A Film (3000 Meters) Read online

  “Do forgive me!” muttered Maria, all flustered.

  A corner of the cloak dropped, revealing a smile beneath a black mustache on a pallid face.

  “I must say this is a fine old time to be up and about!” said that courteous voice. “If I’d have known, I’d have left it to another day!”

  And, as Maria slotted the bar back down, the other corner of the cloak dropped, the beret was tipped back, and the man came into full view.

  The meager light from the oil lamp allowed husband and wife sight of a slim young man with a friendly face and gentle demeanor, staring at them, half grinning.

  Indeed, they did not recognize him.

  Maria addressed him politely: “I’m sorry, senyor … Are you sure you’re not mistaken … We … ?”

  “Aren’t you Maria Celles, the one they call Maria la Gallinaire?” asked the stranger.

  “I am, God willing …”

  “Then I have come to see you.” And the young man smiled, flashing two rows of even, white teeth. “I’ve come to give you a hug …”

  Maria stepped backward, in shock, while Jepet took a step toward the stranger. The latter laughed and coughed again.

  “… Or, rather I should say I’ve come to return the hug you surely gave me years ago …” and he removed his cloak entirely and placed it on a chair.

  Husband and wife couldn’t think what to make of him. When the stranger again moved toward them, they both felt their legs quiver.

  He noticed.

  “Don’t be frightened … Am I not allowed to want to meet my godmother?” And to put them at ease once and for all, he added: “I am Nonat Ventura.” Then the couple were more panic-stricken than ever.

  “What do you mean ‘godmother’ … ?” ‘Ventura’ … What on … ?”

  And as at ease as if it were his own home, the stranger took each of them by the hand and led them to their table.

  “Be seated. I see you’ve forgotten me, but let me remind you and you’ll soon see I’m not trying to trick you.”

  And he grabbed a chair and sat quietly next to them.

  Maria stared at him. He had a handsome face and very pleasant demeanor, a half-smile always dancing on his full lips, though his gaze seemed rather penetrating and hard from chiaroscuro eyes that were bluish-green like the wine vessel on the table.

  “Yes, you are my godmother. If the certificates don’t lie, twenty-two years ago you took a bastard to be baptized in the church of this town and gave him the name of Ramon Nonat Ventura; later …”

  Maria jumped to her feet, a smile spreading across her face.

  “You mean, you’re the child I …”

  “The very same …” the stranger replied, smiling as ever.

  “Ay! What a pleasant surprise … !” exclaimed Maria, though suddenly beset by suspicion.

  “The child you took to the Orphanage with a blue cord around his neck, a Montserrat medallion on his chest, and the certificate of baptism in his sash …”

  “Praise be to the Lord … ! This seems a veritable fairy tale … !” but, worried again by a deep-seated fear, she locked her inquisitive eyes on the newcomer, explored his serene, graceful face, his gentlemanly features, his new, elegant suit, his shiny polished shoes, gleaming brightly in that darkness …

  The stranger read her thoughts, interpreted them and replied solemnly: “I see. You think I don’t look like someone from the Orphanage? I don’t live there anymore.”

  Maria calmed down.

  “That child had a mark …” she whispered.

  “What was it?” the stranger interjected brusquely.

  “A cross …”

  “On his chest. Take a look.”

  And he quickly unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and bared his chest.

  His skin was as white and pure as a young girl’s, and a blue tattoo, two thin lines stood out clearly, a finely drawn cross against that silken whiteness.

  There could be no doubts now, and at that unexpected revelation, Maria’s generous soul poured out all her love.

  “Fill meu! It is you!” and tears filled her eyes. “Who’d have thought it? When I left you there it was around the time I stopped taking poultry to Girona; on the last two or three trips I made after that, I always went back to ask after you … The nuns told me they were bringing you up elsewhere and that you were well … That was all I ever heard about you … And now, good God, just look at the man you’ve become … I’d never have dreamed … it makes me so happy … !” She sat back in her chair. “Tell me everything, criatura, I can’t wait to hear …” But another idea suddenly interrupted her flow. “I expect you’ve not supped yet?”

