Praise for Víctor Català

"The novel's folk tales, with their scent of cruelty, linger in the mind, as do the icy, unforgiving vistas below . . . It's this sense of place that gives Solitude its power."--New York Times

"The seamless translation faithfully illuminates the lucid, brilliant prose of this Catalan author."--Publishers Weekly on Solitude

"I swallowed the words as if swallowing the mighty, varied, inextinguishable sound of a solo like Duke Ellington's; and on every page I was tempted to stop, to laugh heartily with all my throat and clap. I had never read anything in Catalan that made me so euphoric."--Maria Bohigas

"From a perfectly assumed cultural position, with a clear literary consciousness and challenging boldness (the dignification of popular cultural consumption), Víctor Català offers us a mature work, which in his time could not be appreciated."--Lluís Busquets, Diari de Girona

Victor Català was the pseudonym of the novelist and short story writer, Caterina Albert (1869-1966). Her early works--especially Solitude--were representative of the Modernist movement in Spain and reflected her interest in writing about rural settings. As trends changed, she incorporated more elements of cinema and civic concern into her writings, most notably in A Film, first published in Catalan 1926.

Peter Bush is an award-winning translator who lives in Barcelona. His translations include Juan Goytisolo's Níjar Country, Teresa Solana's A Shortcut to Paradise, Alain Badiou's In Praise of Love, Josep Pla's ?The Gray Notebook?, and several collections by Quim Monzó, among many others.
God be with you, my reader! It?s been years since you and I bumped into one another in the helter-skelter of a new book. Circumstances gagged my garrulous pen, and a long pause was opened in our dialogue. If I?m piping up again, it?s not because I?ve got anything very riveting to tell you. My modest heading is proof I?ve not been over-ambitious. Besides, it?s no bad idea to see a movie now and then, when there?s nothing better to do. In the rapid succession of scenes across the blank screen, one relishes the contrast, the beauty of being able to relax; the quantity and extreme nature of the violent acts on display remind you it?s only a tale, and you?ve no need to probe too deep; the scant substance and psychological fetters at work in miming theater, as a general rule; the lethal leaps made beyond the realms of verisimilitude, the many twists and turns, tell you it?s neither an exquisite nor a fully fashioned fantasy, and you?re freed up, for a while, from the torture of straining your eyes in attempt to catch all the threads . . .

That says it all, really almost all I need to say, by way of apology. I?ve made a film, and as an individual I like as much as I can to give everyone their due, when writing, I also like to keep to the specific rules of each genre and not confuse or mix the different terms and conditions. So, dearest reader, if you manage to get over the threshold to this book and start to follow the plot unfolding in its pages, don?t say you weren?t warned, don?t complain about what you find, don?t demand I give you more than I promised, because here and now I simply promised you a film, in all its simplicity, in all its disarray, in all its coincidences, in all its excesses . . . in a word, all the freedom the genre brings with it.

The literary value, small or great, you may have kindly granted my previous work, is null and void in such an enterprise; it guarantees nothing at all. The novelist on this occasion surrenders his tools to the film-maker, and that comes with no obligations or puritanical restrictions. Like the comb of a countryman, merely cutting a parting through a thick mop of matted hair, hoping to make a straight, continuous road of it, the novelist?s pen has today tried to steer a smooth, clear path through the entangled virgin wood?woods being always virgin!?of life, of the ups and downs, thick as a head of hair, of the men and women that pullulate on this planet. On both sides, the unexplored, inexhaustible, impenetrable undergrowth endures, but a simple, straight furrow opens up and invites you to survey at leisure its gleaming, untrammeled light, its raw cruelty and primitive disposition, with no malice aforethought or hidden fancies.

Consistent with the innocence of his aims and accomplishments, the author has serviced his plot with tales stripped of pompous rhetoric, elaborate inflections and subtle reliefs, formal elegance, hidebound purity, dazzling pyrotechnics of the pen, that would have suited him as much as Christ the pair of pistols mentioned by that proverb. . . . No, none of that: each to his own, as we said at the beginning.

For now, just watch the film, and if you like it, good reader and don?t give yourself or me too many headaches over whatever you may find lacking or superfluous. For both our sakes, let this long, inconsequential sequence of scenes without excess dressing or substance prevail a while and relax your brain; for both our sakes, let it simply provide a small, re-invigorating oasis of calm amid the anxiety-ridden demands of more urgent tasks. And another day will be another day, when, if God grants us life and health, we will make new commitments.

Au revoir, then, loyal reader. I shake your hands, delighted to have found you anew, after such a long absence, your friend,

THE AUTHOR

Barcelona, 2 July, 1919

PART ONE

Mid-afternoon a blustery north wind unleashed and whipped the sea into a roiling mass of foam and furiously swept the streets, emptying them of every scrap of trash or grain of sand.

At twilight the cobblestones, stripped bare by the tramuntana, gleamed like peeled shells in the purple haze and a deafening whistle filled the air.

Seeing the door bang to and fro, flapping like a flag, and fearing it might shatter, Maria the Chicken Woman slammed the bar down, and asked her husband anxiously: ?What about it, Jepet? Why don?t we eat early and get to bed? There?s nothing doing in this storm and we?ll only waste electricity and catch our death of cold.?

As usual Jepet thought what Maria said made a lot of sense, and, also as usual when home at that time of night, he went to light the fire.

Honoring their biblical names, they lived like Joseph and Mary. He worked mooring ships, and the oilskin hanging behind the door had been his second skin for over thirty years.

