The dining room perhaps livened up slightly at the end of meals. Then everyone grabbed a toothpick and trilled like a songbird. The room became a birdcage. This was followed by a pause to roll cigarettes that generated the only spontaneous exchanges.
“Sr Pastells, invite me to a smoke …!” said the registrar.
“Veciana, you wouldn’t have a paper by any chance?” asked Sr Pastells.
“Sr Niubó, a match if you don’t mind …” piped the debt-collector.
This had been happening for years. It was proof of the friendship the three men enjoyed. This swapping of small items was common among recalcitrant lodgers. If anyone at the end of the year had counted the cigarettes, papers, matches, buttons, shoelaces that Veciana, Pastells, and Niubó had exchanged, each man’s contribution would have worked out exactly the same.
Even so, when the meal was over, we stood up with a sense of release, shut ourselves in our bedrooms, and breathed again.
Afternoons in the boarding house thus became drawn out, mute, brooding occasions. Silence thickened the air and not a word broke it. The line of doors on both sides of the passage always remained closed. If someone went in or out, they were like a weightless shadow no sound betrayed. The cat padded voluptuously through the hushed house. That was clearly an overreaction. It was a great misfortune, but what was behind everyone’s pitiful face? Weren’t they perfect strangers? I found it wearisome and, though the place suited me, I decided to tell Donya Emília that she could dispose of my room.
A few days after I’d told her I was surprised by a conversation in the room next door. No doubt about it: it was Donya Emília and Veciana the debt collector.
“Poor girl! What a calamity!”
“For God’s sake, Veciana, don’t ever mention it again!”
“So what’s happened?”
“I can tell you. I’ve written to the whole of France.”
“And nothing forthcoming …”
“Not a word.”
A long lull. Stillness. Stifled sobs.
“So how will you fix this, Donya Emília?”
“Fix this? What on earth do you mean, Veciana?”
“One can fix anything …”
“Can one?”
“Yes, one certainly can, senyora. It’s easy …”
“You think it’s easy?”
“Yes, senyora, very easy.”
“Even if she is bearing someone else’s child?”
“Yes, senyora, even if she is bearing someone else’s child …”
A long lull. Stillness. A flood of tears.
“One can fix anything, senyora.”
“And how can one fix this, Veciana?”
“By marrying her off …”
“By marrying her off to whom? Who will ever want to marry her in such circumstances?”
“I’m not sure how to say this … Yours truly, senyora, and you need look no further.”
“You, Veciana? Are you insane? Poor Veciana!”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve said it now. It’s up to you … You must decide and dispose. And rest.”
“Veciana, my poor Veciana …!
Footsteps. The door closes. A waterfall of tears.
Several days went by. Nothing changed in the boarding house. The same bleak oppression. It was Saturday afternoon. It was sultry and silent in the almost empty apartment. I heard muttering in Donya Emília’s room. It was the registrar’s nasal croak.
“Niubó, many thanks …”
“Donya Emília, please, I beg you!”
“It has been a dire misfortune, an irreversible misfortune …”
“Have you had no reply? Haven’t you received a single letter?”
“I’ve written everywhere … Not a word.”
“Calm down, Donya Emília. These upsets could kill you.”
A long lull. Stillness. Muffled sobs.
“He’s not going to answer, Donya Emília.”
“How do you know? What else have you to say to me?”
“I think … there’s no reason to despair, even so.”
“Niubó, for God’s sake, you of all people should understand.”
“I do. And I would say that Providence sometimes provides the most surprising solutions.”
“Solutions? What possible solution could there be?”
“Providence is almighty and it is sinful to despair.”
“Some things cannot be forgiven …”
“Everything is forgivable, Donya Emília, if one has faith.”
Long lull. Stillness. A waterful of tears.
“Yes, Senyora Emília. Providence does provide solutions …”
“What solution do you see, Niubó?”
“It’s obvious enough: marry her off.”
“Marry her off?”
“Yes, senyora, marry her off.”
“By the Virgin Mary, Niubó, marry her off to whom?”
“It’s rather a delicate matter … But, given certain conditions, I might be willing to marry her …”
“Would you marry her, Senyor Niubó?”
“Yes, I would, senyora. However, I don’t wish to trouble you any more now … You need rest. We can talk later. A good afternoon to you …”
“Niubó, Senyor Niubó!”
Long lull. Stillness. Stifled sobs.
The day after was Sunday. Most of the boarders went out in the morning. I was relaxing on my bed smoking a cigar. It was early on and I was suddenly surprised to hear voices next door. Sr Pastells had just made an entrance.
“Senyora, I’d not come before …”
“Oh, Pastells, this is such a wretched stroke of misfortune …!”
“Poor child!”
“Child …? What do you expect me to say?”
“Do you have any news?”
“I’ve done everything in my power to find out where he is. For the moment nobody knows what’s become of him.”
“That’s natural enough …”
“Natural enough? Pastells, do you really think it’s natural?”
“Youth is wild … We’ve all been young in our time. Perhaps it’s best to accept that.”
Long lull. Stillness. More stifled sobs.
“Donya Emília, try to put it behind you …”
“Believe me, if I could …”
“Make an effort … Sometimes the most complicated situations can be resolved …”
“How can you resolve this one, Pastells? It offers no way out, it’s an absolute dead end.”
“Time is a great healer, Donya Emília … Don’t be so anxious.”
“You are very kind, Pastells, but you are forgetting how terrible such misfortunes …”
“One never knows, Donya Emília, one never knows …”
“One never knows, you say!”
“I repeat that one never knows …”
Long lull. Stillness. A waterfall of tears.
“I feel for you, Donya Emília …”
“I didn’t deserve this.”
“Of course you didn’t! Don’t act this way …”
“So how do you expect me to act?”
“Sometimes, those who stay put can replace those who depart …”
“And what is that supposed to mean …?”
“It wouldn’t be difficult to marry her off …”
“Who would you like to marry her off to?”
“What if we were to say it’s something we might discuss?”
“Would you marry her, Senyor Pastells?”
“Stranger things have happened under the sun. I don’t know why we might not discuss …”
“Poor Pastells! Would you marry her?”