Nada Page 15

  ‘Good morning, Señorita!’

  The rogue’s eyes were shining with anxiety. I greeted him with a nod of my head and fled.

  I knew him very well. He was the ‘poor’ old man who never asked for anything. Leaning against the wall at a corner of Calle de Aribau, dressed with a certain decency, he stood for hours, leaning on his cane and watching. It didn’t matter if it was cold or hot: he was there, not whining or shouting like the other beggars, always liable to be picked up and taken to the poorhouse. He only greeted passers-by with respectful courtesy, and they sometimes took pity on him and placed some money in his hand. He couldn’t be reproached for anything. I felt a special antipathy towards him that grew over time and became more intense. He was my unavoidable charge, which is why I think I hated him so much. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I felt obliged to give him alms and be ashamed when I didn’t have money to give him anything. I had inherited the old man from Aunt Angustias. I remember that whenever she and I went out, my aunt would deposit five céntimos in that reddened hand raised in polite greeting. And she would stop to talk to him in an authoritarian voice, obliging him to tell her lies or truths about his life. He answered all her questions with the meekness Angustias desired … At times his eyes slipped away in the direction of some ‘client’ he was longing to greet and whose view my aunt and I were blocking as we stood there on the pavement. But Angustias went on with her interrogation:

  ‘Answer me! Don’t get distracted! … Is it true that your little grandson can’t go into the orphanage? And that your daughter finally died? And …?’

  At last she concluded:

  ‘You can be sure I’ll find out the truth in all this. It can cost you dear if you’re deceiving me.’

  Since that time he and I had been connected by an inevitable bond, because I’m sure he guessed at my dislike for Angustias. A gentle smile would pass over his lips between his decent silver beard and moustache, while his eyes, dancing with intelligence, fired at me occasionally. I’d look at him in despair.

  ‘Why don’t you send her packing?’ I’d ask without speaking.

  His eyes continued to flash.

  ‘Yes, Señorita. God bless you, Señorita! Ay, Señorita, what the poor go through! May God go with you, Señorita, and the Virgin of Montserrat, and the Virgin of the Pillar!’

  At last, humble and fawning, he received his payment of five céntimos.

  ‘One must be charitable, my child …’

  From then on I felt antipathy for the old man. On the first day I had money I gave him five pesetas so that he too would feel free of Aunt Angustias’ miserliness and as happy as I was; on that day I’d wanted to share myself, merge with all the creatures in the world. When he began his string of praises he irritated me so much that before I ran away in order not to hear him I said:

  ‘Oh please, be quiet!’

  The next day, and the day after that, I didn’t have any money to give him. But his greeting and his dancing eyes pursued me, obsessed me on that little piece of Calle de Aribau. I devised a thousand tricks to escape him, to deceive him. Sometimes I took the long way round, going up toward Calle Muntaner. This was when I acquired the habit of eating dried fruit on the street. Some nights, when I was hungry, I’d buy a paper cone of almonds at the foodstall on the corner. It was impossible for me to wait until I got home to eat them … Then two or three barefoot boys would always follow me.

  ‘Just one almond! We’re hungry!’

  ‘Don’t be mean!’

  (Ah! Damn you! I’d think. You’ve had something hot in some Social Services’ dining hall. Your stomachs aren’t empty.) I’d look at them in a rage. I elbowed them out of the way. One day, one spat at me … But if I walked past the old man, if I was unlucky enough to meet his eyes, I’d give him the entire cone that I was carrying, and sometimes it was almost full. I don’t know why I did that. He didn’t inspire the slightest compassion in me, but his mild eyes put my nerves on edge. I’d put the almonds in his hand as if I were throwing them in his face, and then I’d almost tremble with fury and unsatisfied hunger. I couldn’t bear him. As soon as I collected my stipend I’d think about him and the old man would have his salary of five pesetas a month, which represented one day less of food for me. He was so good a psychologist, and so sly, that he no longer thanked me. But what he couldn’t dispense with was his greeting. Without his greeting I’d have forgotten about him. It was his weapon.

