keys of damaged typewriters with special brushes and thus earn a small income. That confusion didn’t help his credit rating. Quite the opposite.
It was dark by this time. The horse dawdled along the Can Tunis road. No one inside seemed in the mood to talk. The atmosphere was dense with smoke. Everyone was staring at the front of the coach and focusing on the broad nape of the coachman’s neck. The spindly, stunted trees along the roadside went by at a frustratingly slow rate. The potholes were hellish and the carriage juddered alarmingly down and up. It creaked and squeaked. If by chance wood and metal were quiet for a moment, the dull, muted rumble of the sea could be heard in the distance. The road was quite elevated and we could see the port and its red and green lights reflecting on the thick, black water. Lights sporadically lined the roadside and seemed to promenade in front of our carriage.
Sr Ferrer rolled another cigarette, lit up, and suddenly spoke to Don Martí Dalmau: “Sr Dalmau, you seem on edge …”
“On edge? I won’t deny it … Death does prompt one to philosophize! Just think how peculiar it is that the first, might we say, official act of minein the boarding house has been to go to a colleague’s funeral …” answered Sr Dalmau in a slightly shrill tone, looking indirectly at Sr Ferrer.
“You are quite right, quite right …”
“Anyway, to tell you the truth, I’m rather inured to these mishaps. You know, I’ve been a widower twice … what more could I suffer? I don’t think there is greater misery … Of course, I could die. But don’t I already belong to the living dead …?”
“Come, come, Sr Dalmau, it can’t be that bad, it can’t be …” suggested Sr Ferrer ironically.
“Believe me! It’s true! I have had my share of worries in life. When my second wife died, whom (if you will excuse my being so blunt) I loved most deeply, my head was filled with strange fantasies and nonsense. I even came to think her death was unjust and that a time would come, sooner or later, when my unhappiness would go into reverse. Fully convinced, I told myself, ‘You
will
see your wife again …’ And nobody could gainsay me. I took it absolutely for granted that I would encounter her in the next life more or less exactly as when we lived on the Carrer de Vila i Vilá. Yes, it became an obsession, an idea that lodged right here,” he pointed to his forehead, “and which lodged there for months on end … But a friend finally helped me to dispel those phantoms …”
“Go on, Sr Dalmau, do go on …”
“Well, you know, one day I went to see Gatell who has also passed away. He was a theater impresario on the Paral·lel. Gatell and I were like brothers. I told him what I’ve just told you. When I finished, he guffawed most rudely. ‘You are a widower for a second time,’ he said, ‘if I’m not mistaken.’ ‘That is correct.’ ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do when you meet up with the pair of them in the next life … How will you manage?’ Though itmay be improper for me to say this, I found Gatell’s perspective to be most original. ‘Do you want my advice?’ asked Gatell after laughing for a good long while. ‘Here you have it: Dalmau, don’t be such an idiot and forget this spiritualist stuff. You’ll be a wiser man, if not a richer one.’
The whole charabanc burst out laughing. The coachman’s face appeared at the front window, looking intrigued. Conversations in boarding houses – and this was in fact a boarding house in motion – are always like this: shot through with unimaginable vulgarity and poor taste.
Our carriage finally reestablished contact with the cobbles and, exerting himself, the coachman finally managed to stir the wretched pony into a slow, mechanical trot. The charabanc juddered over the cobbles with a peculiar clatter that particularly affected the panes of glass. The continual vibration produced the usual
It was dark by this time. The horse dawdled along the Can Tunis road. No one inside seemed in the mood to talk. The atmosphere was dense with smoke. Everyone was staring at the front of the coach and focusing on the broad nape of the coachman’s neck. The spindly, stunted trees along the roadside went by at a frustratingly slow rate. The potholes were hellish and the carriage juddered alarmingly down and up. It creaked and squeaked. If by chance wood and metal were quiet for a moment, the dull, muted rumble of the sea could be heard in the distance. The road was quite elevated and we could see the port and its red and green lights reflecting on the thick, black water. Lights sporadically lined the roadside and seemed to promenade in front of our carriage.
Sr Ferrer rolled another cigarette, lit up, and suddenly spoke to Don Martí Dalmau: “Sr Dalmau, you seem on edge …”
“On edge? I won’t deny it … Death does prompt one to philosophize! Just think how peculiar it is that the first, might we say, official act of minein the boarding house has been to go to a colleague’s funeral …” answered Sr Dalmau in a slightly shrill tone, looking indirectly at Sr Ferrer.
“You are quite right, quite right …”
“Anyway, to tell you the truth, I’m rather inured to these mishaps. You know, I’ve been a widower twice … what more could I suffer? I don’t think there is greater misery … Of course, I could die. But don’t I already belong to the living dead …?”
“Come, come, Sr Dalmau, it can’t be that bad, it can’t be …” suggested Sr Ferrer ironically.
“Believe me! It’s true! I have had my share of worries in life. When my second wife died, whom (if you will excuse my being so blunt) I loved most deeply, my head was filled with strange fantasies and nonsense. I even came to think her death was unjust and that a time would come, sooner or later, when my unhappiness would go into reverse. Fully convinced, I told myself, ‘You
will
see your wife again …’ And nobody could gainsay me. I took it absolutely for granted that I would encounter her in the next life more or less exactly as when we lived on the Carrer de Vila i Vilá. Yes, it became an obsession, an idea that lodged right here,” he pointed to his forehead, “and which lodged there for months on end … But a friend finally helped me to dispel those phantoms …”
“Go on, Sr Dalmau, do go on …”
“Well, you know, one day I went to see Gatell who has also passed away. He was a theater impresario on the Paral·lel. Gatell and I were like brothers. I told him what I’ve just told you. When I finished, he guffawed most rudely. ‘You are a widower for a second time,’ he said, ‘if I’m not mistaken.’ ‘That is correct.’ ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do when you meet up with the pair of them in the next life … How will you manage?’ Though itmay be improper for me to say this, I found Gatell’s perspective to be most original. ‘Do you want my advice?’ asked Gatell after laughing for a good long while. ‘Here you have it: Dalmau, don’t be such an idiot and forget this spiritualist stuff. You’ll be a wiser man, if not a richer one.’
The whole charabanc burst out laughing. The coachman’s face appeared at the front window, looking intrigued. Conversations in boarding houses – and this was in fact a boarding house in motion – are always like this: shot through with unimaginable vulgarity and poor taste.
Our carriage finally reestablished contact with the cobbles and, exerting himself, the coachman finally managed to stir the wretched pony into a slow, mechanical trot. The charabanc juddered over the cobbles with a peculiar clatter that particularly affected the panes of glass. The continual vibration produced the usual
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