Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (3 page)

«
Slowly, the path of a hydrosol to a hydrogel or, if you
’
d prefer, the coagulation of a colloid. Or perhaps he died, he, the beloved, wretched body. Perhaps only the reflection of him on the waxy surface: conscience. And then I found myself
—
lost within an alien, difficult, bizarre geometrical realization. And I understood that I
’
d never influenced him. He had lived, and I, sacrificed to him from the beginning, indispensable ingredient, so that he could walk under the sun. And now again I
’
ve found myself
—
and my, have I found myself! I started, I started from I don
’
t know where
—
light, idea
—
and I found, again, my form. Specifically: one, shall we say, very small butterfly; yes
—
that
’
s it
—
a miniscule moth. With a voice. I can
’
t place it inside, but rather more like all around, behind: I can
’
t pinpoint it. I
’
m so young, I
’
m familiar with so little! I think of him, like him, so much still! I
’
m so scared of the black cat!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Come, come!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Radiant voice, at least. Inside, outside, and all around.

»
I
’
m a moth: a small, a miniscule moth. Hands, paraffin? My voice, you know? And of
“
he,
”
of
“
I.
”
And now Pr
ò
spera has turned, perhaps because she heard him, and runs hastily toward the candles. The candles tremble under the demon
’
s breath. The curtain of fire doesn
’
t permit
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
doesn
’
t permit the beast to pass. The cat keeps an eye on me, and moves, noisily, its paws. Don
’
t blow out the flame! All I, him, stretched out, motionless, the belly swollen, juicy. Prior tasks
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
operation
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
to rot
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Succulent. Pr
ò
spera contemplates him. How fat! Old, debaucherous woman, Pr
ò
spera. How she hates you, old man! Thirty years: always with Pr
ò
spera. And he kept his eyes fixed on her, as a hobby, to
—
how can I put it
—
to scare her
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
a little. But he failed, because Pr
ò
spera knows that his company won
’
t be solicited, that she can
’
t touch. She stayed up with him, snoring, the greedy beast kept an eye on him. The candles burn so high!
 
.
 
.
 
. The mirror, covered
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
And then I found my way in the darkness and slipped through its half-opened mouth. The closest candle drew me in. The candle
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
it swept away the visible breaths. And I should have freed myself from the dominion of the gluttonous pawed beast. Paws!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
I
’
m so scared of the black cat!

»
But the candles shone high, magnificent candles, and they cleared my path. I saw myself, I saw it. Moth, body? It suffered so much, I suffered so much! Lean, skeletal, a coagulated colloid: that
’
s all. All? Who will redeem the vulgarity of things?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Pr
ò
spera. How ugly! Real. Without secrets, infinitesimally localized. Don
’
t snore. Don
’
t make any noise. I
’
m a moth. A miserable, minuscule moth. I want to get outside, out of the darkness. Make no noise. It hurts. I
’
m a moth. A voice. A thought tied to instincts. An ex-life. Pr
ò
spera snores, and her panting distances the gloomy path, the cat spies the path of gloom. But the candles are so high! And I so love this body, I love it so! I cannot abandon the circle of fire, the rotten circle, the ex-life. I cannot, because they see me, you know? I swell. If I were smaller. If I were invisible
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
But they see me. He was generous, he was being vain, and I, for these characteristics, am condemned to be seen. A great moth: I swell.

»
Pr
ò
spera awakens. Wake up, Pr
ò
spera! How ugly, how old, how yellow! She awakens, prays. But are you thinking, Pr
ò
spera, about money, about some bad stew, about stews, about the bed? She
’
s sleepy, it
’
s natural. He didn
’
t love her
—
that said, she looked after him, out of custom is how I
’
d put it to you all. Out of loyalty to that image, so ancient, of thirty years ago. You and me, him, Pr
ò
spera, thirty years ago. The mirror, covered. Pr
ò
spera is dry, lacks imagination. Just, just the custom, a ring, some words, a buzz, an echo. That
’
s all.

