“This tavern,” he said, “is duly renowned. The food’s just about decent — especially if one doesn’t expect too much. I lived there for six years and know what’s what. The rooms perhaps aren’t that ventilated these days. Villages have so much fresh air, people think everything is very well-aired. Ha, ha! Rather, it is just the opposite. They love stale fug. Then you have Sra Vicenteta, who is a true angel, of the elemental sort. Sra Vicenteta is a widow, and I gather, from absolutely reliable sources, that she now enjoys the company of Sr Vinardell. This gentleman is a remarkable member of the species. He’s been living happily in the tavern for the past ten years without paying a cent. What do you reckon? He has never paid! What has the world come to …?”
“Sr Comes, don’t jump to conclusions, I beg you! Above all, don’t take the moral high ground, I beg you. Such pontificating serves no purpose and can only obscure matters. There is nothing unusual or abnormal in what you have just told me about Sr Vinardell. I’ve been a customer of such places for years: boarding houses, pensions, taverns, and hotels, and I’ve never known anything different. These little clusters of humanity always include someone who doesn’t pay, someone who never pays. What I’d prefer to debate with you, as you are familiar with a specific case located in an apparently uncongenial context, is the reason behind this phenomenon of parasitic behavior. In these situations, the most interesting are the extreme cases: the hundred-percent parasites, the boarders who never cough up, who always take and never pay. As for the phenomenon of the amorous parasite there is often a quid pro quo, a done deal. Often not even the most basic contract is enacted. There is simply the quid. It is decidedly odd and quite fascinating.”
“So you believe such situations are likely …”
“No. I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter whether I find these situations to be likely. I’m saying they are in fact ever-present and, consequently, I’d like to know what’s behind them. Why are there so many people in these establishments who never pay up? How can one explain this fact? Are there people in this hard, implacable world, fated to live off the sentimentality of others? You know, the man who never pays is always the best fed, the best attended to, the recipient of every comfort and morsel. On the contrary, those who conform and pay on the nail are treated rudely, often intolerably so. Sometimes, when confronted by specific cases, I have wondered if these men don’t inspire a kind of terror or panic in people who are generally fearless. Apparently the proprietors don’t dare present them with a bill for fear they might fly into a fury, to forestall any possible retaliation. You’re a man who’s seen the world, Sr Comes. You look like a man who knows a thing or two. Could I ask you to share your thoughts on this matter, that is, if you have any?”
Sr Comes looked perplexed for a second, and said he didn’t have any and clammed up.
“A moment ago, you were saying, Sr Comes, that this Vinardell enjoys the companionship of Sra Vicenteta. This fact makes the situation much less worrying. If it is true, Sr Vinardell may have fallen victim to Sra Vicenteta. In my book, victims shouldn’t have to pay, particularly if they live in the same house. As I said previously, the extreme cases of parasitic behavior are the interesting ones, the chemically pure examples where there is no significant payback.”
“You may have misunderstood me. When I said Sra Vicenteta was enjoying the companionship of Sr Vinardell, I was using the word in its platonic sense. You must understand: Sr Vinardell is elderly; he is not fit for any fun and games. And as for Sra Vicenteta, I’d like to point out that she’ll be fifty-two on the Virgin Mary’s Day in August, if my memory serves me.”
“This is all very positive information and gives the case more substance. A purely parasitic case is emerging. Are you sleepy, Sr Comes? I’m never sleepy in this village. All I do the whole blessed day is breathe in the fresh air and try to be healthy. In the afternoon I sometimes drink a glass of water from one of the springs on the outskirts. So, Sr Comes, if you don’t feel sleepy either, we could continue our conversation. I find your company very agreeable. I suspect we’ve not yet wrung the case of Sr Vinardell dry.”
It did turn out that Sr Comes wasn’t sleepy either. He only requested we didn’t walk too far from the pharmacy in case someone came with a pressing need.
“Yes, of course,” continued Sr Comes. “And perhaps there is more to be mined and investigated in the case of Sr Vinardell … Let me tell you what happened when Sra Vicenteta was widowed, some two years ago. While her husband was alive, Sr Vinardell’s presence in the tavern was thought to be straightforward enough. Naturally, people always gossip, but generally, nothing out of the ordinary. Things changed when Sra Vicenteta wore a widow’s weeds. A fine ruckus was unleashed. It seems highly likely that faced by the flood of vicious innuendo Sra Vicenteta would try to clear the air by forcing her free-wheeling lodger to go to ground for a time. You know, it’s a reasonable conclusion to draw. The truth is that she achieved very little, if that was her aim. Sr Vinardell continued to live in the tavern as usual, better set up than ever. Because I should emphasize that Sr Vinardell is extremely well served. I think it was during this phase that we might describe as shocking, that the run-in with Sr Figarola took place. Of course, you don’t know Sr Figarola. Sr Figarola was the elder of the two gentlemen playing the chess game we watched at the Recreativa. He is a highly respected property owner, perhaps on the stiff and snobbish side, but that’s surely down to his moral principles. In other words: a fine, upstanding citizen.”
