A Film (3000 Meters) Read online

  From then on, the young girl from the mountains lived quietly in the dairy and was spoiled by her aunt and uncle, and although there was no shortage of hideous corruption and promiscuity, she was spiritually isolated, pure as a single flower in a vase.

  But one day, she fell in love. Because of what she was worth, what with the dairy and everything else, she’d been pursued by suitors and would-be fiancés, and she, the commonsense sort, who seemed to ignore their blandishments and handsome offers, suddenly opted for the worst: a no-good, apprentice tailor, a lazy braggart, who moved house every day, whose hair was always bunched high like a pile of wood chips. Her uncle and aunt were devastated and formally opposed such a lunatic match. The young tailor’s apprentice, who simply saw the girl as a way to support his life of leisure, suggested they elope, to guarantee she remained his. She resisted for a while, struggled with all her might against the current sweeping her away, but in the end, early one morning, she vanished from the house.

  The moment he found out, her uncle, sturdy and robust as Saint Paul, with a bull’s neck and tinder-dry temper, was felled by a stroke, and after weeks of ebbing and flowing between life and death, he was declared cured, though the battle he’d won left him with a drooping eyelid, a twisted mouth, and a gammy leg he had to drag along.

  Meanwhile, poor Janeta, his niece, saw through her strange infatuation, and drank the first cup of bitterness from her ill-omened marriage. In dispute with a succession of bosses, her husband would bring home either a meager sum, or, instead of money, a bad headache because he’d not earned a cent. To boot, he was obsessed with the theater and every night went off to a local amateur dramatics group where four bums like himself spent hours rehearsing roles, and, naturally, the morning after his wife couldn’t drag him out of bed, even though she employed all her muscle.

  Prompted by the tailor’s apprentice, they’d tried to build bridges with her uncle and aunt, who refused to hear a word of it. Frail and frightened by her husband’s seizure, the aunt might have yielded, but the moment her apoplectic husband found out, his one good eye glowered and scared everyone so they would flee and stop mentioning Janeta in his presence.

  Six months after marrying, Janeta suffered a miscarriage that left her at the cemetery gates. The tailor, who couldn’t find succor anywhere, went personally to the dairy to seek forgiveness and help, but Janeta’s uncle sent him packing, and then, with no fire in the hearth, no bread on the table, and not knowing which saint to pray to, he signed up to the Odeon Theater company. However, though God had given the young tailor an excessive love of the stage, he hadn’t made him a skilled performer, and his disastrous acting was soon a black mark for a splendid group of young actors who otherwise displayed exceptional talent and character. They gave him secondary roles, relegated him to bit parts, and, finally, occasional walk-on characters who said nothing and, of course, that couldn’t provide even potato stew for the table. Janeta was desperate and begged the sidelined thespian to change course, to go out and find real work, but he was so besotted by the stage that he wanted to be an actor and nothing else. But then a day came when the couple’s penury was so pitiful that, for the first time ever, Janeta removed the white headscarf that singled her out and stood on a shadowy street corner holding a hand out to passersby … Chance had it that her uncle, on his way to a rendezvous in a café that evening to discuss the sale of a cow with a livestock dealer, limped around that corner past the poor woman, and as she recognized him and he didn’t go to put his hand in his pocket, a screech pierced the gloom. Her uncle stopped in his tracks and, as he scrutinized the scene with his one trembling eye, a word, as straight as a bullet, suddenly penetrated his heart.

  “Uncle!”

  She caught him just as he was about to collapse, and that single word and the shameful sight of that unhappy wretch did more than any number of self-interested pleas and theatrical monologues …

  The young couple returned to the dairy like prodigal sons, but Janeta’s uncle’s tardy generosity couldn’t counter the effects of the last few months.