  No, the stranger hadn’t supped, but he said he wasn’t hungry … he would do so later at his boarding-house.

  “What do you mean ‘boardinghouse’? You must be joking! I can’t treat you like a bishop, much less stock up at this time of day with this weather. But you’ll soon bear up with my poor little offering … We’ve known each other so long, no need to stand on ceremony,” and Maria burst out laughing, her sides shaking, while the newcomer didn’t have to be asked twice and meekly accepted her invitation.

  Then, diligent Maria shelved all her other questions and cheerfully went to the fireplace, revived the smoldering ashes, and in no time had boiled up a pan of broth seasoned with thyme, and fried bacon and a couple of eggs.

  Despite what he’d said, the orphan swallowed it down hungrily, and while he ate, Maria left him with her husband and went to get the bedroom ready. She only had one, their double room, and a small spare room. She took the cot from the spare room and carried it to their barn; she changed the sheets on the double bed, put a clean towel and the new washbowl on the trestle, refilled the water-jug, but the newcomer hadn’t eaten the dried pear or peeled the apple that, with a glass of mellow wine, comprised dessert by the time Maria had everything ready and was sitting down again, wanting to hear all he had to tell.

  And the bastard told them his tale; a short version that went straight to the point, leaving out all rhetorical frills; a tale that we, who are less in a hurry and perhaps better informed than even the protagonist, will fill out so our readers can better understand what happened.

  For sure, the nuns reared him outside the Orphanage, but then he was returned there, and lived and grew up for years between its gloomy walls amid those hapless companions crammed inside. And it was fortunate nobody had to set eyes on them! Inside, they were all one and the same and weren’t ashamed to look at each other. But when they were taken out for a walk in a procession, dressed differently from other people, attracting everyone’s attention, the children suffered and found themselves disgusting! It was even worse when the Orphanage had visitors and the bastards were exhibited like freak animals, like poor beggars regaled with charitable glances and words of pity that, rather than encourage them, made them feel sick, insulted, and bruised inside. As a very young child, Nonat had always rebelled against those shameful displays of the orphans’ misery. He never wanted to go on walks; he hid wherever he could when the nuns called out his name because they wanted to show him off more than any of the others; he was a pretty little boy, didn’t have boils or sores, and was a good advertisement for the institution. That was why he was punished when he tore his clothes to make them seem older and shabbier. He always wanted a new apron, and when someone else had one newer than his, he claimed it through guile, force, or whatever means he could find, and naturally when the nuns spotted his sly tricks and carried him off, he spat, bit, and kicked!

  One day a gentleman visited the Orphanage and asked after a child who had such and such features. Nonat was playing with the others in the yard. The gentleman begged them not to summon his son, because he wanted to pick him out. He went into the yard and nervously inspected the boys. Suddenly, he stared at him, at Nonat, his eyes beaming contentedly, and he cried: “That’s him, that’s him! I feel it in my heart!” And before the nuns could say a word, the man grabbed his arm, pulled him
in, and started to kiss and hug him …

  Then Nonat smelled something he’d never smelled before. That gentleman gave off a lovely, subtle scent, which the child, quite unequipped to draw comparisons, thought smelled like ripened fruit, and his frock-coat brushed against the orphan’s face with the gentlest touch, making the marrow in his bones tingle …

  The nuns were rather embarrassed and patted the gentleman on the shoulder: “But that’s not him, it really isn’t … It’s the one over there …”

  The gentleman looked at them quite bewildered. The child they were pointing to had sunken cheeks, a squint, and one leg shorter than the other.

  “Impossible!” exclaimed the gentleman, gripping Nonat even tighter, as if defending him, as if he wanted to stop them from taking him away, and Nonat, frightened they would take him away, clung to the gentleman’s chest, stuck to him like a limpet. The heat passed from one to the other, and whenever he remembered that heat, Nonat got goosebumps.

