“Don’t give it another thought. If you don’t like them, toss them away.”
Without realizing, he’d used the familiar “tu.” He liked her, standing there absorbed in thought. He would have forgotten about the trousers had it not been for the cold wind that blew through the hole, bothering him.
“Now that I think of it, I’d have been surprised it they were gardenias. What month is it?” she asked in disappointment.
“The beginning of March.”
“And gardenias bloom in the summer, for Saint Joan’s feast day. It doesn’t matter, I’m just sorry about your trousers. I wish I knew the name of these flowers.” She again sniffed the flower, making him do the same. “What do they smell like? Doesn’t it remind you of something? Such a faint scent, almost nonexistent, but it reminds me vaguely of elderberry flowers. You see? Without giving it a thought I’ve discovered what they smelled of. What if they were begonias?”
“They’re smaller. I mean larger. I mean gardenias are smaller.”
“Maybe they’re stunted begonias.”
“They’re probably camellias.” Both had started playing the game.
“Camellias? No, I’d recognize a camellia anywhere. These, I can assure you, are mysterious flowers. Flowers that bloom on the night of Carnival.”
She wrapped the flowers back in the handkerchief and stood there, pensive. He was glad she hadn’t thrown them away, and felt an irresistible desire to kiss her. But he thought, I’m a man, and with a protective tone he said, “There are no taxis, which means we can only do one of two things: wait till the sun comes out, if necessary, or walk. I’ll accompany you to the end of the world.”
They heard a car approaching, coming from Passeig de la Bonanova. When it got closer they could see the inside of it lit up, full of people. It drove right by them. The people were shouting and laughing. The man seated beside the driver, wearing a feather hat, threw them a handful of confetti.
“It’s probably better if we don’t wait. Let’s walk,” she said, adding, “but I live a good ways from here.”
“How far?”
“Consell de Cent.”
“Why don’t we walk down Balmes? There’s always the chance we’ll find a taxi.”
Let’s hope we don’t find one. He took her arm happily to help her across the street.
Barcelona lay below them, gleaming with a reddish halo that blazed across the sky, creating a magical arch of light. To the left, the lights on the top of the Putxet gleamed, but the houses sheltered on the side of the mountain had their windows closed. If the wind stopped blowing for an instant, their sole companions were the silence and the night.
•
They walked for a long while without speaking. She was the first to say something.
“What are you disguised as?”
“A tailor.”
“A tailor?” she laughed. “If you hadn’t told me . . .”
“Louis XV’s Jewish tailor,” he stated, sure of himself.
Then he began to explain that he was studying Greek and composed poetry, was writing a book, “Persephone’s smile,” and he’d spent the afternoon at the Carnival parade and was just returning from a party.
“When I finish my studies, I’ll travel. I want to know the world. I’ll leave without a penny in my pocket. Maybe I’ll get myself hired as a stoker. Poets here all tend to die in bed surrounded by family, and the newspaper prints their dying words, describing the force of their last breath, the whole bit. I want to die alone, with my boots on, face down, an arrow in my back.”
Until now she had led the conversation; she began to grow impatient with his outburst of eloquence.
“Ai!” she exclaimed suddenly, her hand on her chest as if her heart wanted to take flight.
“What’s the matter?”
She took a moment to respond.
“Nothing, my heart. I was just dizzy all of a sudden.”
He looked at her in alarm, not knowing what to say, whether he should hold her, let her go. She sighed deeply and ran her hand across her forehead.
“I’m all right now, it’s starting to pass. I have a weak heart. It must be the kind of life I lead.”
“What does your family say about it?”
“It doesn’t seem to worry them.”
“You should lead a healthier life. Fresh air, exercise, get to bed early.”
“I know the story: lots of fish and vegetables.”
“No,” he responded, a bit disconcerted. “That’s not what I mean. I mean to love more honestly.”
“And die of boredom. No thanks. I decided long ago the kind of life I wanted. I plan only to pick the flowers, as my concierge would put it,” she said, lowering her voice and shooting him a quick, amused look.
He was strolling, staring at the ground, distracted, and hadn’t noticed she had looked at him. He raised his head with a certain regret, “And make a terrible mistake.”
“A mistake? Oh, I don’t want to get married, if that’s what you’re thinking. When I’m fifty and look back on my life, evaluate it, I’m convinced that I’ll be pleased with the results. At least I’ll have had love, dreams, kind words. I’ll have avoided—as we do a puddle on a rainy day—everything that was tedious and vulgar.”
“Even so, old age without children—”
“And no grandchildren, no aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, or any other relatives. The funeral at noon.”
“It’s useless.”
“I should redeem myself?”
A wind blew across their feet, coming from the sea, creating abrupt whirlwinds of dust. It bore thick clouds that traveled quickly across the sky, devouring the stars.
By the time they reached Plaça Molina, the sky was completely overcast and the wind panted ominously at the cross streets and above the rooftops.
“The night’s going to end dramatically!”
“I’ve already told you, I love the wind.”