  Janeta was again carrying death within her, and her second child came still-born, just like the first. Her maternal organs seemed to have espoused a tragic bent, repeatedly leading her to the graveyard like the driven snow. Her uncle and aunt despaired, all the more so because they couldn’t change their nephew-in-law, the scourge of the parish, whom there was no way to get to bed at night or out of it in the morning, who had no nose for business, and who was totally useless, except when it came to wearing fancy clothes, getting a haircut, and glowing on a Sunday like a good Jesus.

  Luckily, Janeta recovered from her anemia and was more like her former self, namely the willing, helpful hand that showed more than a daughter’s care for the old couple. And that lasted until they were gone—first her aunt, then her uncle—at which time the sun set yet again on the well-being of the unhappy Janeta, because as soon as her head-in-the clouds devotee of the stage inherited everything, he huffed and puffed and, like a hen, started scattering first the seed-corn of their money, second of the family business, and finally of the small family farm in Sant Llorenç dels Cerdans.

  When he’d scraped the bottom of the barrel, as if gripped by a sacrosanct mission, he suddenly seemed to sort out the screws in his head. An old colleague from the Odeon, now working in the new Romea Theater, found him a job. Not as an actor—because his pitiful state and aging body, together with past upsets, had left him battered and useless even for a small role—but as an usher, a well-defined job to which he gradually added a thousand others that were much vaguer: stagehand, errand boy, mender of costumes, etc., etc.

  He’d finally found his natural habitat and was happy. He came home with the stars, slept all morning, lunched on the road, and, with his mouth full, rushed to the theater, which he only left for a quarter of an hour to eat supper, also on the road. The theater was his home; much more so than his real home, as he adored the place more than words could say. Apart from satisfying his love for glittering lights, it enabled him to let himself go, dancing with St. Vitus, as he couldn’t sit or stand still. He changed jobs every minute; he was upstairs, then downstairs, everyone wanted him for this or that—since the Tailor, as they called him, was an irreplaceable jack-of-all-trades. He’d notice a stall that was loose or a squeaky hinge that needed oiling; he saw to jobs for actresses, and always found a pesseta in his or someone else’s pocket for a brother—which is how he addressed all the actors—down on his luck; he poked his nose in other theaters or among out-of-work actors, looking for a new idea or something his theater company was missing; he always carried a little bag of needles and thread of every color for every eventuality, and often got the temporary wardrobe assistant out of a jam; he was alert to all necessary details when a new show was being rehearsed or when an old one was being brought back into the repertory; he advised—like a tailor who knows his cloth—the scissor cuts needed to shorten an over-lengthy scene or the most suitable characterization for this or that individual, just as he knew better than anyone where to find cheap, secondhand clothes …

  And naturally, although his basic wage was quite modest, he managed to supplement it with the proceeds from his many extra activities, which varied but were never to be sniffed at, and allowed him to provide for the upkeep of himself and his wife, who could finally live without constant torment now that he had a stable, busy life and spent his rare moments at home telling her about the world of theater, exclusively about his beloved theater. He only kept silent about one aspect: his romancing. Because nobody could deny that he was perpetually enamoured. He became infatuated in turn with all the famous, fashionable, or merely attractive artists who graced the stage. His loves were platonic, intensely romantic surges within his little tailor’s heart, which he only expressed externally in histrionic praise for the latest candidate’s acting or good looks, in his greater interest in serving her, in spontaneous, ridiculous outbursts, and, above all, in keeping at bay any other man’s attempt
to flirt, any third-party interference on his terrain.

  One day, shortly after the performance had begun, the Tailor was summoned away from the theater because Janeta had had an accident.

  He delegated his duties to someone else and ran to see what was the matter. At suppertime, the Tailor had told his wife to get something from Les Rambles that he needed; after supper she went to do just that, and as she was turning a corner, she had been hit by a car and knocked to the ground. She’d been carried off unconscious and bloodied to a pharmacist’s, and once treated, she was driven home in the very same car that had done the damage, whose owner proved to be an honest soul who stayed to take responsibility for what he’d done. Janeta had nothing worse than a cut on her forehead and slight bruising on one arm and leg, but she’d been given a real fright and was a bag of nerves, which made the Tailor decide not to abandon her, but spend the whole night by her side.

