Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Catholic Iconography in The Novels of Juan Marse (Monografias A)
Catholic Iconography in The Novels of Juan Marse (Monografias A)
CATHOLIC ICONOGRAPHY
IN THE NOVELS OF JUAN MARSÉ
CATHOLIC ICONOGRAPHY
IN THE NOVELS OF JUAN MARSÉ
TAMESIS
© Rosemary Clark 2003
Illustrations.....................................................................................................vii
Abbreviations and Editions.............................................................................ix
Novels
EAB El amante bilingüe (Barcelona: Planeta, 1990)
ECL Esta cara de la luna (Barcelona: Seix Barral, 1962)
1st edn in Biblioteca Breve, 1982
EJ Encerrados con un solo juguete (Barcelona: Seix Barral,
1960)
2nd edn, Seix Barral, 1989
ES El embrujo de Shanghai (Barcelona: Plaza y Janés, 1993)
MBO La muchacha de las bragas de oro (Barcelona: Planeta,
1978)
PM La oscura historia de la prima Montse (Barcelona: Seix
Barral, 1970)
1st edn in Biblioteca Breve, 1990
RG Ronda del Guinardó (Barcelona: Seix Barral, 1984)
4th edn in Biblioteca Breve, 1991
RL Rabos de lagartija (Barcelona: Lumen, 2000)
STD Si te dicen que caí (Mexico: Novaro, 1973. Revised 1989)
2nd edn in Seix Barral, 1990
UDV Un día volveré (Barcelona: Plaza y Janés, 1982)
2nd edn in Biblioteca Breve, 1989
UTT Ultimas tardes con Teresa (Barcelona: Seix Barral, 1965.
Revised 1975)
23rd edn in Biblioteca Breve, 1991
Relatos
HD Historia de detectives in Teniente Bravo (Barcelona: Seix
Barral, 1987)
TB Teniente Bravo (Barcelona: Seix Barral, 1987)
Short Stories
‘La calle del dragón dormido’, Insula, 155 (October 1959)
‘La liga roja en el muslo moreno’, El fin del Milenio. Barcelona: Planeta,
47–72
‘Nada para morir’, Destino, 2 May 1959
‘Parabellum’, Bazaar, 1 (January 1977)
‘Plataforma posterior’, Insula, 127 (June 1957)
‘Un día volveré’, Los Cuadernos del Norte, Year 1, 4 (October to December
1980)
Miscellaneous
CC Confidencias de un chorizo (Barcelona: Planeta, 1977)
IRAP Imágenes y recuerdos. 1939–1950: años de penitencia
(Barcelona: Difusora Internacional, 1971)
IRGD = Imágenes y recuerdos. 1929–1940: la gran desilusión
(Barcelona: Difusora Internacional, 1971)
IRTS = Imágenes y recuerdos. 1949–1960: tiempo de satélites
(Barcelona: Difusora Internacional, 1976). Prologue Juan
Marsé; text José María Carandell; ‘acotaciones
iconográficas’, Manuel Vázquez Montalbán
MC = Los misterios de Colores (Córdoba: Diario Córdoba, 1977)
MJM = Las mujeres de Juanito Marés, ed. J. Méndez (Madrid:
Espasa Calpe, 1997)
PH = El Pijoaparte y otras historias (Barcelona: Bruguera, 1981)
INTRODUCTION
SUBVERT AND SURVIVE: PLAYING WITH ICONS
and 2000, and the four ‘relatos’ grouped under the title Teniente Bravo
(1987). Less familiar to readers are his short stories, three of which were
published in periodicals before his first novel appeared in 1960, while three
were published in 1977, 1980 and 1990. Equally unfamiliar are the two
columns entitled Confidencias de un chorizo and Señores y señoras that he
wrote for the satir- ical magazine Por Favor in the mid-1970s. However, I
shall offer (in Chapter
2) what I believe to be the first study of a neglected area of his writing: three
volumes evocatively entitled Imágenes y Recuerdos (1971–76) to which
Marsé was the major contributor. I aim to indicate the wide scope of his
writing but also to offer detailed discussion of individual works. To achieve
these two aims, I shall study his development of strategies of subversion in
which Catholic iconography becomes a powerful critical tool.
Marsé’s writing is attracting increasing attention from scholars on both
sides of the Atlantic but it also has indisputable popular appeal. His most
recent novel, Rabos de lagartija (2000) won the Premio Nacional de la
Crítica, and prior to that, publishers faced with gaps of up to six years
between novels, have reprinted sections of existing works: Confidencias de
un chorizo in book form (1977), a collection of extracts about Manuel Reyes
(UTT and PM) entitled El Pijoaparte y otras historias (1981), six chapters of
La oscura historia renamed Los misterios de Colores (1993), and a selection
of pieces from nine already published works, renamed after his recent
literary alter ego from El amante bilingüe (1990), Las mujeres de Juanito
Marés (1997). Other literary prizes include the Premio Internacional de
Novela “México” awarded to Si te dicen que caí in 1973 by an international
jury of which Mario Vargas Llosa was a member, testifying to earlier
recognition of his skill as a writer, and the Premio Planeta for La muchacha
de las bragas de oro in 1978. My study will seek to explore how it is that
Marsé can be an astutely critical observer of his time and an imaginative
satirist capable of manipulating a medium as difficult as Catholic
iconography, and still enter- tain his readers.
One reason for his broad appeal is that Marsé engages with both the
complex visual medium of traditional iconography and the familiar terrain of
popular religious culture as he illustrates the interaction of Catholicism with
value systems in post-war Barcelona. Born in 1933, his depiction of the
Church draws on his own upbringing and personal contact with religious
culture, betraying a scepticism that he remembers as having coloured even
his earliest experiences. He has said of the church school he attended until
the age of thirteen:
La hacíamos todos [...]. Bueno, nos interesaba, porque nos daban dinero.
Toda la familia, los familiares, los conocidos, los vecinos, y todo eso.
Entregábamos una estampita, que se hacían imprimir “para tiíta” y tal, y
por la estampita siempre te daban dinero. Siempre que te porfías te daban
dinero. (In conversation with Rosemary Clark 27, June 1995.)
There is dry humour too in his comments on the local church and the recre-
ational activities it offered that were not otherwise available in the wake of
war:
Adopted at birth into a Catalan family (his natural parents were also
Catalan), Marsé has experienced both the repression of Catalan culture
during the Franco years and its resurgence after the Transition to
Democracy. His education, early reading and professional activity have
therefore been in Castilian, while Catalan has been used with family and
friends. Faced with a Castilian-Catalan conflict under Francoism and, in a
different form, on into the present, Marsé has been quoted as saying, with
characteristically teasing ambiguity: ‘No soy ni un anarquista ni un
comunista militante. ¡No milito! Sólo milito en la literatura.’ 1 His statement
claims an area of neutrality in relation to politics, but at the same time
intimates that in literature there are battles he will fight which may or may
not be viewed as political. Catalans have sought to redefine their national
identity in terms of language, literature and culture, and one area in which
Marsé has been militant in his writing is as an analyst and critic of the
Church’s response to issues of Catalan national identity.
Differences between Spain and Catalonia have over the centuries been
reflected in their different relations with the Catholic Church. To help iden-
tify these differences and then trace them in Marsé’s narratives, I have
chosen to draw a distinction between what is widely known as Spanish
National Catholicism, and what I term Catalan Catholic Nationalism. Other
critics have talked of a ‘catalanisme confessional’ – a ‘política “creient” més
que de creients’ in contrast to the ‘catalanisme laic propulsat per l’Almirall’,
1 Colectivo Lantaba, ‘Yo no milito’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, 21 January 1978, pp.
44–5, 45.
or a ‘catalanisme catòlic’ which stemmed from ‘la corriente estrictamente
confesional dentro del mundo de la Renaixença’. 2 I shall speak of Catalan
Catholic Nationalism in opposition to Spanish National Catholicism in order
both to contrast and to compare them. Marsé depicts marked differences. He
then delights in ironically underlining similarities unfavourable to either or
both. The detail and complexity of his representations of these two separate
phenomena, and the validity of my distinction, will be confirmed as this
discussion proceeds and as I examine the discourses, myths, and finally the
icons by which they both seek to define themselves.
Marsé’s childhood coincided with the years immediately following a
Spanish National Catholic victory in the civil war. Many within the Church
– both Spaniards and Catalans – hailed this victory as an opportunity to reaf-
firm and expand a religious power base that had been largely lost over the
nineteenth century, and in the brief but cataclysmic years of the Second
Republic.3 A future Archbishop of Zaragoza hailed it as ‘la hora católica en
España’. In a book with that title, he declared his aim to be nothing less than
‘la recristianización de las masas españolas’, and he called on Catholics to
forward that aim:
First Catalan identity and then Catalanism were forced to seek refuge and
a basis for recovery in the Roman Catholic Church. No protection was
afforded by the hierarchy, which identified with Franco’s ideal of National
Catholicism and collaborated in the de-Catalanization process. Even so,
the Church was the least Fascist of the various forces that lent legitimacy
to the Dictatorship and was so powerful throughout society that only from
within it was it viable to go beyond the action of tiny underground groups,
salvage the remains of an identity that the régime was bent on destroying,
and defend human rights.5
The alliance gave rise to what Marsé, in ironic reference to the persecution
of the Early Church in Rome, would later call ‘un ritual de catacumbas
elaborado con mucha fe y escasos medios, una forma de mantener el fuego
sagrado de la lengua y la identidad nacionales (EAB 132).
In the 1960s, the Church in Rome struck a blow at the confidence of
Franco’s Spanish National Catholicism and boosted Catalan Catholic
Nation- alist aspirations in several resolutions of the Second Vatican Council
(1962–5). The impact of Vatican II in Spain was particularly profound. In
the sixteenth century, at the height of the Protestant Reformation, Spanish
theo- logians had played a leading part in the redefinition of Catholic
orthodoxy at the Council of Trent (1545–63). After Trent, Spanish
orthodoxy was so strict that other Catholic countries were deemed to fall so
short of the required standard that after 1599, Spaniards were forbidden to
study even in Catholic universities abroad, and ‘The process of turning the
Hispanic peninsula into a kind of cultural Tibet was under way.’ 6 Vatican II
effectively reversed that process. As one Church historian has commented:
The great archetypal activities of human society are all permeated with
play from the start [...] language, myth, ritual [...], every metaphor is a
play upon words [...]. In myth and ritual the great instinctive forces of
civilized life have their origin: law and order, commerce and profit, craft
and art, poetry, wisdom and science. All are rooted in the primeval soil of
play.8
More recently, the American psychoanalyst Erik H. Erikson has used play as
a model for an exploration of our common cultural and political life. His
work has focused largely on children, but he argues that the creation of a
play area offers adults, as much as children, a ‘subjective sense of existence
as a playground’ where they may experience ‘the mutual legitimation of
playful imagination and of factual reality, and thus the credibility of reality
itself and
What relation may there be (beyond mere metaphor) between the playing
child and the playacting adult; between make-believe and belief; between
the legitimate theater and what we call the theaters of politics and war;
between playful vision and serious theory: between the child’s toys, then,
and aged reasons? (p. 26)
it did appear that themes somehow related to play in all its various mean-
ings of grossly deceptive as well as imaginative make-believe character-
ized the mood of the commentators at that time, as if there were some
pervasive sadness over the loss of playful leeway, some deep anger over
the use of playacting for deception, and a universal, if vague, nostalgia for
some kind of new ‘vision’. (p. 19)
We must [...] come to grips with the ontogenetic sources of the aggressive
Small patients, it is well known, in their fright and confusion turn to avail-
able playthings with a desperate neediness, often confessing and express-
ing on the toy stage much more than they could possibly say or probably
know ‘in that many words’. (p. 30)
He claims that play is essential for the individual’s full, healthy development
and interaction with the environment. Speaking of adults and children,
Erikson contrasts a healthy ‘generativity’ – defined as ‘the human form of an
instinctual drive to create and to care for new life, whether in the form of
progeny, of productivity, or of creativeness’ – with a ‘stagnation’ that leads
to a rejection of otherness. The failure to fulfil individual potential may have
destructive social and political consequences:
For the stagnating limits of generativity in man also mark the arousal of a
specific rejectivity, a more or less ruthless suppression or de-struction of
what seems to go counter to one’s ‘kind’ – that is, the particular human
subspecies or value system one wishes to propagate [...]. [T]his destruc-
tiveness periodically finds a vast area for collective manifestation in war
or in other forms of annihilation of what suddenly appears to be a
subhuman kind of man. (pp. 59–60)
He continues:
At best, play allows a testing and pushing back of boundaries – one’s own
and those of one’s surroundings. It also requires freedom for spontaneous
experimentation:
Of all the formulations of play, the briefest and the best is to be found in
11 Erikson may have had in mind the following: ‘virtually all young things find it
impossible to keep their bodies still and their tongues quiet [...]; some jump and skip
and do a kind of gleeful dance as they play with one another’ (Plato [c.427–347 BC],
87).
12 Michael Eigen, ‘The Area of Faith in Winnicott, Lacan and Bion’, International
Journal of Psycho-Analysis (1981), 62, p. 413. Matthew 22.37–8. Throughout this
study bible quotations will be given in Spanish to make clear the strong similarities
between original texts and Marsé’s mimicry but references will be in English. The
Spanish Bible used (Madrid: Ediciones Paulinas, 1970) is a scholarly edition with
commentaries that have provided material for discussion in this study. Its date of
publication sets it midway between Vatican II and the death of Franco, in the year that
Marsé published La oscura historia de la prima Montse, and almost midway through
his career as a novelist.
appreciation of one another’s mystery, a new found trust [...]. The real
here is self and other feeling real to one another. (p. 416)
Failure to accomplish the transition to the area of faith means that survival
strategies of defensive deception displace creative processes of experimenta-
tion:
The grotesque is neither ugly nor shocking, but a ‘fanciful, free, and playful
treatment’ of forms in a state of becoming that defies stagnation:
connected with the joy of change and reincarnation, with gay relativity and
with the merry negation of uniformity and similarity; it rejects conformity
to oneself. The mask is related to transition, metamorphoses, the violation
of natural boundaries [...]. It contains the playful element of life; it is based
on a peculiar interrelation of reality and image. (pp. 39–40)
Bakhtin’s analysis shows how carnival, like play, constitutes a relatively safe
area into which experience from potentially dangerous outside reality is
brought and used in games of transformation and masquerade. There may be
interaction with others, or a constant reworking and reinvention of self, but
there is always an element of risk and the chance of ‘some divine leeway’ to
spur players on to ever greater leaps of invention. And these traits will reap-
pear in my discussion of Marsé’s narrative games.
‘Aventis’, the storytelling game that provides the narrative framework of
Si te dicen que caí (1973), have received much critical comment. The
Tangram puzzle symbolic of Luys Forest’s reorderings of the past in La
muchacha de las bragas de oro (1978), published five years later, has in
contrast been ignored. The games played in the mind of the narrator of
Marsé’s most recent novel, Rabos de lagartija (2000), bring together these
two elements of storytelling game and puzzle in startling circumstances. The
jagged narrative is mediated through the dreams and imaginings of an
unborn, and once born incapacitated, ‘gusano’, whose fragmented telling of
episodes in the lives of others involves the reader in a challenging game of
hide-and-seek while whiling away the time for the narrator imprisoned in a
José Ortega sees them as a poetic device which uses fantasy to enable the
reader to come to terms with a brutally alien reality, reminiscent of Erikson’s
play construction:
John Sinnigen links them directly with the need to come to terms with reality
that is at the heart of many definitions of play:
Nivia Montenegro, in her study ‘El juego intertextual de Si te dicen que caí’,
considers them a subtle literary game of intertextual referencing – which
Where the narrative will go, and what sense is to be made of it, is never
certain. As one critic said of Si te dicen and Historia, in their ‘refusal to
adopt the traditional analytico-referential posture’:
both narratives leave their readers unable to reach definitive (authoritative)
conclusions about the incidents they narrate ...; they are a celebration of
narration that denies narrative authority or end.22
Java aumentó el número de personajes reales y redujo cada vez más los
ficticios, y además introdujo escenarios urbanos de verdad, nuestras calles
y nuestras azoteas y nuestros refugios y cloacas. (STD, p. 28)
Las mejores eran aquellas que no tenían entonces tenía sentido ..., todo
estaba patas arriba, cada hogar era un drama y había ni pies ni cabeza pero
que, a pesar de ello, resultaban creíbles: nada por aquel un misterio en
cada esquina y la vida no valía un pito, por menos de nada Fu-Manchú te
arrojaba al foso de los cocodrilos. ... En realidad ..., aquellas fantásticas
aventis se nutrían de un mundo mucho más fantástico que el que unos
chavales siempre callejeando podían siquiera llegar a imaginar.
(STD, pp. 28–9)
When accused of torturing Susana, the child Tetas can protest with an
assumption of innocence:
¿se cree usted que tenemos una cheka, camarada? [...] el martirio de Santa
Susana virgen y mártir, una aventi inventada por Sarnita. (STD, p. 165)
Yet in the adult world, in the civil war, communists did organise ‘chekas’,
for interrogation and torture as barbaric as any martyrdom in the past, and
many
of the tortures the children replicate are drawn from these two sources. Thus,
notions of childish innocence suffer a blow here: Tetas’s protestations ring
hollow since the boys, in common with the adult Conrado Galán, do re-enact
scenes of sado-masochistic brutality. As play constructions their games may
indeed be seen as a working through of experience in the relative safety of
the play area, but their enjoyment of violence testifies to early corruption.
Faced in the 1970s with the conviction that ‘los hechos [...] estaban
siendo manipulados y alterados a través del poder’ – coincidentally, when
Erikson published Toys and Reasons (1977) – Marsé claims that ‘aventis’
offer ‘ un correctivo de la realidad falseada’.23 Yet even brief examination of
his claim makes it clear that this assertion is tongue-in-cheek; what his
‘correctivo’ offers is not a fuller truth than official versions of history, but
extravagant fantasies created by ‘los niños, con su imaginación contaminada
por las películas, tebeos y libros’. And behind the children is the ‘true’
narrator, the drunken old caretaker, Sarnita. There are no authentic children’s
voices in Si te dicen, only old men’s memories flawed with age and deceit.
As the opening line of El embrujo de Shanghai (1993) would later
acknowledge, ironically framed as the words a doubly fictionalised
character:
On the one hand, then, ‘aventis’ provide a space for play. On the other, by
drawing material from the adult world, they are exposed to its vices and
manifest its corruption. The child’s enjoyment of play for its own sake, may
provide validation of the novelist’s art – for art’s sake – a theme picked up
What distinguishes the Tangram from the ‘aventi’ as a model for narrative
is its inbuilt rigidity. It is a geometrical puzzle with fixed components (five
triangles, a square and a rhomboid) that can form over two hundred figures,
but not an infinite number. ‘Aventis’, by comparison, have the virtually
limit- less flexibility of words, actions and subjectivities, and when used by
playful, imaginative, anarchic storytellers, they represent a virtually
uncontrollable challenge to official authority and censorship under
dictatorship. In La muchacha, the novel’s protegonist Luys Forest finds that,
as a symbol of his rewriting of history, the Tangram takes unexpectedly
intractable shapes in democratic post-Franco Spain, mocking his efforts to
control his representa- tion of the past. When Marsé equates the new
‘literatura de crónica’ of the Transition with the puzzle, it is clear that in his
view, democratisation brings its own constraints.
For Forest, history has fixed pieces, but he tries to fit them together into
shapes of his own devising. Ironically, both they and the Tangram ‘elude’
(‘play their way out of’) his control and his narrative takes shape independ-
ently of him. Other movers intervene, and over the course of the novel the
pieces combine to produce an entirely different configuration of
relationships from that with which Forest’s narrative began. Location and
the characters remain constant, but the shifting of the sand and sea into
which the house and its garden merge replicates the shifts in relationships
inside. Forest moves from being Mariana’s uncle, through being her lover, to
become her father, and all the other elements of his story must be shifted to
fit.
The ex-Falangist, Forest, has a dog, Mao, whose Marxist name suggests,
if not a change in political sympathies, at least a softening of attitude in the
former right-wing historian. Yet this reconciliation is illusory, for Mao’s
activities prove uncontrollable and disturbing. Forest believes that ‘Ese
ladrón de Mao, que lo trastoca todo’ (MBO, p. 22), is moving the pieces of
the puzzle. He himself takes elements of one story and places them in a
another context, but the dog’s interference is a source of irritation. Further-
more, the parallel works both ways: doglike, Mao persistently ‘husmeaba
corrupciones’ (MBO, p. 7), and in Forest’s niece’s view, the historian’s
‘perfil parecía husmear corrupciones’ (MBO, p. 181): sniffing out not to
eradicate but to enjoy. The dog’s finds are accompanied by ‘un dulce olor a
carroña’ (MBO, p. 47), and the implication is that what Forest is ‘digging
up’ from his past likewise spreads the sweet scent of corruption throughout
his narrative.
There is an increasing sense of menace. Forest discovers the Tangram
almost complete in a sinister configuration:
una especie de chiste que consiste en que un cronista oficial del régimen,
que no es de fiar cuando escribe la historia de este país – miente como un
perro – ; en cambio, paradójicamente, cuando inventa en su obra de
ficción
– también es novelista – es cuando acierta, cuando alcanza la verdad.
(quoted in Sinnigen, pp. 117–18)
If we take him at his word, we may see his preference for the freedom to
invent as a validation of fiction over historical narrative. Certainly, the
Forest-Mao conflict illustrates Marsé’s conviction that:
the truth of the narrative is challenged by the author himself, the very
occa- sion is denigrated, and we have that shrewdest strategy of false
documenta- tion, the author as his own skeptical critic. (p. 221)
What matters most is neither ‘truth’ nor ‘reality’ but the text’s capacity to
jolt the reader: ‘At issue is the human mind, which has to be shocked,
seduced, or otherwise provoked out of its habitual stupor’ (p. 230).
Play can seem like an opt-out from engagement in outside reality. Graham
and Labanyi warn that ‘postmodernism’s emphasis on the irreducibility of
the particular, on plural cultures “at play”, tends to disguise precisely what
this is symptomatic of: namely, the increasing concentration of economic
power (multinational capital) which produces and reproduces the cultural
jamboree [...]. While we play, power operates elsewhere’. 25 Yet I, with
Erikson and Eigen, have argued that play is as necessary in adult life as it is
for the child because, like carnival, it is explosive and subversive, and
precisely because it functions at ‘the interface between a stasis imposed from
above and a desire for change from below, between old and new, official and
unofficial’,26 it has a powerful potential to effect change.
In the next chapter I discuss how Marsé establishes narrative play areas in
his novels, starting with Encerrados con un solo juguete. The strategies of
subversion that I shall identify in his first novel will then provide the basis
for further examination of how he explores and challenges critical opinion
(Chapter 1), historical dogmatism (Chapter 2), literary conventions (Chapter
3), religious myth (Chapter 4), and finally that most condensed and coded
form of visual narrative, the religious icon (Chapter 5). Of all the narrative
forms I discuss, the icon is governed by the strictest canons and conventions,
and it is here that we shall appreciate most acutely Marsé’s daring in taking
an art form as strictly framed as the religion it represents as the starting-point
for virtuoso performances of narrative invention that are essentially and fully
playful.
but he can come close enough to confound those critics who try to categorise
him too narrowly rather than confront his diversity.
This chapter will look first at strategies which, with the natural skill of the
mimic and an enjoyment of masquerade, Marsé adopts to elude the catego-
rising, controlling critical eye and to establish a narrative play area in which
he can call the shots – lay down the rules of encounter and change them at
will. It will then offer a re-reading of Encerrados con un solo juguete (1960)
to show how this first novel revealed Marsé framing the interaction between
the writer and the reader-critic as erotic encounters in the sexualised play
area of the bedroom in such a way as to explore them as both conflictive and
symbiotic. Erotic games in bedroom play areas represent the writer’s deter-
mination to elude control and defend a ‘divine leeway’ in his own world of
2 Roger Caillois, Les jeux et les hommes (Paris, Gallimard, 1955), p. 93.
the transgressively eroticised woman to which he returns with obsessive
persistence. This figure has remained largely unexplored, and my discussion
of Marsé and the critics will focus on the novels where it features most
prom- inently: in Últimas tardes con Teresa (1965) and La oscura historia
de la prima Montse (1970), El amante bilingüe (1990) and El embrujo de
Shanghai (1993), and finally in Encerrados con un solo juguete (1960).
