B0040702LQ EBOK (31 page)

This comforting stance collapsed, however, a few weeks
later, when little cousin Gerarda was born: again with an extra
finger, which again was on her left hand. The case therefore
was no longer exceptional and the first serious doubts were
raised. Postponing the decision until Abelard and Gerarda
were nine no longer made sense. An uncle, who was a shorthand typist and keen on French jazz, was brave enough to ask
if there was any point in carrying on with that absurd tradition. It was the provocation the family needed. The reaction
was unanimous. A tradition going back centuries could not be questioned just because two children happened to be born
with six fingers. The dissident was made to feel that his
question was unnecessary and inopportune and, with great
solemnity and resolve, the date was fixed for the next gettogether, in one month's time, at the beginning of December.

A week later, however, came the news that in Barbastro a
third cousin (more or less removed) had been born with six
fingers. Suddenly it became clear that it was inappropriate to
speak of chance and that putting off the decision for nine
years would not solve anything. Some members of the family
took the view that there was no need for alarm: the appearance in the family of children with six fingers on one hand
was the product of a logical evolution. Uncle Reguard himself
suggested that many centuries (some said millennia) of cutting
off the left-hand ring finger were eventually giving rise to a
mutation whereby, in order to compensate for the finger they
would lose at nine, they were being given an extra finger at
birth. This idea was considered absurd by other members of
the family, who rejected the notion that such a large mutation
could take place over a short period such as centuries or millennia. Actually, it was irrelevant who was right. For the first
time, there was a profound schism within the family, capable
of splitting it apart. On one side, those who believed that
children born with six fingers had to have two fingers
removed (the ring finger, as usual, and this new finger
between the ring finger and the middle finger which has no
name) and that there was no need to wait till the children
were nine; instead it should be done now, as a show of force to
stifle dissent. On the other side, those who held that if tradition dictated the removal of one finger, then no matter what
anatomical modifications appeared, they should carry on
being faithful to the tradition and cut off just one finger.
When the debate was at its height, a third stance, initially a
minority one, was adopted by the shorthand typist uncle and
two sisters-in-law, who denounced the custom itself as an act
of barbarity.

The fact that it was the sisters-in-law who put forward this denunciation was particularly serious, because people who
married into the family had always been the most fervent
defenders of the customs, having become convinced of its
merits during courtship. In fact, one of the key moments in
any courtship (and a common source of jokes on family occasions), was when the family member, thinking things were
getting serious, approached their future spouse to say that,
before they got engaged, there was something they should
know Something that would almost certainly seem very
strange at first, though in actual fact it wasn't, and which
would have to be taken into consideration if they were to have
a future together. Then they said it: `When the children in the
family get to the age of nine, we cut off the ring finger of their
left hand.'

The initial reaction was always hesitation (was it a joke?),
and then afterwards (when it was clear it was not a joke)
horror. The same objections were always raised: `How can
such a barbarous custom survive in this day and age?' `What's
the point?' `I hope you don't think you're doing that to our
children!' So the task of persuasion would begin, hours of
conversation, of justification. Days and days drawing subtle
distinctions, clarifying details and explaining, until the future
partner finally understood. From that point on, they turned
into the most ardent defenders of the practice and even
(though in theory nobody asked them to do so) offered their
own ring fingers, in order really to become part of the family.
They were also the first to demand, when their children
turned nine, that the ceremony should be carried out
immediately, strictly according to custom, and the first to
volunteer to hold down the hand.

Hence it was a serious matter that the revisionist tendency should emerge from that faction of the family, the
converts, apparently the most ardent devotees of the custom.
However, that consideration began to lose its importance:
soon there were no differences and the initial faction
formed by the shorthand typist and the two sisters-in-law
was joined by everyone else. A fourth cousin was born with
six fingers. Crisis point had been reached. People were beginning to drift apart and the get-together that had been
arranged for the beginning of December was postponed sine
die. `Until a definite decision is reached.' However, many
suspected that this was just a polite formula and that this
would be the only decision taken, although it appeared not
to be a decision.

Armand was given a harp. He was enrolled for music and harp
lessons, every Tuesday and Thursday, after school. He practised every weekend, with a diligence and conviction not
always rewarded by the results. Once it became clear that the
family custom of cutting off fingers was a thing of the past,
Armand's interest gradually waned and the harp ended up in a
corner gathering dust until years later, when Elisard, one of
the cousins with six fingers, showed an interest in it. Every
time there was a meal at Armand's house (nowadays there
would only be six or eight people, whereas before there had
always been more than twenty), Elisard would go off to
Armand's room to play the harp. Each time he came, his
playing got better, until he could play pieces by Halffter,
Milhaud and Ginastera and (to please the family) some
Paraguayan tunes and a little Mexican number that he played
over and over again, each time with more brio. Armand's
parents suggested giving him the harp. Armand took this as a
criticism (reproaching him for having first made such a thing
of his vocation as a harpist, then losing all interest in it); to
avoid giving them the satisfaction, he said he couldn't care less
what they did with the harp. His parents decided they would
give it to Elisard the next time he came.

