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Riera waited for a moment, brows knitted, mouth shut, arms folded over his chest. As he was taller than the carriage ceiling, he was forced to twist his neck and constrain his body. Although new to the house, Dalmau grasped that Riera hadn’t spoken idly, struggled to detach himself from his seat and, scraping the charabanc walls, managed to stand up. Riera’s reprimand sounded like the patter of rainfall to Don Natali’s ears. He occupied the corner seat. He pulled his hat down and continued to stare at the back of the coach-driver’s neck.

In the pink light from the nearby street the dark olive-green hue of Sr Riera’s face darkened dramatically. His lips quivered in a nervous chuckle. Everyone now focused on that man who remained in the middle of the coach, tall and stooping like the bearer of a baroque float. Dalmau, on his side, was struggling to keep on his feet as the coach juddered up and down: he held himself erect by holding tight to the mullions of a window with both hands. Verdaguer soon lost his presence of mind. He chewed his mustache and screwed up his face: it lengthened, shrunk, furrowed or flattened out as his feelings ebbed and eddied.

“Verdaguer!” Riera said brusquely. “I must ask you a second time: will you please get up from your seat?”

“Who? Me? Why?” answered Verdaguer in a mock polite tone, giving the impression that he’d been taken by surprise, and mechanically taking off his hat.

“Yes, sir, I’m addressing you, you parasite …” Riera rasped harshly.

Don Natali’s nostrils and lips quivered. His pale perspiring face turned the color of chlorine and his body twitched for a moment. His left eye shut, something that happened when he was in a state, and his right sought out a friendly face among those present that might encourage him to formulate a worthy riposte. His open eye reviewed the others, to no avail. He found no succor, only indifference. So he didn’t say a word. Not a single one.

When he began to make an effort to stand straight — not without difficulty — his legs tottered, sweat poured down his cheeks and his head seemed on fire.

Now that Riera had them both on their feet, he howled with sardonic, rude laughter. Ferrer displayed a set of cheerful, off-white teeth. Out of it, as ever, Sr Tomeu lowered his head mournfully. The Swiss remained absolutely deadpan.

With three erect bodies, that amalgam of human flesh in the scant light from the street — we were going up the Ronda de Sant Pau — must have seemed a very odd, chaotic mess. Ferrer then redistributed the small amount of wool in the cushion along the edge of the seat. It was a labor on behalf of equality. They sat down again, however, a moment before the carriage had lurched violently when a wheel dipped into a tramline and it caught Sr Dalmau in time to bang his head hard against the charabanc ceiling and see stars. From the look on Riera’s face as he sat down, it was evident he wasn’t satisfied with his victory.

Bramson offered him his cigar case. Verdaguer said nervously: “Yes, thank you, a cigarette …”

There was a lull. The vibrations of the coach drowned the noise of the match being struck. Riera took advantage of the phosphorous glow to glance at Verdaguer’s corner. Eyes half closed, Don Natali was leaning back and inhaling furiously. Now and then a wisp of smoke emerged from his nostrils. There was a stunned silence inside the carriage. Nevertheless, all of a sudden, Sr Riera rasped abruptly: “Ferrer!”

“The floor is yours, Sr Riera …”

“Look! We must speak frankly once and for all … I intend making the most of the fact we are all gathered here to speak my mind: this cannot continue a single day more … I cannot stand these fellows!”

“But, Riera, perhaps …”

Riera puffed his chest out and, leaning his face provocatively into Verdaguer’s, rattled on in the same tone of voice: “We must know where we stand! We must tell Sra Paradís what we think! Right away! Decisions must … It’s urgent!”

“Riera, calm down, for God’s sake!” Ferrer replied nervously. “We will broach their position. Perhaps now isn’t the time. We must proceed calmly. These matters are very delicate, as you yourself are aware …”

“Know what I think, Ferrer? Your mincing and mollycoddling will get us absolutely nowhere.”

“And why will it get us nowhere?” asked Sr Ferrer indignantly.

“Because it won’t! It won’t get us anywhere …”

The conversation dried up. Neither Sr Dalmau nor Don Natali tried to utter the slightest whimper of protest. They had shrunk, their bodies seemed to shrivel. Light from successive streetlamps illuminated the inside of the carriage for a moment. Nobody uttered another word.

The charabanc reached the Plaça de la Universitat and turned up Aribau as far as Consell de Cent. When we reached the corner of this street, it turned right and the horse went as far as one of the houses behind the Seminary, on the third floor of which Sra Paradís ran her boarding house.

The day after, Riera summoned the Swiss lodgers Bramson and Pickel, Sr Ferrer, and me to his bedroom at 11 P.M. At that hour, Sra Paradís was snoozing in her wicker rocking chair in the gallery, while the cat and Murillo, lying at her feet on a tiny thin carpet, digested their food which, as with the lodgers, was hardly an onerous task.

Riera received us in his slippers and nightshirt — with that red piping that was the fashion at the time in nightshirts — and pants for the street. His shirt was only half tucked inside his pants, no doubt because he’d been in a rush, and the rear flap hung limply outside. The Swiss were dressed normally and looked somewhat perplexed. Bramson was using his magnificent amber cigarette holder with the shepherdess and her lamb. Sr Ferrer came in pajamas and dressing-gown, evidently very worried.

“Gentlemen …” began Riera when we were all seated.

Like so many irritable, moody folk, Riera spoke with a good deal of rhetorical flourish. The nickname of Neurotic he’d been given was quite apt.

“Gentlemen, do you see now! We’ve reached an intolerable state of affairs. If we don’t defend ourselves, we will be condemned to Maggi broth, fried hake, and leathery, transparent steak. They are unquestionably taking us for a ride … Don’t doubt this for a minute: they will starve us to death, if we don’t react.”

Sr Ferrer’s face darkened, he wrinkled his eyebrows, and looked at Sr Riera with a mixture of pity and contempt.

“Moreover, you should know,” added Riera, “that Sra Paradís’s behavior is completely unjustified. I have got to the bottom of it. A comb has been found in …”

Sr Ferrer’s hysterical laughter prevented him from finishing his sentence. Sr Riera turned red with rage, got up from his chair, and walked once around his smallish room — swiveled around on himself, that is — and finally stood, mouth half open, lips trembling, glaring at Sr Bramson.

This gentleman, who had been observing the scene quite impassively, wiped the back of his neck, returned his cigarette holder to its case and finally said, rather shyly: “I do think we should proceed calmly. Sr Riera, you have shouted at us. In view of which, we should now try to speak in more measured tones …”

“Of course, of course …” said Riera, giving a bow.

Riera’s back was turned to his room’s balcony, he’d folded his arms over his chest, and the dismal green, tattered curtains hung down either side of his body.

“As far as morality goes,” Bramson added extremely calmly, “I share the ideas that everyone has, because I never like to be the exception. I require minimal adherence in such matters from those around me and, for my part, I will try to be amenable and bear in mind whatever you agree, if anyone, in this house, has exceeded the minimum standard I insist on. If, in my opinion, that isn’t the case, I shall stay put in this boarding house because it is very convenient to be so close to my office …”