»
Pr
ò
spera yawns. She
’
s tired. She looks and looks again at the bed, she prays. She fell asleep lightly thinking of the white sheets, of the money. He rotted away unnoticed. The beast, a glutton, spied. The candles burned. I think in circles. How am I going to slip out toward the darkness without falling to the empire of the cat? Ai, ai, ai. Pr
ò
spera has seen me. What is that? A moth, a moth, a moth, Pr
ò
spera! Ai, ai, ai, you trap me, you gather me in your hands! Will this, perhaps, be the way? The way towards the darkness, far from the beast, from the candles, from Pr
ò
spera, from the voice, from the ex-life, toward that morsel of God
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
eh!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
that which is my share.
»

Suddenly, a clean hit: the common sound of one palm against the other. The voice stopped, a painting fell noisily from the wall, the hour chimed, someone turned on the lights, two of them, fervently faithful, had had an accident.
«
The stage machinery worked tonight for Saurimonda,
»
applauded young Estengre.
«
As I
’
ve understood it, this Pr
ò
spera knows where she has her right hand and her left, and that
’
s it,
»
Uncle Nicolau Mutsu-Hito approvingly said.
«
And she doesn
’
t stand for moths eating holes in her clothes. I
’
m smashing any moths that come within reach too,
»
assured Senyora Magdalena Blasi.

To Justi Petri, Arcadian of Rome, studious, in process,

from biblio-babylonic problems.

I

His father
’
s side of the family were people of the earth, like all of you, like me, like all of the citizens of Konil
ò
sia. As for his mother
’
s side, they returned to the earth. Nebuchadnezzar Puig was his name. He inherited the
«
Puig
»
from his father. The
«
Nebuchadnezzar
»
from the devout affection directed at him by his great-grandmother, a pious Englishwoman. The pious branch of the family had fallen into an abundant current of Catholicism, and amidst this fervor arrived Nebuchadnezzar, a man of good sense, steeped in positive indifference, whose holding pattern held until his good death. The war of
’
14 found him working as a cobbler
—
and he made a living out of it. That story flew over his head, neither enriching him nor, for that matter, refining him, and Nebuchadnezzar failed to take advantage of the unique opportunity before him to be heard merely for the sake of the money he made, as would a man of culture and pedigree. Like those of his town, he had, however, good sense. He possessed concrete ideas about life, love, and changes of weather
—
and he made a living out of it. Touching upon love, he was always partial toward making it legal through marriage
—
any affirmation to the contrary is inaccurate
—
but he didn
’
t give getting it right much of a chance. It frightened Nebuchadnezzar to see his friends embark on that adventure so easily.

«
When I do it! Don
’
t rush me. Yeah, look at him! After, to the gallows and crack! A laughing stock, right? Me, dangling, hunted down, no doubt. No way, don
’
t complicate things for me. When will I be better off than I am now?
»

It was true. Nebuchadnezzar was happy, he prospered before the Lord and scoffed at pointed questions. And everyone envied him and hailed his perspicacity. And he was taken for a fearsome man, a man of experience.

«
No, certainly not, they fool you. They
’
re not going to snare me.
»

Until he ran into Evangelina. And they wed.

II

Six months later, Evangelina gave birth to a daughter. And all in Nebuchadnezzar
’
s spirit was desolation. And he cried and promised a bloodbath, an exemplary vengeance. And he did nothing. He thought it over calmly, requested censure of opinion, and found out whose the child was; it turned out the father was a powerful man. Nebuchadnezzar accepted the requisite smearing and took the child to be baptized. Was it permissible to decide to do anything else to innocent flesh? The flesh was redeemed by gold or holy water. They gave her the name
«
Candelera.
»

The truth, however, instantly made its way around the humid, dirty town with its worn-down geometry of doors and sunless windows. And Nebuchadnezzar was the laughing stock of his neighbors who had, until yesterday, admired him. He saddened, quit his job, and started going to the bar. And, already a professional drunk by this point, he took to screaming at all and sundry his ignominy: that he had lost his cool and his glory, his famous perspicacity. That he no longer earned an honorable living.

