XXVI THE THREE ACACIA TOWN
ANYONE WOULD HAVE STOPPED TO TAKE IN THE VIEW OF THAT dark and dreary valley cleft by a river. Not far from a farmhouse, cows were pasturing serenely under a boy’s watch. Soon both cows and boy started walking. Once they were inside the stable, I made my way down to the river, for I was parched. Beyond the farmhouse, perched atop the hill, was a town with a column of smoke billowing from its center. The smoke issued from a house, the finest in the main square. The second-floor balconies were spitting fire. Everyone was shouting. Women rushed from the portal carting chairs, armchairs, a blue and gold headboard, drawers, three bedside tables, a black rocking chair. . A few old men and children watched the women as they busied themselves emptying the house. I heard a voice saying that if the flames on the ground floor were to emerge from the portal, they would burn the three acacias in the main square. Let everything burn! House and acacias! They aren’t ours. Beside the fountain a man lay sprawled face-down, three crimson holes in his back. That’s the master of the house that’s on fire, an old man in a beret informed me, his wizened face scarcely larger than a fist. All this effort to amass a fortune and look at him now. If it were up to me, I’d toss him back inside so he would serve as kindling and nothing would be wasted.
The old man took me back to his place; he lived alone in a kind of den with recently whitewashed walls and a hearth as black as horror. He fed me and recounted the story of the owner of the burning house: He had arrived in the village as a young man, in search of work, any kind of work, and the wealthiest landowner hired him because he was as strong as an ox and not afraid of hard work. A couple of years later he married the heiress, Rosa, who had skinned knees from kneeling in constant prayer. She had always said she wanted to be a nun. Yet without intending to, the man who was a stranger to the village had frustrated her intentions: Rosa fell in love with him. The father opposed the union, but the girl did not relent until he acquiesced. The word immediately spread that she, who had turned away so many suitors, had been seduced by the drifter who had used his cunning to woo her. But the marriage grew cold. The father died, and all of the property passed into the drifter’s hands. They had a daughter, Eulàlia, despised by her father, who had not wanted children. After a strange malady, Rosa followed her father to the cemetery. The drifter treated his daughter worse than a dog: His sole preoccupation was amassing wealth. No one was allowed a morsel of bread unless he unlocked the cupboard where it was kept. He cut thin slices and let them dry out. He was a nobody who had come into money, a parvenu. He was disliked, but people kept their heads down because they needed him. He did not allow water to be extracted from the well as needed: The rope would be worn thin. He borrowed other peoples’ horses to conserve the horseshoes on his own. He let his teeth rot: Dentists were swindlers. All the fireplaces in his house had their chimneys capped to avoid the use of firewood; he believed that blocking the passage of air did more to heat the place than ruining forests by felling trees. He trimmed his fingernails with kitchen scissors because he had no others. When the barber cut his hair, he paid him with a few miserable pieces of fruit and the promise of more to come, though his trees were bare. Everyone despised him, yet anyone needing money was forced to go to him, though it was clear that the loan would come at a considerable price. Eulàlia had sad eyes and a body so frail she could barely stand. The entire village cried Miracle! Miracle! when she married the eldest son of a neighbor who had discovered her wandering lost in the forest one day, sobbing, saying she was running away. As she walked down the aisle she had the pallor of death. Her father, who did not accompany her that day, cursed her, for he would now be forced to hire someone to run the household. An old woman weighed down by many years and hardships came to serve in his home.
From time to time, he traveled to Barcelona, taking with him a small suitcase that appeared light when he left and heavy upon his return. The villagers all said that he had gone to buy gold. The miser’s house was derelict, yet in people’s minds it was covered with gold. When things finally came to a head, a few young men — the most impetuous in the village — having heard their parents lambasting the miser, broke into his house, seized him, and locked him up. Tiring of their inability to force him to divulge the location of his hidden treasure, they dragged him into the square, placed a paper hat on him and gave him a beating, while the old woman in his service and two neighbors set fire to the house. But first, they inspected the place from top to bottom, every nook and cranny, every crack in the wall. They axed closets, knocked down hollow-sounding walls, emptied wineskins, drove holes into the chimneys. . But the gold did not appear. It was decided that the old men of the village, with the help of the women and children, would dig up the miser’s lands and search the crevices in every rock. . and whoever found the gold would announce the news and it would be divided among them.