Sr Comes stopped, seemed mentally distracted for a moment, snuffed out a cigarette and continued speaking. It was a quarter to one according to a church clock that was quite unreliable. The night had cleared a little and the haze was gone from the sky. The street was completely deserted. There was no light whatsoever, apart from three or four dim yellow street lights. The village was sleeping peacefully. The place had night watchmen but at that time of night they must have been patrolling the outskirts, because we couldn’t hear them singing. It was a pity, because the village had two good night watchmen, who dressed well and sang well. With their caps, truncheons, and lanterns, they looked like characters straight out of Italian opera — a comic opera, to be precise. There was a moment when a dog crossed the road, shortly followed by a cat. There was a balcony with a quail in a cage. The first quail I’d seen that year. It jumped now and then and hit its head against the wire of its cage. Poor bird! The street alternated areas of pitch-dark and patches of flickering municipal lighting and was like a set for an amateur stage-play — a down-at-heel, rural backdrop. If it hadn’t been for the sound of the quail’s head hitting against the wire of its cage, it would have seemed unreal. But that noise became obsessive. When Sr Comes started to speak — as the night progressed, his voice began to fade — I had to make an effort to hear him, because the caged quail dinned in my ears.
“I can vouch that this Sr Vinardell,” said Sr Comes emphatically, “is a local man, from a well-off family that is now totally bankrupt, and a distant relative of Sr Figarola, the man we just watched playing chess. As a very young man he disappeared from the village and didn’t return for years. His family meanwhile almost died out. I couldn’t tell you what Sr Vinardell got up to in all those years nor do I think anyone in the locality could. He never showed any signs of life, and the people who knew him as a child practically forgot him. Whether he lived in Buenos Aires for a number of years or owned a tailor’s in Paris or was ever sighted in a southern corner of the Peninsula, are conjectures that may contain an element of truth, though I couldn’t confirm any, even though being a constant presence at the pharmacy does place one, to an extent, in the very heart of village gossip. This village’s pharmacy isn’t home to a constant group of conversationalists, but, as everyone passes through, it might as well be. I’ve been working in this hut for more than twenty years; I never heard a single reference to his presence on this earth, that is, before he showed up again. He must have been away for years, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, but one day he did return and that gave the poor gentleman more than one upset, of the sort experienced by this kind of person who uproots, then comes back to his native soil. Some said he came back a rich man and others — the majority — flat broke. Neither camp had any information to support their claims; they talked, I imagine, because they liked the sound of their own voices. It was about passing the time of day, as usual. Those who said he returned a rich man based their claims on Sr Vinardell’s smart, dapper appearance, the unmistakable look of a man who has never known what it is to work. But this country is full of knaves and shysters, and they usually tread on firm ground, because they start from the idea that appearances are deceptive. In this village, gossip about this or that individual usually lasts two and a half, maximum three months. Then its stops and people want to turn a new page, even if issues surface worthy of further comment. It’s strange, but when they decide something’s run its course, there’s nothing one can do: it has run its course. Sr Vinardell as a subject for gossip lasted a whole autumn. As tongues chattered, one saw him setting up comfortably in the Central Tavern. Sr Vicenteta’s husband was still alive … The fact that he established himself in the tavern was grist to the mill of those who argued that Sr Vinardell was wealthy. For locals of humble means, the words “tavern” (living in a tavern) and “hotel” (eating at a hotel) have a specific resonance and are an indication of wealth for the people who don’t frequent such places, who are usually on their uppers. You know — ha, ha! — the fruits of ignorance. Unfortunately, a few weeks after he moved into the Central, the cleaning maids spread the news that Sr Vinardell never paid. There was no doubt that this was true, given the absolutely trustworthy nature of the source. To answer your queries in terms of lodging-houses, I’d like to tell you the way in which the contract was broken. As I understand it, neither Sra Vicenteta nor her poor husband ever dared to demand he paid the amount they had agreed. For whatever reason — out of admiration, sentimentality, tact, fear, terror or any other reason I am unable to pinpoint — they let him live there for free. They respected him. They showed him positive, perpetual respect: their free-wheeling guest enjoyed the best room and was always served the best food. In a country obsessed with being paid, Sra Vicenteta and her husband never tired of paying out. It really is a mystery, as far as I’m concerned, a mystery I can’t explain at all … I don’t think one has ever seen …”