Life Embitters (27 page)

Sr Fabregat was a man of mature years, a hardworking, active man who wholeheartedly embraced moderate ideas, was one of those fantastic if mediocre individuals who had not only managed to amass a fortune, but had, at least for the moment, successfully held on to it. He found Ostend extremely wearisome, and, if it hadn’t been for the continuous correspondence he conducted with his office, I doubt that he would have withstood the indolence in the air. He was obsessed with the post, whether there were any letters – “Hasn’t the postman come?” he would ask at the most unlikely moments. He was a man whose mental potential was all spoken for: his labors as an industrialist fulfilled his love of what was tangible, his passion for detail, the pleasure he found in undoing knots and sorting out messy, labyrinthine situations. He had the outlook of a mechanic, was fascinated
by the way the countless cogs of an engine synchronized, and infatuated by machines in motion. Conversely, his involvement with the Stock Exchange satisfied his imagination. He had invested part of his fortune in the safest, rock-solid stocks, but he wasn’t a passive shareholder awaiting inevitable meltdown. He didn’t believe anything was definitive or stable in this area of his life. As far as he was concerned, being a good investor meant keeping one’s capital in constant circulation. He bought and he sold. What were his criteria when decision-time came? I never did find out. He never showed any sign of being abreast of the news, or of seeking advice from someone or other who might be thought to be well-informed. I never saw him read a newspaper, or any specialist publication, and he never mentioned anyone he confided in. He operated, I imagine, on the basis of pure intuition, and perhaps the fact that he had no advisors meant his antennae were always on alert, and that was always handy when it came to avoiding pitfalls from suggestions that were never going to be disinterested. As an investor, he allowed himself to be guided by the pleasures of his imagination, and, for the moment at least, his method seemed to be producing the goods. A most extraordinary fellow!

At first I found it quite surprising that I’d never seen him read a newspaper, but then, as I got to know him, I realized it was entirely plausible. One only ever scratches the surface of the mysterious enigma that is a human being. There will always be unimaginable surprises. Sr Fabregat had read the Spanish translation of
The Three Musketeers
every day of his life since he turned thirty – and this was his only verifiable reading matter. He ingenuously confessed to me that he’d read the immortal book twenty-two times and never tired of it. As the leaves fell from the trees, he would lick his lips in anticipation and the first cold spell always coincided, as far as he was concerned, with the voluptuous pleasures of a fresh rereading. The book
had perhaps contributed to his peculiar demeanor. He was a short man, driven by a mania about being tall. His whole body had an arrogant swagger, generated by his puny stature. Moreover, he was a man whose face always looked disgruntled, not because his health was poor but because he always looked ill-tempered. His forehead was rather narrow and depressed, his large ears stuck out, his bulging, bloodshot eyes floated in yellowish lymph, his mustache was a handlebar, his jaw slightly jutted, his skin was pallid though his nose and mouth were normal – jarring with the general makeup of his face and thus peculiar, his legs were bandy like brackets. He was a man who looked irascible and I found it amusing to imagine him asleep in that state. But his downfall was his mustache, and if I’d felt sufficiently in his confidence, I’d have told him to shave it off, because a small man with a high-profile mustache looks a real clown.

Once you’d made his acquaintance Sr Fabregat was easygoing and proved to be pleasant and charming. I realized he had one or two hobbyhorses and I tested them out, to see if he was a man of character. One of his manias was animals. He couldn’t understand why the world needed cats and dogs, chickens and hens, lions and elephants. He said he thought that the Creation was amazing enough to be able to do without these irrational creatures. One day when he was outlining his convictions in this respect, I replied that, in my opinion, the existence of cats, hens, and elephants was based on reasons of natural philosophy that were as powerful as anyone might use to speak of human beings. As I spoke, I could see him surveying himself as if he was deeply perturbed by the idea that he might have said something truly idiotic. The next day, however, he spelled out his zoological ideas in similar terms: I deduced that he
was
a man with deeply rooted convictions.

Sra Fabregat told me that same afternoon that the pimple on the nape of her daughter’s neck did seem stable but was apparently taking on a pinker
hue, which might be a sign that, in the near or far future, that it would probably become poisoned. I told her I preferred to wait patiently and resignedly and let nature run its mysterious course and had always found this philosophy to be highly soothing: it would be rash to claim that I convinced her. She seemed worried and anxious. That blemish seemed to unnerve her in an extraordinary way. Human understanding has worked miracles in the field of engineering and technology, but we will always find this simplest of facts to be incomprehensible: that one of the reasons why the nape of the neck exists is to enable pimples to flourish. But I didn’t dare spell out this obvious truism. I’m sure she would have hit the roof.