  But the nuns insisted, swapped details, whispered something in the man’s ear, and only then did the gentleman loosen his grip, suddenly morose and limp as he let Nonat slip out of his arms, took the child with the gammy leg, and without even a glance, gave him a perfunctory kiss. Immediately, Nonat felt wretched and burst into tears.

  The nuns were surprised, asked him what was wrong, but he couldn’t find the words to tell them; the deflated visitor put his hand in his pocket and produced a handful of sweets; Nonat hurled them to the floor, the nuns rebuked him, saying he was a nasty piece of work; the gentleman gazed at him as if he were a long way away and muttered, “What a pity!” then walked out, giving his hand to the ugly boy, followed by the nuns. Nonat sobbed until supper time, and, not ever knowing why, from then on he couldn’t stand the nun who had said: “But that’s not him, it really isn’t …”

  That was the last they saw of the ugly boy, and the rumor went round the Orphanage that that gentleman was a millionaire who’d been widowed and had come to collect the bastard son he’d never mentioned to his wife.

  From then on Nonat expected his own millionaire pa to come and collect him too. He always reckoned it would happen the next morning, always the next morning, but as the days, months, and years went by and such a natural deed was never done, he decided to ask a nun: “When will my pa come for me?”

  “What pa?” retorted the nun, blinking.

  “Mine.”

  “Oh dear! And who might your pa be?”

  “A pa like little Jordi’s …”

  The nun gave him a motherly look: a gaze of infinite compassion.

  “Ay, by the Sacred Heart of Jesus! You don’t have a pa, little chap … You’re stuck with us …”

  Nonat flew into such a tantrum they thought he would go mad. It took hours to pacify him; then they couldn’t get him to eat, he was delirious and wanted to escape from his bed.

  Once that attack was over, his character changed radically: he grew taciturn, introspective, suspicious, and prickly. He hated the nuns.

  They’d lied to him! He did have a pa; of course he did, but he didn’t know where he lived, and if his pa didn’t come to fetch him from the Orphanage, he’d go and look for him. And he plotted and tried to escape several times. The nuns were forced to keep a particularly watchful eye on him, and he took his revenge by being as naughty as could be. Until, one day, his childish brain spawned a grown man’s way of thinking. Nobody else opened his eyes, he just realized it wasn’t the way, that he could never force his escape from that place, that other ruses were needed … So he pretended; he acted as if he was self-absorbed and persnickety; as if he were always ruminating. Until his pondering confronted a situation, blessed by chance, that seemed to come to his rescue.

  From time to time, adult men who’d joined the orphan militias, bought themselves out and paid the Orphanage a visit, with a sense of deep elation, as if returning to their ancestral home. They scrutinized everything, as if it was all new to them, spoke to the children, laughed, and never knew when to stop … The nuns followed close behind, joked, asked hundreds of innocent questions, hovering over them with happy, loving glances, preening like mother hens … Nonat, on the other hand, looked at them askance, he didn’t know why, as if those men were accusing him of something, reproaching him for his hidden sins. But, one day, a man turned up who was to change the course of his life. His face was broad and flat; his nose, dirty. He was a locksmith and had established his own shop. He came to the Orphanage solely to tell the nuns that it was opening. He was beside himself with joy, recounting all the ups and down of his youthful odyssey. But now the bad times were behind him and he was starting out on a beautiful, free life … He owned a workshop … He was boss! He craved nothing else … Then he stopped. “But no! I do need someone … an apprentice …” He turned around and looked at the kids around him and blurted: “Who’d like to be one? I’ll take him today. I’ll teach him my trade and he’ll keep me company …”

  Whose voice was first to cry out: “I do!”? Nonat couldn’t have said, because he hadn’t felt the words leaving his lips, but everyone swung around to look at him, and the locksmith glanced at him affectionately, and was happy to declare: “I like you, my lad, you’ve got a smart face. It’s a deal. Ask Matron for permission, pack up your things, and home you come, I do need someone … I’ll make a man of you in three years … !”

