It was a Valencian establishment, and the lady lording over it was proud and had grand ideas. Her menus were based around the inevitable dish of rice: black rice, paella, and rice in succulent sauce. I still remember the filaments of saffron that floated in those yellow juices. It was a perpetual flow of rice that I strained to digest for days on end. The skyscraper took us to New York, the persistent rice to China. Nonetheless, our landlady was an excellent sort; when it was time to pay, I never saw her adopt a truculent stance. I am convinced our imposing matriarch believed that rice was so important she would have cooked it for free for the whole of humanity. Her generous conception of economics meant that the house was always crowded out. Apart from the usual lodgers, the kitchen was always full of citizens from the ancient kingdom of Valencia who were panting for a plate of rice, and you could always find them there from ten A.M. to midnight.
Apart from this, the place was a great home to bullfighting. Some huge, genuine, terrifying heads of famous, historic, and listed bulls were nailed up in the four corners made by the passages that went round the patio. If you went down one of these corridors, you would see at the end the head of a noble animal, imbued with a frighteningly real, appallingly live presence. Obviously you became inured to the bulls in the end, because life leads one to adapt to the strangest, unsuspected things, but I never met anyone who could hide a feeling of dread before the eyes, horns, snouts, and magnificent necks of those wild beasts. The main wall of the dining room was dominated by another kind of head, above a gilt inscription, the head of a reddish bull that inspired the same fear as the others in the passageways. The pension was overrun, especially in the winter, by people who were renowned in the bullfighting world. The visit by Don Vicenç Barrera was remembered in the pension for years afterwards. The rice that poured out of the kitchen that day was unbelievable. Two hours after Don Vicenç had disappeared, people were still eating rice at one end or the other of the boarding house, and I even saw one gentleman standing in a passageway eating his plateful.
One day a huge bus pulled up outside the entrance to the house, painted a canary yellow and upholstered in Cubist style. A large number of individuals tumbled out, clad in their respective overalls, weary and downcast as if they had just been released from jail. A large number of instrument cases were hauled down from the bus roof. They were the personnel and artistic tools of the band, the posters for which I’d seen the other day when strolling down the streets of old Girona. The bus attracted a lot of attention and a large number of spectators gathered outside the doorway. The bystanders’ curiosity soared when they saw two extraordinary characters emerge from the artifact: a giant and a dwarf — genuine items. Both managed a warm smile for the crowd, even if it was a rather tired one after their long journey. Then they walked through the door and settled into the lodging house. The landlady was waiting for them when they walked in: she was radiant and her eyes were shining. It was evidently a great day for her.
A few hours after this invasion, the house throbbed with their musical outpourings. From one room, the notes of an oboe; from another, of a trombone; flutes, violins, and piccolos flooded the passageways; the trumpets were a boisterous presence; string instruments weren’t in great supply, but the few there were charged the sound waves with their melodious tunes. Although they languished rather — it was late spring — the cornets seemed to give the atmosphere a glow with their bolts of lightning.
That intense musical activity was initially most pleasant, because sensitive people always aspire to have music in their own homes. However, the days went by and the dense manifestations of music, particularly the plethora of variegated, disconnected exercises, started to pall. The artists were almost all, as I’ve said, from the east coast and as such very fond of eating rice in one shape or form. Pale and feeble when they arrived, they quickly bucked up after the array of differently flavored rice that the establishment offered. The color returned to their cheeks and the sparkle to their eyes. I soon registered how their musical enthusiasm rose in parallel with the improvement in their physique.
I already knew that Valencians were a tenacious crowd: I now discovered that they expressed their tenacity the minute they clutched a trumpet or clarinet. Thus, the establishment was subject to such a musical onslaught, that was so systematic and continuous the air within its walls filled with a gluey syrup of totally jarring musical effluent where the rippling waves from the strings seemed to love to swim. The time came when we lodgers felt that we were living in another dimension: in a heavy, compacted, and rarified dimension where there seemed room for nothing else. It was as if music invaded everywhere and exerted pressure over everything contained within the pension, a pressure that reduced your living space, that invaded you and drove you from your usual life as if you were a mere object and as if you were gradually being displaced.
It was plain that there was only one path to take: to move out voluntarily and spend the daytime out in the hope that nightfall would bring a more benign environment. And this is what most lodgers did, apart from three or four delicate souls who couldn’t resist the onslaught and left the pension for good.
I tried to instigate concerted action with those who resisted with a view to setting out the objective situation to our landlady. My initiative aimed to inform her that if she continued serving those huge quantities of rice, life in her establishment would become literally impossible. I joined forces with a captain from the Cavalry Depot, an Arts student and a second tier civil servant surplus to requirements. The formulating of any critical opinion as to the prowess of the band could have backfired on us, because aesthetic issues are always difficult and thorny. After all, it was their livelihood and that always demands respect. The only option was to take the roundabout route and to manage a reduction in their enthusiasm by gradually decreasing the portions of rice that seemed to guarantee such good results.
Our landlady, however, was not convinced. I had to emphasize that the pressure was really painful for anyone who wasn’t a complete Valencian. But she was in a state of bliss. The presence of so many artists in her house brought her nothing but joy. As far as she was concerned, it was a matter of sensibility, of whether you had any art in your soul. In that light it was a favorable environment. Favorable and fascinating. It was entirely natural that people devoid of sensibility, and dead to art, should feel rather frayed. That was so natural …! We might as well have whistled till the cows came home … So a dividing line was drawn up: on the one hand, dull vulgarity and on the other, the divine flame of art.