When a spectral analysis of Sr Dalmau got underway in the boarding house, some lodgers said he passed himself off as a journalist, and others that they’d met him as a croupier in a music hall. All unanimously agreed he was not known to have any trade, source of gain, or substantial income.
There are always two basic groups in lodging houses: the group of those who pay and the group of those who don’t and who never intend to as a matter of principle. In this class of establishment when the payers are generous, easy-going, and unconcerned about the small detail, preferring to nurture the business of living, then peace is guaranteed and a system accepting of parasites develops naturally and successfully. However, sometimes the payers don’t feel like being generous and aspire rather to a situation where everyone keeps to the straight and narrow. In this case the issue of eradicating bugs inevitably generates huge conflicts. Don Martí Dalmau had been a lodger for very few hours and had already signed up — intuitively, we would say — to the free, gratis, and for nothing group. This reinforced the majority view that his arrival would mean the Maggi got Maggier by the day, the hake came even less fresh, and the steak would be even more symbolic. This personage was thus most unwelcome and Don Natali, who had introduced him, fell into bad odor with almost every lodger.
Despite the rumors Sr Verdaguer never attempted to justify himself. In fact, he became increasingly unpleasant and bad-tempered, a vociferous grumbler. It was curious how Don Natali remained neutral or at least silent when faced by things that truly demanded a response yet, conversely, any trifle that one could swallow with a grain of good will unleashed his fury and he literally lost it. All this coincided with the news that Sr Verdaguer was about to open a shop that promoted typewriters. After the pertinent inquiries had been made, it turned out that this was a simple misunderstanding. He wasn’t going to open a shop or embark on any business involving that type of machine. A lifelong friend had simply set up a small repair shop and had suggested he could work a few hours cleaning the keys of damaged typewriters with special brushes and thus earn a small income. That confusion didn’t help his credit rating. Quite the opposite.
It was dark by this time. The horse dawdled along the Can Tunis road. No one inside seemed in the mood to talk. The atmosphere was dense with smoke. Everyone was staring at the front of the coach and focusing on the broad nape of the coachman’s neck. The spindly, stunted trees along the roadside went by at a frustratingly slow rate. The potholes were hellish and the carriage juddered alarmingly down and up. It creaked and squeaked. If by chance wood and metal were quiet for a moment, the dull, muted rumble of the sea could be heard in the distance. The road was quite elevated and we could see the port and its red and green lights reflecting on the thick, black water. Lights sporadically lined the roadside and seemed to promenade in front of our carriage.
Sr Ferrer rolled another cigarette, lit up, and suddenly spoke to Don Martí Dalmau: “Sr Dalmau, you seem on edge …”
“On edge? I won’t deny it … Death does prompt one to philosophize! Just think how peculiar it is that the first, might we say, official act of mine in the boarding house has been to go to a colleague’s funeral …” answered Sr Dalmau in a slightly shrill tone, looking indirectly at Sr Ferrer.
“You are quite right, quite right …”
“Anyway, to tell you the truth, I’m rather inured to these mishaps. You know, I’ve been a widower twice … what more could I suffer? I don’t think there is greater misery … Of course, I could die. But don’t I already belong to the living dead …?”
“Come, come, Sr Dalmau, it can’t be that bad, it can’t be …” suggested Sr Ferrer ironically.
“Believe me! It’s true! I have had my share of worries in life. When my second wife died, whom (if you will excuse my being so blunt) I loved most deeply, my head was filled with strange fantasies and nonsense. I even came to think her death was unjust and that a time would come, sooner or later, when my unhappiness would go into reverse. Fully convinced, I told myself, ‘You will see your wife again …’ And nobody could gainsay me. I took it absolutely for granted that I would encounter her in the next life more or less exactly as when we lived on the Carrer de Vila i Vilá. Yes, it became an obsession, an idea that lodged right here,” he pointed to his forehead, “and which lodged there for months on end … But a friend finally helped me to dispel those phantoms …”
“Go on, Sr Dalmau, do go on …”
“Well, you know, one day I went to see Gatell who has also passed away. He was a theater impresario on the Paral·lel. Gatell and I were like brothers. I told him what I’ve just told you. When I finished, he guffawed most rudely. ‘You are a widower for a second time,’ he said, ‘if I’m not mistaken.’ ‘That is correct.’ ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do when you meet up with the pair of them in the next life … How will you manage?’ Though it may be improper for me to say this, I found Gatell’s perspective to be most original. ‘Do you want my advice?’ asked Gatell after laughing for a good long while. ‘Here you have it: Dalmau, don’t be such an idiot and forget this spiritualist stuff. You’ll be a wiser man, if not a richer one.’
The whole charabanc burst out laughing. The coachman’s face appeared at the front window, looking intrigued. Conversations in boarding houses — and this was in fact a boarding house in motion — are always like this: shot through with unimaginable vulgarity and poor taste.
Our carriage finally reestablished contact with the cobbles and, exerting himself, the coachman finally managed to stir the wretched pony into a slow, mechanical trot. The charabanc juddered over the cobbles with a peculiar clatter that particularly affected the panes of glass. The continual vibration produced the usual strange phenomena: a moment came when Sr Riera realized to his alarm that the wool, straw, or flock or whatever stuffed the padded cushion where he sat kept shifting along to more fortunate derrières. Yes, Sr Riera could feel his flesh hitting stark naked timber. On the other hand, Don Natali sensed, with a voluptuous shudder, that the base of his seat kept gaining bulk, volume, and warmth. Ferrer, who quickly cottoned on to the readjustment, asked sardonically: “You all right, Riera? These cushions are first-rate …”
Riera, who was going from bad to worse, struggled to hold his temper. He laughed dutifully and replied between gritted teeth: “Yes, of course, I am.”
The question was meant to be a hurtful dig and, given Riera’s temperament, the consequences were disastrous. Sr Ferrer’s little quip kept jarring in his mind while the hard pressure from the timber and the cruel ridge along the edge of the seats kept irritating him. The narrowness of the carriage and its dinginess played on his nerves. He became increasingly agitated — at times he didn’t know where to put his hands or his feet — and it got worse as he registered that neither Don Natali nor Sr Dalmau budged an inch; in fact, quite the contrary — they seemed to be luxuriating in the pleasures of the heightened sponginess of their share of the cushion. Don Natali, especially, seemed to have positioned his butt wonderfully.
The charabanc was crossing the pale white glow from a powerful streetlight when Riera glanced furiously at his companions on the bench, and, beside himself, bawled loudly: “Verdaguer, Dalmau … on your feet!”
Confusion hit the carriage momentarily. Don Natali and Sr Dalmau gazed at the outside world with a considered air of surprise — an air that coincided with the blank, innocent smile spreading over Sr Tomeu’s face. By virtue of the fact that Sr Tomeu never involved himself in anything, Sr Tomeu was constantly out of it. From the seat opposite, Bramson and Ferrer looked at Verdaguer and Riera with a degree of alarm, anticipating the inevitable.