Private Life (48 page)

“I know my culture is very shallow, and there have been those, more sincere or less pleasant than the rest, who have made it clear to
me that I am a perfectly ordinary woman whose ideas are sadly banal. I have never pretended to be wise, and I do not envy anyone his talent. I have enjoyed life in my own way, and I have felt great emotion. Even if I was not a person one might call sensitive, I have endeavored to listen to people I found sensitive, in order to modify my taste, and I have learned to enjoy things I felt impervious to by nature. If artists and men of letters have had some regard for me, it has been owing to my inclination to listen and learn and my willingness to modify my own criteria. I know I have been considered grotesque, ridiculous, and pretentious. But by behaving as I did, I have saved myself from boredom and, along the way, either with my name or my money, I have done a bit of good for my country.”

“What has most harmed me has been my lack of discretion, particularly in conversation. Though this has been interpreted as duplicity on my part, I am convinced, sadly, that it is simply the fruit of my ingenuousness and my belief that others are as well-meaning as I. My friend X has said so many times; naturally, I protested. Later, with the passage of time, I have concluded that my friend X was absolutely right. I have been and continue to be nauseatingly innocent.”

“At sixty years of age, I find myself desperately alone. My fortune has dwindled greatly, and I must make an effort to save. Many people have left my side, but I still have a weakness for wanting to know what is going on, in particular for the latest thing, and for what can bring about a change in my country. Many of my friends criticize me for supporting the Republican government. They say I’m an old woman and I should be ashamed of being so juvenile, and I’d be
better off shutting myself up at home. The truth is, I’ve been shut up in my home for years, and I am never so happy as when I am sitting by the fireside, surrounded by my memories and in the company of my thoughts. When someone comes to take me out for a little trip, or some escapade, it embarrasses me to confess that I’m no young woman any more, and I get tired, or that I’m in no mood to be disturbed, and out of vanity, pure and simple vanity, I still go out as if I were twenty-five. But I’m less and less in the mood.”

“I would have liked to know how to write. I would have liked to be of use to my world by writing my memories of everything I’ve seen in this life, because in my position, I have met many people, and seen much grandeur and much misery. Writing a memoir is a constant temptation for me. Some people have urged me to do it, in good faith, I think. Today I’ve written down these things about myself to see if I am inspired to continue writing what I know of others. I have tried to start a story with a series of disorderly confessions. I am only at the start and I’m already fading. I wonder if, in the little bit I have written so far, I have been honest with myself. Maybe I have portrayed myself as too much of a victim, maybe I have neglected to say that both at heart and on the surface I am nothing but a selfish woman …”

Hortènsia Portell had just read the words “selfish woman.” She was holding a few sheets of thick, broad, and dramatic, paper, written in a careless and affectedly virile hand. Disillusioned, she reread what she had conceived of a few months ago, and had left off in the moment she penned the phrase “selfish woman.” Ever since she had stored it in a drawer with other intimate items, Hortènsia hadn’t had
the heart to go over it. Manuscript in hand, Hortènsia had realized that her attempt to write her memoir had been a childish act. Why do it? What could she gain from it? Hortènsia Portell’s survivors would see her memoir as a posthumous extravagance. They wouldn’t even leave her cadaver in peace. Hortènsia didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Moreoever, nothing she might have to say about her life and times would be of interest to anyone. That’s what Hortènsia was thinking in those moments as she weighed her manuscript, with a grimace of disgust as she considered what she had written about herself in a moment of weakness and innocence.

At the time, Hortènsia was facing a series of sumptuary and economic headaches. She had sold some of her paintings and intended to let go of many other things. Hortènsia proposed to retire to a more tranquil domicile that would not entail such great expense.

The manuscript Hortènsia was holding in her hands ended up, page by page, in the flames of the chimney. This literary auto-da-fè was carried out in silence, secretly, not without the executioner’s feeling the detachment of four dog-eared roses from the tip of her heart as she carried out the sacrifice.

When Hortènsia had completely destroyed her work, the doorbell rang, and the servant announced the widow Baronessa de Falset.

Conxa would often visit Hortènsia’s house in the afternoon, not so much to keep her company as to consult with her on things related to the new house the baronessa was building. Hortènsia had a reputation for good taste, and Conxa had faith in her judgment. At that stage, Conxa was absolutely immersed in the project, and in fact didn’t give
her architect a moment’s rest. She wanted the building to be modern and brilliant, and the toast of all Barcelona. Conxa wanted to squeeze life down to the dregs. For days an idea had been spinning in her head and she hadn’t dared broach it with Hortènsia. But that afternoon she finally found the mettle. It was an idea related to the décor of her new house, and related above all to another person who was the axis around which all of Conxa Pujol’s feelings and illusions revolved.

“Listen, Hortènsia, what do you intend to do with your tapestry?”

“Frankly, if someone wanted to buy it …”

“The thing is, to tell the truth, I’ve been looking for a tapestry for quite some time now, but not just any old thing. I want something with a bit of style, you see? It’s for the entrance, and I think yours is the perfect size. It would fit there as if it had been made to order. Forgive me, Hortènsia, but it’s only because you say you want to sell all this, and that the house has got too big for you, that I dare to ask …”

“Do you know the story of my tapestry?”

“Vaguely …”

“Sure, you were just a child then … Really and truly, this is precisely the one you want?”

“But, what do you mean, Hortènsia? This is the one, yes. I think it’s magnificent, I really like it … I can understand how hard it may be for you to let go of it …”

“No, it’s not hard for me, that’s not it. The idea of selling this treasure is very recent, because until a short time ago, I intended to leave the Lloberola tapestry to the museum. Almost as an act of conscience. But lately things have taken a turn for the worse, and I need
everything I can get. I can’t be too generous. That’s why I said that if I found a buyer I would also let go of this tapestry …”

“I’m sorry, Hortènsia. My question has put you out. I’ve made you think of sad things …”

“No, no, my dear. On the contrary. I don’t mean to make any profit on the tapestry. I just want to get back what it cost me, nothing more. I assure you it doesn’t make me sad at all. To be honest with you, I have never enjoyed seeing it on these walls, because it did make the previous owners very sad to have to sell it. The Marquès de Sitjar, God bless him, was a poor devil, a fool, if you wish, but he was a gentleman. Yes, yes, a gentleman of the kind you can probably no longer find in Barcelona. I remember the day I acquired the tapestry as if it were today. Twenty years ago, just imagine. My way of thinking was very different in those days. You can also imagine that twenty years ago the people of Barcelona were very different and things they considered to be important would make people laugh nowadays. Nowadays, I appear to be old-fashioned and moralistic, but back then, for the Lloberolas and people of their stripe, I was just short of a devil. Just think what it meant to him for his tapestry, the crown jewel of his family, to end up in my house! Imagine how sad they must have been! The marquès came to see me out of absolute necessity. The poor man was polite to a fault. And I had the cheek to haggle with him, down to the penny. Clearly he wasn’t used to this, and he gave it to me at the price I wanted, even if I had offered him half as much. And even so the time came when the poor man started to cry. Just think how humiliating that must have been for a person
with his airs! To cry in front of me! And he wasn’t play-acting, not at all. I confess I was a little harsh with him. More than anything else, it was pride that made me want to buy the tapestry from them. Then I had a change of heart and began to have misgivings. I felt as if the tapestry had been stolen, and the eyes of those biblical figures nailed to my wall were protesting, as if thanks to me they were in prison. What can I say, Conxa, I’m romantic and sentimental, and a bit of a fool. When all is said and done, if they had sold it to an antiquarian he would have swindled them left and right, and God knows where the wretched tapestry would be now. This is why I’m telling you that my intention was to leave it to the museum, but lately I’ve seen so many changes all around, I’ve seen that nothing matters any more, and life is so hard, so full of bad faith and indifference, that it is all the same to me if the tapestry disappears, just as the character of one family after another has disappeared. You see, Conxa, I turned sixty this summer, around the Feast of the Assumption. I know, no one thinks I look my age, but that’s how old I am. And at my age, just imagine … you’re just a child. You’re still thrilled about your new house and you’re in the best of all worlds. So, if you want the tapestry, as I said, I don’t want to make any profit from it; nowadays it’s worth ten times what I paid for it …”

“No, no, Hortènsia, I will buy it for what it’s worth … for what it’s worth today …”

“Stop, dear. I’ve always been a little extravagant. I think I’m a little too old for a change of temperament now.”

It must be noted that Hortènsia was having a very dark afternoon. It must also be noted that Hortènsia knew perfectly well what was going on between Conxa Pujol and Guillem de Lloberola, but for some reason Hortènsia was a sentimental creature with a penchant for drama. And this is why Hortènsia proceeded to speak in this way:

“But be frank with me, now: you’re interested in the Lloberola tapestry for something more important than its size …”

“I told you, it means a lot to me …”.

“Forgive me if I’m sticking my nose where it’s not wanted, but I’m almost twice your age, Conxa. What I mean to say is that I’m on my way out, and I may have a bit of a right to give you some advice, as a good friend …”

“You know you’re the only one I consider to be a good friend. But I don’t know what you have in mind …”

“Oh no, Conxa, I have nothing in mind. It just occurred to me that perhaps the person who is really interested in this tapestry might not be you, exactly …”

“You’re mistaken, Hortènsia. And if some slander has reached your ears, I will speak to you with my heart in my hand …”

“Oh no, Conxa, please, by no means … Forgive me … Not at all …”

“The person you imagine …”

“No, no, no, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I believe you, of course I do …”

“But I want to tell you. The person you have in mind doesn’t know a thing about any of this. It’s possible he doesn’t even remember that
this tapestry that belonged to his grandparents exists … The family doesn’t concern him at all …”

“Well, I don’t know him. I think he came to a party here once, many years ago. Yes, a short time before your husband’s death. The current generation, you might say I’ve lost sight of them entirely. His sister Josefina is the only one I occasionally run into at the golf club … As you can imagine, anything I might know is just hearsay …”

“In our world, Hortènsia, hearsay is usually vilification. You know that better than I do.”

“Indeed, indeed. I know it only too well, imagine …”

“Well, for that very reason, Hortènsia. I have always admired you because you’ve been an independent woman, because you’ve laughed off other people’s criticism. And as for me, I have done my best, indeed, I am doing my best, to follow in your footsteps. I don’t give a hoot if people criticize me. They can say whatever they want. Your tapestry means something to me because if I have it in my house, I will never think of it as ‘stolen,’ you see? I’m thirty-six years old, Hortènsia, and I think I can still have a child who will bear the same name as that old gentleman, do you understand? That old man who cried …”

“But it’s true then, Conxa?”

“It’s true. I’m going to marry him. Or to be precise, we will be married in four months; that’s what we’ve decided …”

“Forgive me for saying so, Conxa, but I think you’re making a terrible mistake.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, no, I’ve already told you I don’t. But I don’t see any need for you to get married. You are running the risk of being very, very, miserable …”

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen. Is this young man your lover, yes or no? Are you ashamed to admit it? If my question is a bit too crude, forgive me … but at my age I think you can forgive me for being direct.”

“All right, Hortènsia, I have no reason to deny it … He is my lover.”

“Well, then, Conxa, what more do you want? What need do you have to complicate things? Isn’t he yours? Isn’t he truly yours? Didn’t you tell me that you don’t care what people say?”

“To a point, Hortènsia, only to a point.”

“No, you’re not being honest with me. If you’re marrying him it’s because you feel obligated by something that is not precisely public opinion. I am naive, Conxa, but not that naive.”

“You will never understand this, but I will try to explain why I am getting married. Guillem is in a world of his own, I see this. Sometimes he eludes me, I can’t control him, and I need to keep him close to me, by my side. And he needs me, too, for many reasons, do you see? If he is my husband, our situation will change, he will be more centered, he will feel more attached to me than he does now …”

“Or just the opposite, Conxa, just the opposite. I’m starting to realize that you’re more romantic than I am …”