3 Enrique Margery Peña, ‘ “Últimas tardes con Teresa” de Juan Marsé. Una
aproximación a sus claves’, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, 279 (1973), p. 484. For a
discussion of the model of a literary generation see Christopher C. Soufas, Conflict of
Light and Wind. The Spanish Generation of 1927 and the Ideology of Poetic Form
(Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1989).
Para todos ellos, la guerra civil española y la posguerra, más los
acontecimientos mundiales coincidentes con esta última, fueron algo así
como el hecho generacional que actúa de eficacísimo revulsivo.4
However, as Goytisolo’s life and writings illustrate and as one critic argues,
by prescribing like-mindedness rather than describing points of friction, the
notion of a unified generation effectively excludes those who do not fit in
with a desired image and thus constitutes a means of political manipulation:
Marsé the hybrid sets out to expose the critic’s ideological stance.
In an intriguing manoeuvre so smooth that he himself might not have
been aware of it, Martínez Cachero first underplays, then overemphasises
Marsé’s left-wing politics in order to include him in a literary generation.
Writing
4 José María Martínez Cachero, La novela española entre 1939 y 1969 (Madrid:
Castalia, 1973), p. 156.
5 Juan Goytisolo, ‘Para una Literatura Nacional Popular’, Insula, 146 (1959), p. 6.
under the dictatorship, he describes the members of the ‘generación del
medio siglo’ as ‘de ordinario universitarios’ (Martínez Cachero, p. 164),
which Marsé was not, and identifies ethical dissent, and political commit-
ment initially in the form of early right-wing activism, as the generation’s
unifying characteristic:
Later, in the 1985 post-Franco rewrite of his critique of the post-war novel,
he adds Marsé to a list which now emphasises left-wing militancy:
Nonetheless, writing fifteen years after Franco’s death, from outside Spain
and therefore with both hindsight and distance, Jordan depicts the
‘generación del medio siglo’ as cultural, intellectual and forward-looking
and defines an emerging ‘oppositional standpoint’ as ‘that of the losing side
in the civil war […] a literature whose emergence corresponds, not to the
traumatic
The comforting notion of different generations appears once again when the
four novels are said to exemplify the ‘escisión entre los padres, los que
vivieron la guerra, y los hijos, que nada quieren saber ya de ella’. However,
to emphasise in this way the symbolic function of youthful protest, rather
than the individual nature of Marsé’s characters, demonstrates a failure on
the part of the critic to apprehend what my re-reading of Encerrados will
show to have been this author’s early commitment to sharply differentiated
portrayals that makes Sobejano’s ‘tres muchachos [...] a la deriva’ into three
clearly defined individuals. José Domingo writes ‘en sus primeras novelas
[Marsé] abordaba una realidad social vista con una distanciación que les
privaba de verosimilitud y humanidad’, Buckley describes the ‘realismo
social’ of the 1950s and 1960s as a process where an earlier ‘mirada
apasionada del autor comienza a ser sustituida por el frío contemplar de la
cámara fotográfica’,8 and Sobejano concludes that in Encerrados, ‘recarga el
autor los trazos
7 Gonzalo Sobejano, Novela española de nuestro tiempo (en busca del pueblo
perdido) (Madrid: Prensa Española, 1975).
8 Buckley, Ramón, ‘Del Realismo Social al Realismo Dialéctico’, Insula, 326
(1974), pp. 1 and 4. José Domingo, ‘Del realismo proscrito a la nueva novela’, Ínsula
290 (January 1971), p. 5.
sombríos, de un naturalismo despiadado’ (Sobejano, pp. 447 and 448). The
result of neglecting Marsé’s playful experimentation with narrative and
narra- tive perspective from his earliest work on, has been critical comment
of a positivist empirical bias that has dismissed these early novels as worth
little in relation to social realism, a definition that Marsé rejects as a
fabrication by the critics:
9 Ángelo Morino, ‘Una conversación con Juan Marsé’, El Viejo Topo (4 January
1977), pp. 41–4. Marsé mentions the critic José María Castellet who, he claims, tried
to label his work as social realism, and takes a kind of literary vengeance on what he
calls ‘una especie de patriarca de este movimiento, como demuestra su libro La hora
del lector, que yo ironizo en Ultimas tardes con Teresa’ (quoted in Morino, p. 42).
10 Ramón Freixas, ‘Hipnotizar por la imagen’, Quimera, 41 (1984), pp. 51–5.
The publication of Ultimas tardes con Teresa (1965) provoked a sharp
response from Mario Vargas Llosa that proved ground-breaking in critical
writing on Marsé. Ultimas tardes had just won the 1965 Premio Biblioteca
Breve, and Vargas Llosa greeted it as ‘una explosión sarcástica en la novela
española moderna.’11 Arguably, his greatest tribute to Marsé’s writing is his
ambivalent reaction to the novel. Mistakenly beguiled into dismissing
Encerrados con un solo juguete and Esta cara de la luna as representatives
of a drab but still continuing social realism, 12 Vargas Llosa then ironically
compared Marsé’s creative dynamism in Ultimas tardes with that of God:
‘esa oscura fuerza incontrolable y espontánea que anima las palabras y
comunica la verdad y la vida a todo lo que toca, incluso a la mentira y la
muerte, y que constituye la más alta y misteriosa facultad humana: el poder
de la creación’ (Vargas Llosa, p. 1). His intention here primarily was to deni-
grate what he saw as intrusive and overly vitriolic authorial intervention in
what might otherwise have been a masterly text:
Yet, at the same time, Vargas Llosa is excited by characters so vibrant that
they come alive to the reader:
They have to fight for their freedom against an author as tyrannical as God,
and Vargas Llosa’s imagery – of constraint and freedom in erotic intercourse
applied to the generation of narrative – returns us to Marsé’s narrative games
in bedrooms. If briefly in the text ‘Teresa se despoja de su camisa de fuerza
(“niña rica enferma de virginidad y de ideas reformistas”) y cobra una
Lo que pasa es que la historia, a través del tiempo que ha pasado desde
que ocurrieron los hechos, está contada por el pariente pobre, alguien que,
de alguna manera, estaba muy próximo, desde un punto de vista moral, al
presidiario, al personaje “siniestro” que engañó a la Montse y fue la causa
de su muerte. (Sinnigen, p. 115)
and notably with a parody closely bound up with Spain’s sense of mythic identity,
Sobejano adds: ‘Amargo y pequeño Quijote de la narrativa social, este libro es en sí, al
modo como el Quijote fue el mejor libro de caballerías posible, una excelente novela
social, pero ya no derecha, ya no “objetiva”, sino más bien (siguiendo el rumbo marcado
por Tiempo de silencio) indirecta, subjetiva, expansiva, satírica, airada’. Sobejano then
casts Marsé as a healer of society’s ills, concluding that this novel ‘entraña una intención
saneadora, un mensaje purificativo’ (Sobejano, pp. 155 and 456).
16 Carolyn Morrow, ‘Breaking the rules: Transgression and Carnival in Últimas
tardes con Teresa’, Hispania, 74 (1991), pp. 834–40.
17 Ultimas tardes won the Biblioteca Breve prize (1965), Si te dicen the Premio
Internacional de Novela «México» (1973), and La muchacha the Premio Planeta
(1978).
illuminating critique of its predecessor, and because its discussion of Vatican
II can still be seen as intimidating: a view I contest on the basis of Marsé’s
playful treatment of the subject. Domingo considers La oscura historia more
effective than Marsé’s earlier supposedly social realist novels because it
shows greater personal involvement: ‘un punto de vista más personal, más
cercano a sí mismo [...]. [P]arece como si el novelista, ahora, pisa un terreno,
más firme, se halle directamente implicado en sus narraciones, llegue a sentir
la causa de sus personajes como suya propia’ (Domingo, p. 5). This senti-
mental view disregards the intrusion of the venal narrator Paco between
Montse and the reader.
William Sherzer18 views La oscura historia as ‘precursor of an often
underestimated later work whose philosophical value is of utmost
importance to Marsé’: La muchacha, whose vaunted ‘philosophical aspect’
is ‘the vision of the novelist who continually rectifies the reality he is
supposed to be chronicling’ (Sherzer, p. 159). Sherzer acknowledges that the
text does not reveal all at first sight (as Buckley’s ‘impassive camera’s eye’,
mentioned earlier, suggests) and argues that:
In the same manner in which Paco unmasks the double standard of bour-
geois Catalan society, the dialogue he directs constitutes a systematic
baring of Nuria’s immoral actions. While Montse’s character is stated
clearly from the beginning [...] Nuria’s personality and activity emerge
only gradually. (Sherzer, p. 160)
However, he falls into the trap of limiting Marsé’s purpose to yet another
critique of bourgeois hypocrisy, affirming that ‘Montse’s story, is a socio-
political cliché’, and ‘While Montse represented a stereotype, those who
struggle (in vain) against societal and personal hypocrisy, in Nuria we see a
much more complex personal conflict’ (Sherzer, p. 164). He acknowledges
that ‘Montse is the curious case of a tragic heroine whose development is
mostly absent from the text’ (Sherzer, p. 164) but fails to consider the func-
tion of that absence: a deliberate, cunning and effective strategy of subver-
sion on the part of Marsé which is once again focused in a silent female
figure. Instead he argues that:
19 Abigail Lee Six, ‘La oscura historia del primo Paco/Francesc: Code-switching
in Juan Marsé’s La oscura historia de la prima Montse’, Bulletin of Hispanic Studies,
LXXVI (1999), pp. 359–66, 359.
20 Lee Six offers a very full bibliography which includes: for a general discussion
of code-switching Monica Heller, ‘Code-switching and the politics of language’, in
One Speaker, Two languages: Cross-disciplinary perspectives on code-switching, eds
Lesley Milroy and Pieter Muysken (Cambridge: Cambridge U.P., 1995), pp. 158–74;
on Catalonia, Kathryn A. Woolard, Double Talk: Bilingualism and the Politics of
Ethnicity in Catalonia (Stanford, CA: Stanford U.P., 1989) and Claudi Esteve
Fabregat, Estado, etnicidad y biculturalismo (Barcelona: Peninsula, 1984).
Both the adult and the child Paco exploit the elusive qualities of language
and forge a language of freedom, but one that exposes their weaknesses to
public view.
As with Ultimas tardes and La oscura historia, critical attention has
focused on El amante bilingüe (1990) almost to the exclusion of El embrujo
de Shanghai (1993). El amante had an immediate and lastingly provocative
impact because, in the view of one critic, ‘To this date [it] remains the most
explicit literary intervention in Catalonia’s linguistic conflict’. 21 Norma
Valentí is put forward in the novel as an authority figure to be subverted.
Resina states that ‘Her name, in fact, stands for the 1983 Language Normal-
ization Law’ but is critical of what he sees as Marsé’s dishonest recourse to
‘the Sociolinguistic Fiction’: his ‘avoidance of history, his substitution of
allusion and myth for fully-fledged depiction, his recourse to comic book
models and to Hollywood films as so many narrative tools which make for
good fiction but poor sociology’ (Resina).
Marsé would probably thank him for the ‘good fiction’ and not lament the
‘poor sociology’, seeking narrative ‘toys’ rather than ‘tools’, and using soci-
ology as one more toy to play with and one more ‘authority’ to subvert. Juan
Vila echoes the notion of a language of freedom when he comments: ‘Le
triomphe de Faneca est avant tout la libération d’une langue qui subvertit les
normes sociales et linguistiques que représente Norma. La déroute de la bour-
geoise catalane le libère enfin d’une possession passionnelle et destructrice’.22
Forrest develops the carnival theme from Morrow’s article on Ultimas
tardes23 when he states that ‘Consistent with Marsé’s formulaic opposition of
the marginalized, eccentric individual to the official center, Faneca’s seduc-
tion of Norma clearly symbolizes an assault on the authoritarian “norm” ’
(Forrest, p. 46).
At the same time, there is an area of uncertainty in relation to this appar-
ently transparent female figure. Like Montse, she is kept out of the picture
for much of the novel, and when she is ‘on view’, her performance is
mediated through Marés’ gaze. Like Martín (Encerrados) and Manuel (La
oscura historia), her eyes are obscured – or, in her case, distorted – by
glasses. Perhaps her vision is faulty, explaining her failure to ‘see clearly’
her ex-husband Marés. Alternatively, she cannot be ‘seen’: eye-contact with
her is minimised while the impact of her body is emphasised. Vila, in
describing her relationship with Marés, posits her both as power – a judge
– and as a
21 Joan Ramón Resina, ‘Juan Marsé’s El amante bilingüe and the Sociolinguistic
Fiction’, Journal of Catalan Studies, iii (1999–2000) (www.fitz.cam.ac.uk).
22 Juan Vila, ‘Le corps palimpseste de l’amant bilingüe’, Hispanística XX, 9,
(Dijon: Centre d’Études et de Recherches Hispaniques du XXème Siècle de
l’Université de Bourgogne, 1992), pp. 253–66, 263.
23 ‘[Ultimas tardes] stresses the openly erotic moves of those at the periphery
which both threaten and attract those at the centre’ (Morrow, p. 835).
depersonalised and therefore disempowered conduit for language and sex.
She is ‘la lectrice à qui sont destinés les cahiers autobiographiques et
devient, de ce fait, la lectrice des corps et langues de Marés puis de Faneca.
Elle est le canal par lequel doit transiter toute parole pour être jugée’ (Vila,
p. 261). Vila also picks up Marsé’s allusion to the Good/Evil dichotomy that
is ever-present in his novels in image, myth, story and icon, and – wittingly
or unwittingly – depicts a manipulated Norma as both diabolically seductive,
and as victim of another devil, Marés: ‘la langue diabolique qu’utilise Marés
ne fait, en réalité, que traduire la vérité de Norma, rendre visible “la punta
rosada y diabólica de su lengua” ’ (Vila, p. 262). If, then, we reconsider
Vila’s depiction of a powerful Norma and an enslaved Marés who seeks
liberation, his subtext can well be read as indicating that the ‘déroute de la
bourgeoise catalane’ becomes a diabolical ‘possession passionnelle et
destructrice’ (Vila, p. 263). Marés achieves carnivalesque freedom, but
Norma has no voice of her own, only the borrowed voice of Normalisation.
Nor has she freedom of movement, being doubly confined by her glasses,
representing her literal and metaphorical shortsightedness, and by the glass
walls of Marés’ goldfish-bowl where she serves for the voyeuristic games of
Marés, first and foremost, but equally of all readers of the novel who specu-
late on her ‘lengua’ and ignore her silence.
Forrest compares Marés and Norma to Manuel Reyes and Teresa of
Ultimas tardes and suggests that the men’s ‘inner’ seductiveness is revealed
by their play with masking and disguise, while Norma’s lack of any
authentic ‘inner’ affections results in a hardening and fixing of all that she
has – her outer mask:
Teresa’s (Norma’s) voyeuristic attachment to the earthy charnego, no
longer mitigated by her idealistic – albeit superficial – espousal of progres-
sive causes and rebellion against a puritanical moral order, reveals little
more than the erotic fetishism of a woman who is incapable of authentic
love [...], she has become ossified and dehumanized, transformed into a
cultural archetype (her features are compared to those of the image of the
Virgin of Montserrat and her voice offers a ‘sugestión ligeramente
gaudiniana, como de cerámica troceada’. (Forrest, p. 48)
Lee Six picks up the religious motif and suggests that Norma can be seen as
a 1990s rewrite of the 1950s Montse in terms of contemporary Catalan ideals
of a more liberated womanhood: ‘just as Montse’s name seemed to typecast
her for the role of personifying the traditional rock-solid Catholic society
with its very own Virgin, so Norma … incarnates the contemporary
autonomy of Catalonia with its own “language police”.’ 24 However, Norma’s
24 Abigail Lee Six, ‘Blind Woman’s Buff: Optical Illusions of Feminist Progress
in Juan Marsé’s El amante bilingüe’, Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies,
6, 1 (2000), pp. 29–41, 30.
autonomy as a rich modern Catalan woman is undermined by her desire for a
dominant – in this instance lower class overtly ‘machista’ sexual partner – an
attitude Lee Six considers indicative of ‘Optical Illusions of Feminist Prog-
ress’ in El amante bilingüe:
25 Drawing on the feminist bell hooks’ Yearning: Race, Gender and Cultural
Poli- tics (Boston MA: South End Press, 1990), Lee Six argues that ‘it is when Faneca
makes his most objectionably “machista” remarks that Norma’s sexual interest in him
is sparked’ (Lee Six, p. 37).
Bedroom games: private spaces, own voices
Taken up with social realism, Gonzalo Sobejano echoed a common view
that in the title of Encerrados con un solo juguete,26 ‘encerrados’ denoted the
restrictiveness of a repressive dictatorship, ‘un solo’ the poverty of life under
Francoism, and ‘juguete’ a regression from sterile adult boredom back into
childhood with only one plaything – sex. He described Andrés, Tina and
Martín as: ‘tres muchachos que existen a la deriva, sin energías, sin
proyectos, sin trabajo. Lo único que les une y aparta, que les distrae y
preocupa, es un solo juguete peligroso: Eros’ (Sobejano, p. 447). This drasti-
cally reductionist interpretation ignores differences between the three young
people and in their capacity to play. It also neglects the implications for
Marsé’s storytelling of their triangular relationship. My reading will argue
that storytelling, not sex, is the toy in the title, and that far from being a
sterile pastime, storytelling gives Andrés and Tina a taste of autonomy in
their own play areas. By contrast, Martín’s failure in play is destructive.
Narrative play provides a measure of the success or failure of all three to
relate to the outside world they are about to enter and to define themselves as
distinct from it.
Marsé places Andrés, Tina and Martín in a transitional space, on the brink
of adulthood, with the break with childhood still to be completed. He then
traces their attempts to define themselves in opposition to the models
afforded by their parents and in interaction with each other in narrative play
areas. Simply to view the parents as authority figures – representing society
or the regime – fails to acknowledge that their impact on their children
differs in each case and affects how the young handle relationships with each
other and with the adult world.
The absence of fathers allows space for narratives about them based more
on speculation than on knowledge. It also intensifies relationships with the
ever-present mother. This is less problematic for Andrés and Martín, who
reject their father and coexist relatively peacefully with their mothers,
despite the mother’s emotional dependence in Andrés’ case, and financial
depend- ence in the case of Martín. For Tina, however, enforced proximity to
a mother she detests is a constraint she seeks to shed, while her father is the
focus of her dreams and hopes.
Cults of heroism fuelled propaganda on both sides in the civil war and
were common to the regime and resistance in the post-war years. Andrés’
dead father is held up as an example of selfless heroism which he rejects
along with the version of history it represents: ‘Verás, yo no soy
desinteresado ni bueno como lo fue él, no aspiro a nada [...]. Aunque quiera
no podría ser como él, creo que los tiempos han cambiado’ (EJ, pp. 104–5).
Andrés defines himself as the opposite of this ideal and scripts an alternative
26 It won the greatest number of votes (though not the prize money) when entered
for the Premio “Biblioteca Breve” prior to publication.
version of his identity: ‘No me conoce usted, se cree que soy un buenazo
como papá. ¡Pues sépalo, yo soy un vividor, un vivalavirgen, un puerco que
sólo piensa en chingar!’ (EJ, p. 216) It is ironic that in championing the feck-
less Tina he appears ‘desinteresado’ and ‘buenazo’, but by cultivating
transgressive behaviour and refusing to clean his bedroom, he achieves a
‘leeway’ which allows him to distance himself both from his father and the
past, and from a contemporary male role model, his sister Matilde’s fiancé
Juli Puig. Conformity is tempting: ‘[Andrés] imaginó que tal vez fuese
agradable meterse un rato dentro de Juli Puig – qué cosa: vivir un rato en él,
en ese confort cuadriculado y abrigado, un rato o puede que siempre: daba la
impresión de tenerlo todo hecho, solucionado’ (EJ, p. 40). But Andrés enacts
his revolt in two other bedrooms of which Matilde disapproves: one
belonging to Tina, whom Matilde will not even name, the other to the prosti-
tute Julita. These three bedrooms hold the familiar, and therefore comforting
marks of Andrés’ own transgression, and the girls represent transgressive
sexual relations:
Both also mean ‘horas salvadas (sin historia también: salvadas, rescatadas
simplemente a la vida manipulada a distancia como por un poderoso ser de
hierro, sin entrañas, inflexible)’ (EJ, p. 44). In the play area they afford,
Andrés rejects History and national narratives and devises his own story.
Martín never mentions his socially unacceptable father – rumoured to
have gone mad and died in prison, but the rumour means that his unusual
behaviour – remaining fully clothed on a hot beach in summer and haunting
Tina’s house – acquires a sinister twist by association, even before he resorts
to violence, blackmail and finally rape. Like Andrés, he seems marked by his
father’s character, but in his case, rejection of the transgressive model leads
him to work hard, dress with care, and look after his mother – in other
words, to conform to appear like Juli Puig. Martín’s mother went blind
working to bring him up well and is also metaphorically blind to his
increasing need to escape. Tina’s mother affords a comfort that is both
maternal and transgressively erotic:
What Martín wants is Tina, and he resorts to violence and religion to force
her to comply. In Tina’s words:
le daba por llevarme a una iglesia para verme rezar, así, por las buenas, me
obligaba, me pegaba, quería que me confesara y cosas así para ... ¡yo qué
sé!, a lo mejor los curas tienen razón y todo nos irá mejor en la vida, eso
decía el chalao. (EJ, p. 185)
In fact, mother and daughter are alike. Both take refuge from reality in one
bedroom, awaiting the father’s return and dreaming. Both have an allure
which draws Martín and Andrés to the bedroom 27 and represents a limited
form of power – its limitations revealed when Martín rapes Tina and her
mother colludes in that rape. This parody of ‘playing together’, causes a
break in the mother-daughter relationship and a breach in the eroticised play
area that is finalised by the mother’s death. Tina’s rejection of her is evident
in her attitude to the corpse:
27 In the bedroom Andrés’s gaze is drawn to her legs, tantalizingly revealed yet
showing the onset of age (EJ, p. 23). See also Martín’s awareness of her sexuality (EJ,
p. 31). Mothers similarly portrayed as erotic, combining sexual attraction with the
vulnerability of age, are Sarnita’s in Si te dicen que caí, Néstor’s in Un día volveré, and
Susana’s in El embrujo de Shanghai.
frente al féretro y mirando con dureza el cadáver de su madre, mirándola
sin perdonarle todavía nada, ni una sola hora de su vida. Ni siquiera había
comprensión para su boca rígida ..., aquella boca un poco abierta que Tina
fue a cerrar con mano demasiado brutal. (EJ, p. 259)
The mother’s open but silent mouth is a warning the daughter does not hear.
Abandoned by her father, and now without a mother, Tina must find her own
voice or share her mother’s silence.
Andrés has his room and Martín can leave town. Tina’s fantasies are
circumscribed by the limited transgressive spaces allowed to her, and by her
need to be an object of desire in the gaze of others: the father she is trying to
convince of her ‘modern’ views; Martín and Andrés. Martín’s violence
provides Tina with a role in a drama of desire and jealousy that she is
prepared to play despite its dangers. Having seen Martín beating her, Andrés
comments: ‘al final me pareció que Tina sonreía, incluso su madre sonreía;
eran pequeñas y torpes sonrisas entre las lágrimas [...]. Era como si aquello
fuese un juego y no les disgustara del todo (EJ, p. 99). Thirteen years later,
in Si te dicen que caí (1973), Marsé would explicitly link sado-masochistic
violence with the frustrated ambitions of the ex-combatant Conrado Galán,
representative in the novel of National Catholic Spain. In Encerrados,
Andrés does not intervene because he perceives that mother and daughter
collude in the violence as later, in Si te dicen, Galán’s prostitutes would
collude. However, when Tina’s plea for gentleness raises expectations of
violence at Julita’s, Andrés refuses to ‘play along’:
–Tráteme con cariño, oficial. Porque nunca más volveremos a vernos y ...
–No diga tonterías. Ya está bien de jugar, ¿no crees? (EJ, p. 172)
His refusal forces Tina to face a reality she abhors: ‘Te diré por qué hemos
venido a tu sucia cueva esta noche: porque estoy harta de mamá y de su
dichosa felicidad perdida, su vieja historia de errores me crispa, su jardín,
sus amigos muertos, su juventud ...’ (EJ, p. 177). Tina’s disillusionment now
echoes that of Andrés, and on that common ground, their relationship
survives, each finding in the other an audience and a place where storytelling
can start afresh:
Yet the mirror represents the gaze of others and she must ask Andrés:
‘¿Cómo me encuentras? Chico, nunca me dices nada ... ¿Qué clase de novio
tengo? No te comprendo, la verdad’ (EJ, p. 36). Her persistence reveals her
need to fit a stereotype framed in the gaze of another: ‘su deseo de que la
imaginaran poseída, segura y feliz’ (EJ, p. 115).
