Praise for Quim Monzó

  “Today’s best known writer in Catalan. He is also, no exaggeration, one of the world’s great short-story writers.”

  —The Independent

  “A gifted writer, he draws well on the rich tradition of Spanish surrealism … to sustain the lyrical, visionary quality of his imagination.”

  —New York Times

  “Monzó blends verve and precision in these stories while also posing bold philosophical questions.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Quim Monzó joins contemporary short-story writers such as Etgar Keret and George Saunders … to show the absurd in the real, and how the absurd reveals the real.”

  —World Literature Today

  “To read The Enormity of the Tragedy is to enter a fictional universe created by an author trapped between aversion to and astonishment at the world in which he has found himself. His almost manic humor is underpinned by a frighteningly bleak vision of daily life.”

  —Times Literary Supplement

  Other works by

  Quim Monzó available

  from Open Letter

  Gasoline

  Guadalajara

  A Thousand Morons

  WHY,

  WHY,

  WHY?

  stories

  QUIM MONZÓ

  Translated from the Catalan by Peter Bush

  Copyright © 1993, 1999 by Joaquim Monzó

  Translation copyright © 2019 by Peter Bush

  Originally published in Catalan as El perquè de tot plegat by Quaderns Crema, 1993

  First edition, 2019

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-948830-04-1 | ISBN-10: 1-948830-04-3

  This project is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts and the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

  The translation of this work has been supported by the Institut Ramon Llull.

  Printed on acid-free paper in the United States of America.

  Text set in FF Scala, a serif typeface designed by Martin Majoor in 1990 for the Vredenburg Music Center in Utrecht, the Netherlands.

  Design by Anthony Blake

  Open Letter is the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press:

  Dewey Hall 1-219, Box 278968, Rochester, NY 14627

  www.openletterbooks.org

  Contents

  Honesty

  Love

  Married Life

  Submission

  The Menstrual Cycle

  Clueless

  Faith

  Pygmalion

  Immolation

  Knowledge

  The Decision

  Admiration

  Why Do the Hands of a Clock Turn the Way the Hands of a Clock Do?

  Jealousy

  Hand on Heart

  Instability

  St. Valentine’s

  Trojan Euphoria

  Half-Twelvish

  The Urge for Self-Improvement

  The Hippocratic Oath

  Mycology

  The Toad

  The Sleeping Beauty

  The Monarchy

  Fauna

  Strength of Will

  Physiognomies

  Divine Providence

  The Story

  Sir, Jean Giradoux (in Siegfried et le Limousin, Chapter 2) raised the interesting question of how, sometimes, minor mysteries in one’s life are suddenly belatedly explained. He adds:

  Je ne désespère pas de voir se résoudre un jour, en Océanie ou à Mexico, quelques autres énigmes de mon passé; un noeud finit toujours par se défaire du simple dégoût d’être un noeud. La seule d’ailleurs qui me préoccupe vraiment est l’énigme Tornielli; cet ambassadeur en exercice, que je voyais pour la première fois à la distribution des prix du concours général, me fit signe d’aller à lui et me glissa dans la main un oeuf dur.

  My intensive research on the Tornielli Enigma has so far yielded only the information that Count Giuseppe Tornielli Brusati di Vergano (1836-1908) was Italian Ambassador in Paris from 1895 to 1908. The obvious unanswered questions are: was Giraudoux actually handed a hardboiled egg by the ambassador of a foreign power? Or did he play on the reader the French trick of disassociating “le narrateur” from “l’auteur.” If the former, did Giraudoux die without elucidating the Tornielli Enigma? Or has someone else cleared it up?

  I wonder if any of your readers knows the answers.

  —Marquis of Tamarón, letter to the editor, published

  in the Times Literary Supplement, 28 January, 1983

  WHY,

  WHY,

  WHY?

  HONESTY

  THE NURSE PUSHES THE CART CARRYING A TRAY WITH A GLASS of water, a bottle of capsules, a thermometer, and a folder into room 93, says “Good evening,” and walks over to the bed of the patient who’s lying there with his eyes closed. She gives him a desultory glance, consults the clipboard at the foot of the bed with the details of his medication, takes a capsule from the bottle, and picking up the glass of water, says: “Senyor Rdz, time for your medicine.”

  Senyor Rdz’s eyelids don’t flicker. The nurse touches his arm.

  “Come on, Senyor Rdz.”

  Fearing the worst, the nurse holds the patient’s wrist to take his pulse. It’s non-existent. He is dead.

  She returns the capsule to the bottle, slides the cart against the wall, and leaves the room. Then runs to the control desk in that wing of the hospital (D) and tells the head nurse that the patient in room 93 has died.

  The head nurse looks at her watch. It’s really too bad a patient has died at that moment in time. She’s off in a quarter of an hour and is especially keen to leave punctually today because she has finally managed to persuade her best friend’s fiancé to meet up with her on the pretext she wants to have a word about her friend. Even though she knows (given what this friend has confided) he’s a man who won’t stand any nonsense and isn’t at all interested in small talk, and so it’s a sure-fire thing he’s invited her to his place to impale her in next to no time on the top of his table between the candles and plates of spaghetti, if he has indeed cooked spaghetti for dinner, as (her friend told her) he almost always does. She is eagerly anticipating the moment. Yet, if she certifies that the patient in room 93 has died, like it or not, she will have to stay on for a while, even though the next shift has arrived, which starts in a quarter of an hour. The dead generate massive amounts of red tape. And they aren’t things that can be sorted in a flash. Which means she’ll get to her date late. Of course she could call her friend’s fiancé, tell him what’s happened, and suggest they meet up later or even on another day. But she knows from experience that it’s usually fatal to postpone first dates. That when you postpone a first date for one reason, the next will be postponed for another. And for another and another, until the postponement becomes rather definitive. Besides, it’s been a dreadful day, and she desperately wants to leave work, go to his house, and get a piece of action.

  If she knew the nurse who’d found the dead patient better, she could tell her to pretend she hadn’t noticed. That way, one of the nurses on the later shift would find him and the corresponding head nurse could deal with the ensuing paperwork. It wouldn’t matter one iota to the people on the next shift. They will have just started work, and the discovery of a dead man won’t ruin their day. She would be freed up and could get to her date on time. But she doesn’t enjoy that level of trust with this nurse, who is new; there’s even the danger she may be afflicted by that obsession with ethics new people sometimes have. Or if that’s not the case, she might remember what she’s done and one day use it to her own advantage when it suits her.

  The head nurse glances back at her watch. Her stress levels are rising. The hands are moving inexorably toward the moment when she should leave, on her way to a date she does not want to miss. What should she do? She must decide quickly, because the nurse who found the dead man is starting to look at her as if she can’t understand why she’s so quiet, deadpan, and unresponsive. She says she will see to it, and tells the nurse to continue on her rounds.

  Nor is she in a position to ask the head nurse on the next shift for a favor. Not because she feels any ethical qualms of conscience but, regrettably, because of a situation that is still unresolved, mutual hatred exists that’s been there from the day they first met.

  If she can’t find a way around this, will she be stuck there and have to give up on her date? No way. But anxiety means she can’t think straight. Things look bleaker by the second.

  At the very worst moment, when her brain is giving up on ever finding a way out, the solution walks in through the door: the new doctor, who hasn’t been working in the hospital very long and always has a smile for her, a smile that’s at once insinuating and inquisitive. He is her lifeline. She’ll go over to the young doctor, tell him she has a prior engagement she can’t cancel and ask him to do her a favor and take responsibility for the dead patient. Even though she recognizes that, in exchange, his insinuating smiles will soon become a statement of serious intent. But, hey, does she actually want to yield to that doctor’s show of serious intent? She’d never previously given it a moment’s thought. Her first reaction would have been no. However, after considering the lay of the land and taking a second look, she thinks, why not? Besides, if she decides she really doesn’t like him, she can alw
ays say no. One gives favors freely. A favor with a price attached ceases to be a favor.

  However, the more she thinks about it, the less she feels like saying no. In fact, she wants to say yes. What’s more: she really wants him to come up with a piece of serious intent. She wants it so badly she starts thinking less and less about the man she has that date with later and whom she’d imagined impaling her on his table surrounded by spaghetti.

  She walks over, opens her mouth, and tries not to be tongue-tied. The doctor’s lips are a knockout. They are moist and firm. She’d like to nibble them there and then. Instead she asks him for that favor. The doctor smiles, tells her not to worry, to forget all about it and leave: he’ll deal with it. The head nurse walks off down the corridor and before entering the locker room, turns round one last time to check that he was still looking at her; he is, they exchange smiles, and she goes into the locker room. She dresses quickly: it’s already ten minutes past when she should have left! She leaves the building. Raises an arm to stop a taxi, has second thoughts, lowers it, and stands rooted to the spot. Then she walks off, looks for a telephone box and, while she calls her friend’s fiancé and mutters a rather improbable excuse, she is calculating how long it will take the new doctor to come up with a slice of serious intent, and what she might do to help him on he way, if he seems slow on the uptake.

  LOVE

  THE ARCHIVIST IS A TALL, HANDSOME WOMAN, WITH STRONG, becoming facial features. She is intelligent, witty, and has what people call character. The soccer player is a tall, handsome man, with strong, becoming facial features. He is intelligent, witty, and has what people call character.

  The archivist treats the soccer player with contempt. She’s mean and unpleasant toward him. Now and then, when he calls her (he always calls her; she never calls him), even if she has a free day, she’ll say meeting up is inconvenient. She makes it clear she has other lovers, so the soccer player doesn’t think he has any claim on her. She occasionally gives it some thought (not much, in case she realizes she’s on the wrong track) and reaches the conclusion that she treats him with contempt because deep down she loves him a lot and is afraid that, if she doesn’t treat him like that, she’d fall into the trap and be as much in love with him as he is with her. Each time the archivist decides they should sleep together, the soccer player is so happy because he can’t believe it and weeps tears of joy, as he does with no other woman. Why? He doesn’t know, but he believes the contempt with which she treats him isn’t the whole picture. In no way is it the decisive factor. He knows that deep down she loves him, and he knows that if she plays hard-to-get it’s to avoid falling into the trap, and not be as much as in love with him as he is with her.

