Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature)

by Espriu, Salvador

  «He ended up so small,» observed Senyor Pepa Sastre, who had come expressly to see him. «He was nothing but Neb from head to toe,» he declared, his emotion poorly hid.

  «Don’t take him away yet!» Evangelina cried out. Candelera, Oliva, and Perpètua wept.

  Sirac’s son Jesús said: «Do not return good to those who have done bad to you. Consider . . .» But why remind you of the greatest, sublime, illustrious Roman academic. Having returned that day—out of respect—to extend Nebuchadnezzar a baptism, they left him cold inside his coffin, with the moaning of widow and children, those virtuous women, all around him. And the body was towed by a skeletal horse out of the tattered geometry of the suburb and buried under the dirt of a cypress. And Father Silví Saperes intoned with reverence a prayer for the eternal rest of his soul. And opulent Senyor Pepa Sastre, who presided over the act—by his own choice—delivered an ennobling speech in memory of the deceased. And that is how the great Nebuchadnezzar, cobbler and drunk, found peace with the ritual. And after, everyone left. And these were their final comments:

  «The soil is soft and there isn’t much thickness to it. They shouldn’t touch it.»

  Everyone laughed.

  «An institution has disappeared,» summed up Father Silví, resuscitator of the archival glories of the suburb.

  «And now, off to work, girls,» Evangelina advised Candelera, Oliva, and Perpètua.

  And these were the funeral rites of Nebuchadnezzar.

  V

  «Vulgar,» Pupú Alosa, the reader, said, rejecting the story. «Does it not seem vulgar to you?» she asked Ludovicus Baronet, with an enchanting smile.

  «Yes, dear, vulgar,» confirmed the exquisite L.B.

  «Oh, very vulgar,» ratified the authority Pulcre Trompel·li, with her tottering hump.

  «Too vulgar»—who knows if this was the thought of Justi Petri, Arcadian of the Roman Academy.

  «Yes, illustrious academic, select public, ladies and gentleman,» agreed the ventriloquist Salom, welcomingly. «Extremely vulgar, it is true, really extremely vulgar. Et pourquoi pas?»