Sra Fabregat was a Matilde – as I mentioned a moment ago – and her husband called her Tita. She was a slight, rather dumpy lady, with neat rolls of fat, a rather pert nose, bluish black hair, and magnificently white skin that showed off the stylish freckles on her cheeks. She used lipstick, was free-and-easy, and liked to cause a stir. When you conversed with her it was as if someone was shaking you up and down and turning over your insides and putting you in her thrall, like a bottle of medicine being shaken by a chemist. I remember how I would arrive back at the hotel after my conversations with her feeling at the end of my tether, physically exhausted and in a mental fog. It was really difficult to cope with. I occasionally had to splash water over my face to calm down.

It was impossible not to imagine her in the gallery of her flat on the Carrer de Girona, at ten o’clock, when skivvies have migrated to the market and noisy tykes are having a lie-in and the Eixample has become almost an oasis of peace. At that time of day flats still vaguely reek of the greens cooked the previous night. A pleasant breeze wafts in through the wide open gallery. The ladies of the house, their infamous housecoats wrapped around their ample, docile curves, with pink cheeks and curlers in their hair, maneuver
beneath the canary’s cage between furniture perpetually under wraps and paintings by Russinyol, Mir, and Cases. Sra Fabregat was from Mataró and felt a love for this city that she expressed in strident hoots if anyone dared to level the slightest criticism. It was admirable in every way.

Matilde Fabregat had been brought up properly and though her conversation always took on a rather peremptory, bossy tone, it could have its pleasanter sides. A full member of the Royal Academy of Fine Literature, the author of various poetic efforts, inspired by obscure episodes in our country’s ancient history, had for many years visited the Fabregats on a Saturday to drink coffee and smoke a cigar. His assiduous visits hadn’t left any spectacular traces, but neither had they brought no benefit whatsoever. Sr Fabregat used to sum up his wife’s potential with a graphic phrase, namely that she was a person who could listen to a lecture without dozing off. And how true that was!

The good lady undoubtedly dominated the family. Sr Ramon’s life was locked in the manic vice of his business interests – not that he ever jealously defended the territory as exclusively his. If Matilde didn’t interfere, it wasn’t because her husband had barred her, she simply had no interest in that side of life. Matilde proposed and disposed in every other matter without right of appeal. And it was curious that they’d reached that situation – at least on the surface – without it upsetting Sr Ramon one iota. As a husband he did indeed seem rather pleased by the absolute authority wielded by his wife. I didn’t know them well enough to be able to say whether Ramon Fabregat’s stance was simply a case of taking the easy option or a case of resignation before a fateful fact of life. Perhaps it was a bit of both. The truth is that I never heard him try to voice the faintest objection or engage in the slightest criticism of his wife’s opinions or actions. She often made the silliest slips a child would have noticed. Don Ramon never said a word. Silence
wasn’t his way of protesting, however. He almost always accompanied his silences with a facial expression or gesture that revealed his total support of her. As far as Don Ramon was concerned, Matilde was always right, everything she did and said was precisely what the occasion demanded. I imagine Matilde found her husband’s monotonous support rather trying. Particularly in the presence of others she must have thought his supine lack of character looked ridiculous, and that she could be blamed. Nonetheless, despite all her efforts, she never succeeded in getting him to pipe up, not even when she made a show of having a tiff with him. Don Ramon didn’t like controversy, and family ones even less so. He accepted marriage to the letter. He was one of those men – who are more common than you would think – who finds freedom to be futile – something that serves absolutely no purpose. Don Ramon indulged any instinctive longing for freedom he had in his business affairs and that probably exhausted his reserves. He didn’t need freedom for anything else.

Their son – Lluís – was a tubby boy who wore a pea jacket and short pants. He was very delicate. He had his father’s face but his mother’s rivers of pallid flesh, his eyes were narrow and swollen with a touch of the Tartar about them. He cut a rather strange figure: round like a little badger, sallow with patches of suntan, with a short neck, gawping mouth, and thin, curly hair. Nevertheless, he’d always received very good marks, was meek and obedient and had an infallible memory. He recited long chunks of poetry without making the tiniest slip.

