A drama occurred every time a new typist joined the office. She had never met any of the girls. She always said, “My place is at home. I’m not one of those women who follow their husbands around.” But she always managed, subtly, to extract descriptions of the typists from him, and she would agonize as she imagined them.
“Serves her right, losing seven files! All these girls who work with men, it’s because they’re looking for something. She had it coming. Now she’s seen that you’re a man of character.”
She placed the steaming soup on the table and served it.
“What’s her name?
He raised his head, his mouth full, the spoon motionless in midair.
“Who?”
“The typist.”
“Ah, Freixes.”
“No, I mean her first name.”
“Eulàlia or Elvira. I don’t know.”
“Is she very young?”
He swallowed the mouthful of soup.
“I think so.”
“What do you mean, ‘I think so?’ It must be obvious that either she’s young or she isn’t.”
“Oh, you know me, I don’t pay much attention.”
“Is she engaged?”
“I don’t know.”
She had only joined the office the week before, a little shy but candid. She had sat down in front of the typewriter and waited to be given work. The next day she took one of the drinking glasses, filled it with water, and placed some violets in it. By the third day she was laughing.
While he was drinking his coffee, his wife entered the boy’s room and came out immediately.
“He’s sleeping like an angel. Better not to disturb him. You’ll see him this evening. Come home early, you hear me?”
What a beast I was. Such a young girl, probably not yet twenty, I shouldn’t have said . . . her hair’s like silk and when she laughs . . . I shouldn’t have said anything.
He decided to walk back to work; he didn’t feel like talking to Senyor Comes.
It’s curious. I’ve walked along this street for years, yet today it all seems new. He noticed a shop window with crisp curtains, a budding rosebush by the gate to a house, some blades of fresh grass springing up between two slabs of pavement. Beyond the hedge of boxwood shrubs at the Tennis Club he could hear two girls chattering; they must have been standing right there. He stopped for a moment in front of the Garatge Internacional: “Important things are taking place in Barcelona now, no doubt about it.” A wave of youthfulness surged through him.
There was a flower shop near the office. He deliberated for a moment, then with an effort to overcome his embarrassment he strode in with resolve. He bought a bouquet of tiny roses surrounded by green, russet-tipped leaves.
“They look like porcelain,” the florist said kindly.
Standing on the stairs to his office, he wrapped the bouquet in a newspaper. When no one was looking, he would throw away the violets, change the water, and place the roses in the vase. Perhaps . . . Perhaps in the afternoon he would say: “Elvira, would you like for the two of us to go out this evening?” He could already imagine the color of the sky, the evening’s perfume.
Nocturnal
A plaintive moan filled the room. It continued for a while before suddenly dying, as if it had passed through the walls. It sounded like a whimper from a wounded animal that had not yet lost any blood or energy. The dense silence again invaded everything. A moment later a body moved beneath the sheets as if, rather than a moan, the mysterious echo of a moan had awoken him from a deep sleep. The meowing of a cat on the stairs rose in tone and volume, becoming sharp and urgent. Another moan silenced the cat. A shadow jumped out of the bed, followed by an arpeggio of springs. The sound of bare feet on the floor, two or three coughs, a switch being flipped, and the room was flooded with light.
The man who had turned on the light returned to the bed, racked with worry, and asked: “Are you saying it’s time?” The tiny kitchen, just three meters away, had permeated the sheets with the smell of boiled vegetables and a sauce of tomato and onion. A tired voice rose from beneath the sheets: “First put some water on to boil, then go knock on the druggist’s door and ask if he’ll let you phone the doctor.” She looks so pale, the man thought to himself. He had never seen her so pale, with such sunken eyes. On the stairs the cat resumed, his meows filled with desire. Order, order, order, he told himself, in an attempt to stop the trembling in his hands. He wished he could control them. He used half a dozen matches before he could finally light the gas stove. By the time the orange-blue flame ignited, the atmosphere was unbreathable. I should have turned on the gas after I lit the match, not before. Using a blue jug he filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove.
