“…”
“It would be an understatement to say that his ability to cope with everyday life was practically non-existent: he was literally hopeless. By the time I got to know him he’d been living beyond his means for years. He really had no clear idea about what he earned and what he spent. His entire economic activity was devoted to plugging the holes that kept appearing. It was hardly a pleasant way to live. When he started out as a teacher, however, though he had his fair share of headaches and wasted lots of time, he managed to keep up appearances. But as time passed the burden became increasingly onerous and his life became highly disagreeable. His debts started to pile up, innumerable small debts not even he could keep track of, but all together they represented a sum that was too much for the almost impecunious life of that innocent abroad. Scattered around his neighborhood, his debtors were strident and were always trying to pin him down: he owed shopkeepers who were naturally and respectably greedy. The time came when his situation became untenable, and Dr. Turull was pitched into an implacable struggle with his creditors that threatened to choke him. He had to learn all the strategies of the recalcitrant debtor: fake entrances and exits, skill in wriggling out of tight corners, and expertise in formulating the necessary, firm-sounding promises that were devoid of any real substance. Apart from the time one can waste on such wrangles and their intolerable side effects, they have a particularly malign impact in that they embitter the most evenly keeled of temperaments. Heading the professor’s queue of creditors was a tall, skinny, hyperactive woman whose skin was the sallow hue of people with jaundice. The professor had put that woman in charge of the upkeep of his underwear — the washing and ironing thereof — and this labor had accrued a debt of three hundred and eighty pesetas. The professor couldn’t believe the little she had washed and ironed could have spawned such a large debt. But that was only because Dr Turull possessed the vaguest notion of time: the woman had been washing his underwear for years. According to the professor’s housecleaner, the bill was perfectly in order, indeed rather generous, and on the low side. As a bill it simply shared the principal defect of all bills: it had to be paid. The lady became tired of promises and decided she must collect. She spoke to all his creditors and agitated tirelessly. She managed to persuade them to act in concert, and after much coming and going they hired a lively, vociferous young lawyer. Dr Turull was shortly summonsed to court. The episode had immediate repercussions in academic circles and the world of intellectuals. The professor believed momentarily that the speed at which the situation was deteriorating might lead to a solution in the sense that he lived in hope of a helping hand that would materialize and save him from infamy. But no such hand appeared and he simply confronted sullen, aggressive warnings that constituted de facto threats. Professor Turull could see he was done for. Crestfallen, more dead than alive, wiping the sweat from his face — now the color of sodden parchment — he exclaimed in a strained, low-key voice, as if completely sure of himself: ‘God will punish this evil woman …”
“That old refrain, that old refrain!” said the dentist, wearily.
“I simply want to demonstrate, my dear Vinyals, that if a man as strong and as knowledgeable as Professor Turull can get it wrong, it is because sentimentality and erroneous habits flow in our blood. Traditions of magic and the supernatural wield such an influence in this world that it is an uphill struggle not to lose one’s grip on reality. Individuals who strive to base their lives firmly in reality and eliminate fantastic explanations — which are legion — of why humanity suffers so are dubbed cynical charlatans and denied what people call their daily bread. Our ideas are completely paradoxical on this front. Some people’s waywardness enables them to defend contemporary notions of morality only a few days after the end of a war that has led twelve million men to the slaughter, in the flower of their youth, for no point whatsoever. We are possessed by the narcissism of idiots. We discredit an astronomer who is a few seconds out in his calculations of the movements of a quite ordinary star and don’t show the slightest contempt for the people who plan a war and cut down men’s lives as if they were reaping a field of corn. My dear Vinyals, nobody can say I don’t combat the influence of magic and fantasy. I do what I can — which is very little — but you find that tedious.”
On that note we reached the end of the park. We heard Big Ben striking four o’clock. The white esplanade of Admiralty Arch in Whitehall stretched before us. We could see the Horse Guards, in their red and white uniforms, against a background of muted chamois-colored stone. On both sides, and in the distance, the characteristic pearl-gray outline of this part of London: the domes, roofs, and large buildings of State. There is nothing grandiose about their jagged profile, but everything is severe and imposing. Dusk was descending. Behind us patches of purple and faded pink in the pristine air of the park stood out against a bluish backdrop. The atmosphere was a subtle blue, and the fine mist cloaked everything in haze. We stood and gaped for a moment, in awe.
“What is that building, Sr Pla?” asked Vinyals the dentist.
“The building with the large radio aerial hoops hanging over its roof is, I believe, the Admiralty.”
“And the other building to its right?”
“That palace with the austere, classical lines is the Foreign Office. El Ministeri de Negocis Estrangers, if you’d prefer it in low Latin. I see you like the sound of that and even find it slightly exciting. It has the same effect on me, dear Vinyals. The two buildings we see on either side of that murky esplanade are perhaps the two most important in the world. It is one place in the world where people quite naturally doff their hats when they walk past. I don’t know if you understand what …”
“I understand you perfectly … so what do you want to do now?”
“At this time of day the level of noise and bustle in London is deafening, and I must confess I feel rather tired. If you like, we can return to the park and slowly make our way home. You can’t imagine how I love to walk through this charming mist and watch reality fade and melt away. Everything is so fragile and the air is like a feather pillow. It is uniquely delightful …”
We retraced our steps following the fence around the banks of the lake. Waterfowl were still swimming like shadows over the hazy water. A duck occasionally flew up, its wings beating the weary, twilight air. There were scant passersby. Beyond the trees in the park, car headlights projected a diffuse, gleaming light on the Mall. You could hear the hubbub of the huge, amorphous, distant city. The buzz of big cities has always made me feel deeply depressed. The noise makes me think how futile everything is. I find it oppressive and feel lost there like a speck of mud in the ocean. We suddenly saw a white shadow looming strangely on the other side of the fence. We approached, intrigued, and saw it was a penguin and a bigger specimen than the earlier one. That monster of a bird seemed rooted to the spot and was endlessly opening and closing its long mouth. I thought it was holding a gray, extremely flattened object in its beak. I recalled the battered sparrow from two hours ago. No doubt about it. It was a similar item.