The Selected Stories

CARNIVAL

“Taxi! Taxi!”

A car drove by the girl without stopping. It was one o’clock in the morning, and she was standing on the deserted garden-lined Avinguda del Tibidabo. The only lights still lit shone from the house she had just left. Through the curtains you could see the shadows of people dancing.

“The taxi stand’s further down,” a young fellow told her as he walked past.

“Where?”

“Right by the tram stop.”

The fellow gave the girl a puzzled glance. She was wearing a long, silken cape down to her feet, quite wide but lightweight. She had a shiny star on her forehead. And a mask. The March wind sent ripples through the folds in the cape. Her hair blew to one side.

“And where exactly is the tram stop?” she asked, wondering what his disguise was. The white wig was curious, with its tail curling upward at the neck. The socks were white too, the tight trousers red satin. The frock coat was a shade of beige. Some large cardboard scissors hung from his waist.

“Would you like for me to accompany you? I’m heading that way.”

“We’ll pretend like we’re water flowing down the hill,” the girl said as she burst out laughing. A fresh, contagious laugh.

They started walking. The boy strolling timidly, not too close to the girl, from time to time glancing at the shadow on the ground caused by the star on the girl’s forehead.

“The day after tomorrow I’m leaving for Paris,” she suddenly announced. “I’ll be there a couple of weeks, then on to Nice.”

“Ah.”

Not knowing what to say, he gazed straight at her, determined to give his look a surprised, intelligent air, one of admiration.

The girl must have been thinking about something else, because for several minutes she made no attempt to continue the conversation. Her head was slightly canted as she hummed a monotonous little tune of just three notes, always the same. She kept running her hand through her hair. Just when it seemed that she’d forgotten about the boy next to her, she stopped humming and pointed to a little package he was holding carefully in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“This? Nothing. Just some pastries for my little brother,” he said with a forced smile, a bit embarrassed.

“And that?” In his other hand he held an indistinguishable object.

“It’s a mask.”

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

The boy hesitated, not knowing what to say, but she insisted; so with a serious air, he put it on.

“I must look silly, no? I wouldn’t have chosen a clown’s face, but some friends gave it to me and they—”

“Like comical things?”

“Sometimes I think they go too far, but, you see, they—”

“Well, if a mask doesn’t make people laugh, maybe it’s best to go with your own face.”

“You’re right. Want a pastry?”

The girl stopped suddenly and with a mischievous twinkle said, “I’m going to get something. Will you wait for me?”

He nodded and the girl took off running, up the avenue. Her cape fell to the ground, but she didn’t stop. He picked it up and closed his eyes, fingering the delicate material. Standing there all alone, the girl’s cape over his arm, he felt out of place, removed from this world. He looked up at the sky for a long time. The trees were just beginning to bud, the tram tracks gleamed in the moonlight. The rough tips of his fingers against the silk sent a shiver up his spine. He hung the cape over his arm, not daring to touch it. He glanced up, glanced down, then started all over. The sky, the trees. . Finally he sat down on a stone bench, but the cold immediately shot through his thin sateen trousers, sending another shiver up his spine.

•

After a long while the girl reappeared, tiny and pale, weightless, her sheer dress fluttering in the wind, like a bird with its wings extended downward.

“They let me have a bottle of champagne, and now the two of us are going to empty it. Do you like champagne?”

He was about to say, “Si, Senyora,” but caught himself in time and exclaimed with a blush, “Immensely. Would you like your cape?”

“Not now. Later.”

They had reached a tiny triangle of a plaza. A rickety evergreen stood in the center. She turned, facing west, and cried out “Titania!” A feeble echo from the houses on the other side repeated, “Titania!”

“The echo’s not too bad here, but further up, by the house where the party is, you can hear the words repeated three times, loudly.”

Feeling moved, he dared to exclaim, “So, it is my pleasure to accompany the queen of the fairies?”

“Purely by chance. With the same dress and a string of pearls, I could have been Juliet. Or with a garland of flowers and leaves in my hair, Ophelia,” she added flirtatiously. “But with my temperament, I prefer to be, even if for just one night, a powerful character. So, why did you take me for Titania?”

“Because that’s what you cried out, and my uncle used to tell me those stories.”

“He died?”

“Many years ago.”

“Well, now that you know who I am, introduce yourself.”