Martín both denies and exploits performance. His screening off of the
other’s gaze and dark glasses, like his reluctance to undress on a hot beach,
can be taken as a paranoid desire for concealment, 28 or as playing a ‘film
noir’ mystery man: in either case his act is as calculated as Tina’s:
sin mirar a nadie y sabiéndose observado. Cuidaba siempre la figura y la
expresión, se movía como dentro de una esfera de cristal que al menor
gesto temiera romper. No era timidez, pronto se daba uno cuenta que
aquella tendencia a la inmovilidad no era timidez. Andrés le miró de
soslayo y sonrió ligeramente. (EJ, p. 27)
The joking communication of their play-acting does not last and their gaze
parts:
– ¿Y cómo piensas irte? – dijo Andrés con indiferencia.
Martín se sonrió, golpeó amistosamente el hombro de su amigo con
el puño:
– Con nocturnidad y alevosía, claro.
Andrés también sonrió a pesar suyo: ese espíritu de burla era lo que
antes les unía. Se miraban sonriéndose ligeramente, muy juntos,
penetrados el uno del otro con una antigua conciencia juvenil que reptó
entre ruinas [...]. Luego dejaron de mirarse y quedó en sus rostros una
mezcla de hastío y de temor, apartaron despacio la cabeza para dejar
resbalar los ojos sobre la gente. (EJ, pp. 236–7)
28 Marsé will use this motif again, with emphatic persistence, in La oscura historia
with Manuel Reyes (pp. 132, 140, 149, 153, 155, 165, 173).
The interaction here between Martín as actor and Andrés as spectator is
similar to Tina’s performing before Andrés’ desiring gaze and recalls
Caillois’ comment that ‘Les jeux ne trouvent généralement leur plénitude
qu’au moment où ils suscitent une résonance complice’ (Caillois, p. 97).
Martín has an independence Tina lacks, but Marsé’s foregrounding of the
spectator–narrator as controller and interpreter of their performance forces
the reader to reflect on the autonomy and motivation of spectator and
performer: narrator and reader–critic.
Earlier, as Martín is viewed by Tina’s mother, the narratorial voice is
complex and deceptive. Vestiges of a former lover’s romanticism and desire
vie with an older view coloured by age and disillusionment, and at the same
time, erudite language and a more explicit ironic comparison with film
models should warn the reader of a self-conscious, and therefore suspect,
authorial intervention:
Briefly, subject and object, narrator and narratee, seem one and, albeit
briefly, Andrés takes over his own story.
The reader is lured into believing that what Andrés shows us is reality not
performance, yet shortly afterwards, the mirror shows Andrés cultivating
image even in private. The section ends as Andrés plays a private looking-
glass game, practising seeing not the self he experiences daily, but rather
what he ‘imagines’ a stranger would see:
Balart can tell image from reality. These are not ‘otros tiempos’ and Andrés
is a rebel without a cause. The history Andrés sought to escape has caught up
with him and his desire for fantasy must compete with the reality represented
29 A similar image of the subject lying apathetically on the bed, again in the
opening pages of the novel, introduces Miguel Dot in Esta cara. The scene is depicted
from Dot’s alienated viewpoint (ECL, pp. 8–9). These examples in the first two novels
display an interest in image, imaging and control which is evident in Marsé’s work
from the start, is central to our understanding of how he sees the function of the
narrator, and opens the way for my later discussion of Marsé’s manipulation of iconog-
raphy.
by Balart. Communication ends as eye-contact is broken. With the
audience’s gaze withdrawn, the difference between illusion (Andrés’s play-
acting) and outside reality (Balart’s hand) stares Andrés in the face. He can
accept it and engage with it, or reject it and resort once more to evasive play.
Encerrados denies the reader a happy ending. Tina’s conviction that
desire can be fulfilled only through the gaze of another outlasts the novel.
When barriers between her and Andrés have at last been removed, she must
still ask: ‘¿Qué haría yo, qué podría yo hacer, Andrés, para querernos como
las demás personas ...?’ (EJ, p. 261). For as long as Andrés can be actor and
spectator, he is secure in his own self-reflective mirror-world: ‘Nada. No
necesitamos nada de nadie.’ His isolation is fragile, however: in Tina, strate-
gically located as receiver of Andrés’ narratives and defined by others,
Andrés’ uncertainty finds an echo. Tina’s inability to find her own voice and
attempts at silent projection through images are a provocative symbol of
dispossession in a novel that has been judged too easily as unproblematic.
Marsé’s exploration of narrative play areas in Encerrados traces the
attempts of three characters to establish a ‘divine leeway’ for creative inven-
tion and to find their own narrative voice. Their narrative games in private
stem from their rejection of the outside world, and also reveal the frustration
arising from conflict with outside reality. But when these narrators experi-
ment with performance, cultivated in private with the aid of mirrors, ironi-
cally, they fall into the trap of play-acting with the intention to deceive that
is at the root of their rejection of public performance. In private, as in public,
then, both actor and spectator prove manipulable and manipulative.
Narrative freedom is not easy to secure. Its fragility is evident in Tina’s
failure to break free of seeing herself through the eyes of others, and in the
image of Andrés, the voyeur, locked in dependency on his object of desire.
Light and water create an insubstantial dreamlike image, seen in the mind of
the viewer, not in reality. At the same time, in Marsé’s aquariums, the
insider attracts, holds the gaze of the outsider and thus also has power.
Indeed, the aquarium, which reappears in later novels represents the
narrative paradox mentioned earlier in this chapter, indicating Marsé’s
commitment to complex narrative perspective from his very first novel, and
also marking the effec- tiveness of the interplay of performance and
perception that is a constant characteristic of his novels. Both narrative
complexity and performance have been used so successfully that many
critics have not looked beneath the surface of his deceptively playful
narratives and discerned the extent of his ironic commentary on reality and
representation.
In La oscura historia (1970), eight years after Montse’s death, her cousin
Paco contemplates images of her held in his imagination as in an aquarium.
What Marsé has done for the first time in this novel is create a first-person
narrator, Paco, and a fully-fledged interlocutor, Nuria, who modifies and
contests Paco’s versions of events. This device of dual narration allows
Marsé to embark upon a more extensive exploration of the potential for
narratorial deception begun with Andrés in Encerrados, while at the same
time highlighting the narrator’s self-conscious awareness that narratives can
be contested. Nonetheless, Nuria is female and open to seduction, and in
addition, entering into debate with himself, addressed as ‘tú’, Paco subjects
his own observation of Montse to scrutiny. On occasion it is detached and
almost scientific, and then he will foregound his subjective judgement on the
society that produced Montse, associated in his mind with personal experi-
ences of Sundays, stagnancy, and the enclosed world of the Catholic bour-
geoisie:
This passage picks up an image of a garden pond from earlier in the novel,
where it is a symbol both of stagnation and of Montse’s aspirations: ‘la niña
está sentada al borde del estanque y contempla con sus ojos muy atentos los
turbios peces rojos, soñando quizás con un mundo de luz’ (PM, p. 56). In the
course of the novel, Paco traces Montse’s struggle to fulfil her aspirations
despite surrounding stagnation in the context of the post-war Catholic
Church, and he returns to images of water several times: when he imagines
Montse briefly experiencing a limited liberation through her relationship
with Manuel amidst ‘algas y arena’ by the sea (PM, pp. 219–20); when he
witnesses her ‘rapto de los sentidos’ and seems to smell ‘algas’ in her
feverish sweat (PM, p. 121); and when she drowns herself (PM, pp. 271–2).
Each time, the occurrence of the image reminds us of the narrator, raises
questions about what he is trying to say in his storytelling, and what impact
his sexualised images of Montse are intended to have on Montse’s sister
Nuria.
Thirty years later, in El amante bilingüe (1990), Marsé would once again
use the images of a stagnant pond (EAB, pp. 137–9), and of a goldfish-bowl
which initially contains the object of (his virtual homonym) Joan Marés’
desire, and subsequently signifies its absence. El amante is principally a
third-person narrative, but it also contains three notebooks in the first person,
where the protagonist Marés remembers, or reconstructs, episodes from his
past, and contemplates them as an aquarium, though the ‘cuadernos’ are, of
course, intended to be read by his ex-wife Norma. Temporal inversions intro-
duced by the ‘cuadernos’ heighten dramatic irony in the story. The gold-
fish-bowl is first seen as the place where the adult Marés puts money he
earns but does not want (EAB, pp. 30, 35, 69). Only later is its origin
divulged, when he remembers as symbolic of his childhood visit to the Villa
Valentí his first sight of the goldfish as fire, light and metallic brightness,
and his fasci- nation with its frenetic activity:
A mi lado hay una mesita con libros, tallas policromadas y una pecera
pequeña con un pez dorado que da vueltas compulsivamente. En el agua
del recipiente centellea un rayo de sol y el pez de oro parece debatirse en
un incendio. Con la cara pegada al cristal de la pecera, estoy mirando las
evoluciones neuróticas del pez. (EAB, p. 134)
When it is lost in the murky waters of the stagnant pond, the phrase ‘Y así
me veo todavía’ after the paragraph break suggests that ‘condenado a morir’
can refer to the fish and the boy alike. The ambiguity is resolved by ‘a mí y
al pez’, but the association lingers in the reader’s mind:
Seer and seen, in a conflation of himself, the fish and Norma, Marés watches
himself in the aquarium and fantasises around projections of his own misery.
The partial mirror-image of the names Marsé–Marés tempt the reader to
wonder whether Marsé is not making an ironic comment on his own self-
obsession: on authors who speculate on themselves in endless narrative
games.
30 Marsé frequently uses the image of the scorpion which, when surrounded by
fire, is said to sting itself to death. Si te dicen que caí pp. 129, 174, 215 and El
embrujo de Shanghai pp. 84 and 96.
El embrujo de Shanghai (1993), like La oscura historia, is a complex
first-person narrative. Marsé describes Susana as she is contemplated and
imagined by Daniel in a glassed-in gallery, moving as frenetically,
unproduc- tively, yet as fascinatingly as Tina, or a goldfish in a bowl:
Susana has TB, and her aquarium offers security for convalescence.
However, it is also a ‘jaula de cristal’ (ES, p. 62). Trapped there, Susana is
vulnerable to both Daniel’s voyeurism initially, and later to El Denis’s desire
to take vengeance for Susana’s father’s cuckolding of him, by deflowering
Susana. At the same time, she can and does manipulate Daniel, and because
of her, El Denis meets a violent death. It is curious, then, that once improved
health and El Denis’s death release her from her gallery-prison and an
abusive relationship, of her own choice she retreats into another glass cage –
the cinema box-office. Daniel observes that:
Whether Daniel reads her correctly or projects his own capacity to fanta-
sise on to her, what she symbolises for him, in her aquarium, is the starting-
point for narrative games in which she might or might not partici- pate, for
her voice is not heard: ‘Susana dejándose llevar en su sueño y en mi
recuerdo a pesar del desencanto, las perversiones del tiempo transcurrido,
hoy como ayer, rumbo a Shanghai’ (ES, p. 192).
What links the four novels I have discussed is the symbolism of
bedrooms, mirrors and aquariums – amorous encounters, performance and
vision/imagi- nation – all of which are present in Marsé’s very first novel,
Encerrados, and all of which serve as pointers to the complexity of this
author’s narrative games. What differentiates one from another is Marsé’s
experimentation with first-person narrators, moving from Andrés’ few
instants of direct perception, through the emergence of Paco as Marsé’s first
outright narrator arguing with Nuria over points of memory, imagination and
accuracy and projecting his desires and anxieties on to others, on to the
alternating third and first-person accounts of El amante. Then there is
Daniel’s complete and uncontested
narrative in El embrujo – uncontested, that is, until one considers his
inability to control the evocative yet elusive Susana. As interlocutors,
Marsé’s female figures can challenge the stories of the male narrators, but
they are open to seduction. As objects of a desiring male gaze, they exploit a
leeway for manipulation of the viewer. Either way, the intimate relationship
is rife with deception.
Discussion of the silent female figure Susana in Marsé’s much underesti-
mated El embrujo de Shanghai, will continue in Chapters 4 and 5 in the
context of Marsé’s imaginative exploration of biblical myth and icons.
Along with Tina, Montse and Norma, Susana remains in the reader’s
imagination as a curiously silent yet suggestive figure whose function is to
pose questions persistently, and persistently to deny definitive answers.
In the same way, Marsé challenges the critics, indirectly through silence
and performance, in his determination to exercise the language of freedom
open to the novelist. Critics come to his work and interpret it with an
ideolog- ical baggage of which they may be unaware or may deny, but which
he sets out to expose. Under dictatorship or democracy, coercive ideologies
are at work, and Marsé devises strategies which allow him freedom to shift
posi- tion, even to the point of subverting his initial narratorial privilege as
the voice of authority in the text. His success at defending his narrative play
area is a result of his determination constantly to take up transgressive
stances to guarantee a jealously-guarded autonomy – his own particular
identity. This he illustrates by Doctorow’s contention that
Marsé’s most recent novel, Rabos de lagartija (2000), offers one more
twist in the game of inventive storytelling – one which puts the narratorial
voice inside the aquarium and unequivocally reasserts the inventive power of
the storyteller in his own narrative play area. The first-person narrator, not
yet born, dreams in the warm fluid of his mother’s womb, and once expelled
into the world lies immobile, cared for by a cousin, unable even to speak
clearly but imaginatively creative. He gives us access to the mind of his
brother David, and together these two voices offer competing
interpretations of the
world outside. David’s visions draw on the fantasy world of the cinema 31 and
the drama of war: the Civil War, World War II climaxing in the bombing of
Hiroshima, and two questionable heroes – his father and an RAF pilot photo-
graphed on a magazine cover. David also lives amidst the silence and specu-
lation of repression in post-war Spain where nothing is certain. Civil Guards
prowl the beach at Mataró. Did David see an RAF plane plunge burning into
the sea or project fantasies derived from the magazine cover on to the scene?
The civil guards deny his story but David is not convinced:
Entonces qué pasa, jolín, por qué lo niegan, si están buscando ...
Abuela, ¿de verdad no has visto al avión inglés cayendo al mar? ¿Y el
abuelo tampoco lo ha visto?
Aquí nadie ha visto nada y te prohíbo que andes por ahí hablando del
avión inglés. (RL, p. 126)
Does the grandmother’s definite ‘el avión’ belie her denial or are we dealing
with David’s invention? His unborn brother foregrounds early on both
David’s subjectivity in narrative and, his own as ‘rapporteur’ of David’s
stories: ‘Lo que cuento son hechos que reconstruyo rememorando
confidencias e intenciones de mi hermano, y no pretendo que todo sea cierto,
pero sí lo más próximo a la verdad’ (RL, p. 20). Marsé has stated:
31 Among the films mentioned are The Four Feathers and the Sabu exotic adven-
tures.
2
GAMES OF MAKE-BELIEVE:
PLAYING WITH HISTORICAL DISCOURSES
1 Hayden
White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical
Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), p. 4.
enhance, gloss, or undermine what the selection of material and the words them-
selves say.
David K. Herzberger suggests that novelists in Franco’s Spain seized on
the scope offered by fictional discourse as a means of undermining official
historiography:
The result of this initiative is a kind of annals: three volumes, covering three
decades, entitled Imágenes y Recuerdos. Marsé collected material and wrote
the introductory texts to each section for 1929–1940: La gran desilusión,
and for 1939–1950: Años de penitencia, and he provided a prologue for a
third volume, 1949–1960: Tiempo de satellites.5 The books contain press
extracts, cinema posters, tickets, comics, postcards, cigarette cards and even
record- ings of songs and speeches on 45 rpm disks, shedding light on many
refer- ences obscure to any who did not live through the period
themselves and
4 Carmen Martín Gaite wrote of her own similar experience: ‘A raíz de la muerte
del general Franco, empecé a consultar esporádicamente algunos periódicos y revistas
de los años cuarenta y cincuenta, pero sin tener todavía una idea muy precisa de cómo
enfocar un asunto que inevitablemente me tentaba más como una divagación literaria
que como investigación histórica. En esta primera etapa, cuando estaba bastante más
interesada en la búsqueda de un tono adecuado para contar todo aquello que en el
análisis y la ordenación de los textos que iba encontrando, se me cruzó la ocurrencia de
una nueva novela, El cuarto de atrás, que en cierto modo se apoderaba del proyecto en
ciernes y lo invalidaba, rescatándolo ya abiertamente para el campo de la literatura’
(Usos amorosos de la posguerra española, Barcelona: Anagrama, 1987, p. 12).
5 The books’ full titles were Imágenes y recuerdos. 1939-1950: años de
penitencia; Imágenes y recuerdos. 1929-1940: la gran desilusión; and Imágenes y
recuerdos. 1949-1960: tiempo de satélites. Marsé features as author of the first two, and
José María Carandell of the third, with a prologue from Marsé, and ‘acotaciones
iconográficas’ by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán. Copies are held in the Biblioteca Nacional
in Madrid.
thereby providing a valuable source of information for readers of post-war
novelists.
As its title suggests, Imágenes y recuerdos is a collection of ephemera:
sounds and images on the retina and in the memory. As such, it stands in
marked contrast to the official historiography of the Franco regime in which
I would identify two characteristics. The first, a belief in an intrinsic,
timeless Spanish national character, means that ‘the importance attached to
“excep- tional men” and “saints and heroes” is closely tied to the essentialist
view of Spanish history in which the past is shaped by a cluster of salient
traits (an essential Spain, an essential man, archetypes, a way of being that is
inher- ently Catholic and Spanish)’ (Herzberger, p. 46).6 The second
represents history as linear and directional and looks to the past for
inspiration for the future. Listing dated precedents to reinforce a comforting
sense of fulfilling a triumphant destiny, a future Archbishop of Zaragoza
wrote in 1942:
Blank pages are included for personal additions, and by setting private
history alongside major public events and famous figures in politics, the
entertainment industry, and even the Church, they invite the general public
to see itself as part of Spain’s glorious National Catholic progress. However,
this juxtaposition also offers an ironic double-edged comment on the trivi-
ality of public spectacle and the presumption of private ambition: a view
supported by Marsé’s satirical parodies on media coverage of ‘major events’
in a fictional context in the ‘Información Gráfica de la Actualidad’ in Esta
cara (ECL, p. 8), and of social ephemera in Hola in Chapter II of La oscura
historia.
Imágenes mimic realist methodology, but because they date from the
1970s they can be read as an ironic retrospective comment on both the histo-
riography and the social realist fiction of the 1940s and 1950s. In a chapter
humorously entitled ‘Bajo el signo del piojo verde’, Marsé mimics the cheer-
fulness in the face of hardship promoted by the regime, but also paints a dark
picture of daily life alongside which the housewife’s triumphs on the blank
pages of an ‘anuario’ would look paltry indeed:
His own chronicles, like his novels, provide an intersection at which adult
nostalgia for the past meets with what Marsé would later call childhood
‘nos- talgia del futuro’ – a blend of the hope, dreams and yearnings that
colour vision before disillusionment sets in – a nostalgia he evokes at the
start of El embrujo de Shanghai (1993) in a quotation from Luis García
Montero’s Luna en el sur, and that he then explores throughout the novel:
La verdadera nostalgia, la más honda, no tiene que ver con el pasado, sino
con el futuro. Yo siento con frecuencia la nostalgia del futuro, quiero decir,
nostalgia de aquellos días de fiesta, cuando todo merodeaba por delante y
el futuro aún estaba en su sitio. (ES, p. 7)
With the future, the game would end as dis-illusionment set in. In Capitán
Blay’s words that start El embrujo: ‘los sueños se corrompen en boca de los
adultos’ (ES, p. 9).
The power to arouse strong responses and vivid memories of isolated
images and sounds is illustrated by one seemingly trivial piece of ephemera
which not only Marsé but Vázquez Montalbán and Martín Gaite all use as a
starting-point for explorations into their post-war past. Interpreted by the
legendary Conchita Piquer, the popular song Tatuaje was clearly a potently
suggestive symbol in the post-war landscape, drawing from each writer a
meditation more evocative of the time than any listing of events would be.
Tatuaje views the romantic image of a foreign sailor through a woman’s
empassioned gaze. It offers Vázquez Montalbán an opportunity to comment
drily on the distance between an ideal and a stark reality – the discrepancy
between a wealthy secular American culture accessed through film, and a
poverty-stricken National Catholic Spain:
alto y rubio como la cerveza [...] gallardo y altanero [...] el mítico, rubio,
alto marinero extranjero [...]: ¡Señores! En un momento en que la talla
media del homo hispanicus era el 1,58 y la brillantina abastecía el pequeño
derecho a ser Clark Gable todos los domingos. (Vázquez Montalbán, p.
24)
Martín Gaite discusses the song as a subversion of the moral teaching and
‘sentimental education’ of National Catholicism epitomised by the musical
tastes and romantic ideals of the Sección Femenina of Falange: ‘aquella
compota de sones y palabras – manejados al alimón por los letristas de
boleros y las camaradas de Sección Femenina – para mecer noviazgos
abocados a un matrimonio sin problemas, para apuntalar creencias y hacer
brotar sonrisas.’12 In Tatuaje, the treacherous kiss of the faithless sailor ‘se
convertía, en la voz quebrada de Conchita Piquer, en lo más real y tangible,
en eterno talismán de amor. Una pasión como aquélla nos estaba vedada a
las chicas sensatas y decentes de la nueva España’ (Martín Gaite, p. 154). As
such it performs ‘una misión de revulsivo, de zapa a los cimientos de
felicidad que pretendían reforzar los propagandistas de la esperanza. (Martín
Gaite, p. 152). To quote Vázquez Montalbán: ‘Las canciones populares,
porque las cantaba el pueblo, reflejaban unas creencias que, curiosamente,
nada tenían que ver con la superestructura moral que circulaba como una
nube inmensa sobre la geografía ibérica.’ (Vázquez Montalbán, p. 24)
In Imágenes, Marsé lists Tatuaje amongst other entertainments cheerfully
packaged to distract attention from real hardship:
los hombres y mujeres de esa España que había hecho la guerra civil,
escuchaba [sic] en sus casas el Diario hablado de Radio Nacional, el “ta-
ra-rí”, los primeros partidos de fútbol radiados por Matías Prats, el hombre
que había de restituir una épica al país, el serial radiofónico de Losada o el
“Taxi-Key”, la canción “Tatuaje” o el “Rasca-Yu” [...]. En el fondo, en
todos los hogares humildes, lo único que importaba era: ver de comer
mañana. No había otra ventana al exterior que la radio. (GD, p. 262)
Fue como una aparición fantasmal [...], un hombre alto y pálido que
avanzaba encorvado contra la noche; pudo ver un instante el brillo acerado
11 Patricia Hart, The Spanish Sleuth: the Detective in Spanish Fiction (London:
Associated University Presses, 1987), p. 84.
12 Carmen Martín Gaite, El cuarto de atrás (Barcelona: Destino, 1978), p. 151.
de sus ojos, su abierto chaquetón azul de marinero y su alto pecho desnudo
y tatuado; asomaban rizos de oro bajo su boina y su barba era rubia como
la miel. (STD, p. 43)
Sabido es que con la juventud se puede hacer todo, cualquier cosa; que su
imperiosa necesidad de seducir y dejarse seducir la inclina periódicamente
a prostituirse [...]. Los chicos de muchos países suspiraban por una camisa
negra, un puñal en el cinto o unas botas claveteadas. Nadie les explicó que
detrás de toda esa fanfarria sólo había el horror y la muerte. (AP, p. 180)
He points up ironically that a uniform or boots, not any profound belief, fuel
this youthful enthusiasm, and in the transitoriness of the appeal lie the seeds
of disillusionment with the ideal behind it.
At times in Imágenes Marsé’s criticism is less direct, as when he chal-
lenges the regime’s monologic official mythology, with its notion of a Cath-
olic Crusade reaching back to the dawn of the nation’s history, by exploring
the ever-changing variety and diversity of voice in popular mythologies.
