Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) (6 page)

«
It is neither mockery nor pedantry. Above all, it is not pedantry,
»
assured the sensitive and cultured Miravitlles.
«
I do not know Hebrew either, and I hope that this unknown word does not frighten us: that is all I seek. How your indifferent laughter would freeze if you all knew it! However, in order to tell you the story of my run-in with Zaraat, I am counting on your ignorance as a strong ally.
»

«
Ugh!
»
voices protested.

The narrator continued:

«
A curious, stimulated person, were they to hurriedly consult any dictionary, would say, trembling:
“
Zaraat in this day and age? Lie. We do not pay heed to medieval fantasies.
”
There are specters so distant from, so foreign to our lives, that we arrive at morbid extremes in our desire to have contact with them, with their impossible presence. I, I myself forever longed to encounter Zaraat; I felt fascinated by his legend. Zaraat now suddenly spoke to me, through the mouth of that woman. Zaraat the banished, the ancient, the reviled, who delighted in infinite putrefactions. Yes, latent then as well: Zaraat, a step away. The ravenous Zaraat, one step away, waiting to pounce on me from the mouth of a miserable woman, and, wracked with agony from wanting to evade her, I cried out for help in the form of a feeble and useless science of pots and jars. Naked horror before the mirror that was Zaraat, where she celebrated, eyeing me the entire time. There is no emotion more steeped in the broth of literary ruins, I tell you, than my run-in with Zaraat. Strong, brutal, clear poetry. Zaraat, present there, and me before her, still, alone, abandoned, and good. Secundina Llopart, present there without making sense of its meaning, effusively, corporeally pitying, the luckless woman. She stopped her, kissed her, she did not know that she was speaking with Zaraat. How far away the Middle Ages, how far away the choice blasphemies of Joinville,
⁵
pardoned by a saint, a selection that our poorly-plugged, dainty, anemone-like ears cannot hear. Zaraat with everything, a step away; exit without motive, without logic. Strong, unashamed of her putrefaction in the glaciered sunlight.
»

«
New Cicero,
»
went the snide, admiring murmurs.

The orator continued:

«
And, of course, before me the victim, a woman with a voice still beautiful, who Zaraat felt the need to respect. A poor, hardworking woman, mother of many small children. It was already a heavily burdensome process, and she, fooled, knew nothing about it until the end. The woman relived her long days of misery, counting them and arriving at no end: a burden and a societal travesty, with one exception to my benefit: I can bring her to the attention of all of you. Sad, tearful, the woman ignored her link with Zaraat. Secundina Llopart consoled her effusively, physically. If only she were to have translated the name! The secret, so close to tumbling from the throat: count, here, Zaraat. What a leap Secundina would have taken! What would she have made with her effusive, physical, noisy compassion? The scream, a mouth, Zaraat. But also lonely, unfortunate, tearful, sad, human.
»

«
So, you didn
’
t reveal the secret?
»
someone asked.

«
No, I preferred to extend a hand to Zaraat,
»
responded Miravitlles.
«
I extended a hand to her even though I remembered the words of Joinville. Heroism, self-control, literature? Whatever it is that is wanted, may it serve me,
“
while the hour to praise Santa Maria comes to me,
”
to even out the balance of so very many shortcomings. Meanwhile, I did not stop washing myself for two days, until I began to chafe, the palm of my hand infected.
»

«
Of course, the soap!
»
pondered a few of the unconditionally conscientious.

«
You exaggerate, you dramatize,
»
Doctor Robuster i Tramusset
—
licensed only in medicine and introduced unexpectedly
—
said, letting the air out of the room.
«
The danger of contagion from the authentic Zaraat (because you can
’
t forget that it is a rather imprecise and ambiguous word and, moreover, rather difficult to transcribe with adequate diacritics) has been during all epochs very relative. On the other hand, you can certainly believe it to be a problem now practically solved. With diaminodiphenylsulfone or any equivalent substance. The medication must be ordered, as is notoriously the case, with extreme prudence.
»

«
And it is administered if there are sharp reactions, or, in isolated cases, corticoids,
»
answered the modest and encyclopedic Miravitlles.
«
I give it to you that the latest techniques have entirely changed the subject. But my anecdote is from quite a few years ago, though it would be no pleasure to be cornered by Zaraat even today,
»
he added with model level-headedness, as the entertainingly vengeful and ignorant debaters, all laboratory propaganda shut out of the honorable and short controversy, realized with cruel clarity that the developing story had ended on the tail of a fish.

5
Jean de Joinville (1224
–
1317): French writer and chronicler.

Revised, to Joan Triad
ú
.