The boy hesitated, but she insisted.

“Say your name, loud.”

He swallowed and said in a low voice,

“My name’s Pere.”

Cheerfully, the girl shouted his name very loudly, and the echo replied, “Pere, Pere!”

“Twice? This echo’s a bit crazy. Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, open the champagne. I might spill it on myself and a fairy’s dress has to be immaculate.” She handed him the bottle and added, “It seems like we’ve been friends for a long time.”

“For years.” I wonder how much she’s drunk tonight? he thought. But she had walked a straight line the whole time, without any effort.

The cork came out without a pop and no foam.

“It’s flat,” she exclaimed in disappointment. “But it’ll quench our thirst,” and she took a long sip straight from the bottle.

“Would you like a pastry?”

They sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and started eating and drinking. He moved the cardboard nose with the mustache to one side, but it bothered him, so he pushed it up onto his forehead.

“The owner of the house,” the girl began explaining, “is. . I guess I should confess — after all, we’re friends. He’s my lover. He’s the one I’m going to Paris with. He has to go on business, so we have an opportunity. His wife was at the dance. She’s rarely at home, travels all the time. Since she was there, I decided to leave. The situation was really tense, especially for me of course. I left without saying good-bye to anyone, and now I’m guessing he’s searching for me all through the house and garden. But if he wanted me to stay, why didn’t he lock his wife up in the dark room. For one night. . I don’t want to give the impression she’s nasty. She’s very nice, dresses really well, knows how to be welcoming. I’d say she’s una gran senyora, a real lady. But I have the feeling that when she climbs in bed, covers her face with cream. . He doesn’t love her any more; he likes me. As we danced he told me, ‘You’re the most charming girl at the party; you’re like a flower.’ And a little while later he said, ‘I’ll love you eternally’ or something like that.”

The girl gave him a surprised, vexed look and didn’t speak for a moment. Finally she said, “Shall we go?”

“Of course.”

•

They left the empty bottle upright in the center of the street and started walking. His lids were heavy, the bones in his legs weak. Further down the street, the girl stopped in front of a gate. He paused beside her. She took his hand and whispered, very low, as if sharing a secret:

“Can you smell the gardenias?”

He couldn’t smell anything except the scent of night, of green and trees. Besides, so much familiarity made him feel uneasy. The wind hit them in the face and droned plaintively through the branches.

When the boy didn’t respond, she murmured in a gentle voice, her forehead leaning against the iron bars:

“The wind is always sad. When I was little I used to think that I’d like to live in a solitary house pounded by the wind, and every morning I’d take my two greyhounds and go to the forest to see the trees that had fallen during the night. The wind’s bringing us the scent of gardenia, isn’t it?”

“You should put on your cape,” he said, still carrying it in his hand. He shivered just glimpsing her naked arms, but all the enthusiasm over the gardenias was starting to frighten him a bit.

“Would you help me?”

He put the cape around her, thinking, If I were just a little more daring, I’d kiss her now.

“I can see them, over there, at the back. Come closer, at the foot of the tall tree. You see it? If I could have just one.”

His head was spinning, everything seemed foggy. In the end there was no other solution. The gate’s not that high, he thought.

“You want me to get you some?”

She turned toward him, her hands together, imploring.

“Would you? That would make me very happy.”

He attached the scissors to the strap and jumped effortlessly over the gate. He walked across the grass without making a sound. But then the grass ended and the path began. The sand grated beneath his feet. He didn’t hear the wind, only the sand. He tiptoed, but the sand seemed to make more noise. He stepped back onto the grass, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The white flowers lay before him. He picked some, wrapping them in his handkerchief. Slowly he retreated, his heart pounding. The champagne, his pulsing blood, his fear — all of it left him in a daze.

“Did you get it?” she called impatiently from the street.

Suddenly, right by the boy a dog began barking furiously. You could hear the noise of the chain rattling as it grew taut, the dog pulling violently on it.

He threw the handkerchief with the flowers to the other side and climbed quickly over the gate. Just as he was about to jump to the street he was startled by the feeling of the back of his trousers splitting.

“My trousers,” he managed to say.

“Did they rip?”

“Pretty badly, I think, but we need to hurry before someone comes out of the house.”

He picked up the handkerchief with the flowers and they set off running.