Lluís did, however, possess one defect that several doctors had examined, though for the moment no clear diagnosis had emerged. He was a child who couldn’t bear to be angry, or upset, or subject to the slightest mishap. If natural precautions taken by the family to avoid that happening failed, he’d have terrible tantrums. It must be difficult to grasp what I am trying to
describe, and that is an indication of how strange his malady was. In effect, whenever he was upset, he turned a greenish purple, as if his acids were seeping through his skin, and threw himself on the ground in a bizarre rage and if he’d been contradicted further, would have committed real violence. That meant his every whim had to be indulged: he had to be fed the juiciest chicken, you could say, and constantly supplied with high-quality comic books, sugared almonds, expensive toys, notebooks for sloping writing, and all manner of lovely little treats.

They told me how scared the maids were that he might throw a tantrum when they took him for a walk. The child seemed like a typical case of a spoilt brat brought up too close to his mother’s skirts. I wouldn’t deny there was a hint of that, particularly at the start. However, his condition was much more serious. Lluís was simply a sick child.

The afternoon when the Fabregats told me about this, our conversation drew to a dismal end. Nature is all pervasive: consideration of its monstrous sides produces deep depression. Of course, I did wonder what led these fine folk to reveal such things to a person they’ve only known for a few days and who, in the end, could be of no help. I decided the family must live in a constant state of repressed anguish as a result of their son’s condition. And that perhaps they went out of their heads when they decided so hastily to treat me as a confidant. At the last minute Sra Fabregat informed us that the pimple on the nape of her daughter’s neck had become poisoned and looked nasty. This news rounded off our depression.

Maria Teresa was almost seventeen and her face expressed that Romantic spirituality and vagueness that albuminaria – protein in the blood – sometimes gives youngish people. Yes, she was a very mild case of albuminaria. The insidious pimple and restless nights had in the end given her a divine air. She was in the grips of the first imprecise moments of female
change, and was delightful. An almost imperceptible down covered her languid limbs. Gently undermined by an unconscious waywardness and involuntary over-eagerness, her graceful manner was quite charming. When she sat still and glanced at you in that vaguely purposeful way, her body adopted an antique pose that was fantastically elegant. She was tall, full, with a hesitant profile; her flesh was honeyed, tremulous, and a warm pinkish white that was firm and terse. She was auburn haired with heavy blue-gray eyes, delicate features, and lips that were often moist. They still dressed her like a young girl but her curves moved under her tight dress, like a trapped bird that wants to spread its wings. Imagining her knees was an unforgettable experience. I never tired of considering, with philosophic precision, the luscious beauty of young forms that were so eloquent and inspiring.

She was the ideal young lady, but possibly nothing besides. She was a young lady ripe for that moment, because each moment brings a specific kind of young lady. Her main trait was her absolute dearth of interest in anything. She lived a passive life of the purest indolence. She didn’t know how to do anything and never showed any inclinations or feelings of any depth. She possessed that element of envy, greed, vanity, and guile that a human being requires for their presence to be at all perceptible. However, the qualities and defects she might have had were present to such a mediocre, neutral degree, were so supine, that she found everything bland, and anything that wasn’t became a source of annoyance. She liked nothing, but passively, not actively. Her imagination and fantasy were non-existent, she was totally unable to express any emotion. She was sixteen but felt more like forty. Her taste – the only aspect of her personality that stood out at all – combined pretentiousness and reserve, embedded habits and feeble clichés: it was simply other people’s taste. She acted like a picky brat from a well-off family and, quick to scorn the pleasant things life brought her way, would sound off
rudely. She was perhaps frustrated by her domineering mother or was the product of a particular kind of upbringing or perhaps didn’t know how to behave any differently. On the other hand, how pretty she was! Her purely passive life increased the charms of her splendid body. That afternoon, Sra Fabregat summoned me by phone. Don Ramon and their son had gone to Brussels to see the changing of the guard in front of the Royal Parliament. Matilde and her daughter were alone in their bedroom. I went there only to find them in a desolate state. The pimple was swelling and the girl was in pain and most distressed. She was lying on her bed: dressed, half laid low, half fretting. She was holding a handkerchief she kept clenching between her teeth and then wiping over her lips. The moment I arrived, her mother blurted out: “My dear!”