“Maybe you should open the window a moment.” Another moan followed. He walked over to his wife, took her hands to encourage her. He didn’t know what to say. She looked anxiously at him, her face covered with drops of sweat. “Four children.” He could feel how tense her hands were. “At our age,” she stammered. All of a sudden, he felt the need to move more quickly: open the door, run down the stairs, knock on the druggist’s door, pick up the telephone, and implore the doctor to come right away. But he didn’t budge. It was almost as if the three children in his life were holding him back. One in Madrid, a member of Franco’s Falange party; another a left-wing exile in Mexico; the third—a daughter—in Reggio, seduced by an Italian officer. My interior contradictions expressed in the flesh, he often thought. The last child now eighteen and the fourth about to be born. A feeling of anguish, the kind that precedes nausea, ran though his body. He felt grotesque. During the day, the gas flow was gentle, but now, in the heart of night, it streamed out, making a buzzing sound. The straight flames reached up the sides of the pot, wavered, creating blue reflections. The water was beginning to rumble. Coat, stairs, telephone . . . order, order, order. “I’m going now. I’ll be right back,” he said, but before leaving he went over to the table and cleared away his books and papers. The Terrible Consequences of Truth. He had been a geography teacher in a lycée in Barcelona before going into exile, where he had begun writing. When he got off work—he was a dish dryer in an exclusive restaurant—he would surround himself with books and submerge himself in his writing. When he resurfaced he felt entranced. The original title of the book was The Terrible Consequences of the Desire to be Truthful. But then he had decided on the other. Truth as the dissolution of all human relations. Truth as the negation of all authentic values. Salvation achieved through systematic deception, applied with a radical spirit, could be transformed into truth. Man could become truthful by means of a lie, in a way that was more real than sincerity. These somewhat confusing ideas nevertheless possessed a coherence: “Order, order, order.” His rather verbose study had led to another, entitled “Toward Freedom by Means of Dissimulation.” I simulate ergo I am free. This was the point of departure for his thesis. “Order, order, order.” He cleared away his papers and books, put his coat on over his pajamas, walked over to the bed, glanced sadly at his wife, and went out onto the landing.
The stairs gave off a sickening stench of garbage, the sour odor of something rotten. He felt his way down the stairway in the dark. To save electricity the light hadn’t been turned on since the war began. The wooden steps were worn and creaked beneath his feet. The silence of night made the creaking resound, much more than during the day, when children and neighbors coming and going filled the stairs with life and a noisy bustle. “This is what France is,” a Frenchman had told him once. “Not Paris or the luxury of the few. But unhygienic houses, streams of dirty water in the streets, water closets—a euphemism—under the stairs at the entrances to buildings, for the use of neighbors and passers-by, chamber pots . . . running water a luxury. Voilà.”
He breathed laboriously when he reached the last step. Then, just as he was feeling reassured, he stumbled against a soft body. This wasn�
��t the first night that a drunk had slept on the hard floor in the entrance hall; it was a common occurrence in this working-class neighborhood. Making an effort to maintain his balance, he took a huge step across the obstacle, which groaned gently, removed from the world by sleep.
The street was dark. On the other side, seven or eight houses further up, a red light attracted his attention. A stealthy shadow was visible as it crossed beneath the light and disappeared into the doorway. “A German?” For the last few nights, groups of two or three German soldiers had walked down the street, their boots resonating on the pavement, attracted by the light despite the sign on the door that read “Verboten.”
At the top of the stairs two cats started a furious fight. They hissed and growled furiously, no doubt all tooth-and-claw and arched backs. Suddenly, one of the cats, mad with fury, its eyes lit, brushed against his legs and crossed the street. It frightened him. He had been mesmerized by the starry night and the moon that cast steely patches on the roofs and houses across the street. All the splendor of the constellations shimmered in the dark sky. It was offensive, just as a well-lit palace at the end of a park might seem to a passing pauper. He couldn’t admire it any longer; he had to knock at the door, do something. The druggist was close by. He heard the sound of steps and ducked back inside his building, closing the door slightly for fear that his light-colored pajamas would give him away. For an instant he saw the outline of a coat beneath the red light. Then it disappeared. He thought he heard a scream and returned to reality. He had to move, had to knock. Cautiously he went out, as the cat slipped back inside between his legs, fast as a curse.