«
You
’
re in the cloister,
»
I said to my skeleton,
«
and you
’
re not saluting the presence and the miracle of the magnolias?
»
«
Lyrics now? I
’
m tired, sit down,
»
my skeleton commanded.
«
Not even you can free me from impending death?
»
I queried the trees.
«
Must I always feel a slave to these abominable bones?
»
«
Ai, poor, poor us!
»
responded the flowering magnolias.
«
We can
’
t help you, a curse bewitches us, we dare not move. Don
’
t you see how the young palm envies us?
»
And they shook their ultra-green foliage as proof of their useless tenderness.
«
The young palm doesn
’
t like me,
»
I said.
«
It will never fail to reach the bell tower and the old bells. You would end up missing those peaks tremendously,
»
I said to the yellow palm.
«
I don
’
t know why you insist upon continuing bowed in the stifling cloister. Every morning, at dawn, the swallows dispatch to the old mothers a desert welcome, one from far-off shadows, the cry of prayer to distant minarets. Wouldn
’
t it please you to hear it, wouldn
’
t it appeal to you?
»
But the palm was silent and spied with great spite the beauty of the magnolias. Meanwhile, the sun had spread out over the slabs of the cloister, and the gothic cobwebs of the altars remained in the dark. The paintbrush of gold extended its offering back above the chill of the sculptures.
«
You, with the spell on the immobilized magnolias,
»
I then yelled at the palm,
«
you could have at least told me how to free myself from my carcass.
»
«
Ask the water,
»
the palm suddenly yelled back at me.
«
I
’
m just looking at the magnolias. I
’
ve been looking at them for years, absorbing, little by little, their beauty, but I haven
’
t sapped them dry yet, and I
’
m ignoring whether it will allow me in the end to proclaim that I am beautiful. Tell me that I am,
»
commanded the palm.
«
Talk to my bones,
»
I responded as I went toward the fountain and the geese
’
s sink. The peacefulness of water trickled from the fountain.
«
This water was just born and probably doesn
’
t know the secret,
»
I thought.
«
I
’
ll go ask the settling surface of the geese
’
s sink. I
’
d quarreled,
»
I said,
«
with my skeleton, this, my unbearable guest. I live enslaved by him, as unknown as he is intimate. How did we end up linked?
»
But the water was sleeping.
«
Gwak, gawk,
»
cried seven geese, emerging from a corner.
«
Are you interrogating your servant? Don
’
t you know the water is all ours; that its science belongs to us? It can only reflect our steps, our flight.
»
And they broke into seven pieces the water
’
s silence.
«
Well, everyone talks like me, doesn
’
t it seem?
»
the skeleton said.
«
You won
’
t be able to separate me from you, our embrace is supreme. You
’
ll never know me completely, nor name nor break my embrace. Let
’
s make peace.
»
«
You are mud and I hate you,
»
I responded.
«
Prisoner of the fear of feeling you, I sense you hidden and about to appear, you are mine and at the same time I don
’
t know you. You never dare show your ugliness in the flesh, and I am your mask. Who will free me from your presence? Perhaps I will ask Aglaia.
»
«
Since when do you believe in her ability?
»
the skeleton noted ironically.
«
But I won
’
t deny myself entry to your enclosures. May she preside over this quarrel.
»
And we went through the miracle door.

«
I always sensed you so alone, so small and alone, between the trembling of the candles in the gloom of your chapel, the vacillating clamors, the tearless moaning,
»
Aglaia said.
«
The ruptured eye cannot wet its prayer,
»
I said:
«
how welcome you this? Leave me to clear the gold of your altar with this present you have always possessed. If my gift does not buy your thaumaturgy I will talk to you of the sun, of the magnolias, of the water. You do not know all these things, despite your power, since the gloom envelops you, and at your side there is a cloister, and life, and you cannot turn around and see them. I will talk to you of that, and my eyes will serve as your guide while you allow me to regard the skeleton, this death I wear within me, a death I tow forever. And I want to know it, in order to name it and free myself of it. The magnolias are in such bloom!
»
«
How will I see what you say, if my eyes were plucked out in martyrdom?
»
Aglaia asked me.
«
I don
’
t have eyes, but I lift my sockets to heaven and do not know if I
’
m gazing at full brightness or into the void. And those who believe in that which I love do not feel your worry.
»
«
If you feel this way it is that you do not believe in he whom she loves,
»
the skeleton, between laughs, concluded.
«
You
’
ve failed miserably, let
’
s go.
»
And we returned to the cloister. The geese pecked at the moon
’
s radiance in the drops that sprinkled down from the fountain. I stopped for a moment to contemplate them, and then, suddenly, picked up my pace again.
«
Never, never in my life have you felt this heavy to me,
»
I said to my skeleton.
«
I can barely drag you, you load!
»
«
Charity for a blind man,
»
psalmed a shadow at the door of the cloister.
«
May the saint save you all from this misfortune. Seeing or doing first is not everything.
»
«
The palm is so jealous of us!
»
sang still the magnolias.
«
It is yellow from so much envy and you cannot do anything, anything at all but stoke it. Her passion bewitches us. But what would become of us without the envy of the palm?
»
they concluded, shaking their ultra-green foliage with delight.
«
The magnolias also speak like the skeleton. And the water, and the geese, the blind man, the palm, and Aglaia,
»
I sadly thought.
«
Almost, I almost love you. Perhaps it is you whom I love,
»
my skeleton offered.
«
Yes. Will you accept, this once, my embrace?
»
it rejoiced.
«
What do you want me to say, what choice do I have,
»
I said. And we accompanied each other, already close friends, through the streets and around the corners, conquering obstacles made of moon and shadow.

