“You seem sad …?” Sr Giacomo asked one day.
“Oh no, sir! It’s not that bad …!” replied Mascarell, rather shamefaced.
“You are sad, and I know why you are sad … You are an intellectual …”
Mascarell instinctively felt he should retort: “You are wrong; there’s no substance to what you’ve just said!” The truth was, however, that he didn’t protest at all. He let it go. His vanity put the brake on.
“Yes, you are sad!” the Neapolitan continued. “And it’s because you work too hard … Lei lavora di notte col cervello …” he said in a somberly melodramatic tone that would have seemed laughable if Italians didn’t talk like that all the time.
When Signor Giacomo uttered that gem, three or four customers were waiting; he turned to them, as he was saying it. These gentlemen gave Mascarell intrigued, respectful looks.
Mascarell was immediately tempted to hurl at the barber’s head a small bottle of Rêve d’Amour or Roses du Crépuscule that were within easy reach of his chair. However, when he noted the other customers’ fascinated looks, he restrained himself. This brief moment of flattery broke the ice between two men who were so different.
Over time they became friends. The Neapolitan had one defect: it was literally impossible to imagine that he could ever not appear a complete idiot. Mascarell saw that clearly enough. He always thought the barber was a laughingstock. But it didn’t mean he didn’t think he wasn’t very knowledgeable about life, that his noisy, clownish exterior didn’t hide considerable experience and a real and astute grasp of reality. The fate of gawkers is to fall foul of the first little mirror placed in their field of vision.
Mascarell’s life was clouded by his obsession with Eulàlia’s accusation: “You are un homme fatal!” Her comment had been accompanied by a gesture that had made her drift quite explicit. But Mascarell thought she’d said it when in a bad temper, and, consequently, that it wasn’t so serious. Even assuming that her judgment was meant literally, he thought the literal meaning was diluted by the force and passion of the moment. Yes, Eulàlia had lost her cool, had overstepped the mark. That was clear … Nevertheless, her words remained. You are un homme fatal. Even if one interpreted them as a bad-tempered boutade, what did they mean?
Mascarell thought about it, much more often than it seemed on the surface. His first inclination was to ask Eulàlia to explain herself. Eulàlia was leading her usual life, was living in the same hotel, but he never saw her. If he hadn’t known that from the lips of Monsieur Paul, he’d never have believed it: he never saw Eulàlia. Initially, his modest pride had led him to believe that Eulàlia was so upset by their rift that she had deemed it necessary to stop living under the same roof. But that was all pure speculation on his part. Eulàlia hadn’t changed her normal routines one iota. Reasons existed, however, to believe that she was adept at avoiding his presence.
Seven or eight days after the scenes we have described, and totally depressed by his inability to talk to Eulàlia, Mascarell decided the very moment he sat in his barber’s chair to broach the matter with the Neapolitan. The idea came spontaneously, but he instinctively put the brake on. As he wanted a haircut and his hair wasn’t so short — meaning the job would take its time and he’d have plenty to decide what he should do. In the end: nothing very much. It simply came down to asking Sr Giacomo, who knew such a lot about life, what those words — un homme fatal — actually meant. The meaning of these words, not referring to anyone in particular, but in generaclass="underline" always speaking generally, of course. It was a very naïve question and meant he’d be baring himself to Sr Giacomo. But Mascarell was obsessed by Eulàlia’s remark and had to talk about it with somebody or other. It is in the fatal nature of obsessions that they must be aired.
The haircut proceeded in absolute silence. The barber didn’t seem to be in the mood. There was barely anybody waiting. When Sr Giacomo had given the final brush to Mascarell’s jacket collar, the latter addressed him rather worriedly: “I’d like a couple of words with you …”
“Take however long you need … That’s up to you!” replied the Neapolitan forcefully, with a friendly chuckle.
“When a woman says to a man: ‘You are un homme fatal,’ what do these words actually mean?”
“Did someone say that to you?” asked the barber, suddenly looking serious.
“Of course not! Who’d ever have said such a thing to poor old me? No, I’m speaking in general, take my word for it, absolutely in general …”
The barber didn’t reply at once. He looked blank and uneasy. He glanced briefly at Mascarell. Then peered at the glass panes in the entry door … And glanced back at him. He looked to all the world like a man who didn’t know which way to go to avoid putting his foot in it.
“You sure it doesn’t?” he asked finally.
“I told you! Really, I am talking in general terms.”
Sr Giacomo hesitated for a second. There was another long pause, with the corresponding, perplexed looks.
“I’d like to know why you’re asking me such a strange question …” he said staring at Mascarell.
“Oh, for no reason in particular. Simply out of curiosity …”
“If that really is the case, I will say, speaking strictly in general terms, that when a woman tells someone of the opposite sex that he is un homme fatal then it means that he is a moron, an out-and-out moron …”
Mascarell couldn’t stop himself turning slightly pale, but he responded rapidly: “Meaning?”
The Neapolitan panicked for a moment.
“What’s this all about?” he asked, uneasily. “You ask me a question. I give you a clear answer. What do you mean, ‘meaning?’ Are we or are we not speaking in general?”
“In general!” said Mascarell, rather hoarsely. “Absolutely in general. I told you it was simply something that had piqued my curiosity. My question was on the spur of the moment. The second you state your view, I assume that it is well-founded.”
“Don’t doubt that for one moment, I have known many un homme fatal. There are lots in Naples, where I come from. There’s another variety in Marseille. Not mention Paris … If you like, I can introduce you to one: he’s a giovinotto, who has hopes of being nominated an adviser …”
“No need, no need! I’ve never doubted your experience of life, your knowledge … When you say that un homme fatal is a moron …”
“Wait a moment, forgive me!” the barber interjected, sounding alarmed. “I didn’t say that! I said that when a woman says to someone in particular that he is un homme fatal it means …”
“Yes, of course, you are right. Absolutely right. I mangled what you said.”
“Of course! These things require precision, because it’s the tone that gives them their exact meaning. You know I couldn’t care less. As a barber, I couldn’t care less whether the guy whose hair I’m cutting is fatal or not. Now, it’s different with the ladies! When a lady uses these words in relation to a man, one concludes that she does indeed reckon he is a total moron …”
“All right! That’s the third time you’ve said that!” said Mascarell, barely concealing his ruffled feelings.
“Does it bother you?”
“Of course not, sir! You never bother me! In any case, you should clarify one point, if you don’t mind. What do you think drives a woman to say that un homme fatal is a total moron?”