  Death in the Street

  «That’s not it,» said the Cervantist, directing himself toward Efrem Pedagog, who was right next to him. «That’s not it, I tell you,» he insisted, congested. «The book explains it clearly: Altisidora saw a dozen demons at the gates of hell. Silence! I know what you all mean: the man doesn’t have enough substance to coax out so many demons. But why choose Altisidora? He could have named the heroine of the farce, let’s say for the sake of discussion, “Cristòfora,” and not sullied the memory of the maiden.» «What’s in it!» contradicted Ecolampadi Miravitlles, who had approached them in the meantime. «Is it your precious scholarly memory that gets to demand who makes a living? Whether Altisidora or Cristòfora, the spectacle has stopped us in our tracks, captured our attention in the middle of the street, under the sun.» «It’s burning hot out here,» intervened the amusing Senyora Magdalena Blasi, passionate for climatology. «Good day, it’s true, and with all the rain yesterday this was by no means a given. It’s glorious to live here, glorious.» «One of our unique glories, dear madam,» Efrem Pedagog said. «Well,» he continued. «We were arguing, gentlemen, over the veracity of the farce represented before us. I cannot confirm (the pace of my life prohibits me from having the scholarly data at hand) the exact name of the demons that Altisidora saw on her feigned voyage to the underworld.» «A dozen, my good man!» erupted the Cervantist. «Perhaps you doubt it, sir? I am willing to wager . . . » «Let us leave it at that,» conceded Efrem Pedagog. «I believe you, sir. But that is not of importance. External, historical truth only, my good man.» «Agreed,» agreed Ecolampadi Miravitlles. «The internal is the important truth, and you can by no means deny that this, despite its imperfections, does not meld with the spectacle we are witnessing.» «Oh, oh!» said Efrem Pedagog, posing, a little bothered by the interruption, his eyes blank. «Note the way art—barbaric and luminous—knew just how to discover the psychological refinement within the fable. The maiden mocked love and deserved hell, a vulgar hell of puppets, cardboard, stage backdrops. Altisidora is pretty. She does not have, however, a noble soul. She is exquisite and unreachable because that was what made her an example of quixotic chastity, not for her own sake. I fear, gentlemen, that Altisidora will not be revived here. Here we will witness the ultra-earthly luck of dead Altisidora, truly dead, without resurrections, just as the Catholic and popular mind imagines her. Altisidora . . . » «The things you know, sir!» Senyora Magdalena Blasi, staring at him, said. «But, did you say Catholic? For the love of God, don’t speak of religion now. I’m so fragile!» «Be quiet!» Estanislau Forns, a young technician employed by the grocery store and a member of the «Conscious and Totalitarian Sporting Youths of Town,» demanded rather rudely. «What do you mean, speaking to a lady in this manner?» cried out the unconquered hybrid General Don Bartolomé Morros de los Cabezos. «Out of my sight, lest I teach you a lesson for your impudence!» «Thank you!» the old woman with the fine mouth said to that genuine national treasure. «One is exposed to so many things these days!» The General gestured gallantly. And behold how (with Efrem still savoring the lady’s compliment) Altisidora and the demon—who had been, until then, so arrogant on the small fair-and-street-corner puppet stage—tottered, fell silent, and vanished, tumbling down toward hell’s invisible circles. «What’s going on?» asked the large and honorable crowd. It was one in the afternoon. «Is it snack time?» the crowd wondered, and began to prepare for an orderly exit. «What’s wrong with this guy?» a small woman with a heavy chest, Pura Yerovi, cried out, having practically stopped in her tracks. «It’s coming down!» The little portable stage fell. Under the ruins, a body, its hands still gloved with Altisidora and the demon. «A doctor!» demanded various voices. «Are you a doctor? What’s wrong with this guy?» «He’s dead,» the practitioner said with certainty. «How?» asked the crowd. «Who can be sure, who knows,» he answered indifferently. «And now, dead! It’s strange, under this sky,» opined heavy-chested Pura Yerovi. At that moment, a disheveled boy yelled out that he was a relative and leapt on top of the dead man. «Poor kid, this is so beautiful,» said Senyora Magdalena Blasi. «Police!» roared the heroic General. «Someone call the police! There is no way this can be happening.» «You are correct, this is a cabal,» Efrem Pedagog said dismissively. «Dying in this manner, on the street, without even the most basic public service yet in motion. And, well, what were we saying—Altisidora . . . » «Psychological explanations get me nowhere. A dozen demons: this is the honest truth. I do not know the malevolent intention behind it, be it intentional, external, scholarly. External? I prefer that,» the irascible Cervantist categorically decided. «I agree with the other gentleman,» confessed Ecolampadi Miravitlles. And off they went. «Are the police not on their way?» insisted, still, the General. «The unhappy thing, an abandoned boy, how miserable! I’m going to fall ill,» young Pura Yerovi said, everything emanating from her heavy chest. «What a glorious sunny day,» murmured Senyora Magdalena Blasi, as she was lost amid the growing multitude. «Life, what a trip. Since you entertained me, poor thing, I’ll say the Lord’s Prayer for you. They were wise, those gentlemen. And wow, how hungry I’ve become,» realized, impartially, Senyora Magdalena Blasi.

