The situation of Tintorer — the situation in which I suspected the philologist would find himself very shortly, a hypothesis the appearance of the magnificent apple pie had only confirmed — was highly unpleasant: apart from a need to look for another room, something a veteran subtenant always feels will be an uphill struggle — nobody being more fixed in his ways than a subtenant — other more serious issues were at stake: he could easily lose two good friends. It was obvious that the philologist had fitted into Sra Piccioni’s household but hadn’t taken advantage of his situation. I mean advantage in the most general sense of that word, in the sense only our friend could have explained as a subtenant. The lives of mature ladies with subtenants, the relationships between these recalcitrant loners and the mature ladies giving them shelter, are mysterious and full of constant surprises. Depending on the dancer’s reactions to the situation now unraveling, the philologist might be forced to cut free so as not to look a complete fool. In any case, it would be fatal blow, because his friends knew that when Formiguera was in the money he was an important lifeline for the philologist. The latter was poor. That much was unquestionable. He was poor, and, what’s more, was involved in a pursuit that might give lots of satisfaction, but was of little help in shedding the poverty that goes with academic pursuits. Besides, Tintorer was a man with appetites, with a hunger for the fine things in life — indeed, some said that was his downfall. I’ve never understood why such palpable, earthly desires always accompany the dire poverty, the inevitable poverty of intellectuals, that financial pauperisation brought about by the activity people call intellectual.
In this sense, Tintorer was a typical intellectual and that’s why the generous companionship of the dancer from Granollers was so helpful, a man who was very generous when he had money that he liked to share with his friends, one of the closest being the philologist. They were two people who complimented each other, especially when a good lunch or supper were involved, because, as they had nothing else in common, no topics of conversation, no possible source of dialogue, no mental or aesthetic affinities, they could only generate a flow of warm emotion via the chance appearance of a bottle of wine, a plate of jugged hare or a goose or duck leg, the tastiest of items in German cuisine. The legs of our web-footed friends the man from Granollers’ dance floor skills had allowed the philologist to savor enhanced his life, boosted his morale, and allowed him to make real advances in his study of subjects that were rather dry and dusty. The danger did now exist that their friendship might be severed, or at least that the mutual attraction might go cold, and for the philologist, whose lack of income was renowned, it would be an outright disaster.
When I reached this point in my inner monologue, Sra Piccioni brought the dancer a cup of scented coffee. I decided it was time to leave. I stood up and said goodbye to my hostess; I wished my friend Formiguera a rapid recovery and, clearly glutted, he responded with a gloomy smile. Serafí was still curled up on the fluffy eiderdown, and I thought it best to let him be. Tintorer observed my movements with a deal of surprise and resigned to the inevitable, accompanied me to the front door. We crossed the passage into the hallway with small curtains that looked like a slightly extended puppet-theater stage.
While Tintorer silently helped me on with my coat, a bell rang. It was the bell to the door the philologist opened immediately, with the officious flourish of an expert performing a role that doesn’t form part of his expertise. A small, plump, blue-eyed young woman stood there, her cheeks red from the bitter cold amid the steam from her own mouth. She wore a tiny leather hat, a feline fur coat that made her look bulky, and the usual rubber boots. The moment the door opened she began to benefit from the temperature inside and unbuttoned her coat, giving us a glimpse of her ornately adorned plum-colored evening dress. Conversely, it also meant a handful of snow on her hat now started to melt, and that explained why her hat and coat were wet, why her coat and gloves were dripping and why her face looked so ruddy. Standing opposite the philologist, she removed her gloves, opened her purse and extracted a deeply suggestive pale lilac envelope.
“This letter,” the young lady said, “is for Herr Darsonval …”
“One moment!” replied Tintorer who turned to ask me to wait for a second.
When the letter passed by me, I noticed the perfume in the air — how that place’s usual dank dampness had been suffused by a sweet charm that didn’t belong to everyday life, as if the memory of something distant, unwarranted and rather disagreeable had popped up.
To judge by the vociferous shouting that went up shortly, at the other end of the passage, from Sra Piccioni’s hoarse, cracked voice, I guessed that Tintorer’s appearance with the letter for Formiguera was producing a genuine finimondo. The good lady must have decided the sick man was in no fit state to receive scented epistles, pale lilac missives fatally destined to upset his feelings. “That letter,” she must have thought, “is an intolerable impertinence, an absolutely obscene disruption of the peace.”
“Niente, niente!” I heard her shout from the entry hall. “Darsonval! Non riceve lettere, imbecile!” stormed Sra Piccioni, breaking into a sweat, quite beside herself.
Obviously the philologist bore the brunt, and nobody thought how Tintorer had simply carried out his errand in the quickest, most correct manner his officious attitude would allow. At no time during the lulls in the Italian lady’s indignant outcries did I hear the dancer pipe up. His reaction to the letter must have been completely deadpan, not only because acting blasé is the style in the cabaret world, but also because the lady was screaming too loudly to attempt to interject. He didn’t even ask from where or whom the letter had come. The philologist tried to say something — concretely, that there was a young woman at the door waiting for a reply — but the mere mention of her presence sparked such a spectacular surge in Sra Piccioni’s indignation, furnished it with such fruity vocabulary, that he decided it was vital to reverse the clock, as if nothing had happened. Still holding the letter, he swiveled round, sped down the passage and into the hallway, where the young woman in the plum dress and I were stood like two stuffed dummies, apparently unnerved by the screaming we’d just heard. Tintorer was a nervous wreck. He handed the letter back to the young woman and eerily parroted Sra Piccioni’s “Niente, niente … lettere …! Niente!”
The young woman acted as if she’d understood nothing. She buttoned her coat up, put on her gloves, bowed, swept through the door and disappeared.
Now we were alone once again, the philologist gave me a look that seemed to say nothing in particular. It could just as easily have been a purely reflex action as the attitude struck by a man trying to be his normal, intelligent self …
“This woman’s so full of energy, as I told you …!” he squawked, obviously pleased with himself.
“So I see …”
“You know, she is not one to fiddle while Rome burns …”
“Of course …”
“He’ll be back to normal soon, you just see! In a couple of weeks he’ll be back dancing in cabarets. We’ll have a party. I know Sra Piccioni …”