Sr Riera made a strange guttural sound — a rumble possibly created by an unconscious reaction or by a momentary blockage of the larynx. He was visibly seething.
“Sr Riera, allow me!” said Bramson, as calm as ever, with that German accent that so well suited his corpulence. “Tell me, I beg you: does Sr Verdaguer pay for his board and lodging?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you know?”
“The house maids …”
“Fine. House maids usually know everything or almost everything in these boarding houses. So, then, Don Natali doesn’t pay up and, consequently, Sra Paradís’s only income from this house is what we gathered here pay her …”
“Absolutely right! Sr Verdaguer lives off our backs!”
The voluminous Swiss paused. Ferrer keenly followed the conversation. Pickel looked up at the ceiling and seemed totally oblivious to what was happening around him. From time to time, he glanced at those conversing as if he’d just descended from the clouds and tittered strangely as if to say: “What nonsense they are spouting!” Boada was falling asleep. I repeatedly pulled his arm and tried to stir him. It is examination time and seems as if students didn’t exist.
“And, Sr Riera, what can you tell us about Sr Dalmau, Don Martí Dalmau?” Bramson asked suddenly.
“Not very much, to be candid,” replied Riera. “He is a friend of Sra Paradís and Sr Verdaguer. This seems to bode ill, but I wouldn’t want to speculate beyond that. As you all know, he only arrived a few days ago. Consequently, we must wait and see, though it’s not hard to guess what the upshot will be.”
“Fine!” added Bramson, completely deadpan. “Fine! Once we have taken all this on board, Sr Riera, I feel I must tell you, Sr Riera, that I don’t intend to leave this boarding house for now. For the moment, I don’t think that minimal abnormality that I require to cohabit with other people has been exceeded. On the contrary, this boarding house has confirmed yet again my own experience from living in such establishments in my country and several others.”
“Pray, allow me to ask what your experience amounts to, Sr Bramson?” asked Sr Riera rather unpleasantly.
“Nothing very startling … Three types of people tend to coexist in these places: those who pay, those who appear not to pay, and your genuine parasites … What can we do about this, if it’s how the world is? And now, my dear friend, you must understand what I was implying when I spoke a few seconds ago about a maximum and a minimum. As I believe I am completely unequipped to eradicate parasites from boarding houses, then all that concerns me is they should be kept to the right number, that is, the minimum …”
“That’s appalling!” said Riera, wiping his forehead, both dismayed and disappointed, while Pickel and Ferrer let out a guffaw.
Sr Riera was dumbfounded. His mind and body had sunk into that well-known state of mind that hovers between the dithers and a nervous breakdown.
“That’s appalling, Sr Bramson, really appalling …” Riera repeated, putting his hands to his head.
Then he seemed to recover and he asked: “But can you really be serious?”
“I am always serious, Sr Riera, even when I talk of such trifling matters. Allow me to sum up my thoughts on the matter. When I enter into any piece of business, when I use the services of a boarding house or a hotel, when I try to do anything in life that involves other people, I know perfectly well that part of my money will be heading to the upkeep of one or more people behind the scenes. Do you understand? And things being as they are, all I can aspire to do is to ensure that the number of third parties doesn’t overwhelm my budget … In the present situation, as long as it doesn’t exceed the minimum acknowledged by you, I rest my case; the situation is perfectly normal, or in other words, is just the right level of abnormality to make it an absolutely average situation.”
Having said this, Bramson got up from his chair and prepared to use his arty cigarette holder once again.
“So then, I can’t count on any support from you folk?” said Riera after a pause, struggling to articulate his words, with an out-of-sorts expression that hid indignation he could hardly stifle.
“Unless the situation changes,” said Bramson grasping the door handle, “I shall be staying. A very good night to you all!”
Bramson and Pickel disappeared down the dark passage.
That left only Riera, Ferrer, Boada — now fast asleep — and me. Ferrer was lighting a cigarette.
“Sr Ferrer, what do you think about Bramson’s ideas?” asked Riera, re-galvanizing his indignation. “Have you ever heard anything like it? These foreigners possess a gall that is absolutely beyond me.”
“I believe,” said Ferrer blankly, “that the Swiss gentleman has outlined a very reasonable point of view. Don’t be under any illusions: if Bramson had found a boarding house where they would feed him better for the same price, he’d have left already … Have no doubt about that. Besides, he has already said as much: ‘Why change, if everywhere else serves up the same food?’ ”
“So, Sr Ferrer, what do you intend to do?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. I do think that you are right; but, on the other hand, I think the matter is too delicate to make decisions too quickly or lightly … I think it’s better not to jump in at the deep end … At my age, Sr Riera, everything causes stress. In fact, one can only conclude that changes bring little in the way of benefit … Besides, Riera my friend, I’d like to be absolutely frank. You deserve some straight-talking. As you know, Sr Riera, I am an understanding kind of fellow. Very understanding, don’t doubt that. You’ve heard me say as much a thousand times at the dining table and everywhere. Well, I think I understand a few sides to the life of Sra Paradís (I said a few, just to be clear) or at least I think I’m in a position to understand … What can we do, Sr Riera? Women will be women …”
Riera’s glared furiously in Ferrer’s direction and cut him short in mid-sentence.
“I had taken it for granted, Sr Ferrer,” Riera drawled frostily, “that you were small-minded and permanently unstable. However, forgive me if I say this: I would never have thought you could have stooped so low …”
“Please let it drop, Sr Riera …” Ferrer riposted. “I can see you’re not interested in what I have to say. Nothing much we can do about that! Tomorrow is another day. Sleep well, good night.”
And, jumping up from his chair, he very gingerly opened the door, shutting it a bit harder.
It was a struggle to wake up Boada. When I left the room, helping the future pharmacist on his way, Sr Riera still stood in the middle of his room, looking rather manically at the small carpet that lay parallel to his bed.
Two or three days after these scenes of everyday life, Sr Verdaguer, who was strolling along the central Rambla decided — as he often did — to go into the Cafè Orient. He crossed the large room that looks over the Rambla, turned down some stairs and entered the basement. Those large, rather dark, low-ceilinged places were very animated. A big throng bustled in the fug, the noise of cues, billiard balls, dominoes, drinking glasses, and cups made a real racket. The beige of the billiard tables, fully spotlighted, took on a spectral hue in the murk. At the back was a tiny room for playing tresillo.