strange phenomena: a moment came when Sr Riera realized to his alarm that the wool, straw, or flock or whatever stuffed the padded cushion where he sat kept shifting along to more fortunate derrières. Yes, Sr Riera could feel his flesh hitting stark naked timber. On the other hand, Don Natali sensed, with a voluptuous shudder, that the base of his seat kept gaining bulk, volume, and warmth. Ferrer, who quickly cottoned on to the readjustment, asked sardonically: “You all right, Riera? These cushions are first-rate …”
Riera, who was going from bad to worse, struggled to hold his temper. He laughed dutifully and replied between gritted teeth: “Yes, of course, I am.”
The question was meant to be a hurtful dig and, given Riera’s temperament, the consequences were disastrous. Sr Ferrer’s little quip kept jarring in his mind while the hard pressure from the timber and the cruel ridge along the edge of the seats kept irritating him. The narrowness of the carriage and its dinginess played on his nerves. He became increasingly agitated – at times he didn’t know where to put his hands or his feet – and it got worse ashe registered that neither Don Natali nor Sr Dalmau budged an inch; in fact, quite the contrary – they seemed to be luxuriating in the pleasures of the heightened sponginess of their share of the cushion. Don Natali, especially, seemed to have positioned his butt wonderfully.
The charabanc was crossing the pale white glow from a powerful streetlight when Riera glanced furiously at his companions on the bench, and, beside himself, bawled loudly: “Verdaguer, Dalmau … on your feet!”
Confusion hit the carriage momentarily. Don Natali and Sr Dalmau gazed at the outside world with a considered air of surprise – an air that coincided with the blank, innocent smile spreading over Sr Tomeu’s face. By virtue of the fact that Sr Tomeu never involved himself in anything, Sr Tomeu was constantly out of it. From the seat opposite, Bramson and Ferrer looked at Verdaguer and Riera with a degree of alarm, anticipating the inevitable.
Riera waited for a moment, brows knitted, mouth shut, arms folded over his chest. As he was taller than the carriage ceiling, he was forced to twist his neck and constrain his body. Although new to the house, Dalmau grasped that Riera hadn’t spoken idly, struggled to detach himself from his seat and, scraping the charabanc walls, managed to stand up. Riera’s reprimand sounded like the patter of rainfall to Don Natali’s ears. He occupied the corner seat. He pulled his hat down and continued to stare at the back of the coach-driver’s neck.
In the pink light from the nearby street the dark olive-green hue of Sr Riera’s face darkened dramatically. His lips quivered in a nervous chuckle. Everyone now focused on that man who remained in the middle of the coach, tall and stooping like the bearer of a baroque float. Dalmau, on his side, was struggling to keep on his feet as the coach juddered up and down: he held himself erect by holding tight to the mullions of a window with bothhands. Verdaguer soon lost his presence of mind. He chewed his mustache and screwed up his face: it lengthened, shrunk, furrowed or flattened out as his feelings ebbed and eddied.
“Verdaguer!” Riera said brusquely. “I must ask you a second time: will you please get up from your seat?”
“Who? Me? Why?” answered Verdaguer in a mock polite tone, giving the impression that he’d been taken by surprise, and mechanically taking off his hat.
“Yes, sir, I’m addressing you, you parasite …” Riera rasped harshly.
Don Natali’s nostrils and lips quivered. His pale perspiring face turned the color of chlorine and his body twitched for a moment. His left eye shut, something that happened when he was in a state, and his right sought out a friendly face among those present that might encourage him to formulate a worthy riposte. His open eye reviewed the others, to no avail. He found
Riera, who was going from bad to worse, struggled to hold his temper. He laughed dutifully and replied between gritted teeth: “Yes, of course, I am.”
The question was meant to be a hurtful dig and, given Riera’s temperament, the consequences were disastrous. Sr Ferrer’s little quip kept jarring in his mind while the hard pressure from the timber and the cruel ridge along the edge of the seats kept irritating him. The narrowness of the carriage and its dinginess played on his nerves. He became increasingly agitated – at times he didn’t know where to put his hands or his feet – and it got worse ashe registered that neither Don Natali nor Sr Dalmau budged an inch; in fact, quite the contrary – they seemed to be luxuriating in the pleasures of the heightened sponginess of their share of the cushion. Don Natali, especially, seemed to have positioned his butt wonderfully.
The charabanc was crossing the pale white glow from a powerful streetlight when Riera glanced furiously at his companions on the bench, and, beside himself, bawled loudly: “Verdaguer, Dalmau … on your feet!”
Confusion hit the carriage momentarily. Don Natali and Sr Dalmau gazed at the outside world with a considered air of surprise – an air that coincided with the blank, innocent smile spreading over Sr Tomeu’s face. By virtue of the fact that Sr Tomeu never involved himself in anything, Sr Tomeu was constantly out of it. From the seat opposite, Bramson and Ferrer looked at Verdaguer and Riera with a degree of alarm, anticipating the inevitable.
Riera waited for a moment, brows knitted, mouth shut, arms folded over his chest. As he was taller than the carriage ceiling, he was forced to twist his neck and constrain his body. Although new to the house, Dalmau grasped that Riera hadn’t spoken idly, struggled to detach himself from his seat and, scraping the charabanc walls, managed to stand up. Riera’s reprimand sounded like the patter of rainfall to Don Natali’s ears. He occupied the corner seat. He pulled his hat down and continued to stare at the back of the coach-driver’s neck.
In the pink light from the nearby street the dark olive-green hue of Sr Riera’s face darkened dramatically. His lips quivered in a nervous chuckle. Everyone now focused on that man who remained in the middle of the coach, tall and stooping like the bearer of a baroque float. Dalmau, on his side, was struggling to keep on his feet as the coach juddered up and down: he held himself erect by holding tight to the mullions of a window with bothhands. Verdaguer soon lost his presence of mind. He chewed his mustache and screwed up his face: it lengthened, shrunk, furrowed or flattened out as his feelings ebbed and eddied.
“Verdaguer!” Riera said brusquely. “I must ask you a second time: will you please get up from your seat?”
“Who? Me? Why?” answered Verdaguer in a mock polite tone, giving the impression that he’d been taken by surprise, and mechanically taking off his hat.
“Yes, sir, I’m addressing you, you parasite …” Riera rasped harshly.
Don Natali’s nostrils and lips quivered. His pale perspiring face turned the color of chlorine and his body twitched for a moment. His left eye shut, something that happened when he was in a state, and his right sought out a friendly face among those present that might encourage him to formulate a worthy riposte. His open eye reviewed the others, to no avail. He found
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