Don Natali Verdaguer glanced across this last room — where the smoke levels were considerable — and spotted Sr Riera among the crowd. Riera was snooping behind a tresillo table. He seemed fascinated by the cards being played. He was taken aback to hear someone say: “So we’re on the snoop, are we, Sr Riera?” When he looked up and saw Sr Verdaguer, he was even more astonished. After the scenes in the charabanc he had concluded that Verdaguer would never speak to him again. It was time to decide one way or the other: send him packing or start a conversation. An internal — almost wholly unconscious — mechanism made him opt to converse. When one scrutinizes the way men act, it soon becomes clear that psychological rationalism doesn’t work systematically. Almost all our passions — self-esteem, sense of the absurd, or inertia — get in the way or derail it.
“Yes, senyor,” said Riera, “a little idle snooping …” There are two things that really excite me: the theater … and tresillo … tresillo, I mean, simply watching people play.”
The former tobacconist exhaled light blue smoke through his nostrils.
“By the way, Sr Riera,” said Verdaguer acting shyly, “I’d appreciate a couple of words …”
“Yes, of course, senyor, there’s a table right here …”
As it was a smallish space, they sat at the adjacent table — almost next to the card players. If the spot lacked anything it was privacy.
Sr Verdaguer was perfectly aware of the intrigue Riera had tried to set in motion in his room a few days ago with Ferrer, the students, and the Swiss. He probably also knew that it had all turned out badly for him.
“Sr Riera,” began Verdaguer, “I like your kind of man. You act as you speak. You’re not a hypocrite. When you dislike something, you say so straight out …”
Sr Riera, who had anticipated a very different tone at the start of this conversation — he was expecting a short, sharp attack — felt a sense of relief. He was absolutely repelled by this man, but not enough to refuse contact with him outright. Immediately he felt deflated. He was reacting much more sincerely — above all much more politely — than he could ever have imagined.
“As you know the state of play,” he said, “let me fill you in on the detail. I’ve decided that Bramson and that other Swiss fellow are a couple of jokers; they are peculiar, and quite beyond the pale. The students are a dead loss, pure lightweights … Ferrer is something else: that man is bad news …”
“Good heavens!” said Verdaguer. “Ferrer is mad about Sra Paradís, the lady has put a spell on him …”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, hardly a spell. In any case, I thought you were the one Sra Paradís had bewitched …”
“I …” said Verdaguer, rolling the whites of his eyes and circumflexing his eyebrows.
“Yes, senyor, you … Besides … I have proof of what I say …”
“You’ve got it wrong. In any case, your information is out of date …”
“I’m sorry, Verdaguer! My sources are impeccable. You’re now telling me it’s not true … Very well! But you must understand — and this hardly needs saying — that I doubt your sincerity, I hope you will furnish proof of what you’ve just said …”
“Of course, all the proof you want …” said Verdaguer, rising to the bait, “our boarding house, like all such places, has its mysteries, and you’ve not heard the latest.”
“Now that I’m with you, we have a new ingredient: the presence of Don Martí Dalmau …”
“Precisely! But forgive me, what can you tell me about Don Martí Dalmau? Sr Riera, you don’t know the half of it, where he’s concerned. In the first place you should know that this gentleman we call Don Martí Dalmau is an absolutely mysterious character. People sometimes knock on the door, ask after him and call him Sr González or Sr Dalmau, and others use names I’d rather not recall. In my opinion, Sr Riera, this is intolerable. Who is this man? In my opinion, people should be transparent, yes, above all transparent … How do you expect me to live in a house with people like him, even contributing to his upkeep like a complete nitwit? Because you should know, Sr Riera, that this kind of situation affects all of us, every last one of us, even that poor fool Sr Tomeu … You get my gist, Sr Riera?”
At this point in his harangue Verdaguer’s voice was swallowed up by a tremendous hue and cry — terrible shouts, violent gesticulating — from the card-players nearby. Riera, who was listening to Verdaguer, smirking smugly, sitting comfortably, gazing dreamily at the smoke spiraling from his cigarette, was reluctantly aroused from his modest level of human bliss. When the din died down — a din sparked by one of the gamblers who had lost his temper — Verdaguer returned to the chase, even more vehemently: “Dalmau or González, or whoever,” he went on, “was born here in Barcelona, but has lived in Venezuela or Colombia for years, I don’t know exactly where …”
“What’s that? In Colombia, you don’t say?” said Riera looking up, closing his eyes with a voluptuous shudder.
“Yes, in Colombia. Do you find that odd?”
“Only, you know, I had a friend, Conxita, who came from Colombia …”
“And which Conxita was that?”
“The Conxita, naturally, the one and only! Now that was a real woman, my dear Verdaguer! She was passionate and unassuming at the same time! What a contrast! She was such a classy dame, dear Verdaguer …”
Increasingly surprised by Riera’s tendency to wander off at a tangent, Verdaguer snarled so furiously he immediately brought his interlocutor back to the matter in hand. Riera now resumed apologetically: “But what I’m saying, Sr Verdaguer …” said Riera, “I do beg your pardon. Obviously, you may never have met Conxita. She belongs to the past, is a memory, a trifle, to tell you the truth … Do go on, Sr Verdaguer, please …”
Verdaguer, who’d been wondering for the last few seconds: What kind of country is this? bit his lip scornfully and went on irritably, his retired boxer’s face looking more battered than ever: “Sr Dalmau or González, or whoever, lived, until we saw him walk into Carrer de Consell de Cent, in a boarding house run by two hapless widows on the Carrer de Bailén. He lived there for four long months, paying nothing, naturally. All that time he deferred payment of his rent on the excuse that he was about to receive some fabulous checks from Central America. One day, the two hapless ladies registered to their surprise or satisfaction, at any rate to their great annoyance, that the bird had flown the coop. They went to the bank, and nothing …”
“And to the police … and nothing doing there either!” added Riera mechanically.
“Precisely!”
“They carried out all kinds of investigations … and came up with nothing!”
“Yes, senyor. That’s the truth of the matter. So you’ll understand that Sr Dalmau in his present state is like a fish in water. As caution bids him to stay mostly indoors, he doesn’t even need to expend anything on imagination. Conversely, as you know, women adore men who rarely go out. I have long experience of this … So now you know the whole story …” Verdaguer concluded with his mix of sarcasm and facetiousness.
“No need to say another word, it’s perfectly clear …”
A long silence ensued, then Verdaguer eased his chair as close to Riera’s as possible. He whispered: “Senyor Riera, I have a confession to make. Do you know what I think?”
“Tell me pray …”
“Well, I think love is a powerful thing, a powerful and mysterious thing. Let’s not delude ourselves!”
“But Verdaguer …!” asked Riera reacting indignantly, “Do you really think that it’s love?”