  That day was the beginning of my holiday. Exams were over and I found myself at the end of a school year. Pons asked me:

  ‘What do you plan to do this summer?’

  ‘Nothing, I don’t know …’

  ‘And when you finish school?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. I’ll teach, I suppose.’

  (Pons had the ability to ask me shaking questions. As I was saying I’d teach, I understood clearly that I could never be a good teacher.)

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather get married?’

  I didn’t answer.

  I’d gone out that afternoon attracted by the warm day, and I wandered without a fixed destination. At the last minute I decided to go to Guíxols’ studio.

  Right after I crossed paths with the old beggar I saw Jaime, as distracted as I was. He was sitting in his car, which he had parked at the kerb, on Calle de Aribau. Jaime’s figure brought back many memories, among them my desire to see Ena again. He was smoking, leaning on the steering wheel. I remembered that I’d never seen him smoke before. He happened to look up and see me. His movements were very agile; he jumped from the car and seized my hands.

  ‘You’ve come at just the right time. I really wanted to see you … Is Ena in your house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But, will she come?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jaime.’

  He seemed befuddled.

  ‘Do you want to take a ride with me?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

  I sat beside him in the car, I looked at his face, and it seemed bathed in thoughts that had nothing to do with me. We left Barcelona along the Vallvidrera highway. We were soon enveloped in pines and their warm scent.

  ‘You know that Ena and I aren’t seeing each other any more?’ Jaime asked me.

  ‘No. I haven’t seen her very much lately either.’

  ‘Still, she goes to your house.’

  I flushed slightly.

  ‘It isn’t to see me.’

  ‘Yes, I know; I guessed as much … but I thought you saw her, that you talked to her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wanted you to tell her something for me, if you see her.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want her to know that I have confidence in her.’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell her.’

  Jaime stopped the car and we walked along the highway among the reddish and golden tree trunks. That day I was in a special frame of mind for observing people. I asked myself, as I had done earlier with Román, how old Jaime could be. He was standing beside me, very slim, looking at the splendid view. Vertical lines were forming on his forehead. He turned towards me and said:

  ‘I turned twenty-nine today … What’s wrong?’

  I was astounded because he had answered my silent question. He looked at me and laughed, not knowing how to account for my expression. I told him.

  We stayed there for a while, almost without speaking, in perfect harmony, and then, by mutual consent, we went back to the car. When he started the engine he asked me:

  ‘Are you very fond of Ena?’

  ‘Very. There’s no one I love more.’

  He looked at me quickly.

  ‘All right … I should say what the poor say … God bless you! … But that isn’t what I’m going to say; instead I’ll tell you that you shouldn’t leave her alone now, you should be with her … Something strange is happening to her. I’m certain of that. I think she’s very unhappy.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘If I knew, Andrea, we wouldn
’t have quarrelled and I wouldn’t have to ask you to be with her, I’d do it myself. I think I behaved badly with Ena, I refused to understand her … Now that I’ve thought it over, I follow her in the street, I do the stupidest things to see her, and she won’t even listen to me. She runs away as soon as she catches sight of me. Just last night I wrote her a letter, which she hasn’t read because I know she’d tear it up, and I haven’t posted it because I think I’m getting too old to write twelve-page love letters. Still, I’d have sent it to her house eventually if you hadn’t shown up. I’d rather you tell her. Will you? Tell her I have confidence in her and I’ll never ask her about anything. But I need to see her.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell her.’

  We didn’t speak any more after this. Jaime’s words seemed confused to me and at the same time I was moved by their vagueness.

  ‘Where shall I drop you off?’ he asked as we entered Barcelona.

  ‘Calle de Montcada, if you don’t mind.’

  He drove me there in silence. At the door of the old palace where Guíxols had his studio, we said goodbye. At that moment Iturdiaga showed up. I noticed that Jaime and he greeted each other coldly.

  ‘Do you all know that this señorita arrived by car?’ said Iturdiaga when we were in the studio.

  ‘We have to warn her about Jaime,’ he added.

  ‘Oh yes? Why?’

  Pons looked at me sorrowfully.

