Life Embitters (11 page)

The whole charabanc burst out laughing. The coachman’s face appeared at the front window, looking intrigued. Conversations in boarding houses – and this was in fact a boarding house in motion – are always like this: shot through with unimaginable vulgarity and poor taste.

Our carriage finally reestablished contact with the cobbles and, exerting himself, the coachman finally managed to stir the wretched pony into a slow, mechanical trot. The charabanc juddered over the cobbles with a peculiar clatter that particularly affected the panes of glass. The continual vibration produced the usual strange phenomena: a moment came when Sr Riera realized to his alarm that the wool, straw, or flock or whatever stuffed the padded cushion where he sat kept shifting along to more fortunate derrières. Yes, Sr Riera could feel his flesh hitting stark naked timber. On the other hand, Don Natali sensed, with a voluptuous shudder, that the base of his seat kept gaining bulk, volume, and warmth. Ferrer, who quickly cottoned on to the readjustment, asked sardonically: “You all right, Riera? These cushions are first-rate …”

Riera, who was going from bad to worse, struggled to hold his temper. He laughed dutifully and replied between gritted teeth: “Yes, of course, I am.”

The question was meant to be a hurtful dig and, given Riera’s temperament, the consequences were disastrous. Sr Ferrer’s little quip kept jarring in his mind while the hard pressure from the timber and the cruel ridge along the edge of the seats kept irritating him. The narrowness of the carriage and its dinginess played on his nerves. He became increasingly agitated – at times he didn’t know where to put his hands or his feet – and it got worse as
he registered that neither Don Natali nor Sr Dalmau budged an inch; in fact, quite the contrary – they seemed to be luxuriating in the pleasures of the heightened sponginess of their share of the cushion. Don Natali, especially, seemed to have positioned his butt wonderfully.

The charabanc was crossing the pale white glow from a powerful streetlight when Riera glanced furiously at his companions on the bench, and, beside himself, bawled loudly: “Verdaguer, Dalmau … on your feet!”

Confusion hit the carriage momentarily. Don Natali and Sr Dalmau gazed at the outside world with a considered air of surprise – an air that coincided with the blank, innocent smile spreading over Sr Tomeu’s face. By virtue of the fact that Sr Tomeu never involved himself in anything, Sr Tomeu was constantly out of it. From the seat opposite, Bramson and Ferrer looked at Verdaguer and Riera with a degree of alarm, anticipating the inevitable.

Riera waited for a moment, brows knitted, mouth shut, arms folded over his chest. As he was taller than the carriage ceiling, he was forced to twist his neck and constrain his body. Although new to the house, Dalmau grasped that Riera hadn’t spoken idly, struggled to detach himself from his seat and, scraping the charabanc walls, managed to stand up. Riera’s reprimand sounded like the patter of rainfall to Don Natali’s ears. He occupied the corner seat. He pulled his hat down and continued to stare at the back of the coach-driver’s neck.

In the pink light from the nearby street the dark olive-green hue of Sr Riera’s face darkened dramatically. His lips quivered in a nervous chuckle. Everyone now focused on that man who remained in the middle of the coach, tall and stooping like the bearer of a baroque float. Dalmau, on his side, was struggling to keep on his feet as the coach juddered up and down: he held himself erect by holding tight to the mullions of a window with both
hands. Verdaguer soon lost his presence of mind. He chewed his mustache and screwed up his face: it lengthened, shrunk, furrowed or flattened out as his feelings ebbed and eddied.

“Verdaguer!” Riera said brusquely. “I must ask you a second time: will you please get up from your seat?”

“Who? Me? Why?” answered Verdaguer in a mock polite tone, giving the impression that he’d been taken by surprise, and mechanically taking off his hat.

“Yes, sir, I’m addressing you, you parasite …” Riera rasped harshly.

Don Natali’s nostrils and lips quivered. His pale perspiring face turned the color of chlorine and his body twitched for a moment. His left eye shut, something that happened when he was in a state, and his right sought out a friendly face among those present that might encourage him to formulate a worthy riposte. His open eye reviewed the others, to no avail. He found no succor, only indifference. So he didn’t say a word. Not a single one.

When he began to make an effort to stand straight – not without difficulty – his legs tottered, sweat poured down his cheeks and his head seemed on fire.