“Let me see your trousers.”

There was a huge tear at the back of his left thigh.

“There’s quite a hole, but it can be sewed,” she said.

“I know, but they’re rented.”

He said it with a dry tone, making an effort to conceal his sudden irritation. It had only lasted a second.

•

There were no taxis when they reached the tram stop.

“Not a good night for catching a taxi. Especially up here.”

They stood for a while under a streetlight and he could look at her calmly. She was blonde, with very dark skin, well-defined lips — the lower jutted out a bit — her chin gently round with a dimple in the middle. Behind her mask he could see her tiny black eyes gleaming.

“I still haven’t looked at the gardenias, or thanked you.”

She gently removed a flower from the handkerchief, but as she was about to smell it, she said with a surprise, “What kind of flowers did you pick?”

“The ones by the tree.”

“These aren’t gardenias. They have no scent at all.”

She glanced at the unfamiliar flower with an obvious expression of disappointment.

“Don’t give it another thought. If you don’t like them, toss them away.”

Without realizing, he’d used the familiar “tu.” He liked her, standing there absorbed in thought. He would have forgotten about the trousers had it not been for the cold wind that blew through the hole, bothering him.

“Now that I think of it, I’d have been surprised it they were gardenias. What month is it?” she asked in disappointment.

“The beginning of March.”

“And gardenias bloom in the summer, for Saint Joan’s feast day. It doesn’t matter, I’m just sorry about your trousers. I wish I knew the name of these flowers.” She again sniffed the flower, making him do the same. “What do they smell like? Doesn’t it remind you of something? Such a faint scent, almost nonexistent, but it reminds me vaguely of elderberry flowers. You see? Without giving it a thought I’ve discovered what they smelled of. What if they were begonias?”

“They’re smaller. I mean larger. I mean gardenias are smaller.”

“Maybe they’re stunted begonias.”

“They’re probably camellias.” Both had started playing the game.

“Camellias? No, I’d recognize a camellia anywhere. These, I can assure you, are mysterious flowers. Flowers that bloom on the night of Carnival.”

She wrapped the flowers back in the handkerchief and stood there, pensive. He was glad she hadn’t thrown them away, and felt an irresistible desire to kiss her. But he thought, I’m a man, and with a protective tone he said, “There are no taxis, which means we can only do one of two things: wait till the sun comes out, if necessary, or walk. I’ll accompany you to the end of the world.”

They heard a car approaching, coming from Passeig de la Bonanova. When it got closer they could see the inside of it lit up, full of people. It drove right by them. The people were shouting and laughing. The man seated beside the driver, wearing a feather hat, threw them a handful of confetti.

“It’s probably better if we don’t wait. Let’s walk,” she said, adding, “but I live a good ways from here.”

“How far?”

“Consell de Cent.”

“Why don’t we walk down Balmes? There’s always the chance we’ll find a taxi.”

Let’s hope we don’t find one. He took her arm happily to help her across the street.

Barcelona lay below them, gleaming with a reddish halo that blazed across the sky, creating a magical arch of light. To the left, the lights on the top of the Putxet gleamed, but the houses sheltered on the side of the mountain had their windows closed. If the wind stopped blowing for an instant, their sole companions were the silence and the night.

•

They walked for a long while without speaking. She was the first to say something.

“What are you disguised as?”

“A tailor.”

“A tailor?” she laughed. “If you hadn’t told me. .”

“Louis XV’s Jewish tailor,” he stated, sure of himself.

Then he began to explain that he was studying Greek and composed poetry, was writing a book, “Persephone’s smile,” and he’d spent the afternoon at the Carnival parade and was just returning from a party.

“When I finish my studies, I’ll travel. I want to know the world. I’ll leave without a penny in my pocket. Maybe I’ll get myself hired as a stoker. Poets here all tend to die in bed surrounded by family, and the newspaper prints their dying words, describing the force of their last breath, the whole bit. I want to die alone, with my boots on, face down, an arrow in my back.”

Until now she had led the conversation; she began to grow impatient with his outburst of eloquence.

“Ai!” she exclaimed suddenly, her hand on her chest as if her heart wanted to take flight.

“What’s the matter?”

She took a moment to respond.

“Nothing, my heart. I was just dizzy all of a sudden.”