  It was Iturdiaga’s opinion that Jaime was a disaster. His father had been a famous architect and he belonged to a wealthy family.

  ‘In short, a spoiled rich kid,’ said Iturdiaga. ‘Somebody without initiative who never in his life thought about doing anything.’

  Jaime was an only child and had begun to study for the same profession as his father. The war had interrupted his studies, and when it was over, Jaime found himself an orphan with a fairly large fortune. He needed two more years to become an architect, but he hadn’t worried about continuing his studies. He devoted himself to having a good time and not doing anything all day. In Iturdiaga’s opinion, he was a contemptible being. I remember Iturdiaga as he said these things: he sat with crossed legs and the face of an avenging angel, almost on fire with indignation.

  ‘And when are you going to begin studying for the state exam, Iturdiaga?’ I said with a smile when he stopped.

  Iturdiaga gave me an arrogant look. He spread his arms … Then he continued his diatribe against Jaime.

  Pons didn’t stop watching me and began to annoy me.

  ‘Last night, for example, I saw this Jaime in a club on the Paralelo,’ said Iturdiaga, ‘and he was alone in his corner and more bored than an old maid.’

  ‘And you, what were you doing?’

  ‘Being inspired. Finding types for my novels … Besides, I have a waiter who gives me real absinthe …’

  ‘Bah! Bah! … It’s probably green-coloured water,’ said Guíxols.

  ‘No, Señor! … But, all of you, listen to me. I’ve wanted to tell you my new adventure since I got here and I’ve been distracted. Just last night I met my soulmate, the ideal woman. We fell in love without saying a word. She’s a foreigner. Probably Russian or Norwegian. She has Slavic cheekbones and the dreamiest, most mysterious eyes I’ve ever seen. She was in the same club where I saw Jaime, but she seemed out of place there. Her clothes were very elegant and she was with a peculiar type who devoured her with his eyes. She didn’t pay much attention to him. She was bored and seemed nervous … At that moment she looked at me … It was only for a second, friends, but what a look! She told me everything with that look: her dreams, her hopes … Because I must tell you that she isn’t mercenary, this is a girl as young as Andrea, delicate, very pure …’

  ‘I know you, Iturdiaga. She’s probably forty years old, and dyes her hair, and was born in Barcelona …’

  ‘Guíxols!’ shouted Iturdiaga.

  ‘Forgive me, noi, but I know how you are …’

  ‘All right, but that’s not the end of the adventure. At that moment the guy who was with her came back because he had gone to pay the bill, and they both stood up. I didn’t know what to do. When they reached the door, the girl turned and looked back into the club, as if she were looking for me … Friends! I jumped out of my seat, I left my coffee without paying …’

  ‘So it was coffee and not absinthe.’

  ‘I left the coffee without paying for it and ran after them. That was when my unknown blonde and her escort got into a cab … I don’t know what I felt. There are no words to express the heartbreak I felt … Because when she looked at me for the last time she did it with real sadness. It was almost a call for help. I spent all day today half crazy, looking for her. I have to find her, my friends. A thing like this, so powerful, happens only once in your life.’

  ‘But you (because you’re a privileged being), it happens to you every week, Iturdiaga …’

  Iturdiaga got up and began to walk around the studio, puffing on his pipe. A little while later Pujol came in with a very dirty Gypsy girl whom he wanted to propose as a model to Guíxols. She was young and had an enormous mouth full of white teeth. Pujol strutted around with her and held her arm. He wanted us to know he was her lover. I knew that my presence hindered his conversation and for that reason he was angry with me that day, when he had wanted to show off to his friends. Pons had brought wine and pastries and in contrast seemed delighted. He wanted to celebrate the successful end of the year. We had a good time. They had the Gypsy girl dance, and she turned out to be very graceful.

  We left the studio fairly late. I wanted to walk home and Iturdiaga and Pons accompanied me. The night seemed splendid, with its breath as warm and pink as blood in a vein opened gently over the street.

