Private Life (15 page)

As he did every morning, the Baró de Falset had risen at eight-thirty. While he was still in the bathtub, oblivious to the spectacle of a body that would not have stood up well in a nudist camp, the servant knocked on the door.

“Senyor Baró, there is a young man here who says he must see you.”

“I don’t receive anyone at this time of day.”

“He says that it is quite urgent. He says it is of great interest to el Senyor Baró …”

“What is this young man’s name?”

“Guillem de Lloberola.”

“Guillem de Lloberola? Oh, yes! All right. See him into the parlor; ask him to be kind enough to wait.”

Twenty minutes later, Antoni Mates and Guillem de Lloberola were exchanging the usual pleasantries. When he heard Guillem’s voice, Antoni Mates had a moment of panic, of horrible panic, which he disguised as best he could. The young man’s voice had reminded him of another voice. Oh, yes, Antoni Mates was familiar with that voice, or another that was practically identical. He remembered having heard it recently, in a feverish, or drunken, or dream-like state, in a moment of sweat, of nervous contortion … an inexcusable moment. But, of course, that was impossible. It was mere chance, one of those idiotic and utterly illogical resemblances that crop up in life. The young man’s air, his physique, also gave the Baró de Falset an uneasy feeling, but he couldn’t pin down the memory. There had been so little light, he had been so beyond himself … No, the cotton merchant had fallen victim to a gratuitous attack of panic. It was impossible, absolutely impossible. Guillem de Lloberola … Guillem de Lloberola … He was perfectly familiar with the name, and the boy’s clothing and demeanor reassured him. All these thoughts had run through his head in under three seconds. The moment of panic had passed.

“I do not have the pleasure of having met el Senyor Baró personally, but I believe you are a very good friend of my brother’s.”

“One of my very best friends, indeed. Don’t you ever go to the Eqüestre? Are you not a bridge player?”

“No, no, sir, I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, I don’t play very often. It is quite a waste of time, and I have a great deal of work! I would be delighted to while away the hours as your brother does. But we working men, you understand … So, tell me, what is it that brings you here? How can I be of assistance?”

“It is precisely about a question affecting my brother that I have come to see you. And it doesn’t only affect my brother, but also my poor father. Father is in very delicate health, and any unpleasantness could kill him. Just yesterday he gave us an awful scare. My brother Frederic is a bit frivolous, as you are probably aware …”

“Oh, not at all! A delightful, elegant man, your brother is; a first-rate companion, first-rate …”

“Well, on the social scene he can be very pleasant … and even elegant; you are very kind and have an undemanding concept of elegance … Well, Senyor Baró, I realize that I am robbing you of your precious time. What I have to say is extremely distasteful to me; I find myself in the obligation, not so much for him, but for my poor father …”

“Please, speak, whatever is in my hands …”

“I believe you have in your power a promissory note you extended to my brother …”

“
Excuse me, my dear sir; just the day before yesterday we discussed this question of the note, that is, he discussed it.… This is a question between your brother and me.… Frankly, it is hard for me to understand how you have become involved in this affair … Or how your brother has …, well …, has brought you into it …”

“Forgive me, Senyor Baró. As I have already said, my brother is of very little concern to me. If I have come to see you it is on account of my poor father …”

“All right, young man, all right; tell me what it is you want …”

“I simply want you not to demand my father’s signature; I don’t want my father to know that Frederic … Understand me: my father’s situation is rather critical … Relations between my father and Frederic are quite strained …”

“You are very young, my dear sir; you are a child, and perhaps you are not aware of the significance of some things … I did your brother a favor; I trusted him and two other persons I considered good friends. What your brother has done with me is something, how should I put it … not entirely decent. Your brother has cheated me. I could take him to court, do you understand? I don’t know what explanation your brother has given you, but the truth is that his behavior is an abuse of confidence. Naturally, you can object that the amount is not astronomical, and that my position and my home do not depend on the fifty thousand pessetes that your brother owes me. But you must also understand that I am under no obligation to allow myself to be swindled. I am aware of your family situation. I know perfectly well that the grandeur and pomp your brother has the nerve – forgive me –
to go on about are a sham. But I also know that your father can answer for the fifty thousand pessetes – which are mine, after all – without risking death.”

“But couldn’t another person be found to answer for the debt, someone other than my father?”

“Of course, as long as it is someone who offers me some guarantee. But this is up to your brother. As you can imagine, it is not up to me to provide him a guarantor on a silver platter! That will be the day, my friend! You bloodline “aristocrats” (because, you must know and understand, your brother always brings up his blue blood) are a bit too blasé or distracted … What can I say, I’m sure you follow me.”

“But if my brother can’t find this person …”

“Well, of course, because no one trusts your brother. He’s charming enough, full of jokes, with lots of friends when the time comes to buy champagne. But when things get difficult, my friend, people … how can I put it … prefer someone with his feet on the ground …”

“Well, then, let’s get our feet on the ground, Senyor Baró. I mean, let me get my feet on the ground …”

“I want nothing more than that, my son! Nothing more!”

“Senyor Baró, I am under the impression that you give a great deal of weight to material credit. What about … moral credit?”

“Naturally, to moral credit. Above all, to moral credit. It is for this moral credit that I was willing to lend your brother those funds, in the belief that I was dealing with a gentleman, and not – forgive me, I realize the word is a bit strong – with a swindler.”

“Precisely, Senyor Baró. With a swindler, you couldn’t be more correct. Well, not exactly correct, because my brother has not yet swindled you out of anything, and as you understand, my father would never allow such a thing. He would beg for alms before he would allow it to be said that one of us …”

“I am certain of it! I have never for a moment doubted your father’s honor!”

“Excellent, Senyor Baró. ‘Moral credit!’ ‘Honor!’ These are precisely the cards I am missing …”

“Missing, what do you mean? I don’t follow you.”

“I’ll tell you what I mean. The cards I’m missing to play a hand that, I must confess – and you, as a bridge player, will understand this perfectly – is quite a hard nut to crack. Senyor Baró, I imagine you hold your moral credit, your honor, your immaculate and invulnerable situation in the world of money and in the world of decent people, in even higher esteem than your fortune. You have looked into my father’s situation; I, too, have taken the liberty of looking a bit into your situation. And I congratulate you, Senyor Baró: it is an enviable situation. You are scrupulously conscientious, your relationships smack of solid honesty and capital. Your clients … that pin from the Parish Perseverance League on your lapel …”

“Excuse me, I don’t understand what this is all about. I don’t understand and what’s more, I warn you, I am getting irritated …”

“That is perfectly natural, Senyor Baró. But it is necessary for me to make these affirmations so that we can come to an agreement. As you well know, in Barcelona, in a world more or less left to its own devices,
a world that lives day to day and without many scruples, and which, moreover, doesn’t have anything to lose, certain … things, certain … perversions, haven’t the slightest importance. But in your world, in the world of prejudices and ‘moral credit,’ in the world of holding on to clients by dint of breast-beating and paying for chapels and schools, there are certain types of scandals that can do one real harm … A sort of scandal that, understand me, may lead the victim to an often desperate and almost always fatal solution. Because there are some things that people don’t understand … or don’t want to understand … People are so hypocritical, so cruel, with those who fall from favor! And, when this fallen person is a gentleman with a great deal to lose, well, just imagine …!”

“I find your line of reasoning quite remarkable. I’m sure I don’t know what scandals you are referring to, but, well, I can only imagine. But truly, my friend, I am at a loss as to what this has to do with the fifty thousand pessetes your brother owes me.”

“Just be patient, Senyor Baró, and answer me this question. If you’re willing to answer it, that is …”

“Well, it depends what we’re talking about.”

“It is very simple: what would happen to you, if you were to find yourself tied up in a scandal, in one of those shameful scandals, do you get my drift? Indeed, what if you were the protagonist?”

“Listen to me, young Lloberola. This question of yours is utterly preposterous. Whom do you think you are speaking with? Your question has no more effect on me than if you asked what would happen if I had four noses instead of one!”

“I do not find the comparison to be sound. I find it a bit exaggerated. Indeed, Senyor Baró, I think you are a formidable optimist! All right, then, if you do not wish to answer my question, don’t answer it. I will ask you another, much more direct, question: What were you doing yesterday at six in the afternoon in the house of Dorotea Palau, the dressmaker?”

From the start of the second half of this dialogue, Antoni Mates had been anticipating a catastrophe. His initial flash of panic had been replicated with two or three of Guillem’s words. As the young man continued to talk, the Baró de Falset felt like one of those philanthropic souls who lie down on an operating table to offer their blood for a transfusion. Little by little, the baron was growing weaker. By the time the direct question arrived, the loss of moral calories had reached the magnitude of a collapse.

The baron was materially frozen. At the base of each hair on his head he felt a cruel sting, as if one of those parasites that inhabit the scalps of filthy ragamuffins had taken up strategic residence at the roots of his own hair. And at one precise moment each and every one of those parasites, obeying an imaginary bugle call, had sunk its monstrous pincers into the skin of el Senyor Baró.

Three seconds were all it took for the blood to return to his brain and for him to come up with a response. A response he offered up without much faith and with very little hope of success.

“Listen, young man, I don’t feel obligated to answer your question, but I need not hide anything I do. At six o’clock yesterday afternoon, at the home of the dressmaker you mentioned, I was accompanying my
wife as she was fitted for a few outfits. Naturally, it may seem ridiculous to you that I should accompany my wife to the dressmaker’s, because young people, I mean young people nowadays, often do not understand the attentions that persons like myself consider worthy of dispensing. But as I see it …”

Clearly this grotesque comment on the part of Antoni Mates, this groveling to justify something as simple as accompanying his wife, was simply pathological. In point of fact, the baron barely knew what he was saying, he tripped over his tongue, he muddled about stupidly, because, though he was no genius, neither was he an idiot. Guillem spent a moment of cruel voluptuosity listening to these “theories” on attentiveness, understanding, or lack of understanding, but, since Guillem was also standing on shifting sands and felt a little frantic himself, he cut the baron’s comments short with these words:

“Senyor Baró, please. Enough theatrics. I asked you what you were doing at six o’clock in the afternoon. There is no need for you to tell me. I know as well as you, or perhaps even better, what you were doing. It would not be elegant to go into detail. You and I are both perfectly aware.”

Now the baron was like one of those boxers felled in the ring, who hear the count of five, six, seven, eight …, who are aware of everything, who want to make an effort to get up, but whose legs are glued to the mat.

“Are you taken aback, Senyor Baró, at my speaking with such confidence? There are only two people who could know what you were doing yesterday at six o’clock in the afternoon, is that not true?
La Senyora Baronessa and an … other, a …, well, it doesn’t matter, call him what you will. And I am very surprised, Senyor Baró, that you have not yet realized that that ‘other’ was I.”

If Antoni Mates had been a normal man, a man physiologically like the majority of men, perhaps he would have reacted like an orangutan, going for the jugular of that cynical creature, attempting to strangle him, trying to do something – something a man would do. Instead, a suppuration of sad misery escaped from his closed lips, and with his eyes on the ground, his cheeks livid, like an absolute idiot, like a martyr disposed to be beaten, the Baró de Falset could not say a word. Perhaps within a few seconds he would have found a way to articulate words, but for the moment it was no use. Guillem, who was perfectly aware of what was going on, and who was enjoying how well the scene was going, took a pistol from his pocket.

“Senyor Baró, I admit that what I am doing here is an unspeakable fraud. And I offer you a solution because it can come to an immediate end, if you so desire. All you have to do is shoot; the pistol is at your disposal. At such a short distance, even if your hand trembles, the shot will almost certainly be on target. But think what you expose yourself to. It would be difficult, you understand, to justify a murder in this salon, at this time of day, in these circumstances. I don’t recommend suicide; it would be grotesque. What’s more, to commit suicide requires a measure of valor. Until now, only I know about ‘this.’ Your wife knows about it, too, and Dorotea Palau knows (but naturally not in full detail). It is in your interest, and in mine as well, but much more in yours, that no one else should be privy to ‘this.’ The procedure is
very simple: the promissory note for fifty thousand pessetes, which you extended to my brother, should immediately be transferred into this satchel.”