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:
“I don’t get it, Guillem. I feel as if I were dreaming. I feel as if I had won the lottery, yes, something like that. Guillem, I swear, I will remember this favor you have done me all my life …”
“I’m telling you, it’s nothing. Do you have the letter?”
“Yes, it’s right here …”
Guillem read the letter meticulously. He verified that the Baró de Falset had behaved like a gentleman, but when he got to the end, he wrinkled his nose. “What does he mean, burn the letter?” Guillem thought. And then a wicked idea occurred to him. Guillem thought he had been an idiot to go to so much trouble just to do his brother a favor. Naturally he needn’t desist from exploiting the baron. But the letter to Frederic would simplify things a great deal. In the event Guillem attempted a new attack it would avert his having to have too shamefully “personal” a role in the extortion. Guillem thought, “This filthy pig must really be lost, he must truly not know what’s happening to him, because no one in his right mind would have made the mistake of signing a letter like this and then go on to suggest that it should be burned.” As these things went through his mind, Guillem looked at his brother and grumbled:
“Fine, Frederic, you’re very grateful, that’s all well and good. But what about our wager?”
“What do you mean?”
“The thousand pessetes you owe me … from yesterday’s wager. Now that I think of it, though, you don’t have to pay me the thousand pessetes. Give me the letter from Antoni Mates, and we’ll call it even.”
“Impossible. You can’t keep the letter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Guillem, you see what he says, here, at the end …”
“I will be forever and deeply grateful if you tear up and burn this letter.” Uh-huh. And so?”
“And so it is my duty to burn the letter …”
“That is quite debatable. He says he will be deeply grateful, nothing more. He will be grateful, but he doesn’t demand it.”
“Guillem, I think it’s very clear. Moreover, what do you want it for?”
“I don’t know, it amuses me.”
“Guillem, this whole affair is very strange …”
“Are you going to start that again? What an ass! Look, I’m keeping the letter and that’s that. The worst that can happen is that he will not be ‘forever and deeply grateful.’ ”
Guillem kept the letter, and Frederic didn’t insist. He had no doubt that he was an accomplice in a very murky affair. His brother appeared before him in a disconcerting light. Frederic didn’t say another word and shrugged. As we have already said, the Lloberolas are a weak and cowardly clan.
THE XUCLÀS WERE descended from Jews. Bobby’s ancestors had goat’s hair beards and thin, dirty, mercantile fingernails, and lived in the Barcelona neighborhood that nowadays is still known as the Call, the ghetto. But even in the 18th century these Barcelonans were already considered honorable and somewhat ennobled people, and they infused blood of the highest quality into their matrimonial alliances. Bobby’s father had been one of the most elegant roués of Barcelona. Still, instead of squandering his inheritance, he had derived great profit from the last ties to the colonies. He was on good terms with the Comillases, the Arnúses, and the Gironas, and with all the other households that in those days held the purse strings of commerce. He was also a shrewd and diligent man, a man of the world with an eye for the fine print. As a result, he held a solid and extremely brilliant position in society, which continued only to expand and to grow in prestige. In old Xuclà’s personality, the banker, the voracious shark, varnished with a generous flexibility, stood side by side with the gallant ladies’ man. The art of the elder Xuclà lay in knowing how to have his cake and eat it, in such a way that his adventures and scandals never put his business at risk, and could be seen by his friends with amusement, and sometimes even with admiration.