He looked at her in alarm, not knowing what to say, whether he should hold her, let her go. She sighed deeply and ran her hand across her forehead.

“I’m all right now, it’s starting to pass. I have a weak heart. It must be the kind of life I lead.”

“What does your family say about it?”

“It doesn’t seem to worry them.”

“You should lead a healthier life. Fresh air, exercise, get to bed early.”

“I know the story: lots of fish and vegetables.”

“No,” he responded, a bit disconcerted. “That’s not what I mean. I mean to love more honestly.”

“And die of boredom. No thanks. I decided long ago the kind of life I wanted. I plan only to pick the flowers, as my concierge would put it,” she said, lowering her voice and shooting him a quick, amused look.

He was strolling, staring at the ground, distracted, and hadn’t noticed she had looked at him. He raised his head with a certain regret, “And make a terrible mistake.”

“A mistake? Oh, I don’t want to get married, if that’s what you’re thinking. When I’m fifty and look back on my life, evaluate it, I’m convinced that I’ll be pleased with the results. At least I’ll have had love, dreams, kind words. I’ll have avoided — as we do a puddle on a rainy day — everything that was tedious and vulgar.”

“Even so, old age without children—”

“And no grandchildren, no aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, or any other relatives. The funeral at noon.”

“It’s useless.”

“I should redeem myself?”

A wind blew across their feet, coming from the sea, creating abrupt whirlwinds of dust. It bore thick clouds that traveled quickly across the sky, devouring the stars.

By the time they reached Plaça Molina, the sky was completely overcast and the wind panted ominously at the cross streets and above the rooftops.

“The night’s going to end dramatically!”

“I’ve already told you, I love the wind.”

Her cape was blowing horizontally. She took it off and handed it to him.

“Hold it for me.”

He took it, stopped, and glanced at the sky.

“Which side of Consell de Cent do you live on?”

“Facing the sea, going down Passeig de Gràcia, on the left. Why?”

“Let’s take the shortcut along Via Augusta. They’re working on the street, not an easy walk, but it’s quicker. I mean because of the weather.”

He was neither in a hurry nor concerned about the rain. He simply wanted to stroll down the broad, deserted street. It’ll seem like we’re alone in this world. Midway between Plaça Molina and the train platform at Gràcia was a garden with a very old plane tree right beside a gate, its foliage falling over onto the street. He knew he’d never forget the sound of the wind blowing through the branches of the tree as he walked beside the girl.

Suddenly raindrops began to fall. Scattered drops, round and fat, striking the ground with a dull sound that increased the intensity of the moment.

“Just what we needed.” The girl looked from one side to another, searching for shelter.

“If we want to find a doorway, we’ll have to run down to the pink house. There are only gardens along this stretch,” he said anxiously.

They would have to run like a couple of idiots. Damn rain that was ruining his reverie.

“Put on your cape, it’ll keep you from getting quite so wet.” He pulled up the ends of it and tied them at the level of her knees. “Will you be able to run?”

“I think so.”

Holding hands, they ran down the street, pursued by the rain, driven by the wind that pushed them to one side. From the ground rose a hot, asphyxiating smell of damp dust. The rain slackened for a moment; the cloud that had borne it passed, but a darker one was approaching.

•

By the time they reached the first portal a real downpour had started. They were too exhausted to speak. Their hearts and pulses raced. She took off the cape and shook the water off her, as a bird might.

She looked at the boy and burst out laughing.

“Poor costume,” she exclaimed, glancing down at her pleated skirt, all wet, the hem dirty. “If it were just a bit warmer, I would stand in the rain. When we’re out of town in the summer and it rains, I put on my bathing suit and go for a stroll along the beach. It’s wonderful.”

The wind blew the rain toward the other side of the street. In front of the house where they had taken shelter lay a patch of dry ground, some two meters wide. A streetlight shone on the opposite sidewalk. The girl gazed at it in silence for a long time, wrinkling her forehead. She kept opening and closing her eyes as if she were alone.

“Do what I’m doing and you won’t be so sad,” she said without turning her head. “Close your eyes a bit and look at the light. You’ll be amazed at the colors. You see? Green, red, blue.”

He closed his eyes and opened them slowly.

“I don’t see any colors.”

The girl was engrossed in the game and didn’t respond, as if she hadn’t heard him. After a while, she exclaimed, slightly annoyed.