«
O, dixit, felicem, conjuge matrem!
»
⁶

Ovid,
Metamorphoses
, X, 422

«
Ni tampoco pienses que alg
ú
n caso de
amores espantara mi vejez, pues tu gentileza
y mocedad te excusan de ser culpada.
»
⁷

Crist
ó
bal de Villal
ó
n,
Tragedia de Mirrha

I

«
Do you understand? Do you understand?
»
Myrrha said to the horrified old nurse.
«
You don
’
t have the guts to say the damned word. Crime, incest: these are empty words to me; some say that in other places these words have no meaning. And I have to be condemned for the sake of some unjust law? I
’
m forbidden from what
’
s most likely good for the blacks? The gods have a double precept according to skin-color for just this very situation? The beasts breed among themselves without a thought of blood relations, and they, too, are the work of the immortals. Reason and racial pedigree put roadblocks in the way of our desires? Ai, old nurse, as if! If my passion is a sacrilege, then let me follow the dark path to the Three Sisters. O free me, with your art, to love Cinyras. Because I love him.
»
«
I have lived through much, and almost nothing scares me,
»
the old nurse answered.
«
But this is too much. Don
’
t you know that what you desire violates the most sacred laws of the gods?
»
«
Don
’
t judge, old nurse, clutching at Jurisprudence with your concepts, because they
’
re malleable. No sermons, dear. Words have no content to me, and, as you already know, I have a ton of them at my disposal. You were responsible for my knowing Cinyras, and so leave my soul tied to its destiny.
»
«
And what
’
s that?
»
asked the old nurse.
«
A word that just came to me,
»
Myrrha responded.
«
I
’
ll offer it to the philosophers.
»
«
In their hands you
’
ll end up with a fine muddle, praise be to the gods,
»
said the old nurse.
«
As I don
’
t want you to die,
»
she added,
«
and I am trying to see myself in your position (you are young, pretty, and Cinyras is still rather handsome), a mere shaken crumb, I will take your side. I will help you. From top to bottom, there is not a single order established by the gods that cannot be trespassed, with their blessing. May the Silent Ones be in your favor, child.
»
«
Thank you,
»
Myrrha said.

II

And came the days of the Cerealia. And Cenchreis, mother of Myrrha, as is custom, left the palace to worship these days. And therefore, Myrrha, helped by the old nurse, could finally satisfy her passion.

«
Are you pleased?
»
the old nurse asked after the first night.
«
Extremely so, yes, I
’
m happy. Now I know the worth of what we call life. Approaching the bed I stumbled three times, but Cinyras
’
arms made me forget the sinister omens. How handsome and strong Cinyras is, an inexhaustible hero!
»
«
It is all for a good purpose, child. Nevertheless, the omens are sinister. We are trespassing the law, despite no blood having yet been spilled. May Magaera and the other two circle far from your head. And far from mine,
»
the old nurse said.

III

«
And that scares you?
»
the eunuch asked the old nurse.
«
Here in our country it
’
s business as usual. The bond of love is strengthened by so many complex knots, and is so strong that not even the gods can destroy it.
»
The smeared black skin shone in the darkness.
«
But you don
’
t know how to guard a secret, old woman: you
’
re a chatterbox. Why have you come to blabber to me about this story? I have other things more important to do than listen to you.
»
He hushed for a moment, deep in thought, and then laughed.
«
And anyway, old woman, I fear that the anecdote isn
’
t really so over the top, not even when judged according to the laws of your own people. Don
’
t you recall, lady, that, just before becoming expectant with Myrrha, Cenchreis loved? And not, I believe, Cinyras; not at all.
»
A footstep was heard in the darkness.
«
Shh, it
’
s Myrrha!
»
the old nurse said, shocked.

IV

«
How miserable, how miserable I am!
»
moaned Myrrha.
«
Is what the black said true?
»
she asked.
«
I
’
m not certain,
»
the old nurse responded, timidly.
«
But then again it was talked about, and someone was brave enough to make a mockery of Cinyras.
»
«
Useless, doddering twit!
»
cried Myrrha.
«
And I had to give up my integrity, my shame? And here I was thinking I had violated the most severe law of the Silent Ones! Now I
’
ll be the laughing-stock of gods and men. All of this is your fault, old woman; but listen to me: if I die, you will have to go before me down the path to the Shadow.
»
«
Certainly not!
»
shrieked the old nurse.
«
Myrrha, princess, what is it that you
’
re after? Forget the words of the slave, rumors. I will tell you, under oath, the true word: Cenchreis never knew another man but Cinyras.
»
«
The handsome, strong, powerful Cinyras, the inexhaustible hero!
»
Myrrha exulted, already more calm. And the two women disappeared down the corridor toward the chamber.
«
And Ovid tells what happened next,
»
Efrem Pedagog, salivating, lectured. And he decided to continue the story.
«
Hey!
»
said Senyora Maria Castell
ó
, cutting him off suddenly. And no one added a single word more.

6
“
O, Mother,
”
she said,
“
how happy in your husband!
”

7
Nor think it some case of love frigtening away my old age, for your kindness and youth accuse you of being to blame.