“I really must apologize …” I said, showing him the match apologetically.
“Please go ahead …” he replied, without stirring. And a moment later: “If you aren’t sleepy and don’t mind, switch the light off and open the window. Let a little fresh air in. The air gets foul in these sleeping cars …”
I drew the curtain. A thick, gray light filled the compartment. I glanced outside: a large pale moon hung languidly in the sky. The train was traveling over open, level land fronted by an endless expanse of tall, slender poplar trees that had been planted in symmetrical rows. The land seemed as if it were flooded, because you could see the moon spiraling across the water. When the train passed, the poplars turned dizzily around on themselves. The moon’s silvery light splashed the trees and a soft gauzy blue mist hovered above the soil deep within the blurred, tremulous avenues. The front line of trees hopped in a grotesque syncopated rhythm behind the glass as the sleeping-car jolted and jarred.
Smoking and gazing through the window, I managed to amuse myself until we reached the first station. In the early morning, when a train halts, a deep silence descends at these small stations. Sleeping passengers snore louder; rain clatters on the tin roofs over the platform; if it’s not raining, you hear the wind rustling the leaves on the acacias in the station’s gardens. These gardens that you see only briefly are quite pretty in a modest, impish way and such a consummate resolution of the tiny spare space their presence seems ineffable. In the dim light, you sometimes hear a solitary frog croak or a cockerel cry. The footsteps of a man carrying a lantern drown the mournful echoes. A sleepy passenger walks by, out-of-sorts beneath his crumpled Sunday best. People who travel in their smartest clothes put me on edge and make me feel ill at ease …
I was daydreaming about all these trivial things when I heard my travelling companion start to hum a song that was in vogue. Astonished to hear such a thing at that time of day, I turned round; I wasn’t quick enough: the song was over. I then heard the sound of words, but the train had set off again and prevented me from catching them.
“What was that?” I asked looking at him.
“If my memory’s not playing tricks, last night you said your name was, I’m sorry …”
“Joncadella, Joan Joncadella …”
“Joncadella …” he repeated with a voice I thought betrayed real curiosity, even a touch of emotion. “Years ago I knew a Joncadella family; he was an architect and, if I remember correctly, married Maria Camps …”
“Maria Camps? That’s my mother’s name …”
“Maria Camps, from Valls. Are you from Valls?”
“That’s right, I am …”
“How strange!” he exclaimed, sounding even more interested, as he sat on his bunk and peered out, smiling up at me. “Maria Camps’ son!” That’s a real twist! I knew your mother very well. You must think that’s rather odd.”
“I think you must be her age …”
“Excuse me, she’s quite a lot younger. She must be nearly forty.”
“Right: she’s forty.”
“What a surprise? You and I meeting up in this compartment, so far from home …”
“Well you know now — it’s a small world.”
“So then, is your mother well?”
“In fine health, thank you.”
The day began to break, though the sparks from the engine still flew past the window. The lights on the outskirts of a town flickered deep in a valley surrounded by a mass of trees. The autumnal night had left the earth white and damp. A flock of birds glided over the town. The trees dripped.
When I was most absorbed by that landscape, I suddenly saw my traveling companion peer out from his couchette and stare at me, as if there was something he couldn’t understand. I was taken aback and didn’t know what to say. After a while, he forced a smile that was far too sweet and said: “Maria Camps’ son! I was on very, very good terms with your mother!”
“On such very good terms?” I asked, surprised he’d been so close.
“Did she never mention me? Allow me to repeat my name: Salvat, engineer, from Barcelona.”
“Salvat … Salvat … That’s right. I have heard of you.”
“Often?”
He said that, straightening up, putting one foot on the floor and resting the other on the bed.
“In fact, I remember just one occasion. When I was sifting through some old papers not very long ago I came across the photo of a young man from the year … perhaps it was 1900. I immediately assumed it was a family photo and was delighted by my find. The way people dressed in those days! I’ll be frank: I felt that the person in the photo had overdone it. It seemed like the photo of a vain, bumptious fellow. I remember how my mother, who was by my side, took it from my hands. She gazed at it for ages; I couldn’t tell you if she was focusing on it or daydreaming. Then she put it in a book and said, “It’s Salvat, Salvat the engineer …”
Listening to me with his mouth half open, Sr Salvat had stood up in the middle of the compartment, in his pajamas. When I’d finished, he glanced at me, with a mocking glint in his eyes, clearly disappointed: “Is that all? Not much …
“Senyor Salvat, you’ll catch cold, believe me! Get back into bed. It’s very early.”
“By the way, excuse me, did you say you thought it was the photo of a bumptious man … You’re young. Aren’t you a bit on the bumptious side?”
“I couldn’t really say … Very likely.”
“Of course … If you weren’t, you’d be rather a strange young man.”
“Senyor Salvat, you are being rather foolish. Get back into bed, you’ll catch cold …”
He didn’t budge and merely responded: “It’s natural enough you didn’t realize … But isn’t chance a wonderful thing? I’ve been turning this nonsense over all night, and in the morning I wake up to this surprise …”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated for a moment and then smiled rather perfunctorily.
“I don’t know how to put this,” he retorted. “It’s possibly rather delicate. On the other hand, it really couldn’t be much simpler … I was in a relationship with your mother …”
“A relationship … what on earth …?”
“I almost married her …”
“You did?” I said, my eyes bulging. I struggled to control the feeling of disgust his words provoked. It was precisely that: a surge of repulsion. After that unpleasant remark, I felt as if I was suspended in mid-air and sweating, stressed at finding myself face to face with that strange piece of news. Who was this man? Why was he talking to me like that? The matter-of-fact, familiar tone of voice seemed incredibly fake and intolerably hypocritical. I looked hard at him. I thought he was appallingly vulgar, standing in the middle of the compartment, eyes down, posing thoughtfully, hands inside his dark pajama pockets, his thin frame with messy gray hair and ravaged yellow features. Nevertheless, I felt that this man might be concealing — as any man foreign to your habits and your usual field of vision might — a mysteriously elusive element, something that could smash the images essential to your well-being, the ones you have cherished so dearly — an intolerable shock to your system. As I stared at him, I remembered my mother’s face … and her face seemed more idealized than ever. I couldn’t think why. Stunned by that image I felt my blood and inner humors had been sucked dry, and felt as stiff as a board. From then on, on the outside I acted normally in every way, but I wasn’t completely there. I made no effort to behave in that man’s presence as anyone else would have done.
“In effect,” I heard him say quite casually. “I almost married her. We were in a relationship for three years. We were never betrothed, but what difference does that make? It was a deep friendship. I even reached the point,” he said smiling bitterly, “of selecting the witnesses. Forgive me for saying this: I think it’s very odd that …”