Against a stark background of Spanish post-war destruction and of
Germany’s defeat in Europe, he charts, tongue-in-cheek, the politically
prudent move away from the propagandist myths of compliant German
‘rubias y arias muchachas sobre la verde hierba, bajo el más puro cielo azul
en Agfacolor’ (AP, p. 179), and of stereotypical folkloric Spaniards favoured
by the Francoist media, towards new myths of an American Dream:
Marsé uses ‘mito’, ‘mitología’ and ‘mítico’ in his novels to denote relative,
transitory, often seriously flawed, but always beguiling enthusiasms. In
Ultimas tardes, which Marsé describes as ‘la historia de dos mitos, la
fricción de dos mitos’ (quoted in Sinnigen, p. 114), Maruja is a victim of
‘otro mito romántico de la universitaria, otra leyenda dorada de un
progresismo mal entendido’ (UTT, p. 123). Spain’s 1960s economic boom
brings with it ‘míticas suecas’ (PM, p. 180) who people the erotic dream
lives of the Barce- lona youth, and Montse falls victim to ‘uno de los mitos
más sarcásticos que pudrieron el mundo’ (PM, p. 7) – the Claramunts’
Catholic ‘idea mítica del mal’ (PM, p. 103). In both Imágenes and Si te
dicen, popular mythology forms part of Marsé’s ‘history proper’ precisely
because the structures and meanings it allows to proliferate provide a cogent
opposition to univocal, official historiography.
Marsé once described as follows the fruitful interaction between history
and fiction in narrative, in this case in Si te dicen:
I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I------------------------I-----------------------I
R1 R2 R1
What this model reveals, in its separation of the ‘récit absent’ and ‘récit
rapporté’ as discrete versions of the same story, is the space created for
discrepancies between them (Tyras, p. 238). In Si te dicen, Sarnita’s voice in
the outer frame (‘récit présent’) echoes other voices in an inner past frame
(‘récit rapporté’), and together they exploit that potential for falsification,
posing the reader the impossible task of reconstructing a long obscured – and
indubitably deceitful – ‘récit absent’.
The Church is daringly implicated at every level of the story, aligned with
representatives of the Regime and lending itself to collaboration in crime.
The ‘parroquia’ is seen to function as a centre for the control and indoctrina-
tion of the young. A symbolic association is repeatedly established between
military and ecclesiastical power by means of two pictures: one, a scene of
battle and slaughter, appears in the palace of the Bishop of Barcelona and in
the apartment of the crippled war hero Conrado Galán (STD, pp. 14 and 85);
the other, which is even more ubiquitous, shows an execution by a military
firing squad with a priest looking on (STD, pp. 14, 21, 88, 199, 204). In
addi- tion, both the soldier Galán and the Bishop are linked to a criminal
under- world through their sexual attraction to, and manipulation by, the boy
prostitute Java. And like a leitmotiv introduced by the title Si te dicen que
caí, the Falange rhetoric of death in battle, linked with the Christian
Doctrine of
the Fall, shapes the novel’s narrative structure and suggests disturbing
conclusions. I shall discuss biblical myths of the Fall further in Chapter 3 in
relation to the ‘novela rosa’, in Chapter 4 in connection with Paradise
Garden myths, and in Chapter 5 when I study icons associated with the Fall.
Suffice it to say here that Marsé finds in the Fall a potent and dangerous
story for his narrative games, and in Si te dicen, its dark rhetoric is a
powerful element in his evocation of a sinister post-war city. In Champeau’s
words:
To the extent that ‘Le titre nous propose un fil directeur pour circuler dans ce
labyrinthe: le thème de la chute’ (Champeau, p. 360), and that thread repre-
sents a downward movement into the hellish world of post-war repression,
the Church’s message is exposed as appallingly pessimistic. The fact that the
Church is then seen to collude in the underworld life in hell, is a denial of its
mission of redemption and also runs contrary to the optimistic notions of
law, order and justice implicit in the rooting out of crime in detective fiction.
Problems reconstructing crimes start with the corpse – or corpses. Many
deaths are attributable to continuing warfare between Regime and Resis-
tance. However, the ‘puta roja’ and the drowned man are posited as
problem- atic and give rise to multiple investigations. In the case of the
drowned man, there is no real mystery as to how he died or who he is,
though mystery is generated for a time by the withholding of his name,
which points up the differences which have kept us from recognising him
immediately: the family that has replaced prostitution; the apparent wealth
after earlier poverty; and the bitter hostility in his erstwhile admirer, Sarnita,
that climaxes when Sarnita feeds Java’s viscera to the hospital dogs. 15 The
mystery to be solved, then, is how the child became the man that he did, and
what part he played – if any – in the death of the ‘puta roja’. And there is
also the irony that all his early ingenuity, ambition and scheming have led
only to the mortuary slab and a crude disembowelling.
Concerning the second problematic corpse, four names and numerous
stories are proffered about what might be one or four characters, denied indi-
vidual identity by the collective title ‘puta roja’. Whoever she is – or they are
– the search for her, as one critic points out, draws all the characters in the
book together in a speculative investigation which purports to establish her
identity and ponder reasons for her death, as is typical in a detective novel
(Gould Levine, p. 313). Yet, in effect confusion is merely intensified. Her
Champeau, on the other hand, links Marsé’s allusions to the Fall with
detective fiction when she acknowledges an interaction between religion and
popular culture. She indicates how National Catholic ideology might try to
use literary genre only to find that, in the hands of a Marsé, genre can be
used to subvert its ideology:
s’il [Si te dicen] utilise le mythe de la descente aux enfers, c’est pour briser
les mécanismes d’une problématique manichéenne reposant sur
l’opposition du Bon et du Méchant à partir de laquelle Franco lui-même
interprétait l’histoire. C’est l’idéologie que véhicule aussi les formes de
récit de la ‘culture de masse’ – roman et film policier, film d’aventure,
bande dessinée – dont on connaît le rôle sous le franquisme et qui constit-
uent le bagage culturel des narrateurs ‘d’aventis’. (Champeau, p. 372)
Not only is the Church depicted in Si te dicen as supporting the Regime and
sharing its corruption, but its imprint is found even in a popular culture
compromised by its subtle infiltration: in this instance, represented by the
Doctrine of the Fall. I would add that by framing Si te dicen as detective
fiction, Marsé employs its conventions of investigation and exposure as an
ironic comment on techniques of obfuscation employed by State and
Church. He himself is not afraid to bring ideology into his narrative play
area, as a toy in his own games. If, for a moment, we consider Java’s fatal
fall as symbolic, other similar deaths come to mind in preceding works –
Palmita Pérez killed in a fall from a motorbike (ECL); Maruja tripped up by
her new sandals (UTT); Montse’s suicidal fall from a bridge – and all these
instances fit a model of punishment for transgression of social and moral
boundaries: pride, then a fall. In my view, the extent to which Marsé’s
novels employ religious subtexts in this way and admit readings that explore
ideological infiltration in popular literature has barely been addressed till
now. My discussion of reli- gious subtexts in detective fiction and
autobiography in this chapter, and in the ‘novela rosa’ in Chapter 3, at least
represents a start in this area of study.
21 The editors of The Scripted Self write in their introduction: ‘underlying many
contemporary novels written in Spain is a concern with questions of identity, self, and
the relationship of these to narrative writing […]. The idea […] that the self is not
given, but is in some measure constructed, permeates contemporary narratives, and
results in explorations of possible, alternative, and multiple selves, stories we tell
about ourselves or which others impose on us. The self can thus often appear as the site
of competing narratives’ (Christie, Drinkwater and Macklin, pp. 1 and 11).
22 To give dates and simultaneously disrupt their order is typical of Marsé. In La
oscura historia, Paco’s return is not dated. The first dates given are 1957–8 (PM, p. 16)
and 1958 (PM, p. 20) from posters in the centro parroquial. Mention of the Volem bisbes
catalans campaign and the march of a hundred priests in Barcelona in protest against
police torture of students (PM, p. 47) allow the date 1966 to be put to Paco’s return. Then
his narrative goes back to the period 1944–47 (PM, pp. 52–3) when contact between his
mother and the Claramunts was renewed. Of Si te dicen, see Diane Garvey on Marsé
‘setting up the traditional patterns of a “readerly” text only to subvert them’ in relation to
time (Garvey, p. 377). Champeau suggested that Marsé’s aim was to ‘semer le doute et
[...] ébranler les certitudes. Ce qui est significatif ici, ce n’est pas l’ordre mais le désordre’
(Champeau, pp. 364–6).
cial’ history and allows the ironic hint of at least a symbolic coincidence
between the two occurrences. Both may be perceived as catastrophes: by the
political right and by Marés. Yet they also offer liberation: most obviously
for opposition groups including Catalan Nationalists and Norma, but also,
paradoxically, for Marés since Norma’s defection marks the end of a sham
marriage and releases him from social constraints into an existence that will
be of his own making.
Such claims as Marés’ ‘cuadernos’ make to be autobiographical must be
suspect as history in that they play shamelessly on the reader’s sympathies,
evoking painful memories of his brief and catastrophic relationship with
Norma Valentí, and of early adolescence. In an exercise in self-pity, Marés
says in the first: ‘Para guardar memoria de esa desdicha, para hurgar en una
herida que aún no se ha cerrado, voy a transcribir en este cuaderno lo
ocurrido aquella tarde’ (EAB, p. 9). In the second – a glimpse into his child-
hood home – he says: ‘Dejo escritos aquí estos recuerdos para que se salven
del olvido. Mi vida ha sido una mierda, pero no tengo otro’ (EAB, p. 37).
The third is an impassioned address to Norma herself, depicting
simultaneously the yearnings of the adult Marés for a paradise that never
was (nostalgia del pasado), and the child’s yearning for a paradise that never
will be (nostalgia del futuro), in a powerfully dreamlike conflation of times:
‘Estamos en 1943, tú aún no has nacido, amor mío […]. Estoy hablando de
Villa Valentí, el paraíso que me estaba destinado, perdona la pretensión, y en
el que tú nacerías cuatro años después’ (EAB, p. 125). The prototypical
autobiograph- ical novel, Lazarillo de Tormes, similarly takes the form of a
plea for under- standing framed in retrospect. Lázaro’s ‘caso’ traces his life
showing how one thing led to another, in a process of cause and effect, to
produce a situa- tion that can only be properly evaluated in the light of what
has led up to it: what may seem to be a descent into moral corruption, he
argues, can also be presented as a social rise. In El amante, the third-person
narration charts the dissolution of Marés’ identity in a downward spiral of
decadence, drunken- ness and effective schizophrenia, and mimics Lázaro’s
descent; the ‘cuadernos’ do not, however, even attempt to depict a
corresponding rise, only an obsession with the past and three attempts at
rewriting the self.
The ‘cuadernos’ offer not revelation, or an unveiling, but three images of
illusion: the mirror, the mask and the theatre. As the novel unfolds, illusion
becomes so powerful in Marés’ life that it spills over from the ‘cuadernos’
into the present and threatens to destroy reality itself through a deconstruc-
tion of the writer. Marés’ own image in the mirror in the first, the masks he
wears as the ‘guerrero del antifaz’ in the second, and his performance as
contortionist–actor in the third, all play their part in shaping, and un-making,
the ‘amante bilingüe’, and the reader is forced by a playful, carnivalesque
pushing of conventional boundaries to ask to what lengths bold autobiog-
raphy can go.
In the first ‘cuaderno’, Marés views himself caught as an image in a mirror
in the instant he faces irrefutable evidence of his wife’s adultery. Thereafter,
whenever he enters his bedroom, he sees the same vision of himself
modified by a slow dissolution reflected in the fading image of the cuckold:
‘aquella trémula imagen de la desolación, aquel viejo fantasma que labró mi
ruina: un hombre empapado por la lluvia en el umbral de su inmediata
destrucción, anonadado por los celos y por la certeza de haberlo perdido
todo, incluso la propia estima’ (EAB, p. 9). The image becomes fainter as
Marés’ grasp on his own identity is eroded. The mirror games that afforded
Andrés some free space for experimentation in Encerrados have, in Marés’
case, been seen as a kind of imprisonment in an unwanted past: ‘l’image de
Marés, prisonnière du miroir, symbolise la mort de celui qui fut le mari
Norma Valentí, mort qui est vécue et revécue sur le mode du châtiment
chaque fois qu’il entre “desprevenido” dans la chambre’ (Vila, p. 256). At
the same time, Marés’ use of the third person to describe ‘aquel viejo
fantasma que labró mi ruina’ can be seen as marking an attempt at
differentiation between man and image aimed at keeping room for
manoeuvre and control of the game.
Marés’ discovery of his image, recorded in the first ‘cuaderno’, is
followed up in the third-person narrative by accounts of his attempts not so
much to fix it in mirrors as to keep track of and exploit shifts and changes, a
process he embarks on using transitional public spaces: ‘Entraba en los
lavabos para mirarse en los espejos: en una ciudad esquizofrénica, de
duplicidades diversas, pensaba, lo que el ciudadano indefenso debe hacer es
mirarse en el espejo con frecuencia para evitar sorpresas desagradables ...’
(EAB, p. 84). In a bar in carnival time we see Marés craft an image attractive
to Norma, using disguise and staging a tableau in which he is the ‘charnego’
shoeshiner at her feet – fleetingly an accepted suitor – while she is cast as a
prostitute in the carnival costume she herself has chosen. Here too, Marés’
image is not fixed. Reflecting his wife’s insatiable desire for numerous
lovers, Marés’ reflection splinters into fragments as numberless as his rivals:
‘y se miró en el espejo modernista que lo repetía en otro aspecto frontal hasta
el infinito: un tipo rastrero, agazapado junto a Norma, alentando la mentira
con su aire de charnego esquinado y pestañón, un poco canalla’ (EAB, p.
99). The tableau he and Norma form is itself versatile. As Norma plays
prostitute to the shoeshiner’s lascivious handling of her foot, she can also
play the divine patroness to his supplicant – not the Virgin Mary but the
reformed prostitute Mary Magdalene – and enjoy the mingled sensation of
pity and power that results from his manipulation: ‘Viendo a este murciano
tuerto y renegrido echado a sus pies, agobiado por una vida oscura y un
trabajo oscuro, sintió de pronto un fuerte impulso de acariciar sus cabellos’
(EAB, p. 104).23
Marés, the distressed supplicant here, uses the same costume and speech
One might say that every great book establishes the existence of two
genres, the reality of two norms: that of the genre it transgresses, which
dominated the preceding literature, and that of the genre it creates.
(Todorov, p. 43)
26 Fernando Trueba uses black and white photography for the dream scenes in his
2001 production of El embrujo de Shanghai to evoke the cinema of the time: ‘como las
películas que los niños de la posguerra veían en los cines de barrio, aquel cine de
Hollywood, que ya se ha perdido. He intentado recrear el cine de aquella época, el de
los años treinta y cuarenta’ (El cultural, 27 March 2002, pp. 42–5).
27 O Rose, thou art sick!/ The invisible worm/ That flies in the night,/ In the
howling storm,/ Has found out thy bed/ Of crimson joy,/ And his dark secret love/ Does
thy life destroy.
As White admits, however, this distinction is not watertight:
The difficulty with a notion of the truth of past experience is that it can no
longer be experienced, and this throws a specifically historical knowledge
open to the charge that it is a construction as much of imagination as of
thought and that its authority is no greater than the power of the historian
to persuade his readers that his account is true. This puts historical
discourse on the same level as any rhetorical performance and consigns it
to the status of a textualization neither more nor less authoritative than
literature itself can lay claim to. (White, p. 147)
3
SEXUALISING THE SACRED: VATICAN II
AS A ‘NOVELA ROSA’ IN
LA OSCURA HISTORIA DE LA PRIMA MONTSE
Montse (1970), published three years before Si te dicen but depicting in its
outer narrative frame a more recent, liberal Barcelona of 1960s economic
growth, in strong contrast to the poverty and repression of the 1940s
depicted in Si te dicen and glimpsed briefly in La oscura historia. The
discourse, known as the Social Gospel, has roots in the late nineteenth
century1 and reflects a long-standing concern in the Church over social
justice and human rights. It has even been argued that the Social Gospel
shifts emphasis away from personal salvation and on to collective salvation,
and that the leading theologian of the movement, Walter Rauschenbusch:
extended the concept of sin from the personal to the collective, the ‘supra-
personal forces’ of the city councils, police forces, trades unions, industrial
companies and national states. These collectives had the poten- tial to
constitute either the Kingdom of Evil or the Kingdom of God. Personal
salvation remained an important part of the gospel, but the test of true
individual conversion was conversion to others. (Keeling, p. 3)
In this respect, the Social Gospel became a primary focus of the Second
Vatican Council that drew senior churchmen of all nations to Rome between
1962 and 1965 to attempt to change the face and practices of the Catholic
Church. In this respect too, in La oscura historia, it provides the primary
focus for Marsé’s critique of what the Catholic Church was – or was not –
doing about social injustice and human rights violations in Barcelona before
and after the Council.
To look at Vatican II, Marsé created his most self-consciously ambivalent
and deceitful narrator, and one of his most complex texts. It is no exaggera-
tion to say that Paco Bodegas’ narrative is, at one and the same time, a
commentary on Vatican II, an exploration of desire in himself and others,
and a parody of the ‘novela rosa’ – a genre in which sexual morality and
desire are central themes. The ‘novela rosa’ purveys idealistic notions of true
love which favour self-sacrifice over self-fulfilment, and devotion over
desire to such an extent that sex may be entirely precluded by propriety. For
that reason and because it promoted marriage and the family – and the
regime needed population growth after the war – ‘novelas rosa’ were
advocated as safe reading for women during the Franco years, their
considerable impact on post-war generations being well detailed in Chapter
VII of Martín Gaite’s Usos amorosos. In contrast, when Marsé frames his
critique of post-war Catholicism as a ‘novela rosa’, centred on the
relationship between the Catalan, middle-class Montse, and the southern
Spanish, unemployed
1 The Social Gospel Movement has been traced back to the work of Washington
Gladden in Springfield, Massachusetts in 1875. Gladden addressed employers in the
North Church on their responsibility to provide jobs for workers. For a brief account see
Michael Keeling, The Foundations of Christian Ethics (Edinburgh: Clark, 1990), pp. 2–3.
convict, Manuel, he reverses the priorities and sexualises the genre’s tradi-
tionally chaste and safely class-conditioned relationships. In doing so, he
violates the moral code behind the assumptions of the ‘novela rosa’ and, as
this chapter will show, challenges the traditional Christian morality that
underlies that code. The resulting tension between the sexual desires of pairs
of lovers on one level, and between the conflicting ideals each espouses,
gives rise to a sexual dialectic which runs parallel to an ideological dialectic.
Marsé brings many of the issues that preoccupied progressive Catholics at
the time into sharp focus in the relationships between the novel’s five young
protagonists, making the issues personal and their divisiveness painful, and
using the essentially romantic optimism of the genre to debunk the religious
optimism generated by Vatican II.
The conventions of the ‘novela rosa’ provide a starting-point for this
dialectic, but Marsé goes beyond their narrow limits of permissible non-
conformity – those apparent flaws that serve to make stereotypical heroes
and heroines unusual without flouting norms of decency – to defy the
constraints on eroticism traditional in the genre and explore both moral and
literary transgression. What ensues is a debate on Christian codes of sexual
practice – a topic much debated at Vatican II – that becomes directly
confron- tational in the novel. The resulting conflict of interests, intensified
by the profound religious scepticism revealed by both the author (discussing
the work) and his narrator (within the text), make this potentially the most
contentious of Marsé’s novels. Certainly, it is the one in which he strikes
most explicitly at the heart of what is introduced in the opening pages as
‘uno de los mitos más sarcásticos que pudrieron el mundo’ (PM, p. 7): the
Chris- tian myth of Good and Evil that is blamed for Montse’s tragic end.
La oscura historia de la prima Montse was a landmark in Marsé’s narra-
tive. Earlier novels had made passing references to social and cultural
aspects of religion2 but now Marsé made a critique of Vatican II central to
the story in a bold and precise attack on what many people today would still
champion as a monumental step forward for the Catholic Church. The novel
offers a detailed and damning portrayal of the impact of the Council on a
still powerful Catholic community in 1960s Barcelona, and though centred
on Vatican II, it effectively covers a period from 1947 to 1966, enabling
Marsé to set the Council against a backdrop of change and explore two
decades of particular religious activism in the Catalan capital.
En 1962, lors de la première session du concile Vatican II, les 127 évêques
et supérieurs d’ordres religieux de nationalité espagnole ne formaient que
5% des 2 540 pères conciliaires réunis à Rome. Encore faut-il préciser que
95 seulement venaient effectivement d’Espagne [...]. Le groupe national
Then:
Vatican II urged Catholics to make contact with the modern world and find a
voice that would enable them to share its views with anyone who would
listen: non-Catholics, members of other religions – even communists. It
called for a radical updating and openness that would challenge not only the
Church in Spain but also what was still effectively a totalitarian dictatorship.
Reactions to it were bound to vary and polarise, and in La oscura historia,
Marsé is quick to exploit the literary potential of the aspirations and conflicts
it aroused.
The erosion of any sense of direction, progress, or learning from mistakes
already studied in relation to Marsé’s treatment of critical and historical
discourses, and his use of narrative models which imply stasis or even
regres- sion, have dramatic consequences for his depiction of the Church.
When we compare images of the 1950s and 1960s in Prima Montse (1970)
with those of the forties in Si te dicen (1973), La oscura historia appears at
first sight to depict a benign, liberal, post-Vatican II Catholicism espoused
by a progres- sive Catalan Church. When subsequently the 1960s Church is
also exposed as crudely repressive, the effect is damning. In La oscura
historia, as in Si te dicen, the Church is implicated in the ruthless brokering
of power and wealth. It allows the docile collaborator (Java in Si te dicen
and Salvador in La oscura historia) to climb the social ladder while
preventing real social reform. The defence of the status quo in both novels
means that the Church (represented by the ‘parroquia’) and individuals (the
Galáns and Claramunts respectively) resort to deceitful manipulation. The
effects on Montse, driven to suicide, and Nuria (to despair and exile) appear
as catastrophic as the torture and killing in Si te dicen. In addition, the
Catalan Catholic Nation- alism that is treated with relatively gentle mocking
humour in prima Montse will be directly attacked as repressive and
retrogressive in El amante bilingüe (1991). Marsé exploits the ironic force of
hindsight and of prescience as the novels – both separately and together – move
backwards and forwards in time, recalling tragedies in the past and anticipating
others still to come.
The books belong to Salvador Vilella; the narrative voice to Paco Bodegas.
Paco has restarted his affair with Salvador’s wife Nuria, and the combination
of the abandoned texts, the adulterous wife and the bulldozers outside the
window, spell out a triple message of destruction for Salvador, the
Claramunts, and the religious ideals they represent: ‘Fachada, he aquí lo
único que les quedaba a los Claramunt’ (PM, p. 5). The list is a foretaste of
what the novel has to offer: Paco’s fictions are convincing precisely because
Marsé is knowledgeable about the workings of the Council, the publications
it spawned, and its effect on progressive elements in the Catalan Church.
The opening chapters evoke pre-Vatican II parish life and the lay
apostolates that were already gaining strength. Like Imágenes (Chapter 2),
these scenes make their impact by recalling half-forgotten ephemera. Dated
by a portrait of John XXIII, Pope from 1958–1963 (PM, p. 20), and by
posters of sporting events from 1957–1958 (PM, p. 16), they capture the
mood of dynamic optimism and fearsome cheerfulness so often lampooned
in the novel, that followed Pope John’s election and almost immediate
convoca- tion of the Council. For those who have read, or will subsequently
read Si te dicen (whose outer narrative frame is set in the 1960s but whose
central section looks back to the 1940s), the plausibility of the images in La
oscura historia is actually enhanced by the contrast with images of
traditional, conservative Catholicism from the forties. We feel that changes
have occurred and have been acutely observed. A Church looking back on
the ruins of war has given way to the forward-looking work of lay Catholic
organisations whose dual focus on the deepening of personal devotion on the
one hand, and on actively working for social justice on the other, anticipates
many of the initiatives and emphases of the Council. Indeed, this novel
offers many points of access into little-known aspects of Spanish post-war
religious culture whose significance – as testified to by a religious sceptic
such as Marsé – is evident in the scope, depth and detail of his portrayal of it.
Marsé’s carefully constructed disruption of chronological time also
creates a synchronicity which throws differences between Montse, whose
conduct anticipates the teachings of the Council, and Salvador, who is their
major exponent, into sharp relief. Montse will be seen going into prisons
(Chapter IV) and slums (Chapter IX) to share her message; Salvador remains
in his opulent house in Pedralbes (Chapter III) or in fashionable venues with
his intellectual middle-class Catalan coterie (Chapter V). Images of a dead
Montse from a past time-frame are eclipsed in the present by the fast-talking
but morally bankrupt Vatican II man, Salvador. Yet Paco’s narrative
acquires the timelessness of play and allows endless new interpretations of
Montse, unfettered by diachronic constraints. In its stasis, the narrative
becomes like an icon, where the central subject is seen in timeless, not linear,
relation to the various elements of their ‘story’. The presence, all at once, of
many of the elements necessary to our understanding of the outcome of the
action, enhances the sense of dreamlike circularity that is so characteristic of
Marsé’s corpus of novels. It also reflects the novel’s puzzle-like character,
and results in a depiction of experience that is deeply layered rather than
superficial, and which confronts the reader with a complex, often contradic-
tory image to decipher. Synchronicity means that Nuria appears to the
reader, through Paco’s eyes, as Claramunt child (the house), Salvador’s wife
(the books) and Paco’s lover, all at once. We therefore read the rest of the
novel, including her early childhood, with the knowledge of her marriage
and adul- tery in mind: she is sexualised and transgressive from the start,
though even as Paco’s narrative presents this viewpoint, he himself refrains
from judge- ment.
