My two compatriots, who initially listened to my tale most attentively, gradually lost interest as I proceeded. In the end, they seemed almost disappointed. I felt that it was nothing new as far as they were concerned, that it was quite normal.
“When you’ve finished eating your roast beef and carrots,” said Niubó, “take a sly look towards the back corner, by the window.”
I looked briefly in that direction. I saw a young woman sitting on the table at the back. She was blonde, with pinkish skin, ample dimensions, and was eating ravenously. She was wearing a very English, mallow-colored nighttime dress that did her no favors — I imagine she had some social engagement that night. It showed off her opulent, perfect, bronzed, rather languid arms. At that very moment she looked up and stared at my friends. Her features were chubby and cheerful, as well as being immaculate in the manner of a kermesse flamande Venus — a broad, gleaming forehead and eyes of blue and green water. She smiled for a second, and revealed moist, dazzling teeth.
She shortly got up from her table, smiled at my friends for a second time and left the dining room. She seemed very tall.
“That’s Srta Claudette,” said Tàpies folding his napkin. “Quite the Belgian wench …”
“Dear Tàpies, what exactly do you mean by ‘quite the Belgian wench’?”
“I wouldn’t know how to put it. A young lady …” and he stammered.
“Let’s say, to give you an idea, that she’s a young lady who acts in good faith …” rasped Niubó.
“I understand. A young lady who acts in good faith … That’s clear enough.”
To further clarify Niubó’s definition, Tàpies tried to wink, giving it the usual sly touch. But when Tàpies attempted this gesture, he nearly always botched it, failed entirely. He was a man who couldn’t wink, like so many. When he was thinking of doing it, he’d shut both eyes, and everything was quite a mess, improbable and totally unconvincing. Even so, I cottoned on without having to make too much of an effort.
After his optical intervention, Tàpies felt compelled to say things I felt were quite enigmatic: “Srta Claudette,” he said, “is a very generous, extremely kindhearted person … It’s his turn today,” he continued pointing at Niubó.
“My dear Tàpies, I really don’t understand,” I countered. “Please be so good as to explain yourself …”
In the meantime, annoyed by his friend’s allusion, Niubó had turned as red as a rose. Tàpies fell silent. I didn’t feel strong enough to rescue the conversation from the cul-de-sac it had entered. We changed the subject.
That night, while I was reading the newspaper comfortably reclining on the chaise-longue in my bedroom, I heard a conversation strike up in the neighboring room. I started to hallucinate when I heard the first words. A man and woman were talking and the male voice was Niubó’s. My friend’s French seemed rather unsure and dodgy — sometimes difficult to understand.
“Claudette, you’re so lovely … I’d like to ask you a favor,” said Niubó’s voice.
“Have you lost another button?” responded the female voice.
“Yes, another button. I’m very sorry to ask you, but it’s beyond me. You know how sad it is to live alone, in a foreign country, among complete strangers who are often hostile. This way of life just shows how when you lack the warmth of the family hearth, you have nothing …”
“I find your bouts of nostalgia rather boring …”
“Yes, I know, but what do you expect me to do? Who else can I tell? Only you understand me … Claudette, you understand me! And don’t you deny it … If you only knew how I sometimes feel like catching the train, going back, escaping …”
“I’ll sew your button on, but it’s the last time. I have other things to do in life.”
“You really mean that?”
“Take off your shoes!”
There was a similar lull to the previous day, a lull that ended in exactly the same fashion. I didn’t hear another word, and the night seemed to melt into the dull hum, the opaque buzz from the urban sprawl.
The next day I made no reference to this around the table. Nor did Tàpies. After some visibly awkward circumlocutions, with a doubtful, confused logic to them, Niubó finally began to speak about the mysteries within the lodging house — the last episode of which had starred him as its hero. Then, lo and behold, at the end of his monologue Niubó came out with a statement that shocked me it was so flippant, not to say so moronic. Pointing at me in a most relaxed, natural gesture, he said, while consulting a small pocket diary: “Your turn will come too. It’ll be around the twenty-ninth of this month.”
I burst into a series of noisy guffaws though I quickly had to put the brake on that spontaneous outburst because of its deplorable impact on the people who were in the dining room at the time. Almost every head present turned surreptitiously my way to let me know that I had overstepped the mark. However, it was Tàpies and Niubó whose expressions were quite desolate. First they looked at me as if I were a rare beast. Then, with infinite sorrow. I’m sure that if I’d let myself be carried away and continued guffawing, they’d have got up and left me there and then. In London — and this must be true for the whole of England — you never make an excessive show of your feelings. Do what you must, but do so discreetly. When you want to laugh, smile; when you want to cry, don’t go overboard, and don’t overwhelm people with your exaggerated emotions. My laughter had been spontaneous and, though I’d had good reason to act that way, it was completely the wrong thing to do.
I had a further surprise that night. The male voice I heard behind the partition wall wasn’t the one from the first day or Niubó’s. It was the voice of an Englishman who spoke terrible French. I first thought it was a voice I didn’t recognize and then I decided it was very similar to Colonel Morton’s. In the end, I couldn’t really pinpoint whose voice it was. I thought it was a highly entertaining exchange.
“Mademoiselle Claudette,” I heard the voice say, “might I ask you a question?”
“Only one? Why are men so pathetic?”
“Could you please tell me how many kilometers it is from Brussels to Anvers?” said the voice in a tender, slightly passionate tone. “I don’t want to defer for a single day more my visit to your country that is so admirable on so many fronts. The expectations I have cherished for so long are on the brink of becoming a most wondrous reality …”
“I doubt that …” said the female voice. “After all my country is like any other, it certainly has its pros, but it also has its cons …”
“How can you possibly say that? I can’t find the words to tell you what bliss it will be on this occasion to cross the Channel. One is always rather reluctant to leave one’s country. This time, however, the outcome will be infinitely enjoyable. I mean that sincerely.”
“I couldn’t say how many kilometers it is from Brussels to Anvers. I don’t think it’s very many. But I’ll look it up …”
“Will you really?”
The shoe-related warning followed immediately and the long lull that ended in exactly the same fashion as on the previous occasions. Then I heard not a single word more, but could hear the dull, blind hum from nighttime in the big city.