I believe that at times I may be unfair, but my inability to define the Senyor has always tormented me. I cannot even comfort myself by attributing some of his eccentricities to old age. His intelligence only increased as the years went by and while his passions dwindled he perfected his knowledge of people and things. His mistakes were thus even more difficult to forgive. I imagine that the peace he exuded in the last years of his life was more apparent than real; for Dona Maria Antònia, who died in the grace of God, it was quite the contrary. Her decline (more human than the Senyor’s intellectual vigour) was observed with irony and tenderness by her husband; for a priest it was also a source of satisfaction.
‘The newspaper’s very interesting today,’ she sometimes used to tell me over breakfast. ‘Do you know what it says? “Is it possible to go to the moon?”—“Mountain climber saved by a dog”—“Harem women are very expensive”. I’ll have to read all this carefully.’
Then she never did, because she forgot to do so. The thought of the comfort of her room, right next to the large drawing room with the fireplace, was deeply satisfying to her.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘I have everything I need. I’m not lacking a thing.’ After thinking a while, and not finding anything else worth mentioning (although everything was important to her) she decided to open a curtain: ‘See? A clothes hanger, a truly useful item…’
Her optimism was such that she once claimed to have discovered how to square the circle.
‘Do you think it’s that difficult? I don’t think one has to be a Greek sage to know how to do it. You make a circle of yarn on a board and then you stretch it out with four pins until it makes a square.’
Her common sense triumphed over theoretical difficulties. Towards the end of her life, with her mind in a state of complete disarray, she made some sad, scandalous statements. I don’t know whether the Senyor’s scepticism had a part in her raving.
‘I can’t be sure that I’m a Bearn, Joan. My God, so many things may have happened…I know I am my parents’ real daughter, because my mother was a saint, but what do I know about my grandparents? There have been so many stories…The Senyor may have found things in the archives, but he never says a thing. He’s so secretive…’
We were in the garden that was slowly becoming a forest. It was a misty morning. Dona Maria Antònia was holding on to my arm and looking at me affectionately. Had she lost her mind or was she humbling herself like a good Christian so I would not feel belittled? At times the thought of her fast-approaching death made her wish to erase from her soul the lack of affection (which after all was natural) she had shown towards me for some time. Furthermore, she had grown stubborn, and since she deplored any form of injustice, at times she could not stand her husband’s scientific objectivity. I remember her the last time she lost her temper. It was concerning the Emperors of Turkey.
‘They had a special kind of etiquette,’ the Senyor explained to me. ‘When an ambassador requested an audience, the Emperor called his vizier and said: “Feed and dress this ambassador.” Once that had been done, he ordered: “Let that animal in.” ’
Dona Maria Antònia, who sat by the fire and appeared to be sleeping, looked up.
‘You call that etiquette, Tonet? Where on earth do you get these things from, may I ask? I simply can’t believe that a king, even if he’s a heretic, could say such indecencies. And if he did, that’s no reason for you to repeat them. I don’t believe it. I simply don’t.’
She was indignant and we had to distract her by talking about Rome.
‘Tell me, Tonet,’ she asked, ‘why didn’t I go to see the Pope with you?’
‘Because you had a cold,’ the Senyor calmly replied.
‘That’s right. What a pity!’
Aside from a few outbursts such as the one I just mentioned, her life became more and more placid as we drew closer to the final events. Did I mention that Madò Coloma’s death was a sort of prelude to the end soon to come? It is easy to prophesy a posteriori. The truth is that those months elapsed in the most delightful serenity. The last winter (Your ways, my Lord, are inscrutable) was the mildest we ever had. I mentioned at the beginning of this second part that as Dona Maria Antònia’s discipline relaxed, it did so with such skill that its disorder seemed like a new order. The Senyors woke up later and later each day, and their schedule was thrown out to such a degree that breakfast was almost at lunchtime, and lunch was moved up to mid-afternoon, the time when the Senyora had in past years taken her cup of lemon verbena and her biscuits; she now either missed that refreshment or decided not to have supper. The hours slipped through our fingers. We never left the upper floor nor received any visitors, and yet we never had time for anything.
I write to you from the same rectangular drawing room that connects on the right with the Senyor’s room and on the left with Dona Maria Antònia’s. I have already said that on one of the longer walls of the rectangle, the one opposite the entrance to the house, there is a fireplace with a balcony overlooking the garden on either side. I must remind you of the setting where my story finally unfolds, Miquel. At nine, either Tomeu or myself, if he was out working in the fields, lit the fire. Then I devoted myself to my prayers until the Senyor got out of bed. Above the fireplace there is a large mirror surrounded with the sort of classical décor reminiscent of the Trianon or even more of the small palace of La Moncloa. That mirror reflects the door in such a way that as you’re sitting by the fire you can see someone arrive without turning around. Simultaneously, the balcony windows offer a view of the garden that is becoming a forest, and one can sit there, warm and dry, and watch the rain falling outside. Gold damask curtains hang from the magnificent doorways and French windows. The furniture is upholstered in light blue, with sprigs, in the French fashion. It will seem strange to you that the Senyors spent every day in a room like that. I had tried to convince them to move into the smaller room by the landing which is used as an anteroom to the archives, because my benefactor had the bad habit of carrying his inkwell with him all around the house and the upholstery in the drawing room is delicate. I was not successful and I now think that having no children they did well to enjoy what was entirely theirs, like a legacy from their ancestors; it provided them with comfort while maintaining the illusion of their past grandeur. I must tell you, Miquel, that in this very drawing room they were on the verge of not having enough to eat. For months nothing but broad beans were served at Bearn, and we all ate the same food as the farmers, except for an occasional cake or glass of sherry, which I tried to make available to the Senyors.
As I prayed, poking the fire, I witnessed the preparation of their morning routine and heard them emerge into the light of conscience from the depths of sleep.
‘Has the clock already struck nine, Tonet?’ came the hesitant voice of Dona Maria Antònia from the left.
‘I think it did a while ago,’ came his answer from the right.
There was a moment of silence followed by the Senyora’s comment of surprise, half concerned and half delighted, speaking softly, as if to herself: ‘My goodness! Time simply flies in the morning…And it feels so nice to be in bed…I suppose I must start thinking about getting up.’
Then there was the sound of a bottle tinkling against the marble of her dressing table, followed by a waft of perfume. The Senyora wiped her forehead with rose water to wake herself up. In the mirror above the fireplace, Tomeu advanced, tall and dark, walking over to the doorway on the right.
‘Senyor, would you like to drink some coffee?’
That expression, to ‘drink some coffee’ was a habit we couldn’t break. ‘Animals drink coffee, assuming they like it,’ the Senyor told him. ‘People have a cup. They have a cup of coffee or a glass of milk. Try to remember the next time.’ It was a lost cause, however.
‘Come in, Tomeu. What’s the weather like?’
And he disappeared to the right holding a cup of coffee with both hands, as if it weighed several pounds. With his African hair and his dark skin, it looked as if the sun of a beautiful Mallorcan day had burst into the bedroom, locked in his physical structure. Catalineta went over to the door on the left and asked Dona Maria Antònia if she wanted to have breakfast.
‘Haven’t I already had it?’ the Senyora replied. ‘I thought you’d brought me hot chocolate and an ensaïmada.’
‘No, Senyora. That was yesterday.’
‘Oh…it was yesterday…’
‘There are still some ensaïmades. Would you like one?’
‘Come in and open the window. I certainly would like one. Who wouldn’t? They’re so good!’
Tomeu listed the events of the day to the Senyor.
‘The young mule won’t eat. She doesn’t want hay or alfalfa.’
‘What does she want?’
‘She’ll only eat grain.’
‘What a fussy animal she’s turned out to be! Come in and open the window.’
Catalineta arrived, pale and ethereal, with Dona Maria Antònia’s breakfast, and as she set down the tray, she asked with her most candid smile, despite the fact that it was still a couple of weeks before Carnival: ‘Senyora, will you give me permission to dress up?’
‘She certainly is fussy,’ said Tomeu’s firm, masculine voice from the right. ‘And it’s your Honour’s fault for spoiling her with sugar lumps.’
‘Maybe it’s your fault for not walking her enough.’
‘That’s because your Honour won’t let me whip her.’
‘Would you like me to whip you?’
‘If I deserved it, I would, Senyor.’
‘That’s a good answer. Watch out, then.’
There was a pause and I returned to my prayer book.
‘And what kind of costume will you wear?’ the Senyora asked. ‘I’ll lend you my wedding dress. No, I don’t want an ensaïmada,’ she added, forgetting that she had asked for it. ‘Ask Tomeu to tell the Senyor on my behalf that he can eat it.’
Catalineta’s voice took on a mysterious tone: ‘The Senyor won’t eat a thing; he only drinks coffee.’
She was in love with Tomeu and it was impossible to make her speak properly. The ensaïmada passed from the girl to the boy and to the Senyor’s room. In the ensuing silence I made out his clear, low voice: ‘Ensaïmada? I wouldn’t dream of it. Eat it and don’t say a thing. Quick, the Senyora’s about to call you. Now she’ll want you to tell her if it’s nice out.’
‘What’s the weather like, Tomeu?’ Dona Maria Antònia’s clear voice inquired.
Catalineta came to the rescue of her beloved.
‘It’s raining, Senyora.’
‘I didn’t ask you. I’m speaking to Tomeu. Has he lost his tongue? Goodness, what a disaster! We’ll have to send for a doctor from the City.’ In a theatrical aside, she added to herself: ‘They think I’m stupid, and I’m neither that stupid nor that soft in the head.’
She had moments of great lucidity. At times she seemed to be observing herself from the outside, like the Senyor.
‘We don’t really have many problems,’ she told me. ‘As a matter of fact, we don’t have a single one.’
And a few moments later, lifting her head and adopting the inquisitive tone so frequent in her ever since we returned from our travels, she added: ‘I wonder if something will happen…’
She did not say it out of fear as much as to have others assure her that she was wrong. I was the one who was panic-stricken. It was obvious that such a good life had to come to some kind of terrible end. If it did not happen spontaneously, we would take it upon ourselves to stage the tragedy. How would the misfortune present itself? Illness, disagreements, war, total ruin? The sword of Damocles does not threaten only tyrants: all of Humanity lives in the fear of the Evil that seems to be necessary to attain Goodness, or, in other words, Eternal Salvation.