Although he was exceptionally tall and stout, people always called Sr Pere Ametller, Sr Peret. The diminutive stuck when he was young, and for ever more he was Sr Peret.
At the beginning of this true story, Sr Peret, the owner of two farmhouses, a house in Torrelles, and a large amount of land he rented out, is reputed to be a wealthy man. Perhaps, however, he isn’t really wealthy, in the usual meaning of the word. In this country nothing could be more relative than wealth. Anyone who is poor, genuinely poor, thinks everybody not in the same state is wealthy. A properly wealthy man, one dripping with money, thinks nobody is. This kind of snooty person disparages the wealth of others, sticks his nose up.
By dint of his situation, Sr Peret was able to lead the life he wanted. He married in the normal course of things and over ten or twelve years gave his good lady five children: four girls and a boy. Obviously, they wanted a boy, and finally they produced one. His good lady, who was very pretty when she married, evolved naturally. The moment came when it seemed she could either turn to fat or to lean. Finally, leanness won out. White, plump, and golden haired as a young woman, she became dark-skinned, big-boned, and black-haired. Her loss of fat led to a change in her character, and that was probably very positive for Sr Peret’s family interests. If his wife had been fat, sluggish, and disagreeable, he would probably have been forced to sell the farmhouse. As she was now skinny, energetic, and active, he had no need to worry, because his wife always toed the line.
An active individual, interested in what life had to offer, she performed almost a miracle a day. Husband and wife, their five children, Sra Ametller’s two unmarried sisters, and a maid managed to live on Sr Peret’s rather modest income. The whole tribe had fallen on its feet.
When I first met him, Sr Peret did practically nothing. He got up at half past ten. After lunch he’d go to the café and play dominos with his friends. At three o’clock, in good weather, he would sunbathe. He owned a large plot of land on the outskirts of town that a gardener looked after for him. There was a vineyard on a slope at the top of his land. Ostensibly, it was said that Sr Peret tended his vines. He didn’t tend them at all, nobody had ever seen him touch his vines. He simply went there to pass the time, because he liked it and felt good there. A small house and stone bench sheltered from the wind were near the vines. He sat for hours on this bench. He’d sometimes read the newspaper. He wasn’t in favor of reading in artificial light or when the light was poor. He read his paper in the bright sunlight, in the open air. That way he didn’t tire his eyes or have to wear glasses. On the other hand, he never worried about the date of his paper. Sra Ametller used the paper for the most urgent needs of the family. She was always short of paper. Her husband read the paper he could find, the one spared from the fire or the need to wrap a parcel. At sunset he’d walk back to town and spend a while in the casino until it was dinnertime. It was very cosy in the casino in winter because they had a splendid fire. At eight o’clock, it was time for supper and he’d head for home. When he walked in – such a tall, sturdy presence – he looked as if he’d just accomplished something noteworthy. The truth is he was a man who seemed to play a necessary, vital role in his small world, though he did nothing at all and never had. Ordinary folk, like Sr Peret, are never a nuisance, and consequently are deemed to be indispensable.
Sr Peret and his wife lived admirable lives. His good lady ruled the roost. He never raised any objections. He wasn’t the kind to object. It didn’t form part of his temperament. His wife’s aspirations always meshed with his. They were a perfect match.
The odd friend would often express to his face a judgment with which he couldn’t possibly agree. Then something would happen that was characteristic of Sr Peret. He would wave his hand, as if to suggest he was about to refute what he’d just heard. His face glowed from the positive efforts he was making to develop an argument. Sometimes, he even uttered a few disconnected words … However, the time to respond passed, and in the end he said nothing. Others resumed the conversation … Sr Peret sat and gaped for a moment and, when he realized he couldn’t voice his objection, he did three things in a row: first he shrugged his shoulders, then leaned back on his chair, and finally just sat there. No. Sr Peret wasn’t a man to raise objections.
On the other hand, he didn’t have any vices. He was unadventurous on every front. Perhaps, very occasionally, he smoked a cigarette … when offered one. It wasn’t that he was miserly, however. He didn’t smoke because he felt better than when he did, and he instinctively looked after his health in very precise ways. The unconscious plays a key role both in the preservation and the destruction of health. Man is born to conserve as well to destroy. That’s why those who think conservers don’t have fun are sorely mistaken.
Such virtues guaranteed Sr Peret the reputation he deserved. He never became president of anything, but was vice-president of several bodies; he was never elected secretary, but was a frequent vice-secretary. It was once rumored he would be made municipal attorney and he was made deputy municipal attorney. He recognized that these deputizing roles suited him down to the ground. This confluence of circumstances performed wonders: Sr Peret was perfectly fitted to life in Torrelles. The village was made to measure for him. It had twelve hundred inhabitants. It was no longer a rural hamlet. Rural hamlets have many drawbacks. Torrelles was a tiny town. It was essentially agricultural, though the presence of two knitwear factories had changed its internal make up. Torrelles had a cinema, a casino, an orchestra, and a post office. There was a degree of social life. People were always up for a game of chess or cards. Butchers slaughtered daily. Six houses had a bathroom and central heating, heating that objectivity duly compels us to note was rarely switched on. Sr Peret had running water, a wash basin and a rather old-fashioned tin tub. He didn’t have central heating. In this, as in everything else, Sr Peret was a middling man.
Sr Peret felt wonderfully at home in Torrelles. As we have said, he was a perfect match. Generally speaking there are property owners, and people from all social classes who only aspire to live in bigger places – and not necessarily Barcelona. Sr Peret wouldn’t have budged from Torrelles for anything in the world. For him, everything it had was excellent: its vegetables, meat, and fish (though it had little in the way of fish), its water, and its wine; he found its air best suited his lungs, and the character of the people blended with his temperament. He understood the people in his little town, understood them and never needed anything explained. He was no fanatical local patriot. He wasn’t like so many, many folk who think everything produced within their municipal boundaries is the best in the world, whether it’s tomatoes or broccoli, local writers or water from the fountain, grilled sardines or peas to accompany veal. No, Sr Peret never embraced extremes. He thought, quite simply, that Torrelles was lovely: “It’s small,” he would say, “but life here is good.”
In effect, he’d never left the countryside. The rare, sporadic trip to Barcelona, and that was that. His sedentary habits were ingrained and resistant. When he did travel, nowhere was as nice as Torrelles. He had a fairly limited sense of curiosity, but when he declared that nowhere was as nice as his little town, he was being sincere. He couldn’t remember ever being ill there, except when he was a child, but had no clear recollections of those illnesses. He’d never felt any pain, nothing ever hurt: be it his mouth, nose, eyes, belly, or feet. A small wart once appeared on his left cheek and melted away as quickly as it had come. One winter he caught a slight cold: nothing really. His was a good example of a perfect match with a particular part of the earth’s crust. Of course, he was sensitive to everything that happened around him, whether it was a sad or happy event, and at times he seemed to respond with alacrity. However, considering the splendid equilibrium of his mind and body, I did sometimes wonder whether a large part of that sensitivity wasn’t unconscious.
What I’ll now try to describe relates to this hunch I have just mentioned.
Sr Peret was everybody’s friend and one can say that there was nobody in Torrelles who didn’t know him, though he seemed to be really close to only one person: Sr Rafel. They were childhood friends who had followed different paths. Sr Rafel had devoted his life to business, had earned a small fortune, and then retired from things financial. Nonetheless, when he retired he made the mistake many rentiers make: he miscalculated his retirement date, circumstances reduced his income and he lived with the anxiety that being forced to eat into his capital inevitably caused. He lived – in a word – meagerly.
They met in the café. They played a game every afternoon. Sometimes Sr Rafel accompanied him to his vineyard. They spoke freely about whatever came to mind.
“Peret,” Sr Rafel said to him one day, “you are such a happy man.”
“Come, come …” Sr Peret protested loudly, almost laughing. “Why do you say I’m a happy man?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“You’ve yet to tell me …”
“You’re a man who is at one with this world, and that’s a good reason for me to rejoice! You have all you need, and no worries.”
“I’m easy-going. That’s for sure!”
“Patient and happy. I sometimes see you looking so happy I fear for you …”
“Fear what?”
“I fear for you, as I do for all those who are too comfortable …”
“Go on, explain yourself …”
“What is there to explain? You can’t explain these things. They’re just things I feel, you know? You’re the kind of man who will sneeze three times in a row one day and drop down dead …”
“Please, I wish you’d stop mouthing such nonsense …”
“It isn’t nonsense at all. It’s simply what usually happens to people who feel so relaxed, people, like you, who are so happy.”
“Tell me, Rafel: are you joking or being serious?”
“I simply speak as a friend. You are such an outstanding example of the type and what I just said closely relates to such types, and I had to say something.”
“I could never have imagined that such things could be worrying you. I see you have turned into a prophet …”
As Sr Peret said these last words, he shuddered and Sr Rafel decided it would be best to forget it and change the subject.
Things would have probably stayed that way and Sr Peret’s striking sense of well-being would have soon erased that conversation from his memory if the two men hadn’t begun to speak along similar lines a few months later. What was curious about the second conversation was the way Sr Rafel used the same terms as in the first. “You are one of those men,” said Sr Rafel, “who is so at one with the world, that the day will come when you will sneeze three times in a row and drop down dead.” When Sr Peret heard him say that, he felt upset, and, as he wasn’t used to knowing what it felt like to be upset, he felt it twice as hard. Now he was the one who changed the subject.
Over the next few days he reflected on his friend’s words. He had no reason to think Sr Rafel was joking. He believed he was too sensitive to laugh at his expense. He found it particularly difficult to imagine he had ever intended giving him a bad turn simply by making an impertinent suggestion that was in poor taste. Nor could he believe that Sr Rafel was at all envious or resentful. No, that was out of the question. On countless occasions he had shown he was an excellent friend. So what was Sr Rafel actually implying with his three sneezes in a row? wondered Sr Peret. Naturally, he told himself, these sneezes are symbolic. In this case, he is saying that, people like me who are so healthy, can easily be derailed by the smallest, most unexpected thing … But that’s so trite and commonplace! Everyone knows that, and it’s such an everyday occurrence … It happens day in, day out. And he finally concluded that Sr Rafel’s words were so stunningly obvious it wasn’t worth giving them a second thought.
Now, objectivity compels us to note that, even so, the logic of his deliberations wasn’t sufficiently strong to entirely erase from his mind the aberrant prophecy of the three sneezes. It would come to mind now and then – when least expected. He heard the church bell toll and thought of the sneezes. In the casino he’d hear news of someone in a bad way and the sneezes would come back to haunt him. He’d watch a funeral cortège in the street and the phenomenon was repeated. It was nothing at all really, mere coincidences. But it was true that the prophecy had lodged in his memory. It was an ember smoldering under the ash. Once the ash was taken away, it still glowed brightly beneath.
In 1919 there was a lot of (lethal) influenza about. One side effect was the rise in the price of hens and chickens. People gave convalescents – particularly in Barcelona – cups of chicken broth, and poultry was literally swept out of the hands of farming folk. The market in Torrelles was an unforgettable sight. One person who made the most from this surprise boom was Sr Peret or, rather – and it’s all the same – his wife. Sra Ametller had just happened to take a large collection of old hens – twenty brace – to the influenza-driven market.
Before dinner, Sr Peret and Sr Rafel met in the casino.
“Did you get a good price for your hens?” asked the latter.
“Yes, a decent sum! A good bit of business.”
“You’re so lucky! You’re a one-off! What’s more, I bet no one’s been ill in your house …”
“You guessed right. For the moment, thanks to God, we’re all well.”
“You’re all well and own hens into the bargain … What more could you want? You’re a prodigy.”
“Don’t exaggerate! I mean, I don’t think I’m so exceptional.”
“Oh, yes, you are, Peret. You are an exceptional case. I’ve told you so on different occasions and I’ll tell you again. That’s why I so fear on your behalf. I see you looking so plump and in the pink, then one day you’ll sneeze three times and we’ll be in deep trouble!”
“Oh, come, come!” said Sr Peret with a brusque wave of his arm, as if he wanted to swish away something that was annoying him, even though it was invisible.
Indeed, as he said that, his face suddenly blanched. Sr Rafel took one look and felt obliged to change the subject. In the years they’d been meeting he’d never seen his friend turn so pale for no reason at all.
The impact of this third conversation was much more powerful than the previous two. There’d been the identical reference to the three sneezes. These sneezes began to assume grotesque proportions in Sr Peret’s mind, they were at once laughable and distressing. He now wondered if the sneezes were symbolic – as he’d initially believed – or, on the contrary, if Sr Rafel was referring to real-life sneezes. This prompted him to explore the recesses of his own memory to try to recall clearly how his own body handled these nose-and-mouth eruptions. This investigation led him to realize he wasn’t a man prone to sneeze. It is literally impossible to visualize the sneezes one has sneezed in a lifetime. Sr Peret had sneezed – very rarely. He couldn’t be sure, however, that he had never sneezed three times in a row. At any rate, he hadn’t any precise recollections of ever doing so. He had always felt well, and still felt well! His health was splendid, always on an even keel. He wasn’t a man prone to sneezing – as he wasn’t a man who was always getting sick. Every thing about him had always worked and still worked perfectly. His almost complete absence of related memories revealed how normal he’d always been, down to the slightest details in his life. But it was precisely the absence of memories that gave the prophecy an obsessive, disturbing, unruly force.
To cut a long story short, we’ll say that Sr Peret was in his vineyard, as on so many afternoons. It was late September. The weather was damp, windy, and overcast. A year has two remarkable days: the winter day when, intuitively, one feels the good weather beginning, and the summer day when, using the same antennae, one notes the bad weather starting. That day in the second half of September was precisely such a day. It was dusk and Sr Peret was getting ready to take the path back to the village when, all of a sudden, he felt his back shiver. Then he felt a vague tickle up his nose. He quickly raised his handkerchief to his nose. He wasn’t quick enough. He sneezed and it seemed to thunder round his head. Then he sneezed again and felt deeply alarmed. He tried to plug his nostrils with his handkerchief. All a waste of effort. The third sneeze came quickly, right on cue …
Sr Peret was deeply upset. He stood there for a long while, though he was visibly wilting. His face seemed thoughtful and his neck twisted slightly. He felt his arms were about to drop off. He looked like a man who was depressed. He sat on the ground, next to a vine. His vineyard was enjoying the most flourishing moment in its yearly cycle. The vine-leaves were large and green. He sat motionless on the ground for ages, feeling ever more terrified. Then he made a strange movement, as if he felt the need to hide away: he went on all fours and dragged himself along until he was curled up under a vine. The things that can happen to a human being at certain moments in life, when nobody can see what they are doing, are astonishing and quite ineffable.
The family was surprised when they saw he’d not come home for dinner. It was so unusual they thought nothing of it and sat around the table without him. Such a situation had never arisen without prior warning ever since the family had existed as a family. They supped in silence, but when it was time for desserts, their alarm and nervousness was all too obvious. The elder daughter was sent to the casino and returned with the news that daddy hadn’t been sighted there. Sra Ametller thought for a second that she should inform the Civil Guard. They summoned their neighbors, and one of them suggested – one of the few who kept her cool – that, before doing anything else, they should take a look in the vineyard. Several people went, and when they reached the plot, the gardener joined them. They shouted out, but nobody replied. They searched every inch and finally found him sprawled under a vine. They questioned him but he didn’t respond. They lit a lamp and saw how wan and frail he seemed. Someone placed a hand on his forehead: it was still warm. The gardener ran off to get a stretcher where they lay Sr Peret. They knew it was urgent to take him home. So the stretcher set off, bearing sturdy Sr Peret under a blanket the gardener had rapidly supplied. The gardener and his son carried the stretcher. The group of people – sisters-in-law, neighbors, etc. – followed a few steps behind on what was a pitch-black, drizzly night.
When they reached the village and the place they called the Cross Roads, the gardener’s son asked his father which way they should go to reach Sr Peret’s home.
“Do you want to go by the top road or the bottom?” he asked.
The gardener looked at a loss for a moment. In the meanwhile, something extraordinary happened. Sr Peret pushed away the blanket from his face and said in a perfectly normal tone of voice, “Take the top road. That’s the way I always go.”
The gardener and his son looked at each other completely taken aback. It seemed for a second that his response had annoyed them. As a matter of fact, everyone walking back from the vineyard was certain Sr Peret was dead or as good as. His sisters-in-law were crying. The neighbors walked along, pale-faced, heads on chests. Reacting to the words they’d just heard, gardener and son were almost on the point of bursting into hoots of laughter.
They went on walking and when they reached Sr Peret’s front door, the people huddled sorrowfully around the ominous stretcher. As they might have to carry Sr Peret up to his bed in their arms, the gardener thought it best to see how he was. He removed the blanket from his face, an act that sent a tremor of curiosity through those present. Sr Peret lay there, eyes shut, pale and still, as if asleep. The gardener went over and asked: “Well, Sr Peret, what’s the state of play? Are you alive or dead?”
“Far be it from me …” piped up Sr Peret faintly.
Given his reply, they had no choice but to carry him up to his bed – an action carried out with great expenditure of effort by the gardener, his son, and another person present at the scene.
All in all, his reply came as a great relief to all and sundry.