“You must not be doing it right. You have to close your eyes, but not all the way. Leave a tiny crack, really small.”

The boy tried again, closing his lids, then opening them a little. But the yellowish light was unchanged.

“I don’t see a thing.”

“That means you’ll have a long life,” she said with a touch of disdain. “People who see seven colors die the following day. Today I’ve seen five. Wait, let me try again, see if it changes.”

The boy felt depressed, as if having a long life was a true sign of mediocrity. The girl held her breath, still submerged in her experiment.

“No. I can only see five. There was a blue that looked like it was going to turn purple. I was really scared.”

The game entertained them for a while before they noticed that the rain had stopped. Above the roofs, a cloud was slowly ripping apart, displaying a band of dark sky with a few stars visible on the edge. But you could still hear water falling all around, the sewers incapable of absorbing it all.

The boy sighed as if a nightmare had lifted.

“I was afraid we’d have rain all night. If you want my opinion, I think we need to hurry.”

“Wouldn’t you have enjoyed sleeping here in the doorway? I was starting to like the idea.”

For some time the boy had begun to feel impatient. His legs were cold, his back soaking wet, and he was unable to control the tremble in his knees.

“It’s stopped raining. We need to go.”

The girl stretched out her arm, looked up, but didn’t move.

“Where’s your mask?”

He’d removed the cardboard nose when they started running in the rain and was holding it by the elastic band.

“I’m not coming unless you put it on.”

With a condescending air he put on the mustache and nose without uttering a word. She noticed his forehead was full of bumps.

“You must have eaten something that didn’t agree with you.”

“Who, me? You mean because of my forehead? The doctor says it’s because I’m growing so fast.” Why did she have to notice these things? he thought.

They left the bright area by the doorway and entered a dimly lit neighborhood, walking along a seemingly abandoned street. Two dogs were rummaging through a pile of garbage, attracted by the nauseating stink. At the end of the street they could see the lights of the Diagonal.

They walked side by side, without saying a word. She held up her skirt and walked very slowly, hardly able to see where she stepped. Midway down the street, a shadow appeared and planted itself directly in front of them, demanding a light.

The man was tall and stocky, with a husky voice. A shorter shadow, as if it had just sprung from the earth, stood alongside.

“Sorry, I don’t have a light.” The boy was about to continue on when a hand as heavy as a hoof struck him across the chest.

“Hey, not so fast. Your money, first.”

The boy felt his stomach contracting and his eyes well up. Instinctively he tried to keep his head.

“Look, it may be Carnival time, but it’s too late for jokes.”

“I wonder what you look like without that disguise of yours. Listen to the little sparrow chirping. Does your mamma bring you worms?”

Suddenly he was blinded by the man’s flashlight.

“Send us a note when you get more hair on that face of yours. The little shit thinks I want to play games. Hand it over.”

The girl intervened, her voice trembling slightly.

“It’s not worth arguing,” she said, handing her purse to the large man.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Take a look at that star. Did it just pop out on your forehead like the Mother of God?”

As he spoke, the large man handed the purse to his companion.

“Count the money, Gabriel.”

The short man opened the purse and took out two bills.

“Twenty-five and twenty-five, fifty,” he said without enthusiasm.

“And you, brave little boy, you made up your mind yet?”

The boy was about to explode with anger.

“I’m not giving you anything.”

The large man shone the flashlight on him again. Using his index finger and thumb he pulled on the cardboard nose, as far as the elastic allowed, then let go of it.

“That’s for starters, and to wind this up—” and the man slapped him so hard he fell on the ground.

“Get up, you shit. Learned a lesson? Gabriel, get the girl’s chain and medal. When you make your first communion, your godfather’ll buy you another one.”

The little man walked behind the girl and tried to unfasten the chain.

“Shine the light over here. The clasp’s small, I can’t see.” The hefty man joined him, pointing the light. “Got it,” he said, handing over the chain and medal.

The boy had struggled to stand up. He was covered in mud, his mask bent sideways, his cheek aching.

“Don’t you want the star?” the girl asked, making an effort to smile.

The men didn’t bother replying.

“Clean out the kid, Gabriel.”

The short fellow went over and began going through his pockets. The stocky man laughed, “Don’t cut yourself, he has scissors.”

“But he’s short on dough.” From his pocket the man had pulled out a small, old wallet, its edges worn down.

“Two pesetas plus a five-peseta coin, seven pinched pesetas.”

The large man looked at the boy curiously and said: “All that hullabaloo for this, you ass?”

He buttoned his jacket, raised the lapels, and spat.

“Down the street.”

He turned to face the girl, tipped his hat, and said, “We’ll accompany you a while, princess. You’ll be safer with us. Want to take your mask off? No? As you like.”

They headed down the street, one man on either side of the girl, the boy following behind. He felt like crying. He could feel a lump in his throat, his eyes damp. The girl was talking to the men.

“You could at least have left me a few pesetas, enough to catch a taxi home. You did a great job, a bit over the top, but you can’t just leave a girl without a penny.”

“Maybe she’s right,” said the shorter man.

“Gabriel, stop being so romantic. Think about that steak.”

They reached the Diagonal.

“This is where we split. If you’re looking for better company, feel free to come along. You won’t get very far with this little guy.”

•

She waited till they had walked away. The two men disappeared around the corner, their jackets turned up, their caps set firmly on their heads. Then she went over to the boy, who was standing apart, and said, “Some adventure!”

The boy didn’t reply; he had a dark look. His outfit was muddy and wet. She didn’t dare say anything else. The wind had calmed; the night was gentle and velvety now. They walked slowly between the stunted palm trees along the Diagonal. Passeig de Gràcia was an explosion of light. The plane trees stood motionless, their branches just beginning to bud. The asphalt was stretched taut like skin, shiny with patches of light, and littered with papers and drooping flowers. Colored confetti hung from the trees and balconies, drops of water still falling from them. That was all that remained of the festa. Every now and then a car passed, the lights on inside, displaying sleepy, listless men and women in disguise.

“Why are you so worried?”

He couldn’t stand the silence any longer and began speaking with a serious voice.

“It’s not that I’m worried. It’s something much worse. I wanted to make this evening. . I don’t know how to explain. . a night like this! I wanted a memory, something I could cling to, keep for the future. Because I will never take any trips, or write poetry. And it’s not true that I study. I used to, now I work. I have a younger brother and I’m head of the household. So, now you know it all. You also know what a bad impression I’ve made. I’ve made a fool of myself.”

She was filled with a deep sadness. It was as if a secret reserve of anguish had melted in the bottom of his chest, risen to his throat, and turned yet again into pain. She stopped and looked at him steadily. Perhaps a long, sweet look from her could raise his spirits. Instinctively she took off her mask and laid it on the bench nearby. He was mesmerized. “You look like an angel.”

“Don’t make fun, a drop of water just fell on my nose.”

He gazed at her with a melancholy infatuation that she found disturbing. He seemed to have lost all sense of where they were or the time of day, as if for him the only thing that existed was her shy smile, those eyes of jet, her soft, flaxen hair falling limp on her round shoulders, smelling no doubt of fields in springtime. He must think I’ll always laugh at him when I remember this night, those men, laughing at him always, till the end of time.

They didn’t realize that they were walking again, or that houses were passing them by, or that trees were trailing behind as more appeared, inevitable as fate.

“Oh, I lost the flowers,” she exclaimed, pausing nervously. “Maybe I left them in the doorway when I was playing with the changing colors, or maybe those men. .” She stopped because to speak of the men was to confront him with that troubling memory. She bit her lips. She felt bad that she’d lost the flowers. She would have kept one in a book till it was dry as paper, had lost its perfume — it wasn’t even a gardenia — and when she stumbled across it in the future, it would have always evoked the color of night, the sound of the wind, her eighteen years, the years she felt she had lost as soon as she had gained them.

“The flowers? They’re not worth it.” He waited a moment, then smiled as he shrugged his shoulders and murmured, “Don’t give it another thought.”

The girl looked at him for a moment without speaking. She leaned her head to the side and gestured as if she were about to take his arm. Then she changed her mind.

“I don’t know why you’re upset over such an insignificant incident. It could have happened to anyone. I’m sure my being there made you feel inhibited; without me you’d have reacted differently. Now that you’ve told me things about yourself, I should tell you something about me.”

Her voice was strange, as if it she were straining to speak.

“You know what? It’s not true that I have a lover. I’ve never loved anyone. All my brother’s friends that liked me a little, I found them. . I don’t know how to explain it. It’s difficult to say the things the way we think them or feel them. I mean, all the boys who have liked me up till now left me indifferent. It’s probably that I don’t like young men and older men scare me a bit. Sometimes I’m convinced that I’m suffering from some strange illness, because I feel good all alone in my room, with my books, my thoughts. I know my thoughts aren’t particularly lofty; I’m not trying to sound grand. I don’t really know why I ran way from the party. I went with my brother and his fiancée. I shouldn’t say it, but I don’t like that my brother’s engaged. We were best friends. No brother and sister ever got along better. Nor is it true that I have a heart condition. Sometimes I can feel it beating fast and it’s because. . I’ll never find a substitute for my brother, someone who can be what my brother was to me.”

He felt a sadness rising from deep within him. He’d have given his life to be able to replace her brother.

“When I saw him dancing with her I felt terribly abandoned. I was filled with this furious desire to go home, gather together all the pictures of us when we were little and look at them one by one, to be able to feel myself again in all the places where they were taken. What is true is that I’m going to Paris, but it’s because my father’s French and he’s just signed a three-year contract. He’s an engineer and will be working on a dam. We’ll just be passing through Paris. Then we’ll be cooped up in a sleepy old town, and one day I’ll marry a man just like my father, who’ll come to me, as if he had been born old, with a certain tendency toward obesity. .” She laughed.

They heard a clock strike three, resounding in the night, slowly, forlornly. The air was crisp, the stars twinkled like diamonds, the trees gave off a tender, freshwater scent. “And I’ll have a proper wedding. Or maybe I’ll devote myself to perfecting the education of my brother’s children when they visit us in summer.” She sighed deeply, affected by the insidious magic of the hour and the night. “I won’t marry for love or merely to serve my own interest. Or maybe I’ll marry for both these reasons. I’ll have an orderly house filled with jars and jars of marmalade and summer preserves made for winter and large wardrobes with neatly folded clothes. If I have children, they’ll have what I’ve had: heat in winter and the broad sea in summer. In other words, I’ll be a scullery-maid Titania.”

She gave a tired smile that turned unexpectedly into a laugh that was young and frank, crystalline.

“When I ran into you tonight, I suddenly wanted to invent another life for myself.”

“Me too. I’d been saving my money for three months so I could rent this costume, not even catching the tram, and I live in Gràcia but work on Carrer de la Princesa. When my father was alive we had everything we needed. One day he went to bed feeling very ill and never got up. What little we had disappeared with his illness and the funeral. It was really hard for me. I had to give up everything I enjoyed, all my plans. Everything. We were really alone, and I was the oldest child. I had to make a real show of pretense, so as not to add to my mother’s grief. It’s kind of ridiculous that I’m explaining all this, complaining. It shows a poor spirit. My life would make a great dime novel. Here I’d been saving for three months, thinking I’d have fun with my friends, but as soon as I saw myself in this costume, I was embarrassed. I did go out with my friends, but they were all with their girlfriends; and after we’d been in the park up on Tibidabo for a while, they disappeared without my realizing. I walked for a long time, I sat for a while on a bench by the funicular. . but that’s not true. It’s painful to tell the truth. I went up Tibidabo because a friend of mine works in a restaurant there, and he told me to stop by and see him. He gave me the pastries we ate. I sat on the park bench, thinking how terribly boring life was, and gazed at the night, the lights of the city below me, till I was tired.”

“The kind of things that occur on the night of Carnival, no?”

•

Carnival had ended. The wind and rain had helped it die. We too have died a bit, he thought, or the ghosts we have left along the way. No one would be able to see them at the top of Avinguda del Tibidabo, with the pastries and champagne, by the gate with the perfume of the false gardenias, at the door where they had sheltered during the rain. It was all far away, indistinct, a bit absurd, as if it had never happened.

“Will you give me your address in France?”

“I don’t even know it yet.”

She, however, would never again remember that night. The sound of the train taking her away would erase the last vestiges of it. But he. . he would never find another girl like her, with that smile, that hair. From time to time he would see her blurred outline standing in front of him, her image evoked by a certain perfume, a sigh of leaves, a swarm of ghostly stars at the back of the sky, a silence that suddenly manifests itself.

“You know what I’m going to do one day?” he said, his voice faltering, pronouncing each word distinctly, cautiously, as if walking a tightrope, afraid of falling into the impenetrable void of melancholy.

“No, I don’t.”

“I’ll go to the little square off Avinguda del Tibidabo and I’ll shout ‘Titania’ and listen for the echo. Then I’ll cry ‘Titania’ again and again till I tire. You know, perhaps it’s only when you’re young that you wish so desperately that now would last, that nothing we have would ever end. We wish it even more when what we have now seems the best thing possible.”

“I think you’re right. You see, my parents are pleased that we’re leaving, but for me. .? It’s like having my hand cut off. If my brother were coming with us, I don’t know, maybe I’d be excited about moving to a new country, new people, other friends. But my brother is staying, he’s getting married before we leave. All these streets that are part of me, this sky, everything that has made me what I am — it’ll all be lost. Some of it will vanish within a few days, some a few months from now, till finally after many years—”

They had reached Consell de Cent and crossed Passeig de Gràcia. The asphalt, still shiny from the rain, was beginning to have large dark patches of dry spots. The night would soon end. A faint suggestion of light began to appear on the horizon, at the end of the streets, above the houses, in the direction of the sea. Soon the sky would prevail and the stars would begin to fade one by one.

The girl stopped in front of a luxurious house. Through the large door made of iron and glass you could see the carpeted marble stairs. That’s it, it’s all over, he thought. He would have liked to find himself lying on a beach beside her, listening to the waves.

“I’m home” she exclaimed cheerfully, with that abrupt change from sadness to joy that was so characteristic of her. “I can say it now: when we met those men, I thought I might never come back.”

She wasn’t sure what to say, how she should say good-bye to the boy who’d been her companion for the last few hours. She was a little sorry she had confided in him. If she had the power of a real fairy, with a wave of her magic wand she would have made him disappear, or maybe turned him into a tree, and she wouldn’t have to think any more about it. But he was there by her side, filled with passion. It struck her that she might never rid herself of him. She was filled with a sense of cruelty. It’s not cruel; it’s just that I’m sleepy. A sweet lethargy pervaded her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she struggled to keep them open. She wanted to be in her own room, take off her clothes, put on fresh pajamas, lie flat in her bed and sleep a dreamless night.

It was as if he’d been bewitched. He couldn’t take his eyes off the reflections in the door; he could see the branches of a tree, its newborn leaves swaying in the air, dappling the glass with lights and shadows.

“The time has come for us to separate,” he said with a sigh, then added with a voice filled with regret, “but first I’d like to ask you something.”

Through the mist of her exhaustion she thought, If he can just ask quickly. . because exhaustion had enveloped her, her eyes, arms, legs, conquering her whole body and spirit. She felt as if she had never slept and her eighteen years of not sleeping demanded to be rectified in one single night.

When she didn’t respond, he struggled to find the right words and continued, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I don’t know how to say it. Before I leave, I’d like to — your beautiful hair—”

The words flew from his thoughts, like birds from a branch, and he was left with only a stammer. He didn’t know how to ask her if he could touch her hair.

“I think you have some confetti in—”

“Why don’t you get it out?”

She smiled at him, as if encouraging him.

The boy reached out his arm, his hand trembling as if it weren’t part of his body. He touched her hair, caressing it.

“Shall we say good-bye now?”

“Adéu.”

She opened the door, but before disappearing into the shadow of the stairs, she turned her head and said tenderly,

“Adéu.”

“Adéu.”

But she probably didn’t hear him. The door had shut with a dry, metallic clang.

•

The boy stood for a moment before the house, hesitating, suddenly feeling restored to the night, the street, to his most naked reality, as if the sound of the door banging had cut him off from another world. He had nothing left, only that silken touch on his fingertips, perhaps a bit of golden dust, the kind butterflies leave. I’ve fallen madly in love, he thought. Slowly he began walking beneath the trees. A gust of wind stirred the leaves around him. He felt the cold nipping the back of his thigh and instinctively felt for the rip. He started walking faster.

“What will they say when I return the costume?”

A stray dog spotted him from a distance, ran over, and started following him. An alarm clock rang on the opposite side of the street, disconsolate, as if trying to awaken a corpse.