Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) by Salvador Espriu Page B

legitimate star. He corrected me, he shamed me, he knew the last secret and the latest discovery of the latest school of thought. He understood wines, watches, philosophy, cacti, jurisprudence, medicine and the music of Bach, Buddhist eudaimonia , and fifty thousand other things. He was a competent orator, the future of Humanity, past tense of the animal branch itself, passing for stylistic French distinction and joie de vivre , and the feminine heart. With his experience he would have been a really sharp film critic. My God, how he counter-asserted! In Syracuse, in the catacombs of S. Giovanni, he and a friar who was accompanying us argued about the name of the bones of the martyrs that were buried there. Naturally, the conversation degenerated into an examination of the dates conserved regarding the coming of Saint Paul to Rome and the analysis of the scientific solvency of the evidence traditionally presented to this end. An hour from Lassa, he argued with Jetsunma Neel about the properties of a few syntactical varieties of “ Kyapdo. ” Jetsunma, from drowsiness, was about to cross the benedictions of Nub-dewa-Tsxen. In Debra Libanos he lost himself with the Abun Ias ú in an endless digression on the wonders of Saint Tekla Haimanot. The Abun wanted to have him burned, and it ’ s a shame that he escaped it. In Kairouan, in the Mosque of the Sabers, he couldn ’ t manage to agree with Ishaq ibn Mansur, snake charmer, from the M ā lik ī school. They spoke of the meanings of “ adl ” within the general “ Sahadic ” system. Ishaq defended Ibn Arafah ’ s definition as correct. Hildebrand opposed him with Ad-Dardir. Ishaq accused him of “ hawarig. ” They reconciled at the end of the neutral, limitative camp of the four Kaba ’ ir. »
    « Eh! » Trinquis said, growing impatient, getting fed up.
    That pitiful-looking man said:
    « Pardon, I will keep it brief. One day we arrived in that great country Konil ò sia. In Lav í nia, our city, the most beautiful dance is danced, literature of the highest standard produced, and the town is probably conscientious by obligation, and totalitarian against its will. There, I met a girl. »
    He paused to cough. Then continued:
    « A girl with large eyes, slender then. She loved me, we married, we were happy. But Hildebrand, who desired her, worked diligently through the night. He organized a systematic campaign to discredit me. The woman was very religious. One day, Hildebrand steered the conversation toward the Inquisition. We argued. About this I had clear ideas, principles: the Inquisition, you all know it, etc. He made himself into an apologist for it. Full of shock, the woman found me hardly fervent, and she devoted herself to Hildebrand. »
    Then he said:
    « This shame liberated me. Here ’ s how it happened: Hildebrand had, a few days later, an exceptionally laborious bout of indigestion. He obliged me to leave with him, to help him. He had been drinking. We walked a while in silence. Suddenly, he took to conceitedly glorifying his conquest. He exasperated me, but the custom of servitude impeded me from acting out. And then rang the hour of my liberation. Hildebrand, and this was unusual, began to tell me things in confidence. I had never heard a thing about him, about his life. That afternoon I learned everything. And as he showed me his soul, his influence disappeared, and I recovered my will. From external, historical confidences we moved to the most intimate of details. “ You know? ” Hildebrand said to me. “ I have sixty-three red spots on my skin, from the nape of my neck to my waist. ” The self-importance in this I found unbearable. “ No! ” I responded. “ Surely you don ’ t have that many, let ’ s count them. ” He had transferred to me his spirit of contradiction. Turning pale, he tried to recover his position. He coaxed back his old voice and insulted me: “ Ask your lady. She   .   .   .   ” He didn ’ t finish. At the doors of