Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth

Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth

Author:Salvador Espriu [Espriu, Salvador]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781564787729
Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press
Published: 2012-08-28T00:00:00+00:00


Vulgar History

Now and again a shy voice passes by asking for the sick

man and . . . afterward departs, saying: God will provide!

Misfortune has settled there, like a shadow . . . If the

neighbor dies, misfortune shrinks down into the hard and

concrete form of a cadaver . . . And on another day he will

be buried: and the shadow will already be gone.

Miró, «Señor Vicario y Manihuel» (Años y lenguas)

I

«Poor boy!»

«Poor parents!»

A group of old relatives (chiaroscuroed by their witches’ beards) held vigil over the dreams of the sick boy.

«Poor parents!»

«Poor boy!»

In the long run, the monotony of fingering the rosary tired them out, distracted them. They tumbled down a slope of nosy prattling now. Night in the chamber. Above the dresser-drawer, an eager desire for a miracle lit the subtle hope of a lamp. The flame lifted the prayer of intercession until it formed an image. The fire’s rising soul illuminated slightly the saint’s garments and forgot, in the darkness, the bed, the panting, the distress. The mother, official sufferer, clasped her hands in a silent lament for her dying son, who was already a man, and who not long ago was fine and happy, and now he was dying, he was dying with no cure. Some blow, too many blows, as a child!

«Poor boy!»

It is a pause in the run of fragments, homage to the most important belief. They are related witches, fair in their words; they have too much experience with all of these moments. The lamp trembles (oh, no, only a little bit of air through the crack, only a little bit of air). The sick boy’s forehead burns an officious hand.

«Such a hard worker.»

«There wasn’t another like him!»

The doctor arrived, despairing. The rector. He said grace. Who else? Ah, enough, enough, you know! Lady Rodesinda, the mistress in charge. Pale, thin, she draws close. Is this Lliset? Poor woman, she collapsed! The old women, admiring, compassionate, supported her with reverence.

«She loved him so much!»

Preterite, of course, imperfect.

«She was his godmother.»

«And she saw him born.»

«What a great heart!»

Recovered, Rodesinda embraced the mother; crying, she made a helping gesture. Coins, not many, jingled. Everyone praised the generous impulse of the mistress.

«The kind woman!»

«She can’t stand to see suffering.»

«May God pay her as well as she does the wretched.»

Some heterodox voice whispered:

«She’ll bill them at the close the year.»

They objected:

«Sure. Whatever comes after, hidden, does not erase the visible present of this moment, now. The woman is a saint!»

The excessive praise ran in voluptuous droplets down that excessively thin and virginal back. She collapsed again. They carried her out.



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