Initial impressions are found almost always to be illusory, notably the
impression that this is a simple romantic story that ends badly. Montse is
presented as utterly different to her attractive sister: plain, pious and
archetypally ‘para vestir santos’. Yet, if we view Paco’s attempts to under-
stand Montse and reconstruct her past as the deciphering of an icon, the
elements of her story re-form to offer a different reading from the initial one.
Paco’s retrospective re-reading reveals a gradual but increasing conviction
that what first seemed symptoms of religious fervour were in fact conse-
quences of the repression of a sexuality as powerful as that of Nuria, but
initially not perceived as such. This realisation is strengthened as Montse
becomes sexualised in Paco’s observation of her developing relationship
with Manuel. The relationship begins as Catholic charity aimed at the
convict’s redemption: a practical demonstration of the Social Gospel. It ends
with a child conceived outside wedlock, and a Catholic conspiracy that
results in Montse’s death. What remains to be seen is how Paco will square
the suppos- edly liberal, post-conciliar progressive Catalan Catholicism
preached by Salvador with the drastic authoritarian action taken in the name
of class inter- ests to prevent Montse helping Manuel: no simple matter
because, paradoxi- cally, although Montse dies before Vatican II, Paco holds
her social action up as an example of what the Council would in due course
advocate in theory and practice, so exposing the weaknesses of the theory
and practice before
they are even framed by the Church. Paco therefore has the difficult task of
trying to expose the icon’s flaws without destroying what he himself refers
to in his closing paragraph as:
Paco’s final attempt to assess the significance of his cousin’s life and
death is presented in the last pages of the novel as a convoluted inner debate.
He appears to be striving to reconcile two opposite extremes: the notion
expressed at the start of the novel that Montse was a ‘criatura desvalida y
mórbida’ (PM, p. 7), and the possibility introduced at the end, that ‘Montse
fue uno de los seres más puros que jamás existieron en este mundo’ (PM, p.
272). Should he – and should we, as we observe Paco’s deliberations – inter-
pret her as a victim of ‘la enfermedad o la autorrepresión’, or as proof that
‘la inocencia se compone de esa materia inmaculada cuya posesión sólo es
posible sin el egoísmo’ (PM, p. 272)? Is Marsé setting her up as a saint only
to reveal that she is just a sinner? The complex interaction between a sexual
dialectic and the narrative frame of a traditional ‘novela rosa’ that Marsé sets
in motion with such skill in this novel shows this view to be over-simplistic.
To construe La oscura historia in this way, with Montse as its romantic
heroine, allows us to gauge the effect of a potent interweaving of theme and
genre.
The ‘novela rosa’ and La oscura historia: the saint, the siren and
the sceptic
To those unaccustomed to the genre, to cast the plain, earnest Montse as
the heroine of a ‘novela rosa’ might seem an unlikely pairing. Yet if much of
the attraction of this romantic fiction is its comforting familiarity of plot and
character, the certainty that all will turn out well in the end and the
intimation that sex may be exciting but salvation endures, equally powerful
is the longing of a misunderstood individual to be valued for what they are –
to be truly ‘seen’ and loved.
Three ‘novelas’8 from three turbulent decades illustrate how persistently
desirable familiarity, certainty and the hope of salvation are. Matilde
Muñoz’s El triste amor de Mauricio, set in the brilliant but decadent 1920s,
Era tan bonita que tuve miedo [...] miedo de perderla, miedo de que otros
me la arrebataran, miedo de que su corazón fuese ligero e inconsciente,
miedo de que la admiración y el halago que por todas partes la seguía la
trastornara. Tuve miedo y sin razón, porque ella me quería y sus ojos me
lo decían elocuentemente a diario. (DB, p. 166)
Salvation is assured for the potential ‘femme fatale’ Elina and for her once
cynical, now devoted hero-husband.
The heroine of María Mercedes Ortoll’s Almas generosas (first published
in 1937 and frequently reprinted), cruelly nicknamed ‘Feíta’, is a close
match for Marsé’s Montse. Indeed, striking similarities show how familiar
Marsé is with the style and conventions of the genre, while differences point
the way to a shift in intention as he plays with the ‘novela rosa’, and with the
reader who expects one thing and is served another.
Almas generosas tells how, after overcoming trials to earn their
happiness, the orphaned Susana (‘Feíta’) at last marries her one true love, the
handsome, dedicated surgeon, Andrés. A classic romantic configuration of
four potential lovers keeps readers guessing until the end of the novel.
Andrés first loves Susana’s beautiful and ambitious cousin Angélica. They
plan to marry, and he is therefore devastated when his family faces ruin and
Angélica seeks a richer match. Susana, meanwhile, is loved by the crippled
narrator of the novel, Rafael. In time, naturally, Andrés realises Susana’s
worth, they marry and, to complete the happy ending, their poverty ends
when Susana’s father returns a wealthy man. Angélica’s glamorous marriage
to a Viscount proves disastrous and she comes home chastened, with a sickly
infant, to contem- plate the spectacle of her cousin’s happy marriage to the
man she herself once rejected, blessed with healthy children. The moral is
that this is ‘un relato en que demuestra que las cualidades morales aventajan
a veces a la belleza física en las lides amorosas’ (dustcover to the 1948
edition).
In the words of Susana’s rejected yet still adoring suitor Rafael:
A veces se topa con unos ojos brillantes. Tienen el brillo de las estrellas.
... Veo ahora que hay muchas almas puras. Miro ahora viendo que quedan
muchos ojos resplandecientes. Y, ¿en dónde? En una selva. En unas pampas.
En unos arrabales en que el mal va en brazos del viento, y el viento se recoge
en todas las ventanas sin cristales. (Ancora p. 50)
Marsé replicates the present tense, dramatic imagery and emotive language:
14 Ancora (October 1944), p. 50. Marsé said of this passage: ‘está contado con un
estilo que pretende ser una parodia de las revistas de corazón’ (In conversation with
Rosemary Clark, 27 June 1995). On his depiction of the discourses of lay organisations
such as the JOC, Marsé commented: ‘Hay una parodia de una especie de discursos
muy al estiloya la manera de las cosas de la época que – no recuerdo – los saqué de
revistas, de artículos [...]. En esta novela me gustó hacer muchas parodias’ (In
conversation with Rosemary Clark, 28 March 1996).
que también merecen el nombre de hogar, verdaderamente, pues en no
pocas de ellas, dentro de su innoble apariencia, reinan la armonía familiar
y la resignación cristiana que todo lo ilumina y lo transforma. (PM, p. 81)
Because she fails to engage with them, the help she offers is impractical.
Because of that too, she is never loved as Nuria is. Ortoll’s Andrés asserts
that beauty of spirit will win and hold true love as mere physical beauty will
not:
The ‘novela rosa’ tells of true love surmounting every obstacle to unite
lovers. In Marsé’s parody of the genre in La oscura historia, all potential
‘novelas rosa’ end in disaster aggravated by some of the very factors of
social inequality that the Church’s Social Gospel, and signally Vatican II,
were supposed to resolve, not propagate. Class, money and regional
differences, which should not interrupt the course of true love or threaten the
harmony of the Church, are seen to signify power in the post-war Catalan
Catholic bougeoisie in Barcelona. The scope and severity of Marsé’s critique
of Vatican II discourses in La oscura historia are therefore best appreciated
when viewed in the context of his depiction of social inequality in his
parodies of romantic fiction where love relations are disrupted. In Esta cara
de la luna (1962), the relationship between the wealthy Catalan, Guillermo
Soto, and the Andalusian
nightclub dancer, Palmita, represents a first move in a game of cross-class,
cross-cultural affairs – between the Catalan bourgeoisie and southern
Spanish immigrant – rags-to-riches romances gone wrong that culminate in
Montse, so successfully as to be reworked in El amante bilingüe.15
In Ultimas tardes con Teresa (1965), which Vargas Llosa called an
‘inverosímil folletín’ (Vargas Llosa, p. 1), the relationship is first given
centre stage. The ‘folletín’ continues in La oscura historia,16 but now Marsé
locates the socio-cultural conflict within the Catholic Church at a moment
when, in theory at least, its progressive elements are committed to solving
problems of social inequality. El amante bilingüe shows such inequalities
persisting on into the 1990s, despite the drive for change from Vatican II. In
La oscura historia, Marsé disrupts linear history and uses what seems at first
an unfortunate anachronism – that Montse dies before the Council, appar-
ently breaking any logical link between them – to highlight the gulf between
conservative and progressive tendencies within the Church by juxtaposition,
so challenging the notion of unity and truth fundamental to the faith. What
Vatican II would preach, Montse has already practised, and has been
severely punished for doing so.
In the layout of characters, plot and thematic structures in Ultimas tardes,
Marsé observes the conventions of the ‘novela rosa’ but subverts their
conventional message to offer his own. The traditional constellation of the
four main characters is there – the lovers (Teresa and Manuel) and the
decoys (Maruja and Luis Trías) – but the female decoy is too dangerously
Marta echoes the Virgin at the Annunciation, when Mary’s obedience undid
some of the damage caused by Eve’s disobedience: ‘He aquí la esclava del
Señor; hágase en mí según tu palabra’ (Luke 1.38). Even her unpredictability
is predictable (to the outsider, at any rate) and limited in scope. Marsé – with
the sarcasm Vargas Llosa found explosive – adds:
What chance has Teresa the rebel if her mother has learnt to keep her trans-
gression within permitted limits? And irony of ironies, Manuel, whom
Teresa has chosen as the symbol and means of her revolt, has identical
expectations to those of her father: ‘[Teresa ] [e]staba hermosa en la
sumisión (“la obediencia las favorece a todas – pensó él –, pero sobre
todo a las niñas
bien”)’ (UTT, p. 161).17 After all, Manuel aspires to join the middle classes
alongside Oriol Serrat.
In contrast to the predominantly secular Ultimas tardes, Marsé’s use and
violation of the conventions of the ‘novela rosa’ in La oscura historia have
the direct effect of foregrounding the religious question. Four lovers try to
come together despite class, regional, and now religious boundaries too: the
two Catalan Catholic Claramunt sisters, Montse and Nuria, and their non-
practising ‘charnego’ suitors, Manuel and Paco. However, the traditional
constellation of four is now upset by the intrusion of a fifth: the upwardly
mobile, practising Catholic and Catalan Salvador Vilella, who courts first
Montse, then Nuria, and having begun life with a social status as low as that
of Manuel, marries Nuria and realises his social ambitions. Marsé considers
Salvador unique. Literary antecedents have often been suggested for Manuel
Reyes,18 but of Salvador Marsé says:
In creating Salvador, then, Marsé makes religion, not politics, central to the
20 Two examples where Marsé uses regional difference to sharp effect are: when
Manuel ironically notes that Teresa’s self-confidence, evident in her Catalan accent,
belies the apparent diffidence of her expressed views: ‘el singular acento catalán se
mostraba en todo momento ... como descarada manifestación de la personalidad’ and
yet ‘la hermosa rubia alardeaba de un extraña desprecio para consigo mismo y para el
obligado ejercicio de su condición de señorita’ (UTT, p. 80); and when Manuel himself
acknowledges that to achieve his ambition, he too must become Catalan: ‘la perderé,
no puede ser, no es para mí, la perderé antes de que me déis [sic] tiempo a ser un
catalán como vosotros, caaaabrones!’ (UTT, p. 195).
succeed. The power of love – a notion that fans the flames of religious and
romantic discourses – is thwarted in this most ironic novel.
Through Montse and Manuel, Marsé focuses on a dilemma that faced the
post-war Church, and on several attempts to resolve it. The dilemma was
how to show the love of God in a society sharply divided into rich and poor.
Should the Church accept existing social structures and advocate charity to
alleviate hardship, urging the rich to give generously to the poor, or should it
call for an end to inequality as the followers of Marx and Bakunin were
doing? A century earlier, the Bishop of Barcelona, had said: ‘Los libros
santos recomiendan y prescriben la limosna, y esto no se concibe ni puede
practicarse sin que haya ricos y pobres en mayor o menor escala’, 21 while the
Bishop of Vic, Antonio Palau, had passionately warned potential strikers in
1868:
Sigue la mansa voz al otro lado del cristal: ‘... auténticas atletas de Dios
que vieron coronar triunfalmente un maratón espiritual cuando llegó su
mayoría de edad con el Decreto de aprobación como Instituto Secular ...’
Sobre el banco, a su lado, pelean dos niños estrechamente enlazados,
inmóviles, agarrotados por una rabia sorda, sin fuerzas y sin aliento, sin
gritar, porque aquí han aprendido a pelear sin gritos ... ‘... la Institución,
diáfana, clara, transparente a pesar de los malintencionados de turno que
quisieron en su día negarle el pan y la sal, tuvo la gran virtud de
anticiparse incluso a la “Provida Mater Ecclesia” en una labor nueva y
originalísima de proselitismo y atracción del pueblo llano y sencillo.’ (PM,
p. 17)
The definition of Secular Institutions tells Montse how she should act as a
‘visitadora’, before Vatican II, anticipating what the Council would later
affirm:
Secular Institutes are not religious communities but they carry with them
in the world a profession of the evangelical counsels which is genuine and
complete, and recognized as such by the Church. This profession confers a
consecration on men and women, laity and clergy, who reside in the world.
For this reason they should chiefly strive for total self-dedication to God,
one inspired by perfect charity. These institutes should preserve their
proper and particular character, a secular one, so that they may everywhere
23 Opus Dei obtained the decretum laudis (an initial signal of approval) according
to the terms of the Constitution a mere three weeks later, on 24 February 1947. Pius
XII gave final approval on 16 June 1950. Hermet goes so far as to suggest a direct link
between the efforts of the Founder of Opus Dei to provide the organisation with a suit-
able ecclesiastical identity and this Constitution. He wrote: ‘La promulgation de la
“constitution” Provida Mater Ecclesia vient recompenser ses efforts, le 2 février, en
créant le cadre para-ecclésiastique des instituts séculiers auxquels l’Opus Dei sert de
prototype’ (Hermet, p. 236). Marsé has said the following about Opus Dei: ‘De entrada
es como una especie de sociedad secreta, y esas cosas me repugnan mucho. Y luego
que son una élite, y es que está vinculada al mundo del dinero’ (In conversation with
Rosemary Clark, 28 March 1996). For a more moderate, yet still hostile outline of the
organisation’s activities, see Preston, pp. 108–11.
measure up successfully to that apostolate which they were designed to
exercise, and which is both in the world and, in a sense, of the world.24
The ‘visitadoras’ are told what it means to be ‘both in the world and, in a
sense, of the world’ in words overheard from behind the glass screen, from
the safety of the inner room in the parish centre. These would guide Montse
in her prison visiting:
The words echo the ideals of Acción Católica expressed in an editorial from
1962 in the organisation’s magazine Ecclesia, which urges its militants to
become involved in the world where they work:
nada mejor que prepararnos y preparar a los demás para una delicada
resonancia ante los problemas y las formas de vida en que cada uno ha de
moverse. Lo que presupone una sensibilidad y un conocimiento de las
condiciones espirituales, humanas, sociológicas y hasta materiales del
círculo, ambiente, más o menos abierto, en que el militante ha de moverse.
(Ecclesia, 29 September 1962)
What Paco is at pains to point out is that Montse did what she was told, and
was punished for the socially subversive potential of her actions, while the
Church – Acción Católica and Salvador, in terms that would be reaffirmed
by Vatican II – who had preached the message to her, would be her
executioners and remain in power.
It hardly matters whether or not the Secular Institute referred to is Opus
Dei. What Marsé achieves by the veiled, deliberately uncertain allusion is to
play on a disquieting sense that all these organisations are part of the same
monolithic Church: kindly lady visitors, abstract theologians and members
of the enigmatic Opus Dei. What does matter is that what is said behind
closed doors, in the inner room, does nothing to bridge the gulf between
insiders and outsiders or break down the structures of social inequality.
Those like Montse who try to do so are cast out.
In dramatic opposition to Montse’s exclusion from favour and ultimate
fall, Salvador’s inclusion through marriage and social rise to the heights of
Pedralbes furnishes another of the main dynamics of the novel. His confor-
mity to society’s rules provides a counterpoint to her disobedience, but his
24 Walter M. Abbott, ed., The Documents of Vatican II. The Message and Meaning
of the Ecumenical Council (London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1967), pp. 473–4.
hypocrisy sets a double standard that Paco is quick to note, being a creature
of double standards himself. As Paco considers Catalan Catholic society’s
response to Vatican II, his own starting position is neither neutral nor
straightforward; rather, he constantly explores the slippage between words
and works: what is said and what is done – official discourses and deception.
Whenever Salvador features in Paco’s narrative, three words rap out a
persistent refrain: ‘aggiornamento’, ‘ecumenismo’, and ‘diálogo’. They were
key words throughout Vatican II documents and its secondary literature –
notably the Catholic press, and Paco’s use of them is invariably ironic, since
they are the focus of his three-pronged attack on Salvador, comparing theory
with practice, always in the light of what has happened to Montse, and
always acknowledging the mixed motives that colour his own commentaries.
In Vatican II discourses, ‘aggiornamento’ (updating) indicates a willing-
ness to let go of the past and find new ways forward into the future. One
leading commentator on the Council, wrote optimistically: ‘The accomplish-
ments of the first session insofar as they involved breaking out of tradi- tion-
caked attitudes made it possible to embark on genuine aggiornamento’
(Abbott, p. 184). He added: ‘Time and again, even the most casual reader
must be struck by the document’s evident openness to fundamental elements
in the intellectual climate of 20th-century civilization, to the dimensions of
human culture opened up by advances in the historical, social, and psycho-
logical sciences’ (Abbott, p. 185). Notions of openness and modernity led to
an emphasis on ‘ecumenismo’: initially a movement to promote union
between all the diverse elements within the wider Catholic Church, but at the
time of Vatican II, indicating a perceived need for ground-breaking dialogue
with other denominations, even other religions. The Council’s Declaration
on the Relationship of the Church to Non-Christian Religions states:
The Church therefore has this exhortation for her sons: prudently and
lovingly, through dialogue and collaboration with the followers of other
religions, and in witness of Christian faith and life, acknowledge, preserve,
and promote the spiritual and moral goods found among these men, as well
as the values in their society and culture. (Abbott, pp. 662–3 [my italics])
When Paco tries again, equally fruitlessly, to scandalise, Salvador claims the
high ground by informing him of radical updating (‘aggiornamento’) in
Cath- olic attitudes to culture and morality:
– ¿Y qué clase de películas haces? – dijo Salva.
– Me avergüenza decirlo. Porquerías francesas, cine inmoral, ya sabes:
chicas en combinación y con liguero, camisones cortos y transparentes,
mucha cama, etcétera. Vosotros no podéis verlo todavía.
[...]
– No creas – dijo Salva europeamente – ahora pasan cada una... Hace poco
pude ver Viridiana en una sesión especial con coloquio organizado por
sacerdotes. Las cosas han cambiado mucho por aquí, y cambiarán mucho
más, ya lo verás. ¿No has probado esta mostaza? Es francesa.
Y europeando sobre la mesa, su mano posibilista y vernácula alcanzó la
transpirinaica y democrática moutarde. (PM, pp. 33–4)
26 E. Allison Peers, Catalonia Infelix (New York: Oxford University Press, 1938),
p. 99.
27 The 1914 Bases de Manresa had already attempted to ensure that only Catalan
bishops would be appointed to high office in Catalonia. The so-called ‘Volem bisbes
catalans’ campaign of 1966 was sparked off by the appointment of the non-Catalan
Bishop of Astorga, Don Marcelo González Martín, to the Archbishopric of Barcelona.
In the words of one Catalan Catholic historian: ‘El nomenament no feia altra cosa que
replantejar un problema secular, agreujat aleshores per les esperances que el Concili
Vaticà II havia desvetllat, en aquest com en tants d’altres aspectes, ensems que per la
repressió tenaç del règim franquista contra les llibertats democràtiques i nacionals de
Catalunya.’ Josep E. Piñol, El Nacionalcatolicisme a Catalunya i la Resistència.
1926–1966 (Barcelona: Edicions 62, 1993), p. 208.
– Como somos mayoría, queremos obispos de Almería – le dije con mi
mejor acento andaluz. (PM, p. 47)
His point ignored, he is offered black coffee to ‘come to his senses’. The
restaurant – ‘La cova del drac’ – is Catalan, ‘Las altavoces amenizaban
vernáculamente la cena con distintas muestras de la Nova Cançó’, and a
resentful Paco watches ‘estos mandarines de la catalanidad’ playing what
seems to him a greedy power game: ‘cómo se les llenaba la boca de poder,
de compadrazgo y de reparto de botín’ (PM, pp. 46–7). Through its pro-
Catalan language policy, and in the person of Salvador, the Church is
associated with this exploitative and exclusive exercise of power, and
despite protestations of updating, in Paco’s view ‘tras las sonrisas liberales y
dialogantes asomaban inmovilismos tomistas’ (PM, 45).
Marsé’s accuracy in mimicking discourses is shown dramatically when
Paco challenges Salvador on the question of violence. Salvador condemns
violence in his lecture and receives a telegram of support which reads:
‘Reprobamos el odio y la violencia que aplastan los derechos de la persona
humana. Firmado: Jec, Jic, Jac, Joc, Jac/F, Jec/F, Joc/F, Hoac y M.S.C.
Minyons Escoltistes’ (PM, p. 43). There is mention of violence against
priests who marched through Barcelona in protest against police torture of a
student (PM, p. 44).28 Coincidental it may be, striking it certainly is, that
Marsé’s telegram is virtually an exact translation of a statement made about
the march by the same organisations. Its second paragraph begins: ‘Nosaltres
ens solidaritzem amb els sacerdots manifestants en la reprovació de l’odi i la
violència que esclafen els drets de la persona humana.’ It is signed: ‘JEC,
JIC, JAC, JOC, JEC/F, JAC/F, JOC/F, Delegació Diocesana d’Escoltisme de
Barcelona, M.S.C. “Minyons Escoltes” ’ (Piñol, p. 289). Paco’s mocking
mimicry is amusing but an unmistakable message is also punched home:
Once again, the style and thrust of this passage is close to that of actual
mate- rial in the popular Catholic press. An article from Signo (JAC),
published
28 For an account of the march on May 11 1966, see Piñol, pp. 214 and 288. Piñol
includes copies of a statement from the priests to Archbishop Modrego, and of the
letter to the Jefe de la Brigada de Investigación Social handed in to the Jefatura de
Policía in an appendix. (Piñol, 285–8).
three years before La oscura historia, asks ‘¿Dónde está la violencia?’ The
writer continues:
¿Qué es la violencia y dónde está? ... ¿No es un latifundio más violento
que una huelga clamorosa? ¿No es un secuestro injusto más violento que
una algarada estudiantil? ¿No es un proceso arbitrario más violento que un
grito descompasado y burdo? ¿No es una situación prolongada de
injusticia más violenta que una guerrilla?
He then quotes Vatican II to point out that the mere absence of civil unrest
does not constitute peace. There must be justice too:
La paz – nos dice el Concilio – no es una simple ausencia de guerra ni el
resultado del solo equilibrio de las fuerzas o de una hegemonía despótica,
sino que con toda exactitud se llama obra de justicia [...]. [D]eben
desaparecer las injusticias. No pocas de esas provienen de las excesivas
desigualdades económicas y en la lentitud en la aplicación de las
soluciones necesarias. (Signo, 11 February 1967, p. 3)
The rivalry between Paco and Salvador creates in the novel a ‘dialogue de
sourds’ in which Vatican II discourses and religious rhetoric are aired and
satirized. But beneath the undoubted humour of the parodies, a serious point
is made forcibly by Paco whenever he brings discussion back to the question
of Montse’s death. He challenges Salvador directly, asking: ‘Oye, ¿cuál es la
línea del Concilio?’
Salvador Vilella pareció asombrarse de mi lentitud mental. Luego
sonrió, sin que de momento se dignara contestar.
