Though We Count for Nothing, Far Be it From Me …
Although he was exceptionally tall and stout, people always called Sr Pere Ametller, Sr Peret. The diminutive stuck when he was young, and for ever more he was Sr Peret.
At the beginning of this true story, Sr Peret, the owner of two farmhouses, a house in Torrelles, and a large amount of land he rented out, is reputed to be a wealthy man. Perhaps, however, he isn’t really wealthy, in the usual meaning of the word. In this country nothing could be more relative than wealth. Anyone who is poor, genuinely poor, thinks everybody not in the same state is wealthy. A properly wealthy man, one dripping with money, thinks nobody is. This kind of snooty person disparages the wealth of others, sticks his nose up.
By dint of his situation, Sr Peret was able to lead the life he wanted. He married in the normal course of things and over ten or twelve years gave his good lady five children: four girls and a boy. Obviously, they wanted a boy, and finally they produced one. His good lady, who was very pretty when she married, evolved naturally. The moment came when it seemed she could either turn to fat or to lean. Finally, leanness won out. White, plump, and golden haired as a young woman, she became dark-skinned, big-boned, and black-haired. Her loss of fat led to a change in her character, and that was probably very positive for Sr Peret’s family interests. If his wife had been fat, sluggish, and disagreeable, he would probably have been forced to sell the farmhouse. As she was now skinny, energetic, and active, he had no need to worry, because his wife always toed the line.
An active individual, interested in what life had to offer, she performed almost a miracle a day. Husband and wife, their five children, Sra Ametller’s two unmarried sisters, and a maid managed to live on Sr Peret’s rather modest income. The whole tribe had fallen on its feet.
When I first met him, Sr Peret did practically nothing. He got up at half past ten. After lunch he’d go to the café and play dominos with his friends. At three o’clock, in good weather, he would sunbathe. He owned a large plot of land on the outskirts of town that a gardener looked after for him. There was a vineyard on a slope at the top of his land. Ostensibly, it was said that Sr Peret tended his vines. He didn’t tend them at all, nobody had ever seen him touch his vines. He simply went there to pass the time, because he liked it and felt good there. A small house and stone bench sheltered from the wind were near the vines. He sat for hours on this bench. He’d sometimes read the newspaper. He wasn’t in favor of reading in artificial light or when the light was poor. He read his paper in the bright sunlight, in the open air. That way he didn’t tire his eyes or have to wear glasses. On the other hand, he never worried about the date of his paper. Sra Ametller used the paper for the most urgent needs of the family. She was always short of paper. Her husband read the paper he could find, the one spared from the fire or the need to wrap a parcel. At sunset he’d walk back to town and spend a while in the casino until it was dinnertime. It was very cosy in the casino in winter because they had a splendid fire. At eight o’clock, it was time for supper and he’d head for home. When he walked in — such a tall, sturdy presence — he looked as if he’d just accomplished something noteworthy. The truth is he was a man who seemed to play a necessary, vital role in his small world, though he did nothing at all and never had. Ordinary folk, like Sr Peret, are never a nuisance, and consequently are deemed to be indispensable.
Sr Peret and his wife lived admirable lives. His good lady ruled the roost. He never raised any objections. He wasn’t the kind to object. It didn’t form part of his temperament. His wife’s aspirations always meshed with his. They were a perfect match.
The odd friend would often express to his face a judgment with which he couldn’t possibly agree. Then something would happen that was characteristic of Sr Peret. He would wave his hand, as if to suggest he was about to refute what he’d just heard. His face glowed from the positive efforts he was making to develop an argument. Sometimes, he even uttered a few disconnected words … However, the time to respond passed, and in the end he said nothing. Others resumed the conversation … Sr Peret sat and gaped for a moment and, when he realized he couldn’t voice his objection, he did three things in a row: first he shrugged his shoulders, then leaned back on his chair, and finally just sat there. No. Sr Peret wasn’t a man to raise objections.
On the other hand, he didn’t have any vices. He was unadventurous on every front. Perhaps, very occasionally, he smoked a cigarette … when offered one. It wasn’t that he was miserly, however. He didn’t smoke because he felt better than when he did, and he instinctively looked after his health in very precise ways. The unconscious plays a key role both in the preservation and the destruction of health. Man is born to conserve as well to destroy. That’s why those who think conservers don’t have fun are sorely mistaken.
Such virtues guaranteed Sr Peret the reputation he deserved. He never became president of anything, but was vice-president of several bodies; he was never elected secretary, but was a frequent vice-secretary. It was once rumored he would be made municipal attorney and he was made deputy municipal attorney. He recognized that these deputizing roles suited him down to the ground. This confluence of circumstances performed wonders: Sr Peret was perfectly fitted to life in Torrelles. The village was made to measure for him. It had twelve hundred inhabitants. It was no longer a rural hamlet. Rural hamlets have many drawbacks. Torrelles was a tiny town. It was essentially agricultural, though the presence of two knitwear factories had changed its internal make up. Torrelles had a cinema, a casino, an orchestra, and a post office. There was a degree of social life. People were always up for a game of chess or cards. Butchers slaughtered daily. Six houses had a bathroom and central heating, heating that objectivity duly compels us to note was rarely switched on. Sr Peret had running water, a wash basin and a rather old-fashioned tin tub. He didn’t have central heating. In this, as in everything else, Sr Peret was a middling man.
Sr Peret felt wonderfully at home in Torrelles. As we have said, he was a perfect match. Generally speaking there are property owners, and people from all social classes who only aspire to live in bigger places — and not necessarily Barcelona. Sr Peret wouldn’t have budged from Torrelles for anything in the world. For him, everything it had was excellent: its vegetables, meat, and fish (though it had little in the way of fish), its water, and its wine; he found its air best suited his lungs, and the character of the people blended with his temperament. He understood the people in his little town, understood them and never needed anything explained. He was no fanatical local patriot. He wasn’t like so many, many folk who think everything produced within their municipal boundaries is the best in the world, whether it’s tomatoes or broccoli, local writers or water from the fountain, grilled sardines or peas to accompany veal. No, Sr Peret never embraced extremes. He thought, quite simply, that Torrelles was lovely: “It’s small,” he would say, “but life here is good.”
In effect, he’d never left the countryside. The rare, sporadic trip to Barcelona, and that was that. His sedentary habits were ingrained and resistant. When he did travel, nowhere was as nice as Torrelles. He had a fairly limited sense of curiosity, but when he declared that nowhere was as nice as his little town, he was being sincere. He couldn’t remember ever being ill there, except when he was a child, but had no clear recollections of those illnesses. He’d never felt any pain, nothing ever hurt: be it his mouth, nose, eyes, belly, or feet. A small wart once appeared on his left cheek and melted away as quickly as it had come. One winter he caught a slight cold: nothing really. His was a good example of a perfect match with a particular part of the earth’s crust. Of course, he was sensitive to everything that happened around him, whether it was a sad or happy event, and at times he seemed to respond with alacrity. However, considering the splendid equilibrium of his mind and body, I did sometimes wonder whether a large part of that sensitivity wasn’t unconscious.