“I’m sure! Well, good night …”
“When will we meet again?”
“You know where to find me. Call me … I’ll very likely drop by the café one of these days …”
“Yes, we should meet up.”
“Whenever you feel like it …”
The second I walked out the door it struck me we’d be seeing one another much earlier than we anticipated. The outcry I’d just heard, as a result of the young lady’s letter, confirmed all my conclusions. The upshot from that scene was so obvious and quite amazing given the extremely short time the dancer had been living in the household. But some women are like that: they throw themselves at the object of their desire — whatever that might be — with a quite unexpected vehemence.
I went to a restaurant, had a light supper, and was back home at ten o’clock, with the help of a taxi that drove through the falling snow with due caution worthy of appreciation and reward.
It snowed throughout the night and was still snowing well into the morning. Rather too much snow for my liking. Nothing in excess; surfeits unnerve me. A few days before, Nicolau Tatin, the Russian writer, had given me a description of snow in Russia, presenting that meteorological phenomenon with the solemnity, gravitas, and grandeur of something sacred. However, sacred meteorology bores me. I don’t think snow is in any way sacred nor, for that matter, is the yellow, sticky, dusty African sun of our summer climate. I like mild climes, shades of green, rain, pleasant temperatures, and sunshine. Nothing in excess, as I said.
A surfeit of snow stuns and creates such hypochondria that men begin to behave like rabid dogs whose frenzy finds release in all kinds of unnatural and crazy deeds. I went out in the early evening in search of some normal café conviviality. Berlin was an impressive sight with brigades out clearing the way for all kinds of traffic. I was lucky and could take the usual tram.
Tintorer was seated at the table we usually occupied. He didn’t look at all well, and knowing he was susceptible to the cold and remembering the scenes from the time his nose froze, I wasn’t boundlessly optimistic. He greeted me in a limp, weary fashion.
“My dear philologist,” I remarked, “the weather couldn’t be worse! So where did you sleep?”
“How come you know?”
“I know nothing. I’m simply formulating as a question a concern that keeps buzzing round my head.”
“I slept in the dingy room next to the kitchen, where there’s little space and lots of junk.”
“That was predictable!”
“Do you mean human ingratitude is always predictable?”
“No, I mean there was every reason to expect that would happen!”
“Sra Piccioni is an ungrateful soul. She has given the dancer from Granollers my bedroom and stuck me in the junk room.”
“So the matter is finally resolved?”
“What matter?”
“The one that led you to take me to your house yesterday, on foot in that foul weather, to experience some of the most unpleasant moments in my life. I mean the matter of lodging.”
“It’s been resolved in a reverse manner to what I anticipated. If I begged you to accompany me, it was to find a bed and room for him; it turns out he’s now established in mine.”
“The spaghetti, dear Tintorer, the spaghetti!” I said in a spontaneously dreamy air, still in awe at the substance and quality of the contents of that tray. “Spaghetti, parmesan cheese, and a half liter of Chianti!”
“I don’t see the connection …”
“You still can’t see the connection? You don’t grasp the fabulous amount of emotion invested in that tray? If you don’t, it must be your poor eyesight. That tray might have seemed the most natural thing in the world, but it came loaded with a bullet. My dear friend, that was the precise moment I deduced you’d end up sleeping anywhere except in your own bedroom. Did you at least sleep soundly? I hope you didn’t catch cold? The snow is attaining absolutely sacred levels, in true Slavic style. Don’t catch cold, Tintorer! If you catch cold and your nose freezes, we’ll have to give you such a terrible beating!”
“I can never tell whether you speak in jest or seriously …”
“And is that young man feeling better?”
“The young man is so-so, or so they say. I’ve not seen him, because she’s not let him get up today and has banned visits.”
“Niente … lettere …!”
“Precisely, Niente, niente …” Apparently, however, he didn’t enjoy a very good night. He’s been alternating bouts of sweating and chattering teeth. Formiguera is exhausted, obviously …”
“Yes, of course, he is exhausted, emotionally exhausted, to use that word in its broadest sense, to make myself clear. He’s drained. His recovery is only a matter of time. He can look after himself, don’t you worry on his behalf …”
“In any case, it was a wretched night. At around two, Sra Piccioni knocked on the junk room door in a state of panic and said: ‘Perhaps you should go for a doctor. Darsonval isn’t feeling well.’ ”
“And what did you reply?”
“That I’d put my trousers on right away.”
“Quite the thing to say.”
“What would you have done?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d have done. In any case, I’m more than happy to learn that you did what you did.”
“She was alarmed because his symptoms were so extreme. His chest seemed congested. His breathing became fast and feverish. Fortunately, as the morning proceeded, her anxiety receded and I could rest. Then I felt as if I’d been asleep for days and it did me a power of good.”
“You’ll soon see him back dancing in places where Toselli’s serenatas are all the rage.”
“In any case, Sra Piccioni gives the orders and she says how things should be done. She’s become deeply attached to that young man and you know how dynamic she can be.”
“Don’t be unduly anxious, dear Tintorer. It’s only a matter of very little time.”
“Be that as it may, she’s cosseting him like a child. Although she’s only known him for a couple of days and can’t be sure he likes her house, she’s caring for him better than she would her favorite niece. It’s all hot water bottles, cups of brodo, I mean broth, and treats of very kind. Everybody seems to be at the dancer’s beck and call. Can you believe it? When I moved to the junk room, Serafí refused to join me. Some days are so pernicious they seem tailor-made to destroy principles one thought were rock solid. And I always thought a dog was a man’s best friend!”
“Now who is fiddling while …? Please don’t start being hard on canine caprices! Only poetic truth, my dearly beloved philologist, is truly liberating … Goethe dixit ages ago.”
There was a short lull. Tintorer’s humble glass of coffee had gone cold. I suggested fortifying it with a shot of kirsch and luckily he got the message. That man worried me. Whenever I looked through the crack in the curtains and out on to the street, I saw a cold, unfriendly night out there and thought he’d have been better off keeping to our climate. “If he falls ill in his present lodgings,” I thought, “what decision will Sra Piccioni decide to take? Will she suggest he go to hospital? Will she tell him that she’s done her duty by sick men? Will she leave him in the junk room?”
“Is there a way to heat the room you’re in now?” I asked.
“No stove, no light, no brazier, no fireplace.”
“So what will you do? How do you see things?”
“I don’t know. My brain is tired. All in all, I don’t think it would be a good idea to break with him or her.”