– Ya sabes, el diálogo, la convivencia, el aggiornamento – murmuró sin
ganas –. Pásame la fruta, ¿quieres?
– Cruel ironía la del destino – dije –. Recuerdo que a Montse la llamábais
borrega y tonta por situarse hace ocho años en esa línea que ahora,
precisamente, los nuevos vientos ecuménicos os recomiendan. (PM, p. 35)
29 Whereas Eve gave birth to a murderer (Cain), in giving birth to the Saviour,
Mary is accorded the title of Co-Redemptrix with Christ in Catholic doctrine.
ples taught in her Church that would be ratified by Vatican II. Thus Catholic
teaching and Catholic practice are brought into confrontation and subverted
by transgressive dissenting voices.
In my Introduction I discussed play and carnival as models for Marsé’s
narrative: two activities that release a dynamic creativity that defies limits
and authority in a safe play area. I also quoted Bakhtin’s definition of
carnival as an ‘experience, opposed to all that was ready-made and
completed, to all pretense at immutability’ (Bakhtin, p. 10). Carolyn Morrow
picks up the notion of a challenge to authority in her excellent article on
Ultimas tardes con Teresa (1991), but to apply the parallel to La oscura
historia shows the later novel to be far more subversive.
Morrow observes that ‘Transgression stands out as a chief feature of the
carnivalesque’ (Morrow, pp. 834–5), which she links to Bakhtin’s notion
that the challenge to higher authority comes in carnival from the lower
nature. Bakhtin ‘explores ... the interface between a stasis imposed from
above and a desire for change from below, between old and new, official and
unofficial’ (Bakhtin, pp. xvi–xvii). Morrow remarks that ‘Although the top
may wish to excise the bottom, it remains tied to the low symbolically, for
the latter embodies a “primary eroticized constituent of its own fantasy life” ’
(Morrow, p. 835).30 In the context of Spain’s vertical social hierarchy or its
horizontal urban development, Teresa is mesmerised by Manuel’s otherness:
‘The novel stresses the openly erotic moves of those at the periphery which
both threaten and attract those at the center’ (Morrow, p. 835). She feels the
pull of the periphery, represented by Manuel’s habitat in Monte Carmelo,
and in Morrow’s view: ‘The text foregrounds the zone’s sex, dirt and decay
as a constant challenge to middle-class propriety’ (Morrow, p. 838). In
Ultimas tardes, however, the status quo remains intact. Teresa returns to her
family and accepts marriage, and the outcome of the novel’s dual dialectics,
as her relationship with Manuel ends abruptly, is simply one of poor sex and
poor politics easily dismissed as the romantic dreams of two fantasising
young individuals.
Despite superficial similarities between the rich blonde Teresa and Nuria,
Marsé’s treatment of them is significantly different. Adultery in Spain actu-
ally continued to be illegal until after Franco’s death,31 yet La oscura
historia (1970) opens scandalously with an intimate scene of adultery
between Paco and Nuria. That, however, is only an attention-catching
opening and Paco’s narrative goes on to explore what lies behind
Nuria’s defiance of the
30 Morrow is quoting Peter Stallybrass and Allon White’s The Politics and
Poetics of Transgression. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1986.
31 For details on the decriminalisation of adultery see Rosa Montero’s article on
‘The Silent Revolution: The Social and Cultural Advances of Women in Democratic
Spain’ in Helen Graham and Jo Labanyi, eds, Spanish Cultural Studies. An Introduc-
tion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), p. 382.
authority of her husband and Catholic morality. He recalls her first distressed
visit to him in Paris: ‘en sus ojos una llamada de auxilio: harta de sinsabores
y bagatelas en un chalet de Pedralbes, ha llegado por fin, se ha desnudado, se
ha confesado, se ha ofrecido’ (PM, p. 28). When Paco – her sexual rather
than spiritual ‘confessor’ – returns to Barcelona years later, Nuria looks
every inch the rich man’s wife (PM, p. 27) as she greets him as her
husband’s guest, but the illusion soon fades as her continuing anguish is
revealed: ‘Sus hombros se estremecieron, y repentinamente, su aire juvenil e
intrépido, que yo adoraba, se esfumó. No pensaba encontrarla tan
desquiciada’ (PM, p. 31). When she joins Paco in bed ‘Temblaba y lloraba’
(PM, p. 51). This is a bad marriage, a façade that Paco’s narrative strips
away, as it does Salvador’s impassive ‘spiritual counsellor’s’ mask – his
‘serena cualidad mitad vegetal mitad mineral que cuanto más se esforzaba
por mostrarse humana – consejero y guía de juventud, catequista ferviente
que fue – más cruel resultaba’ (PM, p. 27). Despite the mixing of roles, once
Nuria ‘se ha desnudado, se ha confesado, se ha ofrecido’, salvation becomes
possible, but only through transgression. After prolonged misery in marriage,
Nuria’s experience, like Montse’s, recalls Paco’s claim that ‘lo poco que
hubo de solidario y civilizado en mi primera juventud se lo debo por entero
al trato con los cuerpos desnudos y a cuanto hay en ellos de hospitalario’
(PM, p. 7). Through the novel’s spiritual-versus-sexual dialectic, the stasis of
authority from above is undermined by dissent from beneath like the house
about to be demolished at the start of the novel. Yet the subversion has
another twist, for through Montse, Marsé also undermines religious
discourses from within.
In contrast to the traditionally ‘transgressive’ Nuria – the ‘femme fatale’
on the lines of Ortoll’s Angélica – it is Montse who effects in her
relationship with Manuel a radical inversion of the traditional codes of her
society: a carnivalesque exploration of ‘the interface between a stasis
imposed from above and a desire for change from below, between old and
new, official and unofficial’ (Bakhtin, pp. xvi–xvii). Believing in salvation,
she attempts first the social salvation of the convict, and then the salvation
through marriage of the man she loves. Yet instead of ensuring his rise, she
secures her own fall. Manuel, like Paco, is unacceptable to her family
because rigid social percep- tions deem him socially inferior; the arguments
they use, however, concern moral inferiority. Paco relocates their ‘moral’
strategy of exclusion in the social sphere:
Middle-class morality, he suggests, serves social ends. Paco has been made
to feel diseased, sick with a ‘maligna condición de pariente pobre’ (PM, p.
7),
and he suggests that the same becomes true of Montse. The chapter which
recounts her final capitulation to the temptation of a sexual relationship with
Manuel is entitled El contagio, ominously linking her relationship with him
with disease and ultimately death.32
However, even as Paco’s narrative reflects the family viewpoint, it also
frames Montse’s experiences with Manuel, albeit briefly, as a redemptive
rebirth. Nuria has sought social salvation through marriage to Salvador,
believing she needs to ‘definirse en el matrimonio si de verdad quería
definirse como mujer (no como cualquier mujer, sino como mujer de su
clase, que es la única clase donde ella podía realizarse con verdadera
emoción y sentido)’ (PM, p. 7). With her failed marriage in mind, Paco
suggests that it is in fact Montse who experiences new life with Manuel
outside wedlock. Reversing the rhetoric of death at the Cursillo, Paco uses
the imagery of sickness – Montse is ‘[d]efinitivamente contaminada,
enamorada’ – but reclaims it, associating her transgression now with
transfig- uration like that of Christ (Matthew 17.2):
Ya no era ella y sin embargo seguía siendo ella, ratificada súbitamente bajo
otra luz pero intacta su capacidad de secreto y de salud mental [...]. Así es
como la veo: un cuerpo nuevo que envuelve el mismo áureo ensueño de
siempre. (PM, p. 244)
In her sin, he depicts her as a saint. Sexual transgression has achieved for her
what socially correct behaviour could not get for Nuria. The view that Paco
wants to put forward – ‘Así es como la veo’ – is that the relationship could
have worked, had it not been for parental opposition that drove Montse to
suicide. Nuria’s marriage, on the other hand, is shown from the start of the
novel to be a bitter farce.
Insofar as La oscura historia uses humour and transgression to expose the
flaws of a hypocritical Catalan Catholic bourgeoisie, and of the Church
authority that bolsters its position despite protests to the contrary as repre-
sented by Vatican II, Bakhtin’s theories on carnival provide a useful critical
model both for Marsé’s critique of the Church and for his experimentation
with literature. As Morrow notes: ‘we now view transgression as advanta-
geous because “it breaks, frees, opens, makes possible fictional construction
and reconstruction, and guarantees authentic literariness” ’ (Morrow, p.
835).33 However, in my view, Marsé’s carnivalesque play has in fact a more
radical effect. He turns the carnival-authority model on its head and asserts
that it is the Church, Vatican II and the Catalan Catholic bourgeoisie that are
34 Marsé continued, concerning the three chapters about Colores: ‘me divertía
escribirlos. Era tan grotesco. Fue una experiencia que yo viví.’ Marsé attended a
cursillo about 5 years before writing La oscura historia. ‘Está en una masía. Y los
principales personajes son exactamente iguales [...]. Ese que hablaba sobre los
pecados horribles, que moría su hijo, no sé qué, y contaba que era por culpa suya, esas
cosas son auténticas [...]. Fui por curiosidad – por pura curiosidad. En esa época me
apuntaba a cualquier cosa [...]. Y fuimos yo y un periodista de La Vanguardia [...], y él
lo pasó fatal, y yo me divertí mucho, porque comentaba las cosas con los tíos, y me
interesó mucho. Y es que era tan grotesco, tan tremendo, y al mismo tiempo tan
patético, ¿no?, que queda una cosa impresionante. Pero tomé unas notas, las guardé, y
me olvidé de todo eso [...]. Mi amigo y yo [...] no confesamos ni comulgamos. Todos
los demás pasaron por todo eso – todos, todos.’ (In conversation with Rosemary Clark,
27 June 1995).
4
CATALONIA AND PARADISE GARDENS:
EROTICISING EDENS
1 The story of Eden is found in Genesis 1.26 to 3.24. The story of Susanna and the
Elders, like that of Bel and the Dragon, is a Second Century addition to the Book of
Daniel. Written in Greek, unlike the earlier Hebrew chapters, it was not considered
canonical by Jewish tradition. The Thirty-nine articles of the Anglican Church accord the
Apocrypha a lesser status as books ‘the Church doth read for example of life and
instruction of manners; but yet it doth not apply them to establish any doctrine’ (Arti-
cles of Religion, VI., Of the Sufficiency of the holy Scriptures for salvation. From the
1662 Book of Common Prayer). The Apocrypha is, however, included in Catholic bibles.
116 ROSEMARY CLARK
Viendo Yavé que la maldad de los hombres sobre la tierra era muy grande
..., se arrepintió de haber creado al hombre sobre la tierra y se afligió tanto
en su corazón, que dijo: ‘Exterminaré de sobre la haz de la tierra al hombre
que he formado; hombres y animales, reptiles y aves del cielo, todo lo
exterminaré.’ (Genesis 6.5–7)
2 For a clear and very readable introduction to this topic, see Bernhard W.
Anderson, The Living World of the Old Testament (London: Longman, 1958), espe-
cially Chapter Six, entitled ‘Israel’s National Epic’ and Chapter Twelve: ‘By the
waters of Babylon’.
3 My discussion of the ‘hortus conclusus’ draws inspiration from the following:
Miró 1976; Coope 1973; and Parkinson Zamora 1984.
creation, God has brought order out of chaos, separated light from dark,
water from land, and created all living creatures, including the snakes the
Babylonians worshipped,4 which are consequently inferior to him. The Eden
story, though second in Genesis, is derived from far more ancient oral
sources first written down around 1000–900 BC and it shares much with
other surrounding pagan mythologies. Set within the ‘hortus conclusus’, it
addresses intimate social questions about cohabitation with others and with
an authoritative – indeed, totalitarian – God. After a brief summary of the
wider creation of the universe (Genesis 2.4b–7) it concentrates instead on the
fashioning of Eden (Genesis 2.8–17), of the first woman (Genesis 2.18–24),
and on the close unity between Adam and Eve, which the writer of Genesis
emphasises in a brief comment on Adam’s words:
The intimacy between man and woman is an image of the intimacy between
God and his people, for God comes to talk with them and there is no shame
or separation between any of them. However, what might originally have
been an idyllic picture of innocence and sexual freedom, untrammelled by
any other restriction but that one fruit of the garden should not be eaten –
that the authority of God should not be questioned – is, in the priestly
narrative, put in the context of a national epic in which disobedience brings
about the end of Eden. Anderson writes on Eden in a chapter entitled
‘Israel’s National Epic’ that the writer:
Individual sin brings about the downfall of the nation. Anderson continues:
The Yahwist interpretation was based on the faith of the covenant commu-
nity. In the covenant faith, Yahweh is the sovereign Lord upon whose
grace and goodness, manifested in the great events of the past, Israel was
utterly dependent. But the Yahwist knew too from tradition that Israel was
bent upon flouting the authority of Yahweh in a spirit of murmuring and
rebel- lion, wildly and heedlessly betraying her Lord in order that she
might follow the devices and desires of her own heart. (Anderson, pp.
173–4)
The problem arises when Eve takes an initiative. Having been told: ‘puedes
comer de todos los árboles del jardín; mas del árbol de la ciencia del bien y
del mal no comerás en modo alguno, porque el día en que comieres,
ciertamente morirás’ (Genesis 2.16–17), she dares to embroider her account:
‘nos ha dicho Dios: No comáis de él ni lo toquéis siquiera’ (Genesis 3. 3 [my
italics]), and as she engages in dialogue with the serpent, her initiative makes
disobedience possible. She sees that the fruit is ‘apetitoso para comer,
agradable a la vista y deseable para adquirir sabiduría’ (Genesis 3.6), and
whether motivated by one or all of these attractions, the result is a transgres-
sion of the line laid down by God. The initial harmony between woman and
man, humankind and nature represented by the serpent, and between them
and God, shatters under the impact of doubt, recrimination, and finally
shame.6
6 The Book of Ezekiel contains what seems like a mythologised version of the
Genesis story which exploits resonances, easily recognisable to a Jew, which lead to
the association of the King of Tyre’s defiance of God with that of Adam. Describing
the King in his glory, Ezekiel also evokes the overlordship of God:
En el Edén, jardín de Dios, vivías,
Innumerables piedras preciosas
adornaban tu manto. (Ezekiel 28.13)
Both Eve and the King are tempted through their appetites and ambitions: she because
‘el árbol era apetitoso, agradable a la vista y deseable para adquirir sabiduría’ (Genesis
3.6), and he because, as the prophet tells him:
Tu corazón se había engreído
por tu belleza.
Tu sabiduría estaba corrompida
por tu esplendor. (Ezekiel 28.17)
Therefore, the King is cast down in a Fall which mirrors that of Eve, and of the
ambitious Angel of light, Lucifer, to be discussed in Chapter 5.
To defy God is to destroy Eden. Morality and politics come together
around the serpent tempter, Eve’s transgression and Adam’s collusion. In La
oscura historia, a similar combination of godlike authority (Luis
Claramunt), a tempter from outside (the Babylonian serpent or ‘charnego’
Manuel and Paco) and a women with a sense of initiative (Montse and
Nuria) spell disaster for the Catalan Catholic Eden. Marsé tacitly
acknowledges this as he joins battle with the Church in La oscura historia
on the matter of Good and Evil and authority in the context of a Catalan
paradise garden and makes guilt and punishment central to Paco’s
relationships therein.
Paco’s feelings towards his Claramunt cousins are mixed. Despite his
hostility, he remembers the Claramunt home, during his childhood, as a
‘paraíso que anidó un día aquí, en estos jardines disimulados a escasos
metros del peligroso asfalto [...] las márgenes contemplativas y silenciosas
donde anidaron pájaros y rumor de aguas cristalinas’ (PM, p. 8). He recalls
longing to enter this paradise and briefly enjoying its sensual pleasures
tinged with the wicked attraction of transgression: ‘las meriendas de
chocolate que nos preparaba la abuela, los cigarrillos “Bubi” que yo le
robaba a mi tío, las lociones de masaje “Floïd”, que tanto nos gustaban a
Montse y a mí, y cierta excitante conversación con Nuria sobre “Rebeca”, la
película-terrible- pecado-mortal’ (PM, p. 56). Paco’s narrative foregrounds
female temptresses in this Eden but admits to being ready to be tempted:
Nuria is already the focus of his desire, as Montse becomes for Manuel, yet
from childhood on, their relationships are overshadowed by the censorious
authority of Tío Luis. To please him means conforming to prescribed rules
and rituals and learning obedience as Adam and Eve were intended to do.
Paco remembers that:
Para entrar en la torre de tus padres había que hacer toda esa serie de
operaciones que predisponen a las almas simples a la sumisión y al
respeto: introducir la mano entre las lanzas de la verja del jardín y abrir
por dentro levantando el pestillo, volver a cerrar, luego rodear el surtidor,
apartar con la mano una rama baja del sauce, subir los cuatro escalones del
porche y finalmente tirar de la campanilla, ni muy fuerte ni muy suave.
(PM, p. 65)
Biblical myth blends with fairy tale and with the story of Catalonia’s own
patron, St George, as Paco imagines facing a trial of strength: like God’s one
prohibition in Eden, a chance to prove his worth through obedience and
self-denial. Yet even as he contemplates this possibility, he acknowledges
that he is no selfless George but a dragon, desiring only to possess and
hoard. Tormented by a precocious sexuality, the child Paco, like the adult
narrator, cannot tell what he wants more: to enter and possess the garden
paradise, or Nuria:
At most the woman was attracted by the food value, the pleasant appear-
ance, and the educative prospects of the fruit. There is no indication that
the will to become more than human, to put oneself in the place of God,
formed her motivation: if it did, the narrative is at fault in not making this
important point clear.7
7 James Barr, ‘The Authority of Scripture. The Book of Genesis and the Origin of
Evil in Jewish and Christian Tradition’, in Christian Authority. Essays in Honour of
Henry Chadwick, ed., G.R. Evans (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), pp. 59–75, 65.
independiente de sus activos sentimientos, y de cómo a partir de entonces
su figura se concretó, dejó de ser aquella mareante gama de gestos
inconscientes y a menudo desequilibrados, adquirió peso y volumen,
gravidez, el sugestivo imperio de la contención. Eso, que en otras mujeres
más superficiales habría reducido su atractivo, en ella floreció en una
misteriosa cualidad sensual. (PM, p. 215)
Precocious like Eve, Nuria tastes of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and
Evil and is overwhelmed. Inasmuch as Eve’s choice constituted an act of
disobedience, she had to take the consequences, though Barr points out that
these were not as catastrophic as God’s words ‘ciertamente morirás’ implied.
Indeed, Adam and Eve might have lived forever had God not cast them out
of Eden to prevent them eating from the tree of life (Genesis 3. 22).
Effectively, God set a term to their suffering by expelling them – death
would bring release – and he also proved his continuing concern for them by
making them clothes of animal skins (Genesis 3. 21). Barr claims that ‘the
Old Testament, far from taking the universal sinfulness of man or woman as
an obvious and ineluctable fact, seems to insist upon the possibility of
avoiding sin’ (Barr, p. 67), adding that Judaism as a whole ‘has refused to
accept any sort of doctrine of original sin’ (Barr, p. 68).8 Such compassion
was not forthcoming for the Claramunt girls from their family, only from
their transgressive lovers.
The exclusion of sinful women has a long history in Church and
pre-Church Jewish tradition despite the fact that Jesus, who is reported as
having mentioned sin, judgment and hell on many occasions, 9 is nowhere
quoted as linking Eden or Eve to a Fall caused by Woman. St Paul, when
elaborating his doctrine of the Fall and Redemption, blames Adam not Eve:
‘por un hombre entró el pecado en el mundo y por el pecado la muerte, y así
8 Barr quotes Ps 18.21 to 24, but nonetheless argues that the Hebrew Bible places
no stress on Eve’s sin or woman’s wickedness (Barr, p. 70) – a point with which Norris
concurs (Norris, p. 41), providing in support of her argument a review of Old Testa-
ment women illustrating their diversity of behaviour (Norris, pp. 44–58). Barr
suggests that attitudes changed from the Hellenistic period onwards, when Rabbis
such as Ben Sira began to dwell on the pragmatic question of the trouble women could
cause in a man’s household.
9 Two famous examples are the story of the rich man and Lazarus (Luke
16.19–31), and the parable of the wheat and the tares. (Matthew 13.36–42).
la muerte pasó a todos los hombres, porque todos pecaron’ (Romans 5.12).
Or again: ‘como todos mueren en Adán, así todos revivirán en Cristo’ (I
Corinthians 15.22). Nonetheless, Paul is also held to have written: ‘no fue
Adán quien se dejó engañar, sino Eva, que seducida incurrió en la
transgresión. Se salvará, sin embargo, por la maternidad, si persevera con
sabiduría en la fe, la caridad y la santidad’ (I Timothy 2.14–15). Certainly,
by the second century AD, in both Rabbinical commentaries on the Hebrew
scriptures and in the Early Church, the notion that woman’s frailty required
male guidance and protection through marriage and domesticity to limit its
damage potential was commonplace.10 The second century Christian
Tertullian of Carthage warned women in the Church:
And do you not know that you are [each] an Eve? [...] You are the devil’s
gateway: you are the unsealer of that [forbidden] tree: you are the first
deserter of the divine law: you are she who persuaded him whom the devil
was not valiant enough to attack. You destroyed so easily God’s image,
man. On account of your desert – that is, death – even the Son of God had
to die.11
The rhetoric of exclusion linked, via women, to sexual sin appeared again
in early Christian thought when Augustine of Hippo, in the fifth century,
admitted to often uncontrollable sexual desire and took this as evidence that
10 Norris offers a selection of writings from the Rabbinical tradition and Early
Church Fathers that illustrate a growing preoccupation with the dangers of female
allure and the need to curb female sexuality (Norris, pp. 66–82).
11 From De Cultu Feminarum, written in about AD 196–7, as quoted by Norris, p.
196. For the most part, Tertullian’s writings to women address questions of remarriage
and of appropriate behaviour in the context of a non-Christian society, rather than
demonising them. For a discussion of Tertullian’s position see Barnes 1971, 136-8.
12 Timothy.D. Barnes, Tertullian. A Historical and Literary Study (Oxford: Clar-
endon, 1971), p. 3.
13 From his Apologia as quoted by E. de Pressensé, The Early Years of Chris-
tianity: A Comprehensive History of the First Three Centuries of the Christian
Church, trans. A. Harwood-Holmden (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1879), p. 78.
he, as much as any woman, was guilty of involuntary transgression.
Addressing God in dramatically emotive terms, Augustine wrote: ‘I, miser-
able wretch, having forsaken thee, did even boil up again with the fervour of
lust, following still my foul course and forsaking thee [...]. Where was I, and
how far off was I exiled from the dear delights of thy house?’ 14 Convinced
that Adam and Eve had enjoyed legitimate sexual relations before the Fall,
fulfilling God’s command ‘Sed prolíficos y multiplicaos’ (Genesis 1.28),
Augustine sought to explain why their first response to the knowledge of
Good and Evil – when ‘conocieron que estaban desnudos’ (Genesis 3.7) –
was to make aprons of leaves to cover their genitalia. What may equally be
seen as a new sense of vulnerability or shame now focused on a hitherto
inno- cent and innocuous aspect of Adam’s and Eve’s condition: their
nakedness and sexuality. Augustine concluded that sexual desire had been
perverted by the Fall:
He then evolved the notion that Adam’s and Eve’s offspring would carry the
taint of their original sin:
the whole human race was in the first man, and it was to pass from him
through the woman into his progeny, when the married pair had received
the divine sentence of condemnation. And it was not man as first made,
but what man became after his sin and punishment, that was thus begotten.
(Augustine, p. 512)
It can be argued that Augustine distributed the blame equally between man
and woman, but his notion of original sin being passed on through birth, via
woman, can be compared with earlier biblical passages linking women, birth
and sin:
suggest that each individual man and woman contains elements of ‘macho y
hembra’, or that man – ‘macho’ – is completed by woman – ‘hembra’ – to
achieve that image of God, male and female. With both interpretations, it is
clear from Genesis that originally there was a oneness of ‘macho y hembra’
which reflected the nature of God, and was shattered when Eve disobeyed
God’s injunction, and transgression first declared itself in knowledge of
difference revealed by nakedness. Their otherness has been problematised;
sexual difference is now a cause of shame. They now know evil as well as
good, and that knowledge is associated with their sexuality – an association
they signal with concealing clothes. Was their first knowledge self-knowl-
edge, manifested in an awareness of their own nakedness? Or on seeing each
other’s nakedness, did they also see their own through the eyes of the other –
and then of God – so that their shame was a consequence of another’s gaze?