  Exactly nine months after that fright, with Janeta past forty, a baby girl came happily into the world. At the time the Tailor’s ardors were being stoked by the renowned actress Carlota de Mena, and the love-struck fellow, who performed daily in the dazzling purgatory of his dreams as the first love of his blessed first lady, implored her to grant him the honor of being his daughter’s godmother and bestowing her beautiful name upon her. The actress was delighted by the prospect—and this is how Peroi’s humble cousin came to bear the grand-sounding moniker of Carlota.

  When the usher died, the young lass was of an age to work and help her mother pay their way. She had inherited at least a quarter of her father’s dreaminess, but life’s hard knocks kept it embryonic, never allowing it to surge. Even so, in an ironic or acerbic way—depending on whether she was in a state of war or peace—she harbored a hidden inclination for novelettish swoons and onslaughts of passion. And when her St. Anthony’s fire faded, as her eyes lost their cobwebs and any prospect of love requited grew unlikely, these dreams retreated only to intensify beneath endless layers of rejection that were as aggressive as they were fictitious. Finally, Peroi, the tardy, innocent paladin, rode up to the gates of that turreted castle built on the absurd.

  Nonat and Peroi had fallen asleep like little angels, Nonat so deeply that God knows when he’d have woken up the next morning without a nudge from his friend.

  A good douse of freezing water from the faucet, four gulps of coffee that Auntie had boiled up for them, and Peroi asked: “Are we off, lad?”

  “We’re off!”

  They each took their little pack of food, Nonat took both their tools, and they left the house.

  Once on the street, Peroi, who was heading to cross Carrer Hospital, thought better of it.

  “You know, today is a day to celebrate … We should celebrate your arrival like proper gents … We’ll take the tram.”

  They caught the first one going up Les Rambles. On board were only two countrywomen with bags and baskets, a fair-haired young girl with a shawl, and a middle-aged man who looked like an office worker. One or two other trams went up and down, still entirely empty, but signs of life and renewed activity were beginning to spread like oil stains along city streets just awakening from their nighttime slumber. And Les Rambles was where life was mainly happening.

  Lukewarm rays of sun were dispersing the misty haze over the horizon, and birds chirruped cheerfully before flocking toward the distant plain.

  Busy workers rushed to and fro like pistons, gripping blue or yellow kerchiefs full of provisions, alongside shop assistants and pen-pushers, many also carrying their lunches wrapped in newsprint; florists quickly emptied their cellars to fill dew-damp tables, and bunches of flowers scented the air; cheery, brawny ragamuffins in the street-cleaning brigade began to flourish their brooms and spout nonsense to female passersby; long poles over their shoulders, house painters nonchalantly took up their positions in the entrance to Boqueria, shooting the breeze with broad-backed, slow-moving porters; cooks descended, white aprons gleaming like walking clotheslines, then huddled, clotting the entrance to the market; and seamstresses, delicate and stylized like living figurines, promenaded light and graceful like swallows in flight. Newspaper boys shouted morning headlines that echoed down the street; horses pulling vegetable carts neighed as they lined up from Carrer Hospital to Betlem, and all you could see in the workshops, whose doors opened like eyes on the blink, were apprentices diligently engaged in their daily tasks, and window cleaners demisting glass, caged in shop windows … And over and above everything else, like a shower of holy water, chiming church bells sonorously summoned the faithful to Mass, while the loud hoot of a distant steamer pierced the air …

  Nonat looked on in astonishment, and felt the delightful sensations of the previous day spill from his heart and rush to his head, spinning in a drunken delirium, and when the sweep of a bend confronted him with the glorious Plaça de Catalunya, then Passeig de Gràcia, the sense of wonderment he’d bottled inside lit up his face, turning it pale with excitement.

