Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (9 page)

To Joaquim Molas, this version, which I want to think is
the definitive one.

He caught my attention. I thought they
’
d transfer him from one side to the other. Because, despite his prized mutilation, the man had an exaggeratedly healthy look, apoplectic. He weighed a lot, surely. What he was lacking in arms and legs he more than made up for in belly and cheeks: the riffraff was the owner of just half an arm and half a foot, limbs, as can be seen, scarce and otherwise poorly distributed. The atrophied, experienced foot stuck out of him, dangling just beside his right haunch. The arm
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Allow me to tell you about it: rickety, consumptive, sown with eruptive spots. And, with everything, the honest fellow evinced a decided air of happiness. He faced the sun, propped in his habitual corner. It seemed he was asking for crumbs of cash out of an uncontrollable collector
’
s passion. A type of wooden plate held the fat figure up and isolated him from the municipal slabs. I accustomed myself to considering the cripple as a decorative element of the street, a monstrous plant. But how could they carry him from one place to another? The mystery obsessed me, and I lay in wait. And lo and behold, one day, finally, I saw. A lean young man neared the misfortunate fellow and passed a showy jumble of cords across his body. He loaded the bundle on his back and left. I followed them. It was dusk, a late foggy afternoon.
«
You
’
re getting heavy,
»
the lean man said.
«
If I don
’
t exercise I get fat,
»
answered, amused, the piece of a man. His locomotive system toiled in silence for a while.
«
Uf!, I don
’
t know what
’
s going on with you today, I
’
m soaked,
»
the lean man said, shortly.
«
You
’
re at least carrying some serious cash, right, buddy?
»
The halved man excused himself, humbly:
«
The good souls don
’
t pay any attention to me anymore, the business has thinned out.
»
«
Dammit! We ought to choose a new spot!
»
this interesting locomotive subject thought.
«
If you fail me, I
’
ll leave you a quarter of a slice of bread for the entire day, so you get it into your head. It
’
s good for the blood,
»
he added.
«
This heat is stifling, I
’
m going to cool down; I
’
ll be right back,
»
the lean man finished, relieving himself of the cripple. And he took off. He left him hanging over the handrail of a balcony at the mouth of an abyss.
«
And if he moves!
»
I thought. And I drew nearer.
«
That isn
’
t a place to stop,
»
I yelled out to him.
«
Courage, I
’
ll get you out of there.
»
«
No, no need, sir, don
’
t worry, please, sir,
»
the poor man answered.
«
I
’
m not moving at all, poor me, I
’
m not going to fall. I
’
m getting used to it, sir. Rafaelet always leaves me on this landing. He has, and knows that he can have, confidence in me, and I haven
’
t let him down yet,
»
he said with miserable pride.
«
Who is the person who moved you?
»
I asked.
«
Who? My brother-in-law? Rafaelet: I just told you, sir. Strongman, commendable kid!
»
«
But he treats you terribly, he abandons you,
»
I said.
«
He
’
s thirsty, and there
’
s a tavern near here,
»
the understanding cripple objected. Being a philosopher I then formulated a few fundamental questions.
«
What do you think of your luck
—
are you happy with it?
»
«
Well, I eat,
»
he responded.
«
My goodness you
’
re a stoic,
»
I told him reverently.
«
I don
’
t know what that is. Are you insulting me, sir?
»
the man said.
«
Well, when all is said and done, it doesn
’
t matter to me. But, for the love of God, if you wanted to help me out with a little bit of change, sir? Because we see tough times ahead now, and who knows if a little more food for the horse will be convenient later.
»
And, smiling he gestured with his short beard to the place we
’
d seen his brother-in-law take off for. You know well enough that I
’
ve always had an inclination toward the strangest strains of mysticism.
«
You, for handling misfortune the way you do, you
’
ve won everlasting peace,
»
I psalmed.
«
Well, sir, that
’
s all fine and good. A little spare change, come on, a little pittance, I beg you,
»
cried out the halved man.
«
My saint, chosen one, lead me to God, for I am a sinner,
»
I let out as I fervently kissed his malignant pustules.
«
I see, mocking the misfortunate, that
’
s not Christian. Not even five pesetas, just a little spare change, just a little spare change is all I ask you.
»
Why break my emotion with your inopportune begging? You didn
’
t want to comprehend the sacrifice of my distinction, my subtle recognition of your superiority, and as dear as it was, it suddenly cost you.
«
It
’
s still not enough that I
’
m kissing your wounds?
»
I said.
«
Fine, here.
»
And with a push I launched him down the precipice. His head rebounded against a rock and scattered in four pieces around his corpse.
«
What have I done?
»
I asked.
«
Am I maybe a murderer?
»
«
Mig, don
’
t get full of yourself,
»
my faithful conscience said to me with near mathematical precision.
«
Ah, you
’
re right, thanks,
»
I said to my conscience.
«
You
’
re welcome,
»
my conscience tidily answered.
«
And besides, considering you
’
ve ruined the family business.
»
«
Oh, yes, that was really immoral!
»
I said, broken, when he was already in the distance.
«
I suspect I performed an act of mercy.
»
And I continued on my way. A remote uproar reached me, the moaning of Rafaelet.
«
Oh, luckless one, you
’
ve fallen; were you that heavy? What wind could have knocked you over? My fortune is dead, and my hope. The bread of my children, lost. Who
’
s robbed me of my riches? Did you fall, or did an envious hand push you? Look at him there, beheaded, and that was the only part he had all of; the only part that was essential. Ai, poor, poor me!
»
«
God is just,
»
I concluded, as I disappeared into the mist.