«
They bought me. I
’
m a bought man and I say nothing. That
’
s why I didn
’
t throw them out of my house. They pay me.
»

They called him, for the likeness,
“
Widow Belly.
”
A Plautian yelled out to him:

«
You
’
re lost. You don
’
t deserve the name
“
Nebuchadnezzar.
”
It
’
s too long. I
’
m going to call you just
“
Neb.
”
I
’
ll save some spit. Crisis, boy.
»

He assented, filled with sadness:

«
Yes, I am lost. Call me
“
Neb.
”
»

Work complete. Justice done. Degradation. He already is, and always will be, Neb Widow Belly; or, shorter still, Neb.

III

Senyor Pepa Sastre, potentate, expanded the Neb family with two more members: Oliva and Perp
è
tua. Males weren
’
t born of that happy union, and so Senyor Pepa Sastre, who wanted an heir, tired in the long run of maintaining Evangelina and her unsatisfactory lineage and withdrew almost all of his financial assistance. He was a refined and sentimental man. A man in possession of these qualities never goes as far as to completely break old ties. From a distance Senyor Pepa Sastre kept an eye on the physical and ethical upbringing (Evangelina had turned decadent and flabby) of the three little girls, which was guided along the right path by good Neb, whom they gratefully loved like a father. After knowing their choice, Senyor Pepa Sastre could only sigh.
«
They
’
re doing well,
»
he said meditatively.
«
They are young, pretty, strong. May they gosh darn get to work!
»
Senyor Pepa Sastre, ever the patriot, was a solidly doctrinaire and sufficiently rigorous liberal.

Meanwhile, Neb was getting older. Everything was ending for him in this life. God, who chokes but doesn
’
t exactly strangle, had pity on the guy. Neb was slightly redeemed from the little thing still dragging on the ground
—
from Senyor Pepa Sastre
’
s desertion
—
by the effort of his lucrative daughters. He had been prudent and now he could pass entire days at the bar. The old conjugal wound somehow managed to heal and, as tends to happen with old stories, it acquired prestige in the eyes of the younger generations (may the illustrious Petri take note that the war of
’
14 did not ennoble poor Neb). His daughters would hurry about under his orders, and he was an expert in talking about it.

«
May they always be good with money, praised be God.
»

«
They always are,
»
affirmed a meddler.

«
Naturally. They tuck away coins, and so, God willing, they will be able to retire.
»

Ecolampadi Miravitlles, a reformer riddled with quixotism, who visited all three girls and made no distinction among them, opined:

«
Sibling love can sour an affair.
»

«
It is life
’
s path,
»
said Xanna the coachman, philosophically.

But, passing through, he said it in a language so dense that no one understood him.

IV

And Neb followed his life
’
s path in its entirety and arrived at the end. And he was cried for by Evangelina and watched over by Candelera, Oliva, and Perp
è
tua, who took some days off to care for Neb. And, in dying, the tears of Pasquala Estampa, Cristeta Mils, and Pudentil
·
la Closa, neighbors, fell around him, and those, too, of Doloretes B
ò
til, wing-wounded, so bouncy, and the sniffles of Esperanceta Trinquis, who was like a sister to him. And, in that supreme moment, the aides of Father Silv
í
Saperes would not fail to be accounted for. His soul was freed, then, to its Creator. Comforted by religion, and by the praise of those who
’
d loved and respected him in life: everyone who
’
d dealt with him. And he was, upon leaving the valley, sixty-two years, three months, and a day or so old. And, now dead, they fit him in a coffin.

«
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 Perp
è
tua wept.

Sirac
’
s son Jes
ú
s 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 Silv
í
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 Silv
í
, resuscitator of the archival glories of the suburb.

«
And now, off to work, girls,
»
Evangelina advised Candelera, Oliva, and Perp
è
tua.

And these were the funeral rites of Nebuchadnezzar.

V

«
Vulgar,
»
Pup
ú
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
?
»