Now that Riera had them both on their feet, he howled with sardonic, rude laughter. Ferrer displayed a set of cheerful, off-white teeth. Out of it, as ever, Sr Tomeu lowered his head mournfully. The Swiss remained absolutely deadpan.

With three erect bodies, that amalgam of human flesh in the scant light from the street – we were going up the Ronda de Sant Pau – must have seemed a very odd, chaotic mess. Ferrer then redistributed the small amount of wool in the cushion along the edge of the seat. It was a labor on behalf of equality. They sat down again, however, a moment before the carriage had lurched violently when a wheel dipped into a tramline and it caught Sr
Dalmau in time to bang his head hard against the charabanc ceiling and see stars. From the look on Riera’s face as he sat down, it was evident he wasn’t satisfied with his victory.

Bramson offered him his cigar case. Verdaguer said nervously: “Yes, thank you, a cigarette …”

There was a lull. The vibrations of the coach drowned the noise of the match being struck. Riera took advantage of the phosphorous glow to glance at Verdaguer’s corner. Eyes half closed, Don Natali was leaning back and inhaling furiously. Now and then a wisp of smoke emerged from his nostrils. There was a stunned silence inside the carriage. Nevertheless, all of a sudden, Sr Riera rasped abruptly: “Ferrer!”

“The floor is yours, Sr Riera …”

“Look! We must speak frankly once and for all … I intend making the most of the fact we are all gathered here to speak my mind: this cannot continue a single day more … I cannot stand these fellows!”

“But, Riera, perhaps …”

Riera puffed his chest out and, leaning his face provocatively into Verdaguer’s, rattled on in the same tone of voice: “We must know where we stand! We must tell Sra Paradís what we think! Right away! Decisions must … It’s urgent!”

“Riera, calm down, for God’s sake!” Ferrer replied nervously. “We
will
broach their position. Perhaps now isn’t the time. We must proceed calmly. These matters are very delicate, as you yourself are aware …”

“Know what I think, Ferrer? Your mincing and mollycoddling will get us absolutely nowhere.”

“And why will it get us nowhere?” asked Sr Ferrer indignantly.

“Because it won’t! It won’t get us anywhere …”

The conversation dried up. Neither Sr Dalmau nor Don Natali tried to
utter the slightest whimper of protest. They had shrunk, their bodies seemed to shrivel. Light from successive streetlamps illuminated the inside of the carriage for a moment. Nobody uttered another word.

The charabanc reached the Plaça de la Universitat and turned up Aribau as far as Consell de Cent. When we reached the corner of this street, it turned right and the horse went as far as one of the houses behind the Seminary, on the third floor of which Sra Paradís ran her boarding house.

The day after, Riera summoned the Swiss lodgers Bramson and Pickel, Sr Ferrer, and me to his bedroom at 11
P.M.
At that hour, Sra Paradís was snoozing in her wicker rocking chair in the gallery, while the cat and Murillo, lying at her feet on a tiny thin carpet, digested their food which, as with the lodgers, was hardly an onerous task.

Riera received us in his slippers and nightshirt – with that red piping that was the fashion at the time in nightshirts – and pants for the street. His shirt was only half tucked inside his pants, no doubt because he’d been in a rush, and the rear flap hung limply outside. The Swiss were dressed normally and looked somewhat perplexed. Bramson was using his magnificent amber cigarette holder with the shepherdess and her lamb. Sr Ferrer came in pajamas and dressing-gown, evidently very worried.

“Gentlemen …” began Riera when we were all seated.

Like so many irritable, moody folk, Riera spoke with a good deal of rhetorical flourish. The nickname of Neurotic he’d been given was quite apt.

“Gentlemen, do you see now! We’ve reached an intolerable state of affairs. If we don’t defend ourselves, we will be condemned to Maggi broth, fried hake, and leathery, transparent steak. They are unquestionably taking us for a ride … Don’t doubt this for a minute: they will starve us to death, if we don’t react.”

Sr Ferrer’s face darkened, he wrinkled his eyebrows, and looked at Sr Riera with a mixture of pity and contempt.

“Moreover, you should know,” added Riera, “that Sra Paradís’s behavior is completely unjustified. I have got to the bottom of it. A comb has been found in …”

Sr Ferrer’s hysterical laughter prevented him from finishing his sentence. Sr Riera turned red with rage, got up from his chair, and walked once around his smallish room – swiveled around on himself, that is – and finally stood, mouth half open, lips trembling, glaring at Sr Bramson.

This gentleman, who had been observing the scene quite impassively, wiped the back of his neck, returned his cigarette holder to its case and finally said, rather shyly: “I do think we should proceed calmly. Sr Riera, you have shouted at us. In view of which, we should now try to speak in more measured tones …”

“Of course, of course …” said Riera, giving a bow.

Riera’s back was turned to his room’s balcony, he’d folded his arms over his chest, and the dismal green, tattered curtains hung down either side of his body.

“As far as morality goes,” Bramson added extremely calmly, “I share the ideas that everyone has, because I never like to be the exception. I require minimal adherence in such matters from those around me and, for my part, I will try to be amenable and bear in mind whatever you agree, if anyone, in this house, has exceeded the minimum standard I insist on. If, in my opinion, that isn’t the case, I shall stay put in this boarding house because it is very convenient to be so close to my office …”

Sr Riera made a strange guttural sound – a rumble possibly created by an unconscious reaction or by a momentary blockage of the larynx. He was visibly seething.

“Sr Riera, allow me!” said Bramson, as calm as ever, with that German accent that so well suited his corpulence. “Tell me, I beg you: does Sr Verdaguer pay for his board and lodging?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“The house maids …”

“Fine. House maids usually know everything or almost everything in these boarding houses. So, then, Don Natali doesn’t pay up and, consequently, Sra Paradís’s only income from this house is what we gathered here pay her …”

“Absolutely right! Sr Verdaguer lives off our backs!”

The voluminous Swiss paused. Ferrer keenly followed the conversation. Pickel looked up at the ceiling and seemed totally oblivious to what was happening around him. From time to time, he glanced at those conversing as if he’d just descended from the clouds and tittered strangely as if to say: “What nonsense they are spouting!” Boada was falling asleep. I repeatedly pulled his arm and tried to stir him. It is examination time and seems as if students didn’t exist.

“And, Sr Riera, what can you tell us about Sr Dalmau, Don Martí Dalmau?” Bramson asked suddenly.

“Not very much, to be candid,” replied Riera. “He is a friend of Sra Paradís and Sr Verdaguer. This seems to bode ill, but I wouldn’t want to speculate beyond that. As you all know, he only arrived a few days ago. Consequently, we must wait and see, though it’s not hard to guess what the upshot will be.”

“Fine!” added Bramson, completely deadpan. “Fine! Once we have taken all this on board, Sr Riera, I feel I must tell you, Sr Riera, that I don’t intend to leave this boarding house for now. For the moment, I don’t think that
minimal abnormality that I require to cohabit with other people has been exceeded. On the contrary, this boarding house has confirmed yet again my own experience from living in such establishments in my country and several others.”

“Pray, allow me to ask what your experience amounts to, Sr Bramson?” asked Sr Riera rather unpleasantly.

“Nothing very startling … Three types of people tend to coexist in these places: those who pay, those who appear not to pay, and your genuine parasites … What can we do about this, if it’s how the world is? And now, my dear friend, you must understand what I was implying when I spoke a few seconds ago about a maximum and a minimum. As I believe I am completely unequipped to eradicate parasites from boarding houses, then all that concerns me is they should be kept to the right number, that is, the minimum …”

“That’s appalling!” said Riera, wiping his forehead, both dismayed and disappointed, while Pickel and Ferrer let out a guffaw.

Sr Riera was dumbfounded. His mind and body had sunk into that well-known state of mind that hovers between the dithers and a nervous breakdown.

“That’s appalling, Sr Bramson, really appalling …” Riera repeated, putting his hands to his head.

Then he seemed to recover and he asked: “But can you really be serious?”

“I am
always
serious, Sr Riera, even when I talk of such trifling matters. Allow me to sum up my thoughts on the matter. When I enter into any piece of business, when I use the services of a boarding house or a hotel, when I try to do anything in life that involves other people, I know perfectly well that part of my money will be heading to the upkeep of one or more people
behind the scenes. Do you understand? And things being as they are, all I can aspire to do is to ensure that the number of third parties doesn’t overwhelm my budget … In the present situation, as long as it doesn’t exceed the minimum acknowledged by you, I rest my case; the situation is perfectly normal, or in other words, is just the right level of abnormality to make it an absolutely average situation.”