  After the paperwork was duly signed, Nonat was entrusted to the locksmith, who lived up to his word. The new shop soon prospered, and after three years of metal-beating, the apprentice became a full-fledged tradesman, and a first-rate one at that. If his first earnings were only little treats his master gave him, later, of his own accord, encouraged by nobody, happy to see the lad applying himself and learning, the locksmith began to pay him in the form of presents he could choose for himself, and invariably, the boy opted for clothes, usually the showiest and most attractive. To set them off, in his free time, he forged rings and watch chains from knitting needles and scraps of brass, and even though he didn’t own a watch, he hung a chain from one waistcoat pocket to another for the pure joy of seeing it gleam brightly. When he’d finished his apprenticeship, his master allotted him a monthly wage that he spent entirely on fashionable ties and shoes, embroidered handkerchiefs, all manner of shoes, hair creams, and scented soaps …

  When his master saw him squandering his pay, he said: “Oh, Nonat! With those hands of yours, if you weren’t such a show-off, you’d soon save a few pessetes. But I can tell you one thing, your liking for smart clothes will land you in the work-house . . . unless you can find a dozy heiress …” whispering, as if only for his own ears, “and anything can happen …”

  Because the locksmith was an innocent abroad, unbecoming, odd, and grizzly, who wore cardboard patches on each knee, with feet as big as a town square, and who couldn’t touch a piece of paper without leaving his grubby fingerprints, who’d never contemplated marriage or set his sights on any woman, he felt a kind of bittersweet satisfaction, mingled with blithe admiration, when he looked at his slim, smart protégé who lit up the shop’s smoky shadows with his suave charm, who captivated maids in the rich households where he was sent, and who was greeted cheerfully everywhere in the neighborhood, his glinting finery, like soaring larks, attracting all the single working women and artisans who attended the soirées organized by the Locksmiths’ Company to which they both belonged. And, as everyone knew the young lad’s tale, his master asserted with great conviction: “When you think about it, what’s so surprising? It’s in his blood … Because he isn’t from any poverty-stricken stock … At the very least he’s the son of a marquis … They’re quite right to nickname him El Senyoret. Nobody in the whole of Girona does that better than him!”

  And, indeed, people knew him by the name of El Senyoret. It stuck from the moment he entered the trade, and summed up the general impression people formed of him.

  “They’ve opened a locksmith’s on the corner. And such an El Senyoret apprentice works ther
e!” chorused housewives straightaway.

  “El Senyoret from the locksmith’s has come to fix the door handle,” the lady on the second floor told her husband.

  “Who’s that El Senyoret coming down the stairs?” asked the farmer’s wife at the seed merchant’s.

  Even the local kids, when they met up on a Sunday to go and play in Sant Daniel or the Devesa, would ask: “Hey, Senyoret, why don’t you come too?”

  And with a “Senyoret here” and a “Senyoret there” it soon became the only way to refer to him.

  Likewise, El Senyoret wasn’t as vain and as much of a spendthrift as people believed, since one day, when he realized he was amply furnished with everything he’d craved in terms of clothes, though still keeping himself spruced up, he began to resist temptation, restrained himself, and began to save. An idea that, like an underground stream, had been stirring for years, suddenly surfaced, its murky, tempestuous flow flooding his mind and driving out all other worries.

  As soon as he saw the pile of cash his master had left in a corner of the drawer in his bedroom, he reached a decision. He’d go back to the Orphanage and talk frankly to Matron. So he went. Until then, he’d felt quietly confident, but the moment he asked for an appointment, he turned white as a sheet and a frown knitted his brow. He understood that this was a turning point in his life, a fateful knock on the door of destiny, and that whatever happened, his freedom from then on would never again be entirely his to enjoy in a leisurely, casual manner; his life would no longer be happy-go-lucky, a carefree experience from day to day, but a life shaped by hidden anguish, a life governed, enslaved by a unique, single-minded focus, secured diligently by him, like a wheel by its axle.

  Once he was in Matron’s presence, he explained himself. His voice trembled with emotion, but his smooth patter flowed as usual, just as an El Senyoret’s speech should.