“So why won’t he go to hospital? Berlin’s hospitals have a very good reputation.”
“He won’t go to hospital because we all come from a country where people don’t want to go to hospital, a country that is allergic to hospitals. We think they are all like the hellhole on Carrer de Tallers.”
“So what’s the solution? Perhaps the most sensible thing would be to leave for warmer, sunnier climes.”
“He’s in no position to leave …”
“So what can we do?”
“That’s precisely why I was about to write to you. If you help me, we can fix it. I really can’t do much more myself, though I’m very fond of young Formiguera. You might very well ask what a man like me, devoted to philological studies, totally incapable of frivolity, broke, and unattractive to boot, finds to admire in this piece of cabaret fodder. Well, there you are! I feel most warmly disposed towards him. The way you do with people who are perfectly transparent.”
“I understand!”
“Wait a minute! I said that Formiguera has his male and female admirers. That’s undeniable. It’s a fact. From my point of view such a situation is quite extraordinary, and is continually on my mind. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s so important! To have at hand people who, when the time comes to pay, show self-respect, a desire to do things properly, who don’t dilly-dally and reach straight for their wallets. You must admit, it is an ideal situation to be in, and not so usual in life. All the people I’ve known — and I’ve known a number — have shown a tendency to throw in the towel at the moment of truth. They’ve been driven by autarky rather than by philanthropy, to use the mots justes.”
“You’ve deployed them perfectly.”
“So then, I particularly like Formiguera because he’s a good sort. I have friends, who have the same resources as Formiguera but even on a good day they’d never enable their friends to draw on them. He does. I feel at ease with him. He is generous and never refuses a friend. I’ll go further, I find his type, I mean, his social type, and individual style fascinating. I sometimes think a study of the way he behaves would be exceptionally rewarding.”
“So are you thinking of changing your research focus?”
“Of course, he is completely transparent, strikingly so, but he has his interesting sides. A moment ago, I said the situation where he finds himself is a consequence of what he does, but that’s not entirely accurate. He is largely to blame. If he did things differently, he’d be in a much better state, and this conversation of ours now would be quite pointless. I mean, he’s an unbearable show off.”
“That’s hardly surprising!”
“Yes, he’s a show off, and a very sui generis one at that. I sometimes wonder at his intuition, the quick way he grasps things. From this perspective he’s unusual. Wouldn’t you like to pay him a visit? I’d be really grateful.”
“If you like …”
Tintorer paid for our drinks and got up from the table, and when he started walking away I saw he had a dog between his feet.
“Tintorer, you’ve a dog, I see?” I asked.
“Yes, I do! He’s Serafí.”
“Oh!”
“He was a present from Formiguera. Remember what we just said! That’s typical of him … Now the dog keeps me company.”
“You don’t miss a trick, dear philologist, do you?”
“We poor people are like that: we irresistibly complicate our lives. What can we do?”
As soon as we were in the street and in the grip of that unfriendly freezing December twilight, the philologist peered at Serafí, who responded equally affectionately. The pavement was covered in slippery slush, the air was cutting and raw and the sky very low. The outline of the city faded into the wet haze that the bright lights in the foreground suffused with a sticky, abrasive, mottled yellow. Our mouths began to exhale dense puffs of steam, but, after that interchange of glances between one man and his dog, our overcoats seemed more resistant. It must have been their strength of feeling — that was real enough, though too transitory to be effective.
Serafí was a German Bassett, and in terms of the canine seriousness that typifies this race he seemed very lively. The temperature didn’t appear to affect him at all and he was particularly happy if he spotted a remnant of snow on the pavement where he could trample and rummage with his snout. It was the kind of dog that had become fashionable in Berlin and you saw them in the poshest of places on exquisite leads attached to smart, highly self-satisfied ladies and gentlemen. The dogs also seemed cock-a-hoop to have swapped the countryside for a city life with such good prospects. That race had lived a rural life till then, raiding badger dens or rabbit burrows, killing rats and chasing all manner of reptiles. They were prized for their good nose, their tracking and pursuit skills, and their supple bodies for entering lairs. Such a sudden transfer from country life to sophisticated city districts must have impressed them at least initially. Indeed, they had progressed from sleeping on the ground to lying on the sofas of the wealthy entirely naturally, as if they had lived there forever.
Serafí had a very shiny coat — somewhere between Spanish chocolate brown and roasted almonds. He was three and a half hands long, tail not included, but not more than one hand high. His large, drooping ears seemed very mobile and hung loosely down; his snout was long and sensitive. He was, then, an animal that grew horizontally, rather than vertically, like an accordion about to hit a high note. This observation might seem ridiculous but it’s the defining touch for this race of dogs. Its nobility shines through the way it perambulates like a cautious parson. And this might also give you an idea of the way this canine species walks: watch a tiny, tubby, elderly man set off to his café swaying from side to side; put a man of similar proportions some two meters behind, and make them hug the same path. You’ll soon see how this combination replicates the way Serafí’s species likes to move. Now Berlin city regulations insist that dogs are on a lead in the street, but as city folk walk sprightly, this kind of doggy parson’s pace soon breaks into a lively, almost intense alegretto canter, which really brightens up street life.
As it was cold, we walked quickly, and Serafí followed in the manner we have just described. From time to time the philologist held out his hand to stroke him, triggering an exchange of bromide postcard glances between those two that betrayed the existence of a permanent dialogue full of warmth and tender feeling.
“Have you had the dog long?” I asked Tintorer.
“Almost a month.”
“I see you speak to him in Catalan. Do you think he understands?”
“He has a great gift for languages. Judging by his receptivity, he would be a polyglot if he could speak. He’s highly intelligent.”
“I suppose that’s only natural. You’re a polyglot as well, aren’t you?”
“What can I say? If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to say I was a minor polyglot.”
“You are so young and modest. It’s not easy to find this virtue in one your age. Let the years go by. You’ll progress. You’ll make your mark. You will be a polyglot. If this Serafí is as intelligent and linguistically endowed as you say, it’s natural he should feel at ease in your company. Polyglots with polyglots, right? Elective affinities. The dog must have scented that from the off.”