  As we walked up Vía Layetana, I couldn’t help looking towards Ena’s house, remembering my friend and the strange message Jaime had given me for her. I was thinking about this when I saw her actually appear before my eyes. She was holding her father’s arm. They were a magnificent couple, so good-looking and elegant. She’d seen me too and smiled. No doubt they were returning home.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said to the boys, interrupting Iturdiaga in the middle of a paragraph. I crossed the street and went towards my friend. I reached her just as she and her father were walking into the building.

  ‘Can I speak to you for a moment?’

  ‘Of course. You don’t know how happy I am to see you. Do you want to come up?’

  This was the equivalent of an invitation to supper.

  ‘I can’t, my friends are waiting for me …’

  Ena’s father smiled:

  ‘I’m going up, girls. Come up soon, Ena.’

  He waved to us. Ena’s father was Canarian, and though he’d spent most of his life away from the islands, he retained the habit of speaking in the special, affectionate manner of his homeland.

  ‘I saw Jaime,’ I said quickly, as soon as he was gone. ‘I was out with him today and he gave me a message for you.’

  Ena looked at me with a closed expression.

  ‘He said he has confidence in you, that he won’t ask you anything and needs to see you.’

  ‘Ah! All right, fine, Andrea. Thanks, darling.’

  She pressed my hand and left, leaving me with a certain disappointment. She hadn’t even let me see her eyes.

  When I turned I saw Iturdiaga, who had leaped across the street with his long legs through a surging wave of cars …

  He looked in a daze towards the entrance, where the lift was going up with Ena inside.

  ‘It’s her! The Slavic princess! … I’m an imbecile! I realised it just as she was saying goodbye to you! For God’s sake! How is it possible that you know her! Talk to me, please! Where was she born? Is she Russian, Swedish, maybe Polish?’

  ‘She’s Catalan.’

  Iturdiaga was stunned.

  ‘Then, how is it possible that she was in a club last night? How do you know her?’

  ‘She takes classes with me,’ I said vague
ly, as Iturdiaga took my arm to cross the street.

  ‘And all these men who are with her?’

  ‘The one today was her father. The one yesterday, you understand, I don’t know …’

  (And as I was saying this to Iturdiaga, I could see a clear image of Román … )

  I was distracted all the way home, thinking that you always move in the same circle of people no matter how many turns you seem to make.

  XVII

  THE MONTH OF June was passing and the heat increased. From the corners full of dust, from the grimy wallpaper in the rooms, a flock of hungry bedbugs started to emerge. I initiated a fierce struggle against them that sapped my strength every morning. I saw in horror that the other people in the house didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. The first day I began a thorough cleaning of my room, with disinfectant and hot water, Granny looked in and shook her head in disapproval.

  ‘Girl! Girl! Let the maid do that!’

  ‘Leave her alone, Mamá. This is happening to my niece because she’s dirtier than the rest of us …’ said Juan.

  I wore my bathing-costume to do this chore that I found repugnant. It was the same blue bathing-costume I’d worn in the village the previous summer to swim in the river. The river ran deep as it passed my cousin’s garden, bending in delicious curves, its banks full of bulrushes and mud … In spring it was turbid, heavy with the seeds of trees and images of flowering orchards. In summer it filled with green shadows that trembled between my arms when I swam … If I let myself be carried along by the current, those shadows carried reflections that shone in my open eyes. At twilight the water took on a red and ochre colour.

  In that same faded bathing-costume that now was becoming stained with soap, I’d stretched out on the beach next to Ena and Jaime during the spring and had gone into the cold blue sea under the raw light of April.

  As I washed down my bed with boiling water and skinned my fingers when I touched the esparto brush, the thought of Ena came to me enveloped in so much obscurity and sadness that it eventually depressed me more than everything in my surroundings. Sometimes I felt like crying as if it were me, not Jaime, whom she had betrayed and deceived. It was impossible for me to believe in the beauty and truth of human feelings – as my eighteen years conceived of them at the time – when I thought that everything reflected in Ena’s eyes – until they became radiant and at the same time filled with sweetness, in a look she had only when she was with Jaime – had vanished in a moment, leaving no trace.