One from Begur

Abstract

One from Begur Josep Pla (bio) Translated by Peter Bush (bio) Of the countless people who visited the Pla farmstead when I was an adolescent I have distinct, very precise memories of two men. In the summer a traveling musician used to drop by, a short, even-tempered old man, with sad eyes, a long, drooping mustache, and such pale white skin he looked as if he’d been boiled or at least that he would faint at any moment. He roamed the world with a violin he kept in a bread sack as his only baggage. Although he was a tramp, a vintage tramp of the old school, he was a relatively dapper dresser, which was in a way a requirement of his profession; he went around farmsteads, hamlets, and villages and was hired to play on official holidays or entertain at marriages or baptisms in celebrations held at home. He wore a straw hat with a broad black band, a celluloid collar, round cuffs, and a green tie fixed on a piece of wire that hung from his top button. However, when he was on the road, he took off his tie, wrapped it in a piece of paper, and tucked the small bundle in his pocket. Only his huge, dusty shoes betrayed a messy, tottering way of life. His musical repertoire was limited; he played a mazurka—his signature tune — a languid little waltz, and two or three ancient rural airs. At the time country folk had no pretensions and were happy with very little. Besides, the artist was a pleasant, likable fellow, and if his repertoire was restricted and hardly diverse, he was always ready to play his tunes for as long as his honorable customers wanted. He found it so quick and easy to roll out his tunes that the youngsters tired of tripping the light fantastic before he wearied of scraping his bow over his violin’s ravaged strings. He was highly respected by everyone and was invited to eat at their table and even offered the odd spare coin, and rarely had to sleep in the barn, something that is a boon for tramps, particularly those who are the worse for wear. There was always a bed in the house for him, and, come the morning, out of respect for his gray hair nobody gave him a wake-up call. He could sleep in and get up when he felt like it. That fine fellow had another excellent side: he left the places where he lodged without [End Page 24] making a fuss, and tried to do so unnoticed, not saying a word. Nothing is more wearisome for sensitive souls than to be forced to contemplate the existence of so many people condemned to sleeping rough, to poverty and insecurity, and be unable to offer a helping hand. Feeling pity is tolerable, not to say pleasant, provided one doesn’t have to feel too much. If people go too far, it can be counterproductive and have the opposite effect. It can lead to icy responses. That wretched musician understood that his poverty-stricken life and destitute air shouldn’t overtax other people’s feelings, so when he’d eaten, slept, and received the pittance they gave him, he tiptoed off—as they say—without so much as a by your leave. Thus his presence never overly stirred anyone’s conscience and his subtle sense of tact was much appreciated. In the winter a man from Begur by the name of Miner occasionally called in; he was one-armed and seemed shy and distant. He engaged in long conversations with my father and always spoke in a deep, muted tone. As a young man he preferred to fish with explosives, and one day, by the Fitor lighthouse, hoping to slaughter sea bass, he kept his hand on the charge for a tenth of a second too long and the device shattered his wrist as if it had been severed by an axe. He always gave me goose bumps when he talked in his gruff, monotonous voice about the pool of blood that spread over the sea and the rim of the boat after...