In Paris romances of the time, Fanny’s physical type was much in demand. Years later, taller, willowy women, with more elongated behinds, were in vogue. Fanny’s name was really Eulàlia. She had made the switch to make pronunciation easier. And this was one of the first things she confessed to Mascarell. Her confession led Mascarell to raise an eyebrow: he thought it was her way of opening the path to friendship, even to intimacy.
What most struck him was the way she acted like young girls in his country fifteen years ago: she could play the piano just a little, excelled at sewing and knitting, particularly in the use of sequins; she spoke lovingly about her mother, was fond of things fried in bread crumbs with the white of an egg, and enthused about cheap prints; her handwriting was full of curlicues and she could quote two dozen pretty little poems. On the other hand, she hated anything connected with cooking. As far as she was concerned, cooking was a most vulgar occupation. She believed that the French obsession with cooking was vulgar.
Mascarell found Eulàlia’s company very agreeable. He made the most of every opportunity to accost her. Fresh information about her way of life didn’t make him at all critical. Quite the opposite. The moment came — very soon — when he decided that she was totally good news.
Eulàlia could be very up and down. She sometimes seemed tired and despondent and then her attitude might be rather curt and off-putting. On the other hand, she had days when she was wonderfully animated, with a frivolous allure. Mascarell preferred her when he could see she was depressed and tense — even though he had to suffer the consequences — to when she was smiling and laughing. Like all serious people — and Mascarell was a terribly serious fellow — he believed that other people should be equally serious.
“Do you see this?” Eulàlia laughed, with a sparkle in her eyes and moist lips, pointing to the freckle on her left cheek.
“Yes.”
“It brings bad luck.”
“Why so?”
“Because it just does.”
“Who told you that?”
“The cards.”
“But do you read the cards?”
“Yes, I do.”
“My lord!”
“Don’t be so solemn, you boor!”
And she burst out laughing, and that prevented Mascarell from putting his foot into it a second time. He had been about to spell out the reasons why one shouldn’t read the cards, or believe in them. If he’d done that, he’d only have proved that this world is a vale of tears. That would have pleased Mascarell much more than seeing Eulàlia look happy and vivacious.
That day they’d met by the hotel entrance when the streetlights were being switched on. It had been a warm, silken April day. The early blossom on the trees augured delicious bliss.
“Mascarell,” said the young lady. “You should invite me to dinner …”
“What do you mean?” replied an astonished Mascarell, sounding unfortunately tetchy.
Eulàlia was taken aback. Mascarell immediately corrected his inexplicable faux pas.
“Of course, I should invite you to dinner. But are you sure you’re not joking?”
“Not likely! I’m hungry and could do with a good dinner.”
“What time suits you?”
“How about half past seven here?”
“Fine.”
They met at the agreed time. They reached the Boulevard Saint-Michel via the Avenue de l’Observatoire, scented by the fluff drifting down from the magnificent chestnut-trees, and along the wrought iron fence around the Luxembourg — the gardens were closed. They went into the brasserie that was so renowned for its cuisine, opposite the Fontaine Médicis.
On that long walk Mascarell showed himself to be a gallant man, but one who said little. He was a man of few words — and even more so when accompanied by a woman. Eulàlia — who was having a good day — began two or three frankly flippant conversations with a spontaneity that was frankly delightful. One couldn’t have imagined a better aperitif than those conversations. The effect on Mascarell was counter-productive. He became quieter and more withdrawn than usual.
Their dinner was on the silent side. Anyone who didn’t know them would have said they’d been married for four or five years. Mascarell was visibly shocked when Eulàlia was greeted warmly by two portly gentlemen who were dining four or five tables behind them. For a moment a really Catalan thought passed through his head: what if he was just acting the country bumpkin?
When the waiter brought the bill, Mascarell picked it up with a flourish and gabbled tactlessly: “Will you allow me, Eulàlia …?”
Eulàlia looked at him as if she was hallucinating. She wondered for a moment whether he was being sarcastic or merely stupid. The look on her face seemed to say: what’s this simpleton playing at?
“I don’t like,” continued Mascarell, “to mention such vulgar matters, but I’m always afraid of doing the wrong thing in Paris … When it comes to paying, people can be very iffy.”
“He’s still going on about it …” Eulàlia whispered.
“Believe me, I find these day-to-day things really trying …”
Eulàlia thought: Pay for heaven’s sake and let’s forget it. What’s this guy after with all this nonsense? But she said nothing.
When they left the restaurant, they started to walk slowly back to the hotel. It was a very warm, pleasant night, and spring seemed to make everything delightfully languid.
“Mascarell,” said Eulàlia, “you’re so sad and lugubrious. What on earth’s wrong with you?”
“It’s how I am. People like me seem very odd in Paris, because Parisians are so fun-loving … That’s not the case in our country.”
“People are always so irritable there!” exclaimed Eulàlia with a grimace, her brow somber as if she was remembering something truly unpleasant.
“What can we do about that? Every land fights its own battles.”
“But why is your character like this, Mascarell? Don’t you think you’ve got it all wrong? What’s the point in wearing such a long face?”
“Oh dear, what do you expect me to say? I must be made this way.”
“You must be in love …”
“I’m sorry, that’s not true! I would like to be in love, but that’s quite another matter.”
“And you haven’t found anyone in Paris to take your scowls away? Don’t make me laugh!”
“It’s true, Eulàlia. I would like to fall in love because I need someone to keep me company; I feel lonely, do you see?”
“You feel lonely? But how can you be lonely here? Please don’t let on to anybody, because they won’t believe you.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“You spend every day stuck in the hotel. Why don’t you go out more?”
“Where do you want me to go?”
“If you weren’t a man, I’d feel sorry for you …”
“Thank you so much, Eulàlia.”
Mascarell reacted strongly to the word “sorry.” He thought his friendship with that young woman had suddenly deepened.
“Did you enjoy dinner, Mascarell?” Eulàlia then asked, suddenly changing tack.
“Far too much!”
“Why ‘far too much’? Don’t make me laugh! I see nothing has changed in Barcelona.”
“Of course, I feel fine next to you, you know. I’m speaking generally …”
The last two sentences made Eulàlia want to burst out laughing but she had to restrain herself so as not to seem rude.
“I’m sorry,” said Eulàlia. “What do you mean by ‘I’m speaking generally …?’ ”
“I mean that I don’t like you when you are so cheerful, you don’t seem as nice as when …”