swigs than Melera or Neb, I swear. With that one: like siblings. I watched him die.
»

«
Is it true that Candelera, Oliva, and Perp
è
tua were all there?
»
I asked with the anxiousness of an evangelist.

«
Yes. The widow, Pepa Sastre, Pasquala Estampa, Pudentil
·
la Closa, Criseta Mils, and Doloretes B
ò
til, too. The whole family. What a moment! We cried. Death was slow in coming. We told little stories to entertain ourselves. Death saw all of us off with sacraments and resignations. Father Silv
í
led the Our Father. Death, however, was slow in arriving. So we formed a circle and we kept an eye on him until things sped up. We cried, with our eyes fixed on him, bet your life. Spectacle, child. The street grew gloomy in the long run, and we were to the point where we didn
’
t see him in really bad shape. We
’
re talking about the end of September! We distracted ourselves for a few instants, because things there were going slowly; we meddled with our hair. Until she, she was the nearest (it was her turn, the poor girl), said:
“
That
’
s it!
”
We breathed.
»

«
That was how Nebuchadnezzar died?
»
I said.

«
Didn
’
t I just tell you so? Evangelized,
»
Trinquis, cutting in, said.
«
And I haven
’
t been able to erase it from my mind ever since.
»

«
Glory is in the persistence of memory,
»
I offered.

«
What?,
»
Trinquis said.

«
Nothing,
»
I murmured.
«
And tell me: this was the most exalted moment of your life?
»

«
If you say so, what choice do I have!,
»
Trinquis answered.
«
Anyway, it was an illustrious feeling of courteous behavior. Hey, it
’
s over,
»
she added.
«
You have no further right to my conversation, child. I
’
m leaving.
»

«
Trinquis!,
»
I called out to her.

But she was already gone.

III

«
Yes,
»
Bassot said to me.
«
You weren
’
t born yet. I don
’
t know why that waste interests you so much. As little kids, we chased her, throwing stones. It
’
s what
’
s done. She went from one place to another all frayed. She got drunk a lot. She sang
“
en un taller,
”
etc. She was very popular. Until Melera, the queen of caves, supplanted her. Imagine! And suddenly, she disappeared. One snowy day, she fell through a hole, a low point, on the train
’
s tracks. She
’
d walk around covered in sulfur. The snow got to her, and the next day we found her a breath away from the rancid wine, cold.
»

«
And was it sunny that day?
»
I asked, distressed.

«
Which? The day after it snowed? Glorious weather; fitting for these countries. Why are you thinking of that now?
»

1
A traditional Catalan dance performed by group in a circle.
–
RrP

2
“
Mouth
”
in Cal
ó
, commonly referred to as the language of gypsies, a mixed Romani and Romance language.
–
RrP

3
As in Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936), Italian dramatist, novelist, and short-story writer.
–
RrP

4
Possibly in reference to
“
la professor ind
í
gena
”
Aurembiaix Sorabis from another of Espriu
’
s prose works,
Les roques i el mar, el blau
. Espriu
’
s characters reappear frequently in his various works of poetry and prose.
–
RrP