At nightfall there were still people in the street. Amid cries, laughter, and insults they threw debris on the miser who had arrived in the village as a young man. At dawn the house was a furnace. The leaves on the acacias were charred and would never grow again. The man in the beret and I moved closer to observe the dead man. Beneath the pile of garbage, only his feet showed.
XXVII THE CAT MAN
I CROSSED THE ESPLANADE. A FIG TREE STOOD IN FRONT OF THE door to the café. Inside, everything was a jumble of broken glass. I sat down at a table to think, but I had no time to reflect on things because almost immediately a man with hunched shoulders and a limp entered. He was carrying a straw basket from which he produced a bottle of wine and half a baguette stuffed with bacon. He looked at me, waiting for someone? As you can see, life has come to a halt here. Did you follow the road or did you come through the village? I came by way of the road. So you haven’t seen all the ashes in the street. There’s not a dog left to wag its tail. Shrugging my shoulders, I said I didn’t care if life had come to a stop and I wasn’t waiting for anyone. He took a bite of his bread and a piece of bacon came out, just like the piece of ham had slipped out of the lethargic man’s sandwich that day on the beach. You should remember to work hard, while you’re young. Hand me a knife: second drawer on the right, under the countertop. I should have given him the knife and left; I wasn’t in the mood for idle talk, but I liked sitting in the café, with the profusion of broken bottles and empty shelves, watching the flies buzzing about. The man with the straw basket was drinking wine straight from the bottle, his eyes closed, one hand under his chin to avoid staining his shirt.
He said it was his café, not by ownership but because he had frequented it for as long as he could remember, his entire life. He earned his keep by neutering cats and rendering small services. When the owner of the café was killed. . sad, huh? Distant relatives had ordered the killing after demanding one hundred thousand pesetas from the owner and being told he didn’t have it, which was the truth. But they thought he was simply refusing to pay up, and when things got heated, out came the rifles. That said, this café has always been mine and always will be, because I have nowhere else to go. Half the ceiling of my house has caved in. He paused for a moment as he looked at me, head lowered, eyes raised. Want to see the cat? I glanced outside, trying to appear distracted. I realize I’m rather dull. Unlike my father. . he made earthenware jugs and bowls. When he touched the clay, an object came to life. As he talked, the man with the straw basket kept looking at me and sniggering as though he thought me some pipsqueak who had just flown the nest, so I told him that his father was not his father. He grasped the bottle and nearly smashed it on my head, but managed to reign himself in. His father, I explained, had only made his body; his soul was a lost soul that had searched for a home for years and had slipped inside his body when he had taken his first breath. With eyes full of rage, he asked me if I had been drinking from the fountain of the moon-pulled water. To shut me up, or so I believe, he removed a package from his basket. Want to see it? It was a stuffed cat with its tail pinned to its body and its ears up. A tabby. My wife couldn’t stand the sight of it and I always put it on her bedside table. . That’s what I’d like to do with a lot of people: Stuff them with straw so they would be still and quiet. Fill them full of straw. This cat — this very cat — had belonged to some neighbors. A fantastic ratter, it was. A regal cat. Its owner lavished it with all manner of attentions: It ate from a porcelain dish and slept on velvet. They were rich, these neighbors, and could afford to keep as many cats as they wished. Every night I would bury my head in the pillow, consumed with envy. And I learned taxidermy so I could make the cat my own. I tied a chicken head with a string and lured the cat to the house by dangling it in front of him. He crept warily into the garden — and then he was mine. I’ve slept with the cat next to me ever since. Even on my wedding night. When my wife died — may she rest in peace — I learned to meow, and before falling asleep, with the cat under the covers, I would meow for a while as if the cat were serenading me. And I still do. It helps me fall sleep.