Her cape was blowing horizontally. She took it off and handed it to him.
“Hold it for me.”
He took it, stopped, and glanced at the sky.
“Which side of Consell de Cent do you live on?”
“Facing the sea, going down Passeig de Gràcia, on the left. Why?”
“Let’s take the shortcut along Via Augusta. They’re working on the street, not an easy walk, but it’s quicker. I mean because of the weather.”
He was neither in a hurry nor concerned about the rain. He simply wanted to stroll down the broad, deserted street. It’ll seem like we’re alone in this world. Midway between Plaça Molina and the train platform at Gràcia was a garden with a very old plane tree right beside a gate, its foliage falling over onto the street. He knew he’d never forget the sound of the wind blowing through the branches of the tree as he walked beside the girl.
Suddenly raindrops began to fall. Scattered drops, round and fat, striking the ground with a dull sound that increased the intensity of the moment.
“Just what we needed.” The girl looked from one side to another, searching for shelter.
“If we want to find a doorway, we’ll have to run down to the pink house. There are only gardens along this stretch,” he said anxiously.
They would have to run like a couple of idiots. Damn rain that was ruining his reverie.
“Put on your cape, it’ll keep you from getting quite so wet.” He pulled up the ends of it and tied them at the level of her knees. “Will you be able to run?”
“I think so.”
Holding hands, they ran down the street, pursued by the rain, driven by the wind that pushed them to one side. From the ground rose a hot, asphyxiating smell of damp dust. The rain slackened for a moment; the cloud that had borne it passed, but a darker one was approaching.
•
By the time they reached the fir
st portal a real downpour had started. They were too exhausted to speak. Their hearts and pulses raced. She took off the cape and shook the water off her, as a bird might.
She looked at the boy and burst out laughing.
“Poor costume,” she exclaimed, glancing down at her pleated skirt, all wet, the hem dirty. “If it were just a bit warmer, I would stand in the rain. When we’re out of town in the summer and it rains, I put on my bathing suit and go for a stroll along the beach. It’s wonderful.”
The wind blew the rain toward the other side of the street. In front of the house where they had taken shelter lay a patch of dry ground, some two meters wide. A streetlight shone on the opposite sidewalk. The girl gazed at it in silence for a long time, wrinkling her forehead. She kept opening and closing her eyes as if she were alone.
“Do what I’m doing and you won’t be so sad,” she said without turning her head. “Close your eyes a bit and look at the light. You’ll be amazed at the colors. You see? Green, red, blue.”
He closed his eyes and opened them slowly.
“I don’t see any colors.”
The girl was engrossed in the game and didn’t respond, as if she hadn’t heard him. After a while, she exclaimed, slightly annoyed.
“You must not be doing it right. You have to close your eyes, but not all the way. Leave a tiny crack, really small.”
The boy tried again, closing his lids, then opening them a little. But the yellowish light was unchanged.
“I don’t see a thing.”
“That means you’ll have a long life,” she said with a touch of disdain. “People who see seven colors die the following day. Today I’ve seen five. Wait, let me try again, see if it changes.”
The boy felt depressed, as if having a long life was a true sign of mediocrity. The girl held her breath, still submerged in her experiment.
“No. I can only see five. There was a blue that looked like it was going to turn purple. I was really scared.”
The game entertained them for a while before they noticed that the rain had stopped. Above the roofs, a cloud was slowly ripping apart, displaying a band of dark sky with a few stars visible on the edge. But you could still hear water falling all around, the sewers incapable of absorbing it all.
The boy sighed as if a nightmare had lifted.
“I was afraid we’d have rain all night. If you want my opinion, I think we need to hurry.”
“Wouldn’t you have enjoyed sleeping here in the doorway? I was starting to like the idea.”
For some time the boy had begun to feel impatient. His legs were cold, his back soaking wet, and he was unable to control the tremble in his knees.
“It’s stopped raining. We need to go.”
The girl stretched out her arm, looked up, but didn’t move.
“Where’s your mask?”
He’d removed the cardboard nose when they started running in the rain and was holding it by the elastic band.
“I’m not coming unless you put it on.”
With a condescending air he put on the mustache and nose without uttering a word. She noticed his forehead was full of bumps.
“You must have eaten something that didn’t agree with you.”
“Who, me? You mean because of my forehead? The doctor says it’s because I’m growing so fast.” Why did she have to notice these things? he thought.
They left the bright area by the doorway and entered a dimly lit neighborhood, walking along a seemingly abandoned street. Two dogs were rummaging through a pile of garbage, attracted by the nauseating stink. At the end of the street they could see the lights of the Diagonal.
They walked side by side, without saying a word. She held up her skirt and walked very slowly, hardly able to see where she stepped. Midway down the street, a shadow appeared and planted itself directly in front of them, demanding a light.
The man was tall and stocky, with a husky voice. A shorter shadow, as if it had just sprung from the earth, stood alongside.
“Sorry, I don’t have a light.” The boy was about to continue on when a hand as heavy as a hoof struck him across the chest.
“Hey, not so fast. Your money, first.”
The boy felt his stomach contracting and his eyes well up. Instinctively he tried to keep his head.
“Look, it may be Carnival time, but it’s too late for jokes.”
“I wonder what you look like without that disguise of yours. Listen to the little sparrow chirping. Does your mamma bring you worms?”
Suddenly he was blinded by the man’s flashlight.
“Send us a note when you get more hair on that face of yours. The little shit thinks I want to play games. Hand it over.”
The girl intervened, her voice trembling slightly.
“It’s not worth arguing,” she said, handing her purse to the large man.
“Well, I’ll be damned! Take a look at that star. Did it just pop out on your forehead like the Mother of God?”
As he spoke, the large man handed the purse to his companion.
“Count the money, Gabriel.”
The short man opened the purse and took out two bills.
“Twenty-five and twenty-five, fifty,” he said without enthusiasm.
“And you, brave little boy, you made up your mind yet?”
The boy was about to explode with anger.
“I’m not giving you anything.”
The large man shone the flashlight on him again. Using his index finger and thumb he pulled on the cardboard nose, as far as the elastic allowed, then let go of it.
“That’s for starters, and to wind this up—” and the man slapped him so hard he fell on the ground.
“Get up, you shit. Learned a lesson? Gabriel, get the girl’s chain and medal. When you make your first communion, your godfather’ll buy you another one.”
The little man walked behind the girl and tried to unfasten the chain.
“Shine the light over here. The clasp’s small, I can’t see.” The hefty man joined him, pointing the light. “Got it,” he said, handing over the chain and medal.
The boy had struggled to stand up. He was covered in mud, his mask bent sideways, his cheek aching.
“Don’t you want the star?” the girl asked, making an effort to smile.
The men didn’t bother replying.
“Clean out the kid, Gabriel.”
The short fellow went over and began going through his pockets. The stocky man laughed, “Don’t cut yourself, he has scissors.”
“But he’s short on dough.” From his pocket the man had pulled out a small, old wallet, its edges worn down.
“Two pesetas plus a five-peseta coin, seven pinched pesetas.”
The large man looked at the boy curiously and said: “All that hullabaloo for this, you ass?”
He buttoned his jacket, raised the lapels, and spat.
“Down the street.”
He turned to face the girl, tipped his hat, and said, “We’ll accompany you a while, princess. You’ll be safer with us. Want to take your mask off? No? As you like.”
They headed down the street, one man on either side of the girl, the boy following behind. He felt like crying. He could feel a lump in his throat, his eyes damp. The girl was talking to the men.
“You could at least have left me a few pesetas, enough to catch a taxi home. You did a great job, a bit over the top, but you can’t just leave a girl without a penny.”
“Maybe she’s right,” said the shorter man.
“Gabriel, stop being so romantic. Think about that steak.”
They reached the Diagonal.
“This is where we split. If you’re looking for better company, feel free to come along. You won’t get very far with this little guy.”
•
She waited till they had walked awa
y. The two men disappeared around the corner, their jackets turned up, their caps set firmly on their heads. Then she went over to the boy, who was standing apart, and said, “Some adventure!”
The boy didn’t reply; he had a dark look. His outfit was muddy and wet. She didn’t dare say anything else. The wind had calmed; the night was gentle and velvety now. They walked slowly between the stunted palm trees along the Diagonal. Passeig de Gràcia was an explosion of light. The plane trees stood motionless, their branches just beginning to bud. The asphalt was stretched taut like skin, shiny with patches of light, and littered with papers and drooping flowers. Colored confetti hung from the trees and balconies, drops of water still falling from them. That was all that remained of the festa. Every now and then a car passed, the lights on inside, displaying sleepy, listless men and women in disguise.
“Why are you so worried?”
He couldn’t stand the silence any longer and began speaking with a serious voice.
“It’s not that I’m worried. It’s something much worse. I wanted to make this evening . . . I don’t know how to explain . . . a night like this! I wanted a memory, something I could cling to, keep for the future. Because I will never take any trips, or write poetry. And it’s not true that I study. I used to, now I work. I have a younger brother and I’m head of the household. So, now you know it all. You also know what a bad impression I’ve made. I’ve made a fool of myself.”
She was filled with a deep sadness. It was as if a secret reserve of anguish had melted in the bottom of his chest, risen to his throat, and turned yet again into pain. She stopped and looked at him steadily. Perhaps a long, sweet look from her could raise his spirits. Instinctively she took off her mask and laid it on the bench nearby. He was mesmerized. “You look like an angel.”
“Don’t make fun, a drop of water just fell on my nose.”
He gazed at her with a melancholy infatuation that she found disturbing. He seemed to have lost all sense of where they were or the time of day, as if for him the only thing that existed was her shy smile, those eyes of jet, her soft, flaxen hair falling limp on her round shoulders, smelling no doubt of fields in springtime. He must think I’ll always laugh at him when I remember this night, those men, laughing at him always, till the end of time.
The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda Page 7