  The soccer player would prefer the archivist not to treat him with disdain or, at least, less so. Because she would then see, on the one hand, that this isn’t the only kind of relationship possible between them and, on the other, that she mustn’t be afraid of falling in love with him. Because he’d love a show of tenderness from the archivist, the tenderness she is now afraid to show.

  The soccer player sometimes goes out with other women. Because he thinks he can’t stand it anymore, because he decides he can’t tolerate her treating him like a simpleton anymore, whom she hardly even looks at, whom she sweet-talks at will and then ignores.

  But he always comes back. And it’s not that the others don’t interest him. On the contrary: they are wonderful, intelligent, lovely, considerate girls. But not one of them pleasures him the way she does.

  One day (an afternoon, while the archivist is smoking and watching him undress), the soccer player plucks up courage and speaks up. He says she shouldn’t be so mean, so prickly, that he loves her so much she mustn’t be afraid to show her real feelings. That he won’t take advantage of any weakness on her part. That if she is tender (and he knows that she is, and knows she doesn’t want to show it) he will love her even more. Angrily, she says who does he think he is to tell her what to do and what not to do; she makes him lie down and slaps him on the face. That afternoon the soccer player enjoys himself more than ever.

  However, another day when they meet up, quite unexpectedly, she doesn’t look as irritable as usual. That surprises the soccer player. Perhaps she’s thought it over and, without saying a word, has started to take notice of him. The next morning she’s even tender. The soccer player is overjoyed. She’s finally understood she shouldn’t be afraid. That showing how she feels deep down won’t lead to any hurt. They are in bed. The soccer player is so excited he’s overwhelmed by her every gesture and caress. He finds special pleasure in every touch. The tenderness is such he doesn’t even want to hump: hugging and repeating that they love each other (as she now tells him all the time) is quite enough.

  The archivist will never again treat him with contempt. She is so in love with the soccer player that she tells him in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night. She gives him shirts and books. She always gives him what he wants. She now calls him, more and more, to set up daily meetings. And one evening she suggests living together.

  The soccer player looks at her coldly, with glassy eyes. Until quite recently he’d have given his right arm for her to suggest just that.

  MARRIED LIFE

  ZGDT AND BST (MARRIED EIGHT YEARS AGO) HAVE TO TRAVEL TO A far-off city to sign some documents. They arrive mid-afternoon. As they can’t see to their business until the following morning, they look for a hotel for the night. They’re given a room with two single beds, two night tables, a desk (with envelopes and paper on hotel letterhead, in a folder), a chair, and minibar with a television on top. They have dinner, stroll along the river and, when they’re back in the hotel, each climbs into a bed and takes out a book.

  A few minutes later they hear a couple screwing in the adjacent room. They clearly hear the spring mattress squeaking, the woman moaning, and the man’s gentler panting. Zgdt and Bst glance at each other, smile, make jokey remarks, wish each other goodnight, and switch off the lights. Aroused by the screwing he can still hear through the wall, Zgdt thinks about saying something to Bst. Maybe she’s got the hots like him. He could go over to her, sit on her bed, joke about their neighbors and, quite casually, caress her hair and face and then her breasts. Bst would very likely join in at once. But what if she doesn’t? And pushes his hand away and clicks her tongue or, even worse, tells him: “I don’t feel like it”? Years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d have known, just before he switched the light off, whether Bst was up for it, whether the moans from the adjacent room had aroused her or not. But, with the cobwebs of so many years together, nothing is obvious anymore. Zgdt turns on his side and masturbates, as silently as he can.

  Ten minutes after he’s done, Bst asks him if he’s asleep. Zgdt replies that he’s not, yet. They’ve stopped moaning in the adjacent room; now they’re conversing quietly and tittering. Bst gets up and goes over to Zdgt’s bed. She pulls back the sheets, lies down, and starts caressing his back. Her hand goes from his shoulder to his buttocks. Not having the courage to tell her he’s just masturbated, Zdgt says he’s not up for it. Bst stops caressing him, there’s a brief silence, like an eternity, and she goes back to her bed. He hears her pull up the sheets, get inside, and twist and turn. With every turn, Zdgt’s remorse at masturbating without first finding out if Bst wanted to screw grows. Moreover, he feels guilty that he didn’t tell her the truth. Is there so little trust between them, are they now such strangers he can’t even tell her that? Precisely to show that they aren’t such strangers, that there’s still a glimmer of trust, that maybe they can re-kindle the fire, he plucks up courage, turns toward her, and confesses that he masturbated a few minutes ago because he thought she wouldn’t want to screw. Bst says nothing.

  Minutes later, Zgdt imagines, from the surreptitious sounds he can hear, that Bst is masturbating. Zgdt feels hugely sad, thinking that life is absurd and unfair, and bursts into tears. He cries into his pillow, sinks his face in as far as he can. His tears are hot and plentiful. And when he hears Bst suppressing her final moan with the palm of her hand, he screams a scream that’s the scream she is holding back.