boarding houses sups in shirt-sleeves and suspenders.
The household cat would be asleep at her feet. It was an ashen white cat as if it lived in and out of the coal cellar; old and fat, and had spent her life being pregnant. In my time, that animal had retired and enjoyed a less hectic life, showing a marked preference for the horizontal position, and had become small and black, with a white spot on its face, that gave its eyes a strange glassy look.
The behavior of the dog of the house, Murillo by name, was highly unpredictable. It depended on the day. Sometimes he barked without rhyme or reason, ran around creating a hullaballoo, went up and downstairs at top speed, pointlessly chasing bits of paper the wind gusted into the air. At others he wouldn’t budge, even when clipped with an old shoe; he would wilt sadly, as if he were living on his memories, and spend the day lying on the balcony, his neck between two bars of the balustrade, his head overhanging the void.
At the time, Sr Verdaguer was the man of trust in the place. He was a middle-aged man from Lleida, with a boxer’s face, somewhat down-in-the-mouth, but in good health, brown-to-olive skinned, always clean-shaven, sleek-haired, permanently in his Sunday best, if in a rather apologetically lurid style. He wore an aquamarine, double-breasted jacket rendered threadbare and shiny by too much brushing, and over-large but gleaming polished shoes; a much darned silk-shirt; a slightly tattered tie knotted skillfully to make it look fine, and an old-fashioned hat, with a small, curled brim – 1914 vintage – that was bone-hard, the consequence of the struggle between SrVerdaguer’s sweating skull and the potency of stain-removing paraffin. The jacket, his prominent cheekbones and almond eyes helped give the man from Lleida a distinctive mien. Don Natali – that was his first name – was also addicted to embroidered waistcoats, no doubt in the hope of suggesting that his vigorous demeanor wasn’t entirely incompatible with a high level of sophisticated charm. Any excuse was good for him to sport one or another, and that was easy enough because he owned several, in a variety of styles and colors, flowery or plain; among the latter, one in particular stood out, a subtle, striking waistcoat the color of Xixona nougat. He accompanied it with a pearl tiepin and a diamond on his pinkie. Out in the street, he was an accomplished giver of greetings, and when greeting a lady he knew just how long to hold his hat level with his chest, as if he were going on a procession. When he bared his head, people admired the angle of his perfect parting, a veritable product of cranial design that sliced through sleek hair plastered down with brilliantine.
The life of Don Natali would have been a real mystery if he hadn’t helped throw light on it with that lapidary phrase: “Young man, a boarding house is a way of working …”
He had no known trade or source of income. He got up late. If it was sunny, he picked up his silver-topped, high quality, shiny black walking stick, shouted
Murillo
and, if the dog was feeling energetic, he’d join him for the walk that Don Natali called a “victory march.” This involved walking two or three times round the Plaça de Catalunya, gaping for a while at the buildings being constructed or demolished and then sitting on a bench – after he’d spread a clean handkerchief over the stone – to observe people feeding the local pigeons. Don Natali scrutinized these birds with loving tenderness. One day when I found him sitting on his bench, I tried to probe which of their features he preferred. I said, “Don Natali, these pigeons wouldbe excellent stewed, with mixed herbs and three strong-smelling spring onions …”
“No, sir!” he replied, leaping off his handkerchief. “In my opinion, young man, the pigeon is a symbolic bird, a symbol of love. I find it pitiful, if not intolerable, for humans to devour these noble, innocent
The household cat would be asleep at her feet. It was an ashen white cat as if it lived in and out of the coal cellar; old and fat, and had spent her life being pregnant. In my time, that animal had retired and enjoyed a less hectic life, showing a marked preference for the horizontal position, and had become small and black, with a white spot on its face, that gave its eyes a strange glassy look.
The behavior of the dog of the house, Murillo by name, was highly unpredictable. It depended on the day. Sometimes he barked without rhyme or reason, ran around creating a hullaballoo, went up and downstairs at top speed, pointlessly chasing bits of paper the wind gusted into the air. At others he wouldn’t budge, even when clipped with an old shoe; he would wilt sadly, as if he were living on his memories, and spend the day lying on the balcony, his neck between two bars of the balustrade, his head overhanging the void.
At the time, Sr Verdaguer was the man of trust in the place. He was a middle-aged man from Lleida, with a boxer’s face, somewhat down-in-the-mouth, but in good health, brown-to-olive skinned, always clean-shaven, sleek-haired, permanently in his Sunday best, if in a rather apologetically lurid style. He wore an aquamarine, double-breasted jacket rendered threadbare and shiny by too much brushing, and over-large but gleaming polished shoes; a much darned silk-shirt; a slightly tattered tie knotted skillfully to make it look fine, and an old-fashioned hat, with a small, curled brim – 1914 vintage – that was bone-hard, the consequence of the struggle between SrVerdaguer’s sweating skull and the potency of stain-removing paraffin. The jacket, his prominent cheekbones and almond eyes helped give the man from Lleida a distinctive mien. Don Natali – that was his first name – was also addicted to embroidered waistcoats, no doubt in the hope of suggesting that his vigorous demeanor wasn’t entirely incompatible with a high level of sophisticated charm. Any excuse was good for him to sport one or another, and that was easy enough because he owned several, in a variety of styles and colors, flowery or plain; among the latter, one in particular stood out, a subtle, striking waistcoat the color of Xixona nougat. He accompanied it with a pearl tiepin and a diamond on his pinkie. Out in the street, he was an accomplished giver of greetings, and when greeting a lady he knew just how long to hold his hat level with his chest, as if he were going on a procession. When he bared his head, people admired the angle of his perfect parting, a veritable product of cranial design that sliced through sleek hair plastered down with brilliantine.
The life of Don Natali would have been a real mystery if he hadn’t helped throw light on it with that lapidary phrase: “Young man, a boarding house is a way of working …”
He had no known trade or source of income. He got up late. If it was sunny, he picked up his silver-topped, high quality, shiny black walking stick, shouted
Murillo
and, if the dog was feeling energetic, he’d join him for the walk that Don Natali called a “victory march.” This involved walking two or three times round the Plaça de Catalunya, gaping for a while at the buildings being constructed or demolished and then sitting on a bench – after he’d spread a clean handkerchief over the stone – to observe people feeding the local pigeons. Don Natali scrutinized these birds with loving tenderness. One day when I found him sitting on his bench, I tried to probe which of their features he preferred. I said, “Don Natali, these pigeons wouldbe excellent stewed, with mixed herbs and three strong-smelling spring onions …”
“No, sir!” he replied, leaping off his handkerchief. “In my opinion, young man, the pigeon is a symbolic bird, a symbol of love. I find it pitiful, if not intolerable, for humans to devour these noble, innocent
Similar Books