Paco’s taste of paradise makes him aware of his own unadmirable motives
in reaching out to seize the forbidden fruits of the garden, but like Montse he
also experiences ‘desengaño’ when confronted with the motivations of the
Claramunts. In Nuria his sexual desire has awakened, and in the family his
desire for wealth. Both desires are to be frustrated by Tío Luis’s
prohibitions. In a passage redolent of sensual pleasure, Paco muses:
With hindsight and now based in Paris, Paco can mock a Catholic
morality that, in his mind, was linked to the sense of guilt he was made to
feel as a child. Nonetheless, he is quick to show how religion can be used to
reinforce questionable social and political strategies of exclusion:
That Catalan Catholic Nationalism was from the start as cultural as it was
political is illustrated by the influential ‘Núcleo’ or ‘Esbart de Vic’: ‘Un
grup d’intellectuals catalanistes que tenen llur centre vital a la ciutat de Vic,
molt influïts per l’ambient eclesiàstic i l’estratègia de l’Església [...], ruralista
i tradicionalista.’16 The cathedral town of Vic had a prestigious seminary that
housed such famous personages as Jacint Verdaguer (1845–1902), Josep
Torras i Bages (1846–1916) and Jaume Collell (1846–1932), – all priests,
writers and fervent Catalanists. In praising Vic, Verdaguer linked politics
with religion and culture in defence of Catalan identity:
The most famous member of the group was undoubtedly Josep Torras i
Bages, whose impact as a theoretician of Catholic Catalanism has been
profound and lasting. This Bishop of Vic was also President of the Barcelona
‘Jocs Florals’ (a celebration of Catalan music, dance and literature) and a
member of the famous music society of which he stated proudly: ‘L’Orfeu
Català fou Crist’. His words show that, in his view, traditions give form and
expression to patriotism and ‘esperit nacional’, and thanks to its Catholic
Catalan traditions, Catalonia’s national spirit is unalienably Catholic.
Combining politics with culture, Torras founded several Catalanist Catholic
periodicals and the devotional society of the Lliga espiritual de la Mare de
Déu de Montserrat, and fought a dedicated battle for the use of Catalan for
preaching and teaching, stating bluntly: ‘l’ensenyar el coneixement de Déu,
això és, el Catecisme, als infants en llengua castellana, és un costum detest-
able, perniciossísim i destructiu de la fe’ (Pérez Francesch, p. 22). For Torras
religion and nature were one and the same thing, and this belief provided the
mystical foundation of his regionalism. He wrote: ‘La religió [...] és una
sobrenatural perfecció de la naturalesa, i per això cerca les entitats naturals
més que les polítiques, és a dir, més la regió que l’Estat, perquè és
divinament naturalista’ (Pérez Francesch, p. 12). The Church, therefore, is
crucial to Catalan national identity:
The poet-priest Verdaguer linked the initial building of Ripoll with a Catalan
crusade against the Moors during the Reconquista, and ascribed to the
monastery an eternal, universal spiritual significance within the context of
Catholic Catalonia:
Written large across the façade of the Abbey of Montserrat are words
attributed to Torras i Bages that are not to be found anywhere in his
published works. In fact, this is a case where myth, not history, has been
carved in stone. The words are: ‘Catalunya serà cristiana o no serà’, and they
illustrate the extent to which, in Catalonia, nineteenth century Romanticism,
with its appeal to the myth of a vanished Golden Age or Paradise Lost
fuelled notions of a rural idyll with a distinctly Catholic Catalan flavour. The
Romantic notion of ‘Volkgeist’ served to underpin Catalans’ belief in their
own divinely instituted distinctive identity, as a recent commentator explains
about Catalan Catholic Nationalist ideology:
Vicens Vives similarly linked rural and urban Catalonia as one nation
through the ‘llar pairal’: ‘del retorn sovintejat del ciutadà a la casa o al mas
dels avis, n’ha nascut l’íntima solidaritat entre el camp i la ciutat de
Catalunya’.22 The early ‘casa pairal’ was the rural ‘mas’, the basis of an agri-
cultural society, to which Catalan law made the first-born sole heir to avoid
fragmentation of the inheritance (Balcells, p. 20). The first-born was not
allowed to leave the land (Vicens Vives, p. 42) and the ‘llar pairal’ thus
becomes symbolic of social stability in Catalonia, with the woman’s
function of bearing heirs once again seen to be central:
20 Compare this with the Spanish National Catholic use of a similar rhetoric which
glorified the peasant with the aim of sustaining Spanish agriculture at a time when
rural poverty and urban growth were leading to an exodus from the countryside.
Preston discusses the contribution of fascist ideology to an effort in post-war Spain to
develop such a rhetoric. He quotes the then minister for Agriculture, Rafael
Cavestany, as saying: ‘Frente a la estampa de las revoluciones triunfantes sobre la
devastación; frente al triste desfile proletario arrastrando irredimibles cadenas de la
esclavitud, opongamos la estampa del campesino, puesto en pie sobre su tierra con una
casa al fondo, a cuya puerta juegan sus hijos y por encima de todos una modesta, pero
divina cruz, meta de todos los caminos del espíritu y hacia la cual nos lleva nuestra fe
y nuestra ambición de españoles’ (Preston, p. 198). Preston also quotes as an
ideologist Fernando Sánchez Puerta, Las clases medias económicas (Madrid: [n. pub],
1951, pp. 189–90 and 195) ‘un país que es capaz de crear una clase numerosa de
campesinado con tierra es un país asegurado contra los disturbios sociales, porque el
campesinado propietario está interesado en la estabilidad por encima de todo’.
21 Albert Balcells, Catalan Nationalism Past and Present (London: Macmillan,
1996), p. 39.
22 Jaume Vicens Vives, Notícia de Catalunya (Barcelona: Edicions 62, 1995), p.
42.
Vicens Vives drives his point home with a nice linguistic reference: ‘Som de
can Pau o de can Pere. Aquesta fusió entre la casa i la família ha estat
promoguda per l’estret lligam de l’home amb la terra en les diverses
colonitzacions del país’ (Vicens Vives, p. 34).
He also urges the Catalan to study the relation of man to nature in order to
understand his nation:
Marsé uses these same terms to present a very different picture. The
adjective ‘montserratino’ is inevitably, if subtly, pejorative. In Ultimas
tardes (1965) Marta Serrat’s unquestioning obedience to her husband is
symbolised by a thickening middle-aged leg of ‘sólida virtud montserratina’
(UTT, p. 137). In El amante (1991), Marés is repelled by Norma Valentí’s
entrenched middle-class Catalanism yet sexually attracted to her, and his
ambivalence is focused as he describes her ‘boca grande y sensual, su larga
naríz montserratina’ (EAB, p. 55). He fears that like an unerring hound she
will sniff out his masquerade: ‘su sensible naríz montserratina es capaz de
olfatear la impostura y el serrín del falso charnego a varios kilómetros de
distancia’ (EAB, p. 152). Her nose fails her. Perhaps the difference is not as
strong as she believed. However, in both novels, ‘montserratino’, indicating
Catalan Catholic traditionalism, linked women and sexual dependency. For
all her social and political freedom within a new democratic Spain, Marsé’s
message seems to be, Norma Valentí can still be manipulated by sex, as she
can by her Catalan Catholic heritage, both being inscribed in her attitudes
and behaviour by centuries of tradition. As Lee Six writes:
desde muy niño acompañó a su tío en sus rumbosas correrías por iglesias y
capillas, llevando una carpeta de partituras. (Nunca ha querido hablar de
aquel tío, un viejo y zarzuelero tenor catalán que se especializó en bodas
de rito montserratino, adornándolas con cancioncillas de ‘mel i mató’.)
(PM, p. 87)
Salvador could therefore join in with the Claramunts literally and metaphori-
cally when ‘El maravilloso Virolai montserratino, en ciertas solemnes
festividades, seguía expandiéndose gloriosamente por toda la casa y el
jardín’ (PM, p. 52).
Salvador’s integration is also reflected in his participation in the scouting
movements that enjoyed Church protection and fostered the ideals of Catalan
Catholic Nationalism in the post-war period, already mentioned in Chapter
23
3. ‘Escoltisme’ gave young people the direct contact with their land advo-
cated by Vicens Vives as a formative influence in developing nationalist
sentiment, and away from spying Spanish eyes they could learn its songs and
lore and keep the flame of Catalan nationalism alight. These groups have
been widely recognised as a form of dissidence. A letter to the Presidency of
the Unió Excursionista de Catalunya in 1975 testifies to an enduring impact
on one member:
cultura del país i pel risc – i les complicacions reals – que aquesta actitud
digna i valenta va comportar-li que, malgrat que no tinc temps de practicar
l’excursionisme, he volgut continuar essent soci.24
Yet Paco’s narrative makes it clear that what is really at stake is neither
religious belief nor political idealism, however much they are discussed, but
belonging among, and being recognised by, a powerful chosen, separate,
Catalan Catholic few. Using the metaphor of the ‘Orfeó’, Paco situates
power and money at the heart of its harmony; Salvador joins ‘la mejor
tradición coral y mercantil catalana’ not ‘por motivos de parentesco o de
lazos de sangre, sino más bien por esa expansión emotiva que deriva de
recíprocos sentimientos de poder’ (PM, p. 51). Using metaphors from
‘Escoltisme’, Paco describes how this ‘vencedor de picos inaccesibles’,
whom Nuria erro- neously chose to marry, now reveals a mountain’s harsh
inanimacy: ‘una serena cualidad mitad vegetal mitad mineral que cuanto más
se esforzaba por mostrarse humana – consejero y guía de juventud,
catequista ferviente que fue – más cruel resultaba’ (PM, p. 27). With
hindsight, Nuria comments on his relations with the ‘juventud del barrio’:
‘Se atrajo a los chicos sin poner en ellos cariño [...]. Nunca los quiso como
Montse’ (PM, p. 88). Nonetheless, Salvador enjoys success because he joins
others like himself. Seeing him among the powerful bourgeois ‘mandarines
de la catalanidad’ (PM, p. 45), Paco ponders bitterly ‘¡Qué felices eran
viviendo el mito de la cultura, qué júbilo sordo, íntimo, cómo se les llenaba
la boca de poder, de compadrazgo y reparto de botín!’ (PM, pp. 46–7).
Established in their wealth and privilege, even repression under Francoism
only adds spice to their assertion of their distinctness: ‘una gratísima
sensación de peligro inminente, de heroísmo y de clandestinidad’ (PM, p.
43).
In contrast to Salvador’s collusion Marsé presents Paco’s disillusionment:
‘desengaño’. Paco will not play the game, join in the singing or speak what
he sees as the regime language of a group temporarily disempowered politi-
cally by Francoism but remaining powerful economically, socially, and
within those sectors of the Church that espouse its cause. In similar fashion
Marsé himself – Catalan by birth and bilingual – has throughout his career as
a novelist refused to use the ideologically charged regime language, Catalan,
in the public sphere of literary publication, preferring instead the more
broadly-based Spanish that first gave him access to world literature and
represents a wider field of interaction. Until recently this has meant his
exclu- sion from the canon of Catalan literature – a position that some would
still deny him on the basis of his choice of language. Lee Six claims that for
Paco, at least, language choice signifies a choice to have himself excluded –
like Eve from God’s good pleasure – code-switching that reflects a desire to
distance himself from both the language and its cultural baggage in order to
establish a non-regime space for free play with identity across national
divides; in the case of Paco, this reveals ‘a self-consciously exploitative
approach from our narrator; he uses code-switching [...] as a weapon to fight
back at the Catalan establishment from which he chooses to exclude himself’
(Lee Six ‘La oscura historia del primo Paco/Francesc’, p. 365).
If we read Paco’s narrative as a deconstruction of a Catalan Catholic ‘llar
pairal’ that includes its history, myth, language and tradition of patriarchy,
the ideal, taken apart, is presented to us as seriously flawed. In post-war
urban Barcelona, it is an anachronism. As a means of prolonging authori-
tarian and exclusive social structures as effectively as conservative Spanish
National Catholicism, its survival causes one to ask whether Catalonia can
ever progress while it remains tenaciously rooted in the past. At the same
time, Montse’s story confronts Paco with questions he needs to answer,
which are to do with a pre-Fall attractiveness and an innocence that Paco
thinks he perceives in Montse as a product of the ‘llar pairal’, and that he
cannot easily dismiss. The Claramunt house, which once stood securely in its
‘hortus conclusus’ in a street named after the patroness of Catalonia, is about
to be destroyed by progress: ‘aquel jardín que el desnivel de la calle siempre
mostró en un prestigioso equilibrio sobre la avenida Virgen de Montserrat, al
ser ésta ampliada, quedó repentinamente como un balcón vetusto y
fantasmal colgado en el vacío’ (PM, p. 5). Tío Luis is dead and Tía Isabel is
crippled. As for their daughters, named Montserrat and Nuria after Catalan
advocations of the Virgin that symbolised post-war Catalan Catholic Nation-
alism,25 both have defied the codes which their names suggest they represent,
25 The Enthronement of the Virgin of Montserrat in 1947 drew some 75,000 people
to the monastery, where symbols of the banned Catalan culture proliferated. Speeches
were made in Catalan, the Catalan flag was flown from nearby mountain peaks and
illegally printed pasquines declared: ‘CATALANS! Montserrat és Catalunya. Mont-
serrat és símbol de les nostres llibertats, avui oprimides pels que deshonren aquest acte
amb la seva presencia. Es la hora de reviure el timbal de Bruch per a que la Moreneta
no s’hagi d’avergonyir de presidir un poble de mesells. Visca Catalunya.’ Quoted in
Massot i Muntaner, ‘Les Festes de l’Entronització i la Cultura Catalana, Serra d’Or
(April 1977) pp. 49, 55. In an attempt at post-war Castilianisation, Barcelona’s Calle
Virgen de Nuria was renamed Virgen de Covadonga. (Norman L. Jones, ‘El problema
catalán desde la guerra civil’, quoted in Preston, p. 398). As late as 1967, the statue of
the Virgin of Nuria was kidnapped to prevent coronation by a Castilian bishop.
first by taking ‘charnego’ lovers, and then by choosing suicide (Montse), or
separation (Nuria) as alternatives to the type of marriage ‘of social salvation’
represented by Salvador.
Paco’s narrative goes on to suggest that Catalan Catholic culture is not so
easily overcome by showing how elements of that culture which, in his early
years in Barcelona, served the family as a form of symbolic protest against
Castilianisation, now function as mechanisms of social exclusion. Published
twenty years later, El amante bilingüe (1990) depicts a Barcelona that seems
to be very different and a secularised Catalanism. Nonetheless, Marsé’s
treat- ment of these subjects, in a further reworking of Paradise Garden
motifs, forces the reader to question how deep apparent changes actually go.
The outer narrative frame of El amante is set in a post-Franco, post-1978
Constitution, autonomous Catalonia. Its main female protagonist, Norma
Valentí, is liberated, not tied to a life of domesticity in a protective ‘hortus
conclusus’, or under the aegis of either her father or husband according to
the model of the Catalan Catholic ‘llar pairal’. Both financially and sexually
inde- pendent, she has a successful career working on the Dirección General
de Política Lingüística programme for the ‘Normalització de la Llengua
Cata- lana’. What Marsé has done, then, in this novel, is to shift his markers
of national identity from religion and the land to language and the city in
tune with the times. The imagery of biblical gardens is in evidence, but the
Barce- lona they describe has been secularised … so is the Paradise Garden
myth not anachronistic?
Of course it is, and deliberately so, as the careful construction of the novel
shows. As well as its later 1980s outer frame, two of its three ‘cuadernos’
offer flashbacks to the 1940s, making them contemporary with Paco’s
earliest evocations of the Claramunt home in La oscura historia (PM, p. 53).
This would seem to be familiar ground. A boy from a poor background,
speaking Castilian and of ‘charnego’ appearance, peers through the gates of
a wealthy bourgeois paradise, longing to enter. The paradise is more
explicitly marked as Catalan than the Claramunt home by the street name
translated into Catalan, distinctive Catalan modernist architecture, and a
dragon gate by a world-renowned Catalan architect, Gaudí 26 recalling
Catalonia’s patron, George, who fought the dragon:
26 There is also a direct reference to Gaudí: ‘un viejo templete gaudiano con
máscaras de metal’ (EAB, p. 127).
2. Porta “del Drac”, Pavellons Güell, by A. Gaudí. ‘En la imponente puerta de
hierro forjado campea un dragón alado hollando lirios negros’
The Catalan Catholic names Montserrat and Nuria have given way to Norma
(as in ‘Normalització de la Llengua Catalana’), the Claramunts’ charitable
church activities have been replaced by a profession dedicated to the propa-
gation of Catalan language. The message is unmistakably one of a secular-
ised Catalan nationalism.
Nonetheless, the half-rotten fruit, strategically placed on the sharp tongue
(‘lengua’) of the dragon, awakens memories of the serpent in Eden and links
language (also ‘lengua’) to temptation and sin. In grasping the fruit the boy,
Joan Marés, repeats Eve’s action that led to the Fall. Furthermore, as I
argued in Chapter 2, in El amante, Marés’ Fall is linked to language, and to
the bible story of the Tower of Babel (Genesis 11.1–9). Whereas the people
of Babel build a tower to reach heaven, Marés longs to enter one – the
Valentí’s private ‘torre’. The people of Babel lose their linguistic unity,
while Marés’ initial command of two languages collapses into a virtually
senseless babble made up of both. It has been suggested that
This self-made koiné goes beyond the debased language proposed at the
beginning of the Transition with the motto ‘el català que avui es parla’
(‘Catalan as it is spoken today’) and comes nearer to the regionalized
Spanish that Pasqual Maragall not long ago proposed as the solution for
Catalonia’s linguistic identity. (Resina)
Certainly Marsé’s ironic approach could apply equally to either option. Both
are contentious, and however one interprets the linguistic fragmentation of
Babel and Marés, it remains, as Marsé depicts it, a consequence and a
marker of transgression.
Marés’ contact with Víctor and Norma Valentí denies him what is effec-
tively a form of dual identity, whether it is labelled bilingualism, diglossia, a
debased language or a regionalised one – terms used with specific meaning
by Resina. The father initiates the process by assuming – wrongly – that the
dirty child speaking Castilian at his gates must be ‘charnego’ when Marés is,
in fact Catalan. Norma completes the destruction by repeatedly replacing her
bilingual husband, Marés, with ‘charnego’ lovers who, to her, are indistin-
guishable and disposable. When Marés himself assumes a ‘charnego’
disguise, she fails to recognise him even in the intimacy of sexual inter-
course, and what remains of his sense of his own identity collapses like the
tower of Babel.
Like Paco entering the Claramunt paradise garden, what Marés
remembers of his first visit to the Villa Valentí is a Catholic Catalanism of
the 1940s in which the only role he will be allowed to play is that of
transgressive outsider. In the hallway of Víctor Valentí’s anachronistic ‘llar
pairal’, the child Marés is confronted by images of Catalonia’s mythical
medieval heyday: a tilework image of Sant Jordi presides (EAB, p. 131);27
girls garlanded with flowers call to mind the patriotic ‘Jocs Florals’; boys are
dressed as medieval pages and men as ‘caballeros cristianos [...]
pertenecientes a los más claros linajes de la nobleza de Catalunya’. In the
patriotic play they enact, speeches ‘declamados enfáticamente en catalán
suenan como sentencias, parecen provenir de otro tiempo, otros afanes y otro
país’ (EAB, pp. 13–16). The play, set in tenth century Catalonia, shows a
small, beleaguered group of Christians confron- ting mighty Saracen hosts,
an implicit parallel being drawn with this clandes- tine celebration of a
Catalan culture under threat in 1940s Francoist Spain. Marés comments drily
on the ‘ritual de catacumbas elaborado con mucha fe y escasos medios, una
forma de mantener el fuego sagrado de la lengua y la identidad nacionales’
(There is a section entitled ‘Les altres catacumbes’ in
27 The Saint George motif appears first in Un día volveré (1982), in stained glass
(UDV, p. 144). It guards the entrance to a wealthy middle-class home with many of the
features of the Claramunt house and garden. ‘La torre de los Klein se alzaba en la linde
de un frondoso parque rodeado por un muro de tres metros de alto erizado de vidrios
afilados. El descuidado jardín delantero estaba partido por un sendero de tierra roja
que conducía hasta el pequeño porche [...]. Delante del porche se abría una plazoleta
cubierta de grava con tres bancos de hiero pintados de blanco en turno a un viejo
surtidor. Por todo el flanco derecho de la torre, respetando solamente la puerta de
servicio, trepaba una hiedra reseca y polvorienta como un trenzado de cuerdas
podridas. El jardín cercaba la torre y se prolongaba tras ella, pero ya desfigurado por la
maleza y abandonado a su suerte’ (UDV, p. 95). The desiring gaze in this case belongs
to the delivery boy, Néstor.
Piñol, 111–18), and on the ‘ambiente de fiesta familiar, floral y victimista’
(EAB, p. 132). Ironically, of course, the supposedly ‘charnego’ enemy in the
play is in fact Catalan: Marés, whom Valentí has cast as a monster to be
destroyed by the Catalan patron saint George. Marés’ cleverly feigned
southern-accented Catalan is the cultural marker that condemns the monster:
No te preocupes por el acento andaluz, deja que se note; es precisamente
lo que yo quería. [...]. Eso que tú sabes hacer con tu cuerpo: lo más
parecido a una alimaña que puedas. Porque representa que tú eres la Araña
que Sant Jordi ha de matar, ¿comprendes? (EAB, p. 133)
Looking back as an adult narrator, Marés wryly observes the obvious wealth
and power of the Catalan gentry who, despite Francoist repression,
continued to enjoy money and influence in the 1940s as their knightly
counterparts had done in Catalonia’s mythic Golden Age and – ‘también
luchan en el campo de las finanzas, la enseñanza, la industria y el comercio’
(EAB, p. 132) – and as Salvador Vilella’s associates would in the 1960s
Spain of La oscura historia.
Denied all but a victim’s role in the Valentís’ exclusive Catalan paradise,
Marés leaves the Villa Valentí with only an empty fishbowl. The goldfish
that was his fee for acting the monster has escaped into the murky waters of
a stagnant pond. Years later, when Norma Valentí has left him, the bowl
containing money he does not want symbolises once again the paradise he
has lost. Like the stagnant pond, the crumbling yet prestigious Walden 7
flats designed by the Catalan architect Ricardo Bofill, where he now lives
alone, suggest decay at the very heart of an even more recent Catalan
national revival in which Marés can find no place.
However, at this point, a transformation takes place in the novel which
indicates how Joan Marés’ failure may be said to have fuelled Juan Marsé’s
literary achievement. What Marés creates, in his own imagination (and his
‘cuadernos’) becomes a private paradise garden. In this ‘hortus conclusus’
he can exercise at least some control over the images of Catalonia he
conjures up, and like the transparent fishbowl – at first a symbol of his
double loss of the goldfish and of Norma – his imagination can hold those
images within his gaze and play endlessly with them. What Marés’ ‘hortus
conclusus’ comes to suggest is the enclosed world of imaginative invention
of his own creator, the novelist Marsé, for whom narrative is a play area
where he can, and does, make his own rules.
Defying traditional notions of feminine modesty, male and female are equal
in their sensuality, female enjoyment of male beauty being as eloquently
evoked as male expressions of desire. When the balance of power is shown
to
29 The Gospel of John recounts how John the Baptist greeted Jesus with the words:
‘ “He aquí el Cordero de Dios, que quita el pecado del mundo” ’ (John 1.29).
favour man it is because there exists a world outside the playground of the
‘hortus conclusus’ where the biblical regime language is male.
The Song of Songs describes man in images of power and freedom and
woman as dependent. He is the King, Solomon the Wise, or the shepherd
fearlessly roaming the mountains. He is gold, precious stones and ivory. He
is hard where woman is soft and consumable, like wine and grain. Like the
owner plundering his garden, he says of her:
He entrado en mi jardín,
hermana mía, esposa,
he recogido mi bálsamo y mi mirra,
he comido mi miel y mi panal,
he bebido mi vino y mi leche. (Song of Songs 5.1)
He comes and goes as he chooses and has sixty other wives and eighty
concu- bines (Song of Songs 6.8). She must remain in the ‘hortus conclusus’
that is symbolic of her reserved status as his possession, and of her virtue:
‘Sister spouse’ underlines the fact that she is subject to males other than her
lover, for all must guard a virtue that defines her worth to them. Her brothers
punish her when she transgresses their rules (Song of Songs 1.69), and also
discuss her as a sexual object or possession as her spouse does: she is a form
of currency between them in brokering marriage as part of a network of
social relations:30
If the watchmen of the city find her out alone, they may beat her with impu-
nity and expose her to public gaze and to shame:
me golpearon, me hirieron,
me arrancaron el velo. (Song of Songs 5.7)
32 The cartoon character Betty Boo was dark, petite, curvaceous and alluringly
smiling and coy. A publishing tactic but nonetheless revealing of a perception of the
‘sales potential’ of Marsé’s eroticised female characters, in 1997 Espasa published,
with an introduction by José Méndez, a selection of texts entitled Las mujeres de
Juanito Marés from Teniente Bravo, Encerrados, Ultimas tardes, La oscura historia,
Si te dicen, Un día volveré, Ronda del Guinardó, El amante and El embrujo.
mind – memory, imagination or soul – of an inescapable seminal cityscape
or Paradise Lost of childhood like a scar on the adult psyche:
From Blake he has taken an image of the woman as a blighted rose and has
used the poem’s sensuality and eroticism to infuse the same drab post-war
Barcelona with the riches of imagination of the child David, the unborn
brother and their mother – the Rose – Rosa Bartra. Out of drabness and sick-
ness comes rich lyricism; in the midst of war and conflict, paradise can be
regained, fleetingly. Once again the play area of the creative narrator is made
to transcend the confines of reality by releasing into that reality both myth
and poetry.
That transcendence increases with the integration into Marsé’s texts of
writings by an Alexandrian Greek, Cavafy, and an Englishman, Blake, and
indeed, the authors, writers and compilers of the biblical paradise garden
narratives. Significantly, too, Cavafy is quoted in Spanish in El embrujo
(1993), but in Rabos (2000) a Spanish translation is offered in an author’s
footnote, but in the text Blake’s poem is uncompromisingly in English, chal-
lenging the reader to link ‘gusano’ with ‘The Invisible Worm’ and take up
Víctor Bartra’s repeated: ‘Aprende idiomas, hijo …. ¡Puñeta, David, estudia
idiomas!’ (RL, pp. 178–9). If the paradise gardens of La oscura historia and
El amante can be seen as a response to two moments in the life of post-war
Barcelona when Marsé saw Catholicism and Catalanism together as meriting
sharp satirical comment, the sensual pleasure gardens of El embrujo and
Rabos generated in the minds of the narrator in tension with surrounding
reality – illustrate the continuing love affair of this writer with an image and
its mythology.
In Rabos de lagartija, languages flash and twist throughout the text like
lizards’ tails – words and imagination combining to form David’s own living
‘palabartijas’ (RL, pp. 70, 140, 154–5 and 225), or as Catalan as a marker of
anti-Francoist dissidence (RL, pp. 172–3), German reflecting David’s fasci-
nation with World War II Axis propaganda and film (RL, p. 69), French for
the glamorous image of French ‘maquisards’ (RL, p. 178), and English for
the RAF fighter-pilot Bryen O’Flynne (RL, pp. 146–7) and Blake’s dark
romanticism. Fused together, they emphasise rich diversity in expletives,
clichés and the apparently meaningless babble of the inarticulate:
Humour is effective, for when people laugh, they are disarmed: hence word-
play such as ‘itismailaif’ (RL, p. 134), David’s misconception about ‘ “El
Otorrino” de Córdoba’ (RL, p. 97) being a bullfighter rather than an ear,
nose and throat specialist (‘otorrinolaringólogo’), and – catching the reader
out laughing where to do so seems inappropriate – in the brain-damaged
narra- tor’s incomprehensible ‘cázame guerripa’.
In a brilliant balancing act, even as we laugh, Marsé’s conscious exploita-
tion of pathos takes the narrative into a darker area of tragic experience as he
transposes a story from a nineteenth-century English poem into a twen- tieth-
century Barcelona and also draws in yet another interpretation of para- dise
lost: the worm in the bud, the serpent in Eden, the child begotten of Rosa
Bartra and Bryen O’Flynne in a brief but laughter-filled adulterous love-
making. And so paradise is reclaimed – brought out of the constraints of a
narrow doctrinal focus on authority and transgression, and out too from a
narrow exploitation of a myth for political ends – brought into the play area
of literature where the narrator continues to struggle to forge languages of
freedom that will find hearers. In the closing words of Marsé’s most recent
novel:
y le dije a Lucía: alcánzame Guerra y paz. Pero tendré que repetirlo varias
veces porque, aunque me esfuerzo mucho, lo que me sale de la boca es
algo así como cázame guerripa.
Y es que todavía me cuesta mucho hacerme entender. (RL, p. 344)
5
DARK ANGELS AND BRIGHT DEVILS:
GAMES WITH AMBIGUOUS ICONS
The person who introduces into his worship an image may suppose that he
is indeed engaged in an act of worship to God but this is self-delusion. The
most solemn and threatening terms are used to warn the Israelites lest they
‘forget the covenant that the Lord your God concluded with you, and not
to
150 ROSEMARY CLARK
make for yourselves a sculptured image in any likeness, against which the
Lord has enjoined you.’1
Is Christ truly God and truly man, One in the same Person? The funda-
mental mystery of our Christian faith is based on the affirmative answer to
this question. Likewise the veneration accorded to the icon. If the Incarna-
tion is the basis for the icon, then the icon reciprocally affirms the
Icons depict the struggle between Good and Evil, saints engaged in that
struggle, and mysteries such as the Nativity or the Transfiguration that form
part of the narrative of the Fall and Redemption. In every case their function
is to proclaim the presence of the Transcendent or the Divine in material
form to provide a place in which that presence may actually be encountered.3
Marsé’s approach to icons is radical in two ways. First, because it targets
the point on which Christianity stands or falls: the question of whether or not
God took on human form in Christ Jesus, and whether behind the imagery of
icon, myth, teaching and tradition there is, or is not, a window on to eternity,
a possibility of knowing the transcendent God and the chance of communion
with the mysteries these works of art depict. Secondly, because besides their
purely religious functions, icons can serve secondary ideological functions,
and Marsé’s use of them in his novels shows that to subvert the icon is to
subvert the ideology whose values it represents.
Claims that the divine intrudes into the material world are contentious
because they provide a basis on which codes of behaviour are prescribed and
the alternative to conformity is defined as transgression meriting
punishment. Eve’s transgression opened the door to pain, death, and their
attendant illnesses. The identification of sin with illness, with the danger of
contagion and threat of death, has made expulsion of the sinner – isolation of
the sick – acceptable for the ‘health’ of the body private and politic. Icons
celebrate moments of victory snatched from the jaws of death in the midst of
the battle against evil; they may depict death, but in the knowledge that
Christ ulti- mately defeated death. This is a thesis that Marsé contests: often
fiercely in the context of a post-war Spain where disease and death were part
of daily experience, featuring prominently in his novels. His close and
knowing reworking of icons – for the believer, windows on the Kingdom –
takes on the rhetoric of Death with Resurrection, sickness with healing, and
uses the Church’s own iconography to subvert its message and that of the
triumphalist rhetoric of both Spanish and Catalan Catholic nationalisms in a
society that this author depicts as permeated by literal and metaphorical
sickness.
As pictures encapsulating fundamental doctrines of the Christian faith,
icons have had an impact on thousands of people as a means of instruction in
the faith. They have also attracted non-believers both by their aesthetic chal-
lenge and because, being a densely encoded form of representation, they
3 ‘The icon accompanies Orthodox faithful from their cradle to their grave. When
confined to a museum, it no longer fulfils its primary function. Uprooted and reduced
to being an object of art, it still preserves, at least we think so, its spiritual energies
accumulated down the centuries by generations of the faithful who have prayed before
it’ (Quenot, p. 162).
exert a strong intellectual fascination. Like any visual medium they offer
wide scope for mimicry and play, but here the stakes are high because of the
sacred nature of their subject matter. As a form of regime language, they
tempt the iconoclast to subvert their form and sacred content. In societies as
eager to protect their faith as part of their identity as post-war Catholic Spain
and Catalonia have been, playing with religious icons has had for Marsé the
added attraction of engaging with danger by subverting the sacred.
For the believer, then, to trifle with icons is to trifle with God. Marsé
certainly does this, forging his own languages of freedom with playful irrev-
erence. He is not, however, flippant for he sharply challenges the assump-
tions on which Christian worship and the use of images and icons is based.
Whether or not Marsé himself perceives his play with icons in this way, or
whether only readers with an interest in religious culture do so, he sails
dangerously close to the wind and takes risks when he challenges the reality
of incarnation and gives religion a contentious role in his depiction of post-
war Spain.
According to strict definition then, icons eliminate as far as possible both the
artist and changing concepts of reality open to intellectual speculation
because they seek to depict an unchanging, transcendent, spiritual existence.
Believers must accept the truth as it is portrayed according to the strict canon
and not try to change or modify the picture since to do so would interfere
with the doctrine represented in the icon, two being inextricably entwined.
As
3. Icons and Religious Images
an example of tradition versus the individual in art, but also in religious
doctrine, this position fosters unchanging immobility.
Religious images, in contrast, tell us more about the artist and his
approach to his work than about the subject matter itself, which Quenot sees
as dangerous because it can divert worship away from the mystery repre-
sented in the art and on to the image itself, which is idolatry. Citing female
sexuality as a potential source of danger, Quenot warns, concerning non-
iconic representations of the Virgin:
The danger is that what will be produced is a picture of the painter’s lust,
rather than a depiction of the Mother of God. Therefore Quenot concludes:
‘Iconographers must also eliminate their personal sentiments and emotions
from the icon, to avoid imposing them on others, thus furnishing an obstacle
to prayer’ (Quenot, p. 72). Quenot’s view of realism has interesting implica-
tions for a writer who seeks to represent religious experience, for realism
must be rejected as diminishing the transcendent. Of Giotto and others
Quenot writes:
The art of the transcendent fades with their introduction of such visuals as
three-dimensional perspective, natural light and shadows, the return of a
realistic portrayal of people, and use of the emotional – in a word, an art in
total opposition to the hieratic art of iconography. (Quenot, p. 74)
We must understand that nothing at all distinguishes the religious art of the
Renaissance or the Baroque period from the secular art of the day, except
for the ‘religious’ theme […]. An art becomes sacred only when a spiritual
outlook or vision becomes manifest in its forms, and when they in turn,
convey an authentic reflection of the spiritual world. (Quenot, p. 77)
Iconography is that branch of the history of art which concerns itself with
the subject matter or meaning of works of art, as opposed to their form.4
Only the women see (and ‘know,’ that is, act upon) the image of the
hysteric. Their image of the hysteric, both as patient and as health care
practitioner is consciously formed by the visual image of the hysteric as
created by a male physician […]. Blanche Wittman […] learned from the
representations of the hysteric how to appear as a hysteric.8
Charcot, whom Gilman quotes as saying with the confidence of one who
believes himself undeceived, ponders on what he sees as deceitfulness in his
female patients
one finds oneself sometimes admiring the amazing craft, sagacity, and
perseverance which women, under the influence of this great neurosis, will
put in play for the purposes of deception – especially when the physician
is to be the victim. It is incontestable that, in a multitude of cases, they
have taken pleasure in distorting, by exaggerations, the principle
circumstances of their disorder, in order to make them appear
extraordinary and wonderful. (Gilman, p. 352)
6 Showalter argues that Charcot ‘explicitly set out to refute religion through his
practice of medicine. He and his assistants wrote essays debunking miracles of the
church, describing even Saint Joan of Arc as a case of hysteria.’ Elaine Showalter,
Hystories. Hysterical Epidemics and Modern Culture (London: Picador, 1977), p. 32. See
also Martha N. Evans, Fits and Starts: A Genealogy of Hysteria in Modern France
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), p. 34.
7 The painting by André Brouillet shows Charcot demonstrating Wittman’s
behaviour to colleagues as typical of hysteria. Charcot and his male colleagues face the
patient. She, and a female nurse, are facing the back of the lecture theatre where the
etching depicts the very symptom she is displaying. Gilman traces the standard repre-
sentation of the ‘arc-en-cercle’ (also called ‘arc de cercle’ by Charcot) in Greek art to a
painting entitled “Dying Baccante” in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, reproduced by
Jean Rosselot, ed., Medicine in Art (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1967), p. 51.
8 Sander L. Gilman, ‘The Image of the Hysteric’ in Hysteria Beyond Freud
(London: University of California Press, 1993), pp. 345–438, 345–6.
Gilman emphasises the propensity for at times unconscious deceit in those
who claim accuracy through ‘scientifically observed’ imaging.
To consider Marsé’s imaging as iconography brings into sharp focus the
emotional investment that individual characters make in a personal ‘más
allá’
– an ideal beyond the images used to represent what is out of reach: images
drawn from many sources ranging from popular culture to religious art,
which provide a goal for the characters as they attempt to shape their identity
and life. Paco alludes to an ideal in the ‘más allá’ that seemed to him to join
himself, Nuria, Montse, Salvador and Manuel – five apparently very
different characters – together at least in their aspirations:
9 Daniel received purple robes as a reward (Daniel 5.29), and in the parable of
Lazarus, the rich man is dressed in purple (Luke 16.19). For the Byzantines purple was
the symbol of supreme power (Quenot, p. 115). Tía Isabel appears before a daunted
and apprehensive Paco with ‘su lento y voluminoso cuerpo severamente vestido de
malva’ (PM, p. 69).
10 According to Quenot, this is one of four principle icons of the Virgin recognised
by the Eastern Orthodox Church: The Mother of God Enthroned, Praying (Orans),
Merciful (Eleousa from the Greek “eleos,” mercy or pity), and “She Who Shows the
Way” (Hodigitria – from the Greek “hodos”, the way).
4. The Protection of the Mother of God
permeable, allowing glimpses of her: her icon providing a window on to the
Kingdom where she may be met in intimate communion.
Paco’s comparison highlights two aspects of the icon: the opulence
enjoyed by the Virgin with her attendant angels, and how insulated she is
from the world beneath. At the same time, he acknowledges that Tía Isabel’s
social concern is genuine, even as he points out how her privileged status
prevents the outside world ever actually touching her directly: indeed, when
the less fortunate – and more ambitious – such as he or Manuel Reyes pene-
trate the confines of her heaven, they meet with coldness, not compassion.
From her office at home she runs a charitable empire without ever needing to
leave the house. This modern Virgin Mother deals with need via the tele-
phone:
The mechanics of a maternal umbilical bond are there but power rather than
love is what flows out to the supplicant. Paco recalls ‘la frialdad mecánica de
este sistema de control telefónico, que podría hacer pensar en la centralita de
un hotel’ (PM, p. 69). He himself finds his aunt to be out of reach; the more
exalted she is, the more debased he feels. Quoting Jesus lamenting over a
rebellious Jerusalem (Matthew 23.37), he depicts her as a mother hen
longing to protect her young; but in Paco’s case – and that of her daughters –
she fails signally: ‘Me consta la amplitud y el calor de su ala, dispuesta
siempre a cobijar aterridos y sucios polluelos como yo; pero es inútil, ante
ella me sentiré siempre desvalido, verdaderamente huérfano, mucho más que
ante el resto de la familia’ (PM, p. 70). Dispensing charity without changing
economic and social structures creates dependency in the receiver and
further empowers the already powerful.
Montse differs from her mother in that she wants to give the ex-convict
Manuel access to work and thereby a place in a social heaven without
demanding subservience and conformity in return. However, as I remarked
in Chapter 3, Montse’s gullibility – a product of her ignorance of the world
outside her ‘torre’ – makes her vulnerable to exploitation. Again Marsé
shows in Paco’s conflicting responses to his cousin both the charm of images
of innocence and the disillusionment experienced by the spectator whose
knowledge of actual life conflicts with desires for a better ‘más allá’:
Mi prima Montse estaba hecha de esa material tierna y vehemente que
envuelve nuestras heroicas quimeras de la mocedad […]. Nunca, ni en los
momentos que más ferozmente me burlaba de sus beaterías, fui insensible
a cierto confuso encanto de mi prima, a cierta maravillosa facultad para
traducir la más banal esperanza ajena en algún espontáneo gesto de
seducción o de entrega cuya significación real ella ignoraba, ese don que
poseen algunos cuerpos castigados por la enfermedad o la autorrepresión
para vibrar anticipadamente a las promesas más febriles de la vida. Si es
cierto que la inocencia se compone de esa materia inmaculada cuya
posesión sólo es posible sin el egoísmo, mi prima Montse fue uno de los
seres más puros que jamás existieron en este mundo. (PM, p. 272)
‘Si es cierto’: Paco’s scepticism wars with the attraction of the ideal, but
the Fall has occurred, sickness is abroad and Montse’s best efforts are
doomed from the start, even as she is marked by ‘la enfermedad o la
autorrepresión’. The first paragraph of La oscura historia ends ‘Fachada, he
aquí lo único que les quedaba a los Claramunt’ (PM, p. 5), and we are given
glimpses of Tía Isabel no longer ‘en su nube de púrpura’, but – like the
house
– a hollow wreck:
11 David Hugh Farmer, The Oxford Dictionary of Saints (Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1978), p. 250.
12 A standard work on the Crusade myth is Herbert R. Southworth, El Mito de la
Cruzada de Franco (Paris: Ruedo Ibérico, 1963). Franco is said deliberately to have
modelled himself on El Cid, in Paul Preston, Franco (London: HarperCollins, 1993),
pp. 640–2.
5. Capitanes y Caudillos. Front Cover of the Falange magazine, Flechas
y Pelayos, 1947
God’s Messenger, and Uriel is rarely documented, having been associated
early in church history with the Johannine heresy that saw John the Baptist,
not Jesus, as Messiah). The Dragon – the Devil or Satan – is viewed in
Reve- lation as the same serpent who, in the Garden of Eden, beguiled Eve
and caused the Fall.13 So Michael’s feat of arms sets a biblical precedent for
the Holy Warfare for God against Evil that was continued throughout the
Old Testament by actual warriors such as Joshua, Gideon and David. In the
New Testament, the warfare becomes spiritual, as the followers of Christ
meta- phorically don the armour of the Christian Soldier evoked in the
famous Pauline passage beginning: ‘Revestíos de la armadura de Dios para
que podáis resistir las tentaciones del Diablo’ (Ephesians 6.11–17).
What distinguishes icons of Michael, George and other warrior angels and
saints from more naturalistic representations of soldiers is the iconographer’s use
of strict pictorial conventions that suggest that the subjects are not of this world
and their battle, while real, is spiritual. This is a suggestion that Marsé constantly
rejects and subverts as his representation of icons asserts body over spirit. Icons
play down sensuality:
The nose is thin and elongated, giving a nobility to the face. It no longer
detects the scents of this world, but only the sweet odor of Christ [...]. The
mouth, being an extremely sensual organ, is always finely drawn and
geometrically, eliminating its sensuality [...]. As a sign of spirituality,
according to Cyril of Jerusalem (†387) the small mouth stresses that ‘the
body no longer needs earthly nourishment because it has become a
spiritual wonder.’ (Quenot, p. 97)
Yet, in effect, as this quotation shows, convention opens the way to contra-
vention, and the strictest conventions leave room for ambiguity.
Marsé is not alone in having noted the feminising and de-sexualising
effect and the writing out of sensuality in iconography. Federico García
Lorca depicts a statue of St Michael in sexually ambiguous terms,
emphasising qualities of softness and fragility (lace and feathers), and
domesticity, together with explicit eroticism that invite mischievous alterna-
tive readings of this ambiguous icon.
Y caíste rendido, bramando, escupiendo fuego por los ojos y por la boca,
ella puso el pie sobre tu cabeza y tú ibas arrastrándote, tanteando con tus
garras sus botas altas, la faldita ya hecha jirones [...]. Encogido en la silla,
ronroneando como un gato, el alférez Conradito achicaba los ojos para
captar mejor los detalles. (STD, p. 100)
As Dragon, Java acts out his own corruption, while Fueguiña as Saint
Michael with her foot on the dragon’s head takes us back to Eden and to
God’s cursing of the serpent: ‘Yo pongo enemistad entre ti y la mujer, entre
tu linaje y el suyo; él te aplastará la cabeza mientras tú te abalances a su
calcañal’ (Genesis 3.15). These words describe both the immediate feud
between Eve and the serpent, and the redemption that will be wrought by
Christ, Son of the Second Eve, Mary – a redemption in which Mary is Co-
Redemptrix. Nonetheless, the interaction between Java and Fueguiña in their
play, has a more sombre message, for pain and humiliation, not redemp-
tion, characterise their sexual relations. A few pages later, Fueguiña plays
Mary in another production, now put on for their own entertainment by the
children, which mimics the colour-coding and stance of traditional iconog-
raphy, but is grotesquely scatological:
15 ‘llevarla a la silla y vestirla la capa pluvial, juntar sus manos tras el respaldo y
atarlas con el cordón morado, y chuparle los pechines mientras ella echa la cabeza
atrás, pataleando.’ (STD, p. 21).
patronage – even perverse patronage bought at any cost – offers at least a
small chance of achieving a better life. Si te dicen offers a parodic inversion
of the Fall by tracing the ‘rise’ of Java from street child to wealthy corpse –
a rise achieved by careful exploitation of a corruption that Java willingly
assimilates in childhood games, as a preparation for adult practice. Fueguiña,
on the other hand, both as Archangel and as Virgin, receives only violence
and is induced to collude in male-controlled voyeurism. Thus, once again,
Marsé confronts us with a silenced female who can act, but not speak about
her actions, whose power is limited by the roles allotted to her. As a figure
of power in this playscape, Fueguina’s St Michael is a parody that recalls
Flor- ence Nightingale’s poignant comparison of woman with
the Archangel Michael as he stands upon Saint Angelo at Rome. She has
an immense provision of wings, which seem as if they would bear her over
earth and heaven; but when she tries to use them, she is petrified into
stone, her feet are grown into the earth, chained to the bronze pedestal.16
17 The poem on the cover of the Catholic Scouting magazine in Chapter 4 (Illustra-
tion 1) picks up similar themes and images – the knight, the dragon and the rose: ‘Sant
Jordi. Tot gentilesa, /en la lluita es arrogant, /té envestida i té destresa: /vencerà el
dragó gegant. /Sant Jordi té belles coses /és un sant i un cavaller, /i ens prodiga
excelses roses /d’un foc del cel matiner. /Cavaller, la llança empunya /amb serena
austeritat. /Gran patró de Catalunya, /senyoria, seny, bondat. /Sant Jordi tot mal
allunya /perquè té Déu al costat.’
18 Forrest likens Norma’s attitude to that of the Magdalene, and adds: ‘Approached
from either biblical or literary antecedent, this significant episode represents a radical
“conversion” of sorts in which the individual is subordinated either to a religious or
For Marés, the role of Dragon as outcast and victim gives room for play
and for testing the boundaries of his very flexible identity with virtuoso
performances as Catalan or – increasingly – ‘charnego’. He needs Norma as
a public, and a justification for his performance. Norma, too, needs
‘charnegos’ to fulfil her linguistic mission, though the scope that Marés
gives her – asking vocabulary for car parts (EAB, p. 64) or lingerie (EAB,
pp. 27–8) – is a mocking comment on the processes of linguistic
normalisation. It is ironic that it is to the parody of a Dragon, the false
‘charnego’ Marés, that she is at first attracted, and that after a string of
‘charnego’ lovers, Marés manages to ensnare her briefly once more. Like
Jung’s two halves of the one nature, George and the Dragon, Norma and
Marés, Victor and Vanquished seem bound to each other in unceasing
amorous conflict that, with hindsight, we can trace in other, early novels.
Paco’s fantasy of himself as a ‘príncipe Valiente’ to Nuria’s princess, with
a Dragon to be vanquished mentioned in Chapter 4 (PM, p. 107) offers a
configuration similar to that of St George. Paco also alludes frequently to the
clawed beast within himself in relation to his desire for Nuria and for wealth,
admitting that ‘la indecisa mano que te acariciaba en noches serenas, en el
jardín de tu casa, mucho me temo que era y sigue siendo una garra’ (PM, p.
106), or that in the warmth of the ‘llar pairal’ that he only occasionally expe-
rienced, ‘Calor de hogar. Tu garra se enternece’ (PM, p. 120). He speaks too
of Salvador’s ambition with the image of predatory claws: ‘en silencio,
durante años, afiló las garras que un día caerían sobre las piadosas señoritas
Claramunt’ (PM, p. 87). The tantalising vulnerability of the woman in this
scenario is again evident in Un día volveré, where Néstor’s attempts to
beguile his uncle into marrying his mother, Balbina, involve trying to
suggest that a toy gecko stuck to the ceiling is threatening his mother:
sexual ