Private Life (16 page)

Antoni Mates had found a way to articulate words. Not a particularly clever way, because in fact he was beaten. Even if the man blackmailing him had possessed all the facts needed to compromise him, if it had been any other than the very person who had “collaborated” in the secret liaison at the dressmaker’s house, he would have felt in possession of at least a scrap of dignity. But the fact that it was that very person produced such an intense shame in him, such an unbearable collapse, that everything Antoni Mates did manage to say must be considered of great merit, because his natural impulse was to abandon himself to guttural moaning, and to wailing like a wild beast. Strange as it may seem, Antoni Mates had never, never, considered this possibility; it had seemed inconceivable to him that such a thing could happen. And this way of seeing it is perfectly normal for a man of Antoni Mates’s stripe. Any person who has a shameful flaw that essentially obligates him to behave differently from others is the victim of a certain innocence, because his desire outweighs everything else, and he cannot measure the consequences. When someone provides him a way to satisfy his abnormality, no matter how few guarantees are offered, he madly pursues its satisfaction, despite the insufficiency of the guarantees. And herein lies the innocence of these deviants. It consists in their believing in the good faith of others, in the good faith, above all, of the accomplice, and in hoping against hope that the thing will remain hidden. And sometimes this takes place in
imprudent circumstances, in circumstances in which it is impossible for the secret to be kept. But the poor deviant doesn’t see it. Sad to say, he gives in; he will run any risk, like a child incapable of foreseeing danger. And when he realizes that the secret is no secret, when he realizes there could be a scandal, and in the enormity of the scandal, the poor deviant, if his name is Baró de Falset, becomes demoralized, and loses all control, all his masculine integrity. In the case of Antoni Mates, the type of amusements to which he had surrendered himself aggravated the situation. He had debased himself, he had debased his wife, he had engaged in an indefensible conjugal monstrosity. Antoni Mates was aware of it all; he saw all the consequences of the extortion clearly. A strong person, a real scoundrel, could have confronted the consequences, would have found thousands of ways out. He could have forged ahead and neutralize the perfect swine who had lent himself to such a vile ceremony for three hundred pessetes. But a pirate is needed for such occasions, and Antoni Mates only revealed his ragman’s fangs at the meetings of the board. In a contest such as this the only teeth he showed were weak and womanish.

“I see. You want the fifty thousand pesseta note? That’s what you want, you say. And what if I say I don’t care to give it to you? Then what? You can spread the rumor, you have a thousand ways of spreading whatever rumor you like about me. Who will believe you?”

“Everyone.”

That “everyone,” those three grave monotone syllables, spoken with the solemnity of a death knell, had been intoned by Guillem with such conviction that Antoni Mates truly saw that “everyone” would
believe it, that “everyone” knew. Before his eyes paraded the equivocal expressions, the telling smiles, the whisperings. He saw himself infected with a special leprosy, as if his clothing gave off a smell that could not be disguised. Even so – and completely irrationally – he came up with these audacious words:

“So what?”

“You know best.”

“But where is the proof, where is it …?”

“What greater proof than my own confession, than my own debasement? When a man lowers himself so far as to be able to tell the tale I can tell about both you and me, they will have no choice but to believe him. Do you understand? No choice.”

Naturally, Guillem said this because he was sure that he would win the bluff and there would be no need for him to tell the tale. Moreover, if the need arose, he could find a way to tell it without going into certain details.

“You …, well, clearly you … what can I say … You are a …”

“Say no more, Senyor Baró. It would behoove us to treat this whole affair as if it were a business deal; to go into explanations would be too unpleasant. I am offering you an absolute guarantee. You have my word. To be frank, I think you’re getting off quite cheaply at fifty thousand pessetes.”

“I have been known to be … Well …, how do I know what I am capable of, poor devil … But you, and your cynicism …”

“Senyor Baró, your words …”

“What about … Dorotea Palau …? What assurances do I have?”

“No need for concern. Dorotea Palau has behaved with the most absolute good faith. The best thing, believe me – I’m saying this for your own good – the best thing is for you to do nothing, and to register no complaints. Dorotea Palau should never hear about this scene. Otherwise the scandal would be unavoidable!”

“Suppose I do give you the note. How do I justify this act of ‘generosity’ in your brother’s eyes?”

“It’s very simple. I’ll take care of it. Ah, and I warn you: my brother is fool enough not to accept this gesture from you. He has a lot of ‘pride,’ my brother does.”

“And so …?”

“And so, I suggest that you keep granting him extensions on the note, and my brother will keep accepting them, ad infinitum, but without need of an underwriter … Do you understand me? No underwriter. And, what’s more, I assume you will be good enough not to charge him interest …”

“But how can I trust you? You …”

“Naturally, you would be an idiot if you trusted me entirely, but for the time being I think I can be trusted.”

“What do you mean, for the time being?”

“I mean that I sort of have you at my mercy …”

“We’ll see about that …”

“Silence is the best strategy. Don’t lose your composure, Senyor Baró. Silence will be best, believe me …”

“Do you want the note right away?”

“If you will be so kind.”

Antoni Mates got to his feet. He had a pitiful air and gait. Three minutes later, he was back with the notorious promissory note. Guillem placed it in his satchel.

“Senyor Baró, before noon you will have a draft of the letter you are to write my brother this very day. Don’t get upset; it is a letter you will be able to sign in good conscience …”

Without responding, Antoni Mates saw Guillem to the door.

“Don’t you want to shake my hand …, Senyor Baró?”

“Enough cynicism. Just leave.”

ON THE SAME DAY Guillem visited the Baró de Falset, Frederic received a letter that stunned him. The letter was from the baron himself; he called him “dear friend,” he used the familiar “tu” and he closed it with, “A handshake from your good friend.” The content of the letter was enough to make him feel faint. Had Guillem truly managed to work a miracle? Frederic didn’t know what to think. Among other things, the letter read “A person I imagined was related to you, but whom I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing as your brother, came to speak with me about your situation and that of your family. I am sorry you weren’t more sincere with me, and didn’t convey to me the difficulty you were having in getting your esteemed father to underwrite the note. If you had been more frank, we could have found a better way to work things out, that is, we would have arranged things in your best interest. But this is where we find ourselves now:
your brother and I had a very important affair to settle between us, having to do with my business. In exchange for some very special services, for which I can never express enough gratitude, I am in your brother’s debt, both personally and for a considerable amount. He has informed me that you are not very close, and that neither you nor your esteemed father was aware of the business relationship between your brother and me. Hence, in a display of altruism and unselfishness that you, his brother, who knows him well, can comprehend better than I, he has asked me to give him the promissory note you accepted, which if my memory serves comes due tomorrow or the day after, to wipe out part of my debt to him. He swears that his intention was to give you a surprise and avert an unpleasantness for your father, and that he will give you the note and you will make your own arrangements from there on in. He has intimated, moreover, that he owes you a few large favors, and having learned only lately of your compromised situation, the circumstances were ideal for him to show you this kindness. As I consider this perfectly natural, I have given him the note and, as he requested, I am writing you this letter.”

As Frederic went on reading, he didn’t understand a thing. “Consider this
perfectly natural
”? Frederic thought, “Perfectly natural …? I find it entirely mysterious and bizarre. What kind of dealings could Guillem have with this fool? Was Guillem actually capable of earning money, of collaborating in a serious enterprise, of doing something worthwhile? Indeed, was this letter from Antoni Mates the genuine article? It would be incredible if the whole thing were
some prank of Guillem’s.” Frederic kept going back and rereading the letter. Below the signature, the Baró de Falset had added these words: “I will be forever and deeply grateful if you tear up and burn this letter.” “What is that all about? What does it mean?” Frederic thought. “Why should I burn the letter? After all, nothing he says here could compromise anyone.”

The request that he “burn the letter” was a liberty Antoni Mates had taken; he had added it when he copied over the draft that Guillem had sent him. The baron, despite bearing the weight of a great despondency, believed that he was being prudent in asking Frederic to “burn the letter.”

Frederic’s perplexity knew no limits. The day before, after dropping Mossèn Claramunt off, when he thought about Antoni Mates, he would say to himself, “If I could only find the way to put one over on this Jew,” and the following day, “that Jew” had written him the strangest and most absurd letter he could ever have imagined. Frederic’s cowardice and distrust conjured up another idea in his mind: “But why did he give him the note? I mean, since this morning my brother is in possession of a promissory note that was extended to me … What does my brother want with this note? That rascal could have the nerve to pull a fast one on me!” In his state of excitation and amazement, Frederic didn’t remember that he and his brother had made a thousand-pesseta wager – a wager Frederic had considered to be a joke. He didn’t remember that Guillem had promised he would get the note back for him. His caviling didn’t last very long, because Guillem had calculated the time, trusting absolutely in the state of
docile devastation in which he had left Antoni Mates. And just as Frederic had begun to get nervous, Guillem rang his doorbell. The following dialogue rapidly transpired between the two brothers:

“Guillem, what is this all about?”

“It means I won the bet. Here’s the promissory note.”

“But what sort of business do you have with Antoni Mates?”

“That’s none of your affair. Tear up the note and you no longer owe anyone a cent. What I mean is, you don’t owe fifty thousand pessetes to el Senyor Baró de Falset.”

Having taken the note Guillem handed him, with a Lloberola air of wounded pride:

“But you understand I cannot accept this …”

“What is it you cannot accept? Let’s see: Antoni Mates, to ‘pay me’ for some services he owes me for, transfers a credit he has against you to me. And, instead of cashing in on the credit myself, I release you, I make a gift to you of the dough. What exactly is it that you can’t accept? Having such a ‘generous’ brother?”

“What can I say, I find the whole thing incredibly strange. I would like to know what kind of services he might have to pay you for …”

“Listen, Frederic. I’m thirty-one years old, you know? I mean I am well past being of age, and you have no right to meddle in my affairs. I don’t ask you what you’re up to, or what you eat, or whether you win or lose at cards, or whether you go to your mother-in-law for money …”

“All right. But now I owe you fifty thousand pessetes. That much is clear.”

“Maybe … But you needn’t worry your head about repaying me … I won’t issue you any more promissory notes, not me … And it seems to me that, rather than adopt this professorial tone, you might think about thanking me. All things considered, I think I’ve freed you from a more than considerable predicament …”

Frederic de Lloberola was not at all convinced. What kind of mystery could there be here? Was his brother capable of some extremely peculiar form of larceny? He knew Guillem; he knew he was an inoffensive philanderer, a good kid, at heart, incapable of anything dishonorable, or anything that had anything to do with the penal code. But why did neither Antoni Mates in his letter nor Guillem right here and now offer a clear explanation?

Even so, Frederic saw his salvation. The document was authentic. Antoni Mates’s letter was, too. His distress of the last few months was dissolving; the shady dramas were fading from his mind; and his savior was his brother Guillem. He gave in to his native cowardice, to his parasitic and self-centered way of behaving in the face of all life’s challenges. Once Frederic had the promissory note in his hand, once he had Antoni Mates’s letter in his hand, justifying the events, however mysteriously, but justifying them in the end, he decided not to delve any deeper. Pretending to find the whole thing “perfectly natural,” like the Baró de Falset himself, he took Guillem by the arm and said: