Free B0040702LQ EBOK by Margaret Jull Costa;Annella McDermott Page A

felt to
have opened up new possibilities for the Spanish novel.
Volveras a Region (1967; Return to Region, Columbia University Press, 1987) was the novel that first brought him to
prominence. Meditation (1969; Meditation, tr. Gregory Rabassa,
Persea Books, 1982) won Spain's Biblioteca Breve prize. `The
Catalyst' is from the book of short stories, Cinco narraciones y
dos fibulas (1972) and is an example of Benet's characteristically demanding style. The limpid and economical `Fables 9,10
and 10a' are from Trece fabulas y media (1981).

     

At the end of a pleasant June, Enric Espol turned up with his
right hand bandaged, revealing a clenched fist beneath the
gauze. His very presence, full of unfamiliar facets, created a
sense of foreboding, but no one could imagine the full impact
of the blow that had felled him.
    His face, which had never before provoked the slightest
interest, now bore the air of melancholy victory so characteristic of modern wars.
    The day on which his life experienced this change had
dawned entirely unannounced. He awoke in his customary
foul mood and then walked about his flat, from the bathroom to the dining room and from the dining room to the
kitchen, to see if walking would help him wake up. He
felt a pain in his right side and a slight breathlessness, two
conditions that he had never before experienced jointly
and which increased so rapidly that his sense of alarm
jerked him into full consciousness. Dragging his feet and
leaning on the furniture he found in his path, he returned
to the bedroom and sat down next to the bed, prepared to
die.
    Fear covered his entire body. Slowly, health was clambering
up the tree of his nervous system intending to escape out of
his mouth, but, just in time, Espol rebelled. At the moment of
death, he seized hold of something and closed his hand tight
around it, trapping life inside. The pain stopped and his
breathing returned to normal. In a gesture of relief, Espol
drew his left hand across his forehead, because his right hand
now had a new mission to fulfill.
    Prudence warned him not to ponder too many different
possibilities. He was sure, right from the start, that there was
only one solution: on no account to unclench his fist. In the palm of his hand, wriggling gently like a little fish or like a
drop of mercury, lay Espol's life.

    In order to avoid endangering his life by a single moment
of inattention, he decided to bandage up his hand, and then,
feeling slightly calmer, he drew up a provisional plan of action.
He would go and see the manager of the company where he
worked, he would ask the advice of his family doctor and of
his friends, and he would gradually try to explain the facts to
the people closest to him.
    That was when the new Espol appeared. He would walk
along the street, staring into space, his face transfigured (for it
was stamped with a quite understandable look of stupefaction). And although they had grown accustomed to strange
sights, people seemed to sense that his bandage was in some
way different and they would often turn round to sneak a
furtive glance.
    Today, halfway through the morning, the manager is listening to the story with growing interest. When Espol tells him
that he will have to leave his job because, being right-handed,
he will no longer be able to wield a pen, he replies:
    `Let's not rush things. Sometimes, these things go as quickly
as they come ...'
    `This is permanent,' says Espol. `The day I unclench my fist
to pick up my pen, my life will escape.'
    `We could move you to the department dealing with the
preparation and setting up of subcontracts.'
    `No.'
    `And how will you make a life for yourself?'
    `I have it here,' he says, showing him his right fist. `This is
the first time I've actually been able to locate it and I must
find a way of making use of it.'
    An hour later, his family doctor, coolly attentive, is listening
to the story. He is tired, weary of all the tales his