But Elisard never visited Armand's house again. Gradually,
without the ceremony to bind them together, the family
reunions came to be held less and less frequently; those that
took place attracted fewer and fewer people and soon everybody began to make excuses not to attend: if it was winter,
they were going skiing; in summer, they were off to the beach;
and at any other time of the year, they had a previous
engagement they could not possibly cancel. Within a few
years, family reunions had become a thing of the past and even the closest relatives were strangers who spoke once a
year, if that, and then only on the phone.

Elisard was the only relative of whom everyone continued
to have news all the time, for over the years (some said his
anatomical peculiarity was a factor) he became an outstanding
harpist, who restored to the instrument the status and prestige
it had lost through the excessively simple use made of it in
previous decades. Armand took a different view. He considered him a child prodigy who had had a brilliant period but
who, as he grew older, had become a pathetic figure: him, his
harp and those ghastly tunes. Leaning on the bar counter,
Armand sees Elisard yet again on the television set next to the
line of bottles. He turns round, heaves an exaggerated sigh,
makes some slighting remarks in a loud voice and proposes a
revival of the custom of cutting off ring fingers, beginning
with the celebrated harpist. The other people in the bar don't
even look at him. Since nobody is paying him any attention,
he tells the story of his family. A couple of people who do
finally listen to what he is saying take him for a drunk or a
madman or both. Just one girl looks at him with a certain
interest, and when he finishes, she comes over. She's beautiful,
with an attractive smile and a lock of chestnut hair falling over
her face, in that style some women use to disguise the fact that
they have one glass eye.

© Joaquim Monzo

Translated by Annella McDermott

One morning the beetle emerged from its pupal state, and
found itself transformed into a chubby boy. He was lying on
his back, which was surprisingly soft and vulnerable, and if
he raised his head a little, he could see his pale, swollen
belly. The number of limbs was drastically reduced and the
few he could feel (four, he would later count) were painfully
fleshy and so thick and heavy that he just could not move
them.

What had happened to him? The room now seemed tiny
and the smell of damp less penetrating than before. On the
wall there were hooks to hang the broom and mop. In a
corner, two buckets. Up against another of the walls, a set of
shelves with bags, boxes, jars, a vacuum cleaner and, leaning
against them, an ironing board. How small those things
looked, yet before they had been so huge he could hardly take
them in. He moved his head. He tried to move to the right,
but his now gigantic body was too heavy and he could not
manage it. He tried again, and a third time. After that, he was
exhausted and had to rest.

He opened his eyes again, anxiously. What about his
family? He turned his head to the left and there they were, at a
distance difficult to estimate, staring at him in alarm and fear.
He was sorry they were scared; if he could, he would have
apologised for the awful experience he was putting them
through. His attempts to move and approach them were
grotesque. He found it particularly difficult to crawl along on
his back. Instinct told him that if he turned face downward he
might find it easier, although with only four legs (and those
not particularly agile) he was not sure how he was going to
manage to advance. Luckily there were no noises to suggest
there were humans in the house. The room had a window and a door. He could hear raindrops drumming on the metal
window sill. He hesitated whether to make first for the door
or the window and finally decided to make for the window
because from there he could see exactly where he was, though
he was not sure what good it would do him to know exactly
where he was. With all the strength he could muster, he
attempted to turn over. He was strong, but it was clear that he
did not know how to control his strength; each movement
was separate and disjointed, there was no coordination. Once
he learned to use his limbs, things would be so much better,
he would be able to join his family. Suddenly, he realised
he was thinking, and that made him wonder if he had
also thought previously. He would have said he did, but in
comparison to now, the earlier thinking was decidedly
elementary.

After many failed attempts, he managed to put his right
arm over his body; having done that, he threw all his weight
onto his left side and, with one final effort, managed to turn
his body over and slump heavily face down. His family
quickly moved out of the way; they stopped some way off,
afraid he might make another sudden movement and crush
them. Feeling sorry for them, he laid his left cheek against the
floor and stayed still. His relatives came to within millimetres
of his eyes. He could see their antennae waving, their jaws
clamped in a grimace of consternation. He felt afraid of losing
them. What if they rejected him? As if she had heard what
he was thinking, his mother stroked his eyelashes with her
antennae. Of course, he thought, it's what she must find least
changed in me. Moved (a tear ran down his cheek and formed
a pool around his sister's legs), he tried to respond to the
caress; he moved his right arm, lifted it and then, unable to
control it, he let it fall heavily, whereupon his relations ran
off and took refuge behind a bottle of fabric softener. His
father poked his head out, cautiously. He was convinced they
knew he meant them no harm, and understood that all those
dangerous movements were the result of his lack of skill in
controlling the monstrous body. This was confirmed when
they approached him once more. How tiny they looked, how small and (he found it hard to accept this) distant, as though
his life and theirs were about to set off in two fundamentally
different directions. He would have liked to ask them not to
leave him, to stay until he could go with them, but he did not
know how. He would have liked to stroke their antennae
without that caress destroying them but, as events had just
shown, his awkward movements posed an obvious risk. Face
down, he began the move towards the window. Slowly, with
the help of his limbs, he crawled across the room (his family
still on the lookout) till he reached the window. But the window was very high up and he had no idea how to reach it. He
yearned for his former body, small, agile, hard and with plenty
of legs, which would have allowed him to move easily and
quickly, and another tear rolled down his cheek, this time a
tear of impotence.