Opinion
'Recollir els pelegrins'. Memory of a brief meeting with Antoni Marí
My mother is a nurse. A few months ago, she came home thrilled to tell me she was treating a philosopher. His name is Antoni Marí, she said. He's interested in reading your writing.
He explained that he was a professor at Pompeu Fabra University and that, while she tended to his wounds, he liked to listen to Handel. With great difficulty—on a journey to the very core of my shame—I managed to gather four decent poems for my mother to give to the philosopher. Then, I forgot about the whole thing.
Two weeks later, my mother took a small book out of her bag. "It's by Antoni," she told me. "He wants you to read it; it's autobiographical."
It was November, and I could never have imagined that such a small book, so simple in its form, could hold so much life within it. But that's what The Silver Vase was; it was life, and it weighed heavily. I think I realized it at the end of that long, tiring journey, on the uphill stretch that offered a glimpse of the house in Canyar, when Grandfather, or l'avi, got out of the cart to greet his family, clean and well-dressed, as if he had never left that house that was his home.
I went to see him on a Tuesday. Antoni Marí had an appointment at eleven, but I was ready to receive him, book in hand, at ten thirty. He arrived at twelve. He appeared in the waiting room—one of the ambulance attendants was pushing his wheelchair—like a bird tired of arguing. His wife was with him.
"This is my daughter," my mother said, using that characteristic tone she occasionally uses when referring to me; something between maternal pride and general weariness. But it took Antoni a moment to understand. A very long moment during which I couldn't help but think that, perhaps, my mother had exaggerated the whole situation and that this visit was, in fact, a nuisance. Then the bird raised its head: "It's clear, the writer!"
As she signed the book for me, I noticed her hands. She held the pen carefully, almost without touching it, between long, bony fingers that still retained the strength of years past. I imagined them dancing in the air, accompanying this or that topic in front of her students, and I imagined them writing about the horse-drawn cart and summers in Canyar.
We talked mostly about his book and my poems. I was surprised to discover that he was almost as interested in my opinion as I was in his; he pointed out details in the stories that moved him most and listened attentively to those I had chosen. He especially liked the story about film. As for my poems, he told me they contained truth.
To this day, I'm not sure if my poems contain any of that truth Antoni Marí spoke to me about; a truth born of someone who honestly believes in their words. I think I'm still too young to believe in anything. But it's true that, suddenly, under that awful yellow light that decorates the hospital waiting room, it seemed unfair that we hadn't been able to fully connect in this world. As if, somehow, he had all the answers to all my questions and I simply didn't have time to ask him any.
As we said goodbye, she told me that as soon as she got home, she would write a story about this fantastic, truly fantastic day in this dreary room full of gray faces. I like to think she did. Anyway, here's mine.
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