Now and again a shy voice passes by asking for the sick
man and
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
afterward departs, saying: God will provide!
Misfortune has settled there, like a shadow
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
If the
neighbor dies, misfortune shrinks down into the hard and
concrete form of a cadaver
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
And on another day he will
be buried: and the shadow will already be gone.

Mir
ó
,
«
Se
ñ
or Vicario y Manihuel
»
(
A
ñ
os y lenguas
)

I

«
Poor boy!
»

«
Poor parents!
»

A group of old relatives (chiaroscuroed by their witches
’
beards) held vigil over the dreams of the sick boy.

«
Poor parents!
»

«
Poor boy!
»

In the long run, the monotony of fingering the rosary tired them out, distracted them. They tumbled down a slope of nosy prattling now. Night in the chamber. Above the dresser-drawer, an eager desire for a miracle lit the subtle hope of a lamp. The flame lifted the prayer of intercession until it formed an image. The fire
’
s rising soul illuminated slightly the saint
’
s garments and forgot, in the darkness, the bed, the panting, the distress. The mother, official sufferer, clasped her hands in a silent lament for her dying son, who was already a man, and who not long ago was fine and happy, and now he was dying, he was dying with no cure. Some blow, too many blows, as a child!

«
Poor boy!
»

It is a pause in the run of fragments, homage to the most important belief. They are related witches, fair in their words; they have too much experience with all of these moments. The lamp trembles (oh, no, only a little bit of air through the crack, only a little bit of air). The sick boy
’
s forehead burns an officious hand.

«
Such a hard worker.
»

«
There wasn
’
t another like him!
»

The doctor arrived, despairing. The rector. He said grace. Who else? Ah, enough, enough, you know! Lady Rodesinda, the mistress in charge. Pale, thin, she draws close. Is this Lliset? Poor woman, she collapsed! The old women, admiring, compassionate, supported her with reverence.

«
She loved him so much!
»

Preterite, of course, imperfect.

«
She was his godmother.
»

«
And she saw him born.
»

«
What a great heart!
»

Recovered, Rodesinda embraced the mother; crying, she made a helping gesture. Coins, not many, jingled. Everyone praised the generous impulse of the mistress.

«
The kind woman!
»

«
She can
’
t stand to see suffering.
»

«
May God pay her as well as she does the wretched.
»

Some heterodox voice whispered:

«
She
’
ll bill them at the close the year.
»

They objected:

«
Sure. Whatever comes after, hidden, does not erase the visible present of this moment, now. The woman is a saint!
»

The excessive praise ran in voluptuous droplets down that excessively thin and virginal back. She collapsed again. They carried her out.

II

Another day:

«
How do you think the boy is doing?
»

«
Terribly. We
’
re not coming out of it.
»

«
Yes, that
’
s it,
»
a philosopher said.
«
You
’
re born alone, live alone, and you die alone.
»

«
And you must save or condemn yourself alone,
»
the senior rector reminded them.

«
Too much work, dammit.
»

Above, the witches stayed up with the dying boy.

«
Poor boy!
»

«
Poor parents!
»

And finally there came to pass what everyone, for so long, had awaited. The boy died, and they had to bury him. Spring afternoon
—
a pretty one. The funeral procession descended mountain paths that were beginning to be disguised by flowers. The coffin was carried by hand, and those carrying it cursed its excessive weight. The entire town followed. They stopped at the small plaza, in front of the church. The rector sang in poor Latin. Everyone became emotional from not having understood him, and prophesied that it would have one effect or another. All of a sudden, a boy escaped the watchful eye of his mother and set to playing marbles at the side of the coffin where it rested in a stretcher, under a canopy of incense, for the liturgy. The boy
’
s startled mother judged these actions to be a bad omen, and taught the boy a lesson as he shrieked and broke the gathered sorrow. The other mother, losing her wits, yelled out:

«
Yours is going to die too, you know!
»

Her neighbor cursed her and distanced herself. Die? Hers? Not hers, she wouldn
’
t allow it. And she kissed him furiously, already defending her actions. The retinue continued, arriving at the cemetery. Tears, an Our Father, heading back. The men stopped at the tavern, and the father treated. Everyone drank to the health of the deceased.