  German Quasi-Story of Ulrika Thöus

  On a celebrated occasion many years ago, my friend Frau Doktor Ulrika Thöus, of the Institut für Vererbungsforschung of the College of Architecture in Berlin-Dahlem, wrote me a letter in German that I translated, via the delicate fogginess known as «public refinement,» into my moribund imperial tongue. «You know,» my illustrious lady friend said, «the work of R. Goldschmidt’s team, Die sexuellen Zwischenstufen, and the works of Meisenheimer, Harrison, and of my colleague Pariser. I suspect you know as well the studies done by Witschi on certain geographic races of frogs, and I assume you accept without discussion the rigor of Mendel’s laws as they pertain to the inheritance of sexes. It explains to us that, in beings of sepa
rate sexes, one sex forms, generally, in the animal kingdom as well as in that of the plants, two classes of gametes (X, Y), which is to say that it is heterogametic. In turn, the other sex is homogametic (X, X). What consequences would you draw from within the range of Goldschmidt’s extensive studies of intersex before a deviation of the numerical relation of the Mendel inheritance of 1:1 or, if you would like it in the more commonly understood terms, 50% , 50% ? I have experimented with numerous combinations of distinct species of the genus “Triton.” A microscopic examination of one hundred and twenty-three gonads revealed twenty-one cases in which ovaries developed, one in which a single testicle developed. And the remaining organism, more or less “a speck,” had an undifferentiated gonad in the middle of many ovaries. It is a strange result, do you not think? This is indisputable evidence that what we are talking about here are true hybrids: look, if you will, at the photograph I have included for you. You will distinguish in it four species, all of them represented in Germany, four of that country’s species of “Triton”: the “vularis,” the “cristatus,” the “alpestris,” and the “palmatus.” I crossed them in the following manner: vulgaris x cristatus, vulgaris x palmatus, palmatus x vulgaris, vulgaris x alpestris, palmatus x cristatus (it should be noted that the female always comes first). And I observed this percentage. What could be the cause of this predominance of ovaries? Goldschmidt would have explained it as being due to the transformation of all of the males into females, but this is not viable. 100% . Imagine! And do not offer me, I beg you, Federley’s affirmation of the chromatic combinations in the Lepidoptera.»

  Having arrived at this point, Doktor Ulrika Thöus, a little excited, disserted largely about the theory of Federley, the Finn. Ulrika didn’t like the Finnish—perhaps because of the remote Ural-Altaic origins of that nation—and for a while this dislike came out in an absolutely anti-Mendelian tone. But the beloved Aryan friend found her way back to scientific equanimity and began again to discuss the ever-important matter of the deviation of the numerical relation between the sexes as they pertained to the genus of salamander under discussion. «Nevertheless, whatever the case may be regarding the Finn, I firmly believe in Federley’s affirmations,» conceded Ulrika. «Read those in “Heredities,” XII, 1929.—Über subletale und disharmonische Chromosomenkombinationen. Are you familiar with these? Perhaps you are not in agreement with them? Have you investigated some fact, unknown to us, prior or posterior to the fertilization, which may be able to impede the development of the masculine sex, which may explain the appearance of a testicle (just one, mind) among so many ovaries? If you have, let me know immediately; I await the judgment of the master. Regarding my position on the matter, I can guarantee that my experiments corroborate those of the wise Finn concerning the Lepidoptera. All the , convert into , because the Y chromosome (I allude to Federley) is too weak to overcome the energetic action of the X and determine the emergence of the testicles. If you have another criterion, write to me. I know you are skeptical about “Triton,” but no matter. Yours, Dr. Ulrika Thöus.»

  Back then I thought, genius that I was, that what Ulrika claimed couldn’t be so. I answered her right away, and my response went as follows:

  «Frau Doktor Ulrika Thöus. Institut für Vererbungsforschung. Berlin-Dahlem.—If, as you have informed me, my distinguished friend, one lone testicle and one that doesn’t count as a testicle end up together amid so many ovaries as vulgaris x cristatus, vulgaris x palmatus, palmatus x vulgaris, vulgaris x alpestris, and palmatus x cristatus, I am convinced that your conclusions arise from an overwhelming pessimism. But without question, apart from the neatness and competence for which they are well known, there absolutely must be some lamentable error in your observations. Some testicles were probably disguised as ovaries before your very eyes, which were likely fatigued: this is excusable. Look for them, then, beloved friend, and do not doubt that you will find them. For hidden though they may be—and it is incontrovertible that they are—sooner or later the testicles will have to appear. Eagerly awaiting the good news, it gives me pleasure in the meantime to offer myself to you for anything you may need in your exhausting research on the sexes.»

  Nerves

  That afternoon Salom had seen M, a German film about as unpleasant as Konilòsia and Alfaranja on the lips of Lavínia’s devoted bourgeoisie. It was the story of the vampire of Düsseldorf. 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 Kindermörder. 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 Kindermörder. 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.