“I beg you, Sr Comes, don’t generalize. Don’t get carried away.”
The apothecary’s cigarette was smoked, and he lit up another. Then he continued: “Of course, Sr Vinardell’s situation in the Central didn’t do his reputation any favors. It was a victory for those who had argued he had returned a bankrupt. Coinciding with this blow dealt to his standing, a series of declarations started circulating around the locality that were attributed to Sr Vinardell — statements I felt to be rather serious. Meanwhile, however, another coincidence struck: Sra Vicenteta was widowed … One assumed that Sr Vinardell would depart the tavern and find a refuge that was more discreet and show more respect for the calamity that had befallen the tavern owner. Widowhood has always been respected … Nevertheless, there was no visible change in the situation of the individuals concerned. As a widow, Sra Vicenteta seemed to be as ready to maintain Sr Vinardell as when she was married. However, as I said, some innuendo began to circulate — serious stuff, in my view — to which I alluded previously. Apparently Sr Vinardell said one day, in the presence of respectable folk, that a part of the wealth (in land) of Sr Figarola would some day be his, because it had come into their possession in an unlawful, improper way. A very few days later, Sra Vicenteta repeated the assertion in a local household, and added the strangest twist: she said that one day part of the Figarola family wealth (a farmhouse) would fall to Sr Vinardell, because that family had taken it unfairly, and that the property would later, only naturally, fall to her. Conclusion: at a quiet, private moment together, Sr Vinardell had promised Sra Vicenteta something that has never failed to impress the human heart: an instant route to wealth. And how could she have refused tenderness when tied to private property …?”
I interrupted Sr Comes: “Sr Comes, your case collapses.”
“Collapses? Why does it collapse?”
“True parasites in the establishments we are discussing don’t need to promise anything in order to stay put. They need only to breathe to justify their privileged position. They are people who live off the dark mysteries at the heart of human relationships. The genuine parasite is as barren and elegant as the cypresses that adorn our landscape. It’s a pity. But do tell me how it ended …”
“Yes, it’s getting late. I would only be telling you the absolute truth if I were to say that Sr Figarola was the last person to find out about the statements Sr Vinardell and Sra Vicenteta were making. When he did become aware of what was being said, he acted immediately and had Sr Vinardell summoned to the local magistrate’s court. ‘This fellow is giving away fields, vineyards, and farmhouses that aren’t his to give so he can live at the tavern without paying a cent!’ said a furious, indignant Sr Figarola. ‘He’s a complete crook and I want him locked up! Some people make a living by dazzling others with things that don’t belong to them … I tell you, I want him locked up!’ Things didn’t go that far. They didn’t even reach the magistrate’s court. A few individuals intervened, and Sr Vinardell offered his apologies to his distant relative — apologies that were accepted. That was the moment of truth: as the house of cards collapsed, people expected Sr Vinardell’s situation would be settled there and then. That’s to say, one imagined that Sr Vicenteta would feel she had been deceived, wantonly deceived, and would react by sending her permanent lodger packing. Everybody was anticipating a dramatic scene. However, nothing happened, and Sr Vinardell continued to live in the tavern as if nothing had happened …”
“Sr Comes, the case gets better and better by the minute. The events you have just described show that Sr Vinardell is the classic guest. He is probably a professional at procuring systematic, long-term invitations. It is really remarkable, because many people believe human relationships in small villages are different, generally quite the opposite, of those in large towns. I’d almost swear these differences are invented and have no basis whatsoever in real life. These relationships are the same everywhere.”
With that, we were back opposite the pharmacy and Sr Comes took an ancient, incredibly large key out of his pocket. We bid each other good night; he opened the door and disappeared into the darkness.
I stayed on in the village a few weeks more, doing nothing, breathing the fresh air, going to the springs to drink glasses of water. I tried to discover if the village or the surrounding countryside was home to any archaeological remains but failed to find out. In fact, the most interesting part of my stay was the tale from the Central Tavern — an experience from the early days of my travels as an inveterate nomad.