  For the first time he had a clear idea of what a big city was like and of boundless horizons that could satisfy any whim. Peroi kept naming the important buildings he knew, piling on trivial details, but Nonat wasn’t listening; he only had ears for the vibrant rhythm of the city’s serial enchantments and the magical word he kept repeating to himself: Barcelona … Barcelona … Barcelona …

  They zigzagged rapidly down Travessera to make up time, and soon reached the workshop. An expansive Peroi introduced his friend to all his workmates and showed him around the building. Nonat felt the turmoil in his head subside, and, with renewed sangfroid and peace of mind, quickly absorbed all around him. The owner, a man in poor health, even more delicate at that time, had yet to put in an appearance.

  “You’ll meet him at the mid-morning break,” the foreman told El Senyoret.

  The foreman was a character like Peroi, with a kindly face, but thicker-set, and whose biceps rippled like a fairground strongman’s. He was very proud of his hammer strikes and the flourish with which he delivered them.

  The owner was a different matter. Tall and thin as a beanpole, he kept his head down, slightly twisting it like a clerk; he was a deeply jaundiced color, with sunken cheeks, jutting cheekbones, and a squint; he wore white, metal-rimmed spectacles and his hair and mustache were completely gray, and trimmed like a brush. He suffered from a nervous tic that often made him stretch one side of his mouth, and, gripped by a vice he couldn’t control, he chewed one end of his mustache. As a result, that end was always shorter than the other, which was unsightly, and though he kept it trimmed, driven by habit his fingers kept nervously mashing his lips until the mustache, however short it was, reached his teeth.

  The bastard didn’t think he looked like a tradesman. He later discovered the owner had inherited the firm from his father, a very handy man, and followed in his father’s footsteps, but, as his poor health prevented him from physical work, he’d had to keep tight control over every little detail and devote his spare time to scrap metal—a business, people said, that had brought in lots of money. He espoused reactionary ideas and was a fierce defender of the principle of authority; he said little, but was succinct, and only smiled at the annual fiestas. He had been a district mayor and the president of a Catholic Center.

  Scattered across the yard in front of the works, the tradesmen had just finished their mid-morning snack, when the owner arrived.

  “Hello …” was all the boss could manage.

  “Good morning, Senyor Ramoneda,” they chorused, as they filed inside, and the foreman pleasantly asked: “Feeling better today, senyor?”

  But the director had spotted El Senyoret and didn’t answer, rather asked in turn, more with a wave of his hand than his voice: “Is he the new man?”

  When he received a positive reply, he bid him to come over. The foreman summoned Nonat, who approached them with his trademark poise and half-smile. For a minute he was the object of a silent, relentless scrutiny that he found disturbing. Finally the director spoke
up: “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Girona.”

  “How many firms have you worked for?”

  “Just the place where I did my apprenticeship.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Because I wanted to come to Barcelona.”

  “Was that the only reason?”

  Nonat frowned imperceptibly and answered aloofly: “Yes, senyor. To see the world … and learn.”

  The director, who till then had failed to snare his mustache, cruelly nibbled a couple of hairs and seemed content.

  “Well, let’s see whether you can last a few years here, too; all good, hardworking men do …” He turned to the foreman: “Rovira, accompany him to the rotating table, show him how it works, and how to finish what’s started. We can’t wait for Guillemet to come back from the cemetery to do it.”

  He acted as if he was going to smile, but it never materialized, and with a curt goodbye nod the owner entered the factory, reviewed everything, and slunk behind a glass-paned partition that hid a desk. That corner, away from the workers but with a view of the entire floor, was Senyor Ramoneda’s office.

  Nonat’s gaze followed him for a while, then he shrugged his shoulders. He wouldn’t have been able to say what that shrug meant, but all day the memory of the workshop owner was vaguely worrying. Apart from that, he felt perfectly at ease. The factory felt familiar to him after only an hour; he felt safe and in good spirits, as if he’d spent his whole life there. He’d realized that without overexerting himself, he could be as good or better than its most skilled worker. It was only a matter of adapting to the machines, and not being too clever; machines had always been his easy-going, generous friends, who committed to him at the first approach without demur.