His leathery face and hands were cracked and gnarled like rocks; his rough, ruddy, stony features seemed sculpted rather than living, and his short, stubby fingers never altered, never fully uncurled, because they?d lost the ability to make any other movement than the one required by the task of hauling mooring timbers up and down beaches.

Maria was fat, with the reassuring plump folds of a pillow. She?d never tolerated the torture of a corset, and her body?s ample expanses were testament to an easy-going nature. Nonetheless, despite that and a flexibility of mind that seemingly kept her burgeoning flesh in check, Maria was a vigorous, organized, hard-working woman.

In the early days of her marriage to Jepet, she had found it hard to resign herself tamely to a sailor spouse?s lonely life and looked for work to occupy her free time and garner some helpful cash.

At the time Jepet was working on a small merchant ship and was often away for days on end, if not weeks. Every morning, the moment the fishermen returned from the sea, Maria ferried dirty nets to the cleaning areas with the jenny and second-hand cart they?d bought, though she reckoned it was small tomatoes, and when her husband?s absences lightened her housework load, she went to remote farmhouses to buy eggs or hens which she sold on in the markets of Girona, generally making a handsome profit.

Lolling back on the cart?s backrest, holding the reins?for appearance?s sake?because her honest little jenny was never skittish, she sped down lanes and byways, outwardly placid, but inwardly a bundle of energy and enthusiasm.

Naturally alert and observant, she had the measure of countrywomen whose husbands gave them little leeway, those who struggled to buy a scarf or a new apron for their marriageable daughter, those desperate for chocolate or other titbits, and wheeler-dealer that she was, once she knew the weaknesses of her parish, she skillfully exploited them for gain. Her bag on the cart always carried burnt almonds to tempt one, needles and thread required by another?who was too busy to go to town?curling irons for a presumptuous farmer?s wife, small loans for the skint or indebted, strange herbs to cure mumps . . . and, at once upfront and discreet, she plied or encouraged deals that were naturally always to her advantage. And if those countrywomen?who, when their husband or neighbors weren?t looking, handed over their ware for rock-bottom prices?breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Maria the Chicken Woman approaching, for her part, when she espied them from afar coming out alone to the roadside to haggle, she smiled contentedly, convinced she?d not made a wasted journey. And, if that wasn?t enough, she found time to do the washing for the grand houses in town in her own inimitable style.

Things being thus, it isn?t surprising that in a few years wife and husband saved a tidy sum between them. They stopped renting and bought a house small and white like an eggshell, stopped cultivating the vines of others for a fraction of the fruit, and bought their own; the notary gave them a profit of some three thousand pessetes and they exchanged three or four thousand more for government bonds, from which, every three months, they extracted a small number which their legal man?their trusted aide?took to Girona and brought back converted into actual readies.

When they saw old age was in sight, and Jepet began to feel broken by life at sea, he stopped voyaging and became a man who helped moor and launch boats from beaches, and Maria, who couldn?t leave her husband?s side, gave up her poultry trade, and transported nets and washed more clothes than before. And with such an orderly, quiet existence, you?d have thought they were completely happy if it hadn?t been for the but that never fails to show up in the unfolding of earthly life?s rich tapestry and leave its drop of bile in even the most select of hearts. The drop of bile, for our poultry pair, was the fact that there was no sign of children.

At the height of youth, both had dedicated themselves to making money, and, as they had plenty of opportunities to use up their reserves of energy, they didn?t fuss over their abnormal situation, but when they realized the years had stacked up, their barrenness reared before them like a stretch of wall destroying the impression of the infinity people love to cherish, and underlining the way nature had sold them short.

?Good heavens!? Maria exclaimed sadly one day, when they were totting up their earnings, after Jepet returned from a voyage. ?What?s the point of pushing ourselves so hard, if we don?t know who all the toil is for??

And from then on, they could only think of the child that hadn?t come and would never come, and miss him sorely.

That was as far as it went for Jepet; he was a man with little imagination and took things as they came, without trying to seek out underlying causes, while Maria was the one to ponder, and ponder, she did. Feeling she was strong, healthy and all there, and knowing of no issues or faults in herself or on her side, she told herself she was free of guilt, and, unawares, deep down, was convinced it was to do with her husband. ?By the Holy Virgin! Men are closed boxes. What does a woman know about them when she marries, when she takes a man for life? Not a thing, and that?s the truth . . . Then look how it turns out!? As she went on her rounds, she?d heard many women say: ?but these are crosses nobody looks for; they fall from the skies and land where they land . . . and if it happens to you, all you do is pick yours up and say nothing . . . that?s why you need to keep an eye out on this earth.?

And Maria took her cross as a levy God imposed on her for the good health and prosperity he had granted, and she complained to nobody, though from then on, without doing so expressly, she adopted a watchful, warmly overbearing tone towards her husband, as if he were a big, irresponsible kid, a dimwit son who must be protected and loved even more, because he?s not quite got as many marbles as the others. And so their intimate married life took that twist. When people noticed, they smiled and used that common expression??Maria wore the trousers??but they never suspected the human warmth and generous forgiveness her attitude generated.

Only, now and then, like a breath of air escaping from a vent, a thwarted mother?s remorse arose from Maria?s heart to her lips in this form, bearing no relation to whatever?s been said previously: ?When I think about it, I should have stuck with that kid I took to the orphanage . . .?

?You?re so right! But who?d have thought . . . ?? Jepet replied, quite matter-of-fact and meek, never imagining what was going through his wife?s mind.

And years and years passed like that until that night when that north wind blasted.

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