“Knock,” he said to himself. The wrought iron door shook, though he had only used his palm. No answer. He waited a few minutes and knocked again, harder this time. He was afraid he would wake the neighbors, who would lean out their windows, shouting crude insults at him. How could a foreigner dare to disturb their rest in this way! A husky voice asked from behind the iron door, “Who is it?” “Your neighbor.” “Which one?” The question was disconcerting. He chose the simplest answer. “My wife’s sick. Could I use your phone?” An angry voice responded, “The phone’s been out since morning.”
Not sure what to do, he returned to his room. At the foot of the stairs, he again stumbled against the sleeping, panting obstacle. On the second floor, he passed the fuming cat. He heard voices inside and entered. The neighbor across the landing and the lady from downstairs were there. He realized they were waiting impatiently for him. His news (“The phone’s out.”) was greeted by expressions of disappointment. She looks so pale, so terribly pale. The sheet was rising and falling beneath her belly. It was as if he could see it emerging—naked, majestic and victorious—from a body wasted by years and grief, framed by bony, waxen shoulders, angular sides, emaciated arms and thighs. The body that had attracted him years ago. The group of women deliberated in a low voice. The lady from downstairs found a solution, “As far as I know there’s only one other telephone in the neighborhood.” “Whose?” asked the woman from next door. “The one at Number Fourteen.” “Number Fourteen” was the name all the neighbors in the building used for the house with the red light. “Hurry!” “You have to change your clothes.” “Only the trousers.” A spasm of pain rocked the bed. She’s so pale, so pale. Almost without realizing, he found himself behind the folding screen, thinking: Order, order. An energetic hand passed him the clothes he needed. Once again: stairs, dark, obstacle, splendid night.
He walked up the street. He had never been in a place like that. He was familiar with them, of course, but only indirectly. As a young man, all his friends had confided in him. He was a good listener and that had made him an innocent father confessor to the bolder lads. He had lived a lot through the lives of others. Too much. Sometimes this surrogacy produced in him a certain sadness that was pasty, cosmic, rough-hewn. No one cares about me. If I have a problem, I’ll have to solve it by myself. I’m like an abandoned soul in a wasteland. Life had passed him by, just beyond his reach. Like a river, he had captured the sounds, the commotion, had recognized the dangers, but he had remained on the shore. When he had thrown himself into the stream, inexpert as he was, it was to follow others. Simply a matter of contagion, as if he had caught typhoid fever. The current had dragged him to France, where he had been discarded like a dead branch. He had married young so he could work calmly, feel himself strong through his child, so he wouldn’t lose himself completely. Many years ago, a young girl, a student, had led him to the very edge of sin. The sense of vertigo had frightened him. A more experienced girl could have really derailed him, but this one, with all her charm, had only managed to trouble his spirit for a few months and prompt a spate of sleepless nights, a brief interruption of his moral serenity. The experience had left him with a tremendous attraction to crime novels and blue blouses. He had only known one woman intimately, his wife.
A military march could be heard coming from Number Fourteen. He approached it with determination. The glass door was covered by a sheer curtain. To enter he had merely to turn the knob. He took a deep breath and went inside. He would ask the first person he saw if he could use the phone. He found himself in a narrow hall with doors on either side. The military march was coming from the second door on the right. A whiff of perfume distracted him. “Lilac,” he thought. Had it not been for the music, the house would have seemed deserted, like a house recently abandoned in a village filled with the threat of an enemy. He continued along the hall till at the end he reached a comfortable sitting room. Over the sofa, in a gilded frame, presided the portrait of a gentleman. Quite Proustian, with a wing collar, gardenia in his buttonhole, romantic mustache. The gentleman was staring pensively at the door. He must be the founder. There were no shiny, golden pillows or lace curtains with pink bows, no trace of the diabolical chiaroscuro that he had always imagined. All together it had a rather grave air, a bit like the waiting room of an austere, provincial lung specialist.
Suddenly the waves of music grew louder. They must have opened the door to the room. A woman’s shrill laugh erupted from somewhere, making him jump. A maid passed quickly by, carrying an empty tray. “Madame, s’il vous plaît, the telephone.” She disappeared through a small door beyond the sofa. He heard footsteps coming from the floor above: they must be dancing. Without thinking he sat down in an armchair, feeling confused. Order, order, order. Someone was walking down the hall toward him, probably coming from the room with the music. They had shut the door, and the music—now a languid waltz—was lower. He stood up. A stout German soldier in shirt sleeves, with gray hair and a tanned face, stopped in front of him. He was carrying a bottle of cognac under his arm and an empty champagne glass in his hand. He clicked his heels. He clearly had some difficulty keeping his balance. For a moment they stood without moving. The soldier looked at him with gentle eyes. A secret flow of sympathy seemed to emerge from deep within the soldier’s intense gaze, almost like a balmy breeze. With a resolute gesture, the soldier had him sit down and filled the glass. He felt that he had never heard such a fresh sound as the liquid pouring from the upturned bottle. It spilled. Instinctively he separated his feet, but he couldn’t keep his trousers and shoes from being splashed by the tiny drops. The soldier handed him the glass and the bottle, sat on floor, took out his handkerchief, muttered some unintelligible words of excuse, and began drying the bottom of his trousers; then he raised his head and began to laugh. A childish, contagious laugh. Order, order, but he couldn’t keep himself from laughing as well. The jerking motion caused by the laughter made the liquid splash out of the glass. It rained golden drops. The soldier gestured to him to drink. He drained half the glass with one swallow. The soldier took the bottle from his hand, uttered a loud “Prosit,” and poured some cognac down his own throat, straight from the bottle. He finished what was left in his glass. The sullen maid crossed the room again, giving the two men a resentful look. “Madame . . . the telephone,” he murmured with a thin, imploring v
oice, but the maid had vanished. Another toast paralyzed his decisiveness. Prosit. He was unsure how to respond to the numerous attentions paid to him by the soldier. He realized he had to make a decision, that it was urgent to find a phone, make the call, wake up the doctor, beg, intimidate. A gentle warmth had settled in his cheeks and began spreading insidiously through his body. It must have slipped into the obscure region of his will, changing some delicate mechanism within him. He felt a slight tingling in his legs and arms, a deep sense of well-being in his heart. With a brisk gesture he emptied another glass. How many years had it been since he had tasted cognac? Six? Seven? At that moment, mysteriously extracted from his spirit, words sprang to his mouth, vestiges of some remote Latin class. Animi hominum sunt divini, he whispered with a smile of satisfaction. The soldier opened his round eyes, nodded his head in agreement and refilled the glass. He raised it to his lips, but a violent hiccup stopped him. Order, ooooorder. A string of hiccups followed. The soldier sat down on the armrests and began slapping him on the shoulder. After each slap, he showed his appreciation by offering the soldier a melancholy smile. They returned to their drinking with looks of complicity. The soldier asked, “Franzose?” He hesitated before responding, “Barcelona.” “Spanier?” “Oui.” They burst out laughing at the same time. “Rotspanier?” “Yes.” They laughed louder and resumed drinking.
Another soldier entered the room. He was barefoot; they hadn’t heard him. The seated soldier cried out, “Spanier,” and passed the bottle to the newcomer. The painting showed two gentlemen with gardenias in their buttonholes and wing collars. The frame slowly split in two, but then the figures reassembled, as if brought together by a stubborn desire for unity. The newcomer was short, dark, and quite slender. “Mister, mister . . . the telephone.” He stood halfway up, but a curious softness in his knees made him sit down again. The newcomer was distracted, didn’t respond, and began to hum a song. The other followed, then two more soldiers joined them. One had his holster looped across an arm, the other a bottle of champagne in each hand. They began singing in unison, solemnly, a vague expression on their faces.
The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda Page 11