It was a long, narrow, and rather dark living room. We sat down. We were stacked up in an uncomfortable heap. We adopted the poses of people watching science films. Some couldn
’
t deflect the anguish. Others had already been there and they warned us about what we would have to see.
«
Silence,
»
our Professor demanded, and went on instructing us through an extremely long lecture. At the end he dictated to us the conduct to follow before what we were to see.
«
And now we can begin to introduce the infirm.
»
The Director of the establishment gave the adequate order.
«
They picked them,
»
Pere M
à
rtir Passerell, who was one of the veterans, warned.
«
They show the most presentable ones. But I have a good time with it, I come every year.
»
«
Greet these gentlemen,
»
the Director meanwhile suggested of someone who had just entered.
«
Good day, he, he!
»
said the subject, a sort of eunuchoid.
«
Pau is always happy,
»
the Director assured.
«
Isn
’
t that right, good boy?
»
«
He, he!
»
Pau confirmed.
«
Listen closely to the question,
»
the Professor shouted at us.
«
What is it that you like the most, Pau?
»
«
He, he!
»
the eunuchoid enunciated while licking his lips.
«
I like them
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
»
Thus, tranquilly he expressed the enormity of things.
«
Ha, ha, ha!
»
we laughed, unanimously.
«
What
’
s so funny, eh?
»
Pere M
à
rtir Passerell asked.
«
I
’
m telling you, I come here every year.
»
«
Shh!
»
interrupted the Professor.
«
These deviations in sexual instinct constitute, write this down, one of the possible characteristics of these pathological cases.
»
«
He, he!
»
shouting himself hoarse, the eunuchoid said.
«
Take him away,
»
the Director said decisively. Pau disappeared and was replaced by a thin man.
«
I present to you all General Bum-Bum,
»
the Director said.
«
They finally put him away?
»
we, the na
ï
ve, asked.
«
They
’
re confusing me,
»
the personality protested.
«
Today, I am the inventor Carboni.
»
«
This infirm man,
»
our Professor documented for us,
«
suffers from personality disorders. He is, depending on the day, General Bum-Bum, Carboni, or a modest writer.
»
«
He
’
s not a disturbed person who entertains,
»
stressed, sotto voce, the companioning Passerell.
«
I
’
ve seen him as all three and he is not at all pleasant. If he feels like an inventor today, he
’
s going to bewilder you with trigonometric formulas.
»
«
Sine A, Cosine B,
»
revved Carboni the inventor.
«
Enough,
»
advised the professor.
«
And now you will all witness an extremely curious case,
»
he continued.
«
A woman who seems in her appearance as normal as any of us. She argues well. In reality we don
’
t know whether she is or is not sick. We have her under observation.
»
«
They already had her there last year,
»
Pere M
à
rtir Passerell informed us.
«
The rigor and logic of her mind are excellent.
»
A highly distinguished woman entered. She greeted us courteously and explained that she had been there for a year; her husband had had her locked away. That she and her husband had never understood each other, and that she suspected that on more than one occasion she had gotten in his way. That she was fine. That, if she remained locked up, she would perhaps end up not fine. That she hoped we might feel sorry for her. That she enjoyed our visit, despite finding the group a little large. That she hoped we might not forget her. And that we might free her from her prison.
«
She
’
s not demented,
»
we, the novices, said, moved.
«
Well,
»
countered the more clever among us headed by Pere M
à
rtir Passerell.
«
It
’
s very suspicious that she speaks so coherently.
»
«
Agreed,
»
we agreed. And we went over other illustrations of amnesia, abulia, echopraxia, echomotism.
«
Ha, ha!
»
laughed Pere M
à
rtir Passarell.
«
Boys, you
’
re about to hear some screaming,
»
he promised us. They had introduced an old man.
«
How many years old would you all calculate this old man to be?
»
the Professor asked us.
«
Octogenarian? He hasn
’
t even turned fifty.
»
«
Fifty!
»
we were amazed. Our surprise satisfied the Director, the Professor, and the veterans.
«
This man suffered a formidable attack of apoplexy. He was a strong, good-looking man, and was transformed into this. He passes hour after hour immobile. Suddenly, he begins to utter some words, always the same, rather low, in a confusing tone, and goes on raising his voice, little by little. He repeats what he
’
s saying until he reaches the point of exhaustion, and it
’
s not at all easy to get him to be quiet. If you all had heard him, he would have impressed you. Eh, Francesc?
»
«
Mama real lylo vesme,
»
he exhaled, in an extremely low voice, that wreck.
«
Mama real lylo vesme, Mama real lylo vesme, Mama real lylo vesme, Mama real lylo vesme.
»
A monotonous, obsessive song.
«
Lylo vesme?
»
we weren
’
t familiar with it.
«
Ha, ha!
»
laughed Pere M
à
rtir Passerell.
«
Right now it
’
s difficult to understand, but he
’
s only saying that his mother, who died years ago, really loves him.
»
«
Mama real lylo vesme, Mama real lylo vesme, Mama real lylo vesme,
»
Francesc bellowed, like a storm.
«
Ha, ha, ha!
»
pondered Pere M
à
rtir Passerell.
«
Each academic year I come here, and next year, as usual, there
’
s no way I
’
m letting myself miss this,
»
concluded, while choking with laughter, the humorist Pere M
à
rtir Passerell, with whom
—
as with many other of my counterparts, both women and men
—
I had long ago pierced, without realizing it, the threshold of an arid road between high and unique barriers of imbecility and crime. And in my conscience, the thought
—
unbent in the western wind facing the wall
—
was itself already completely alone in the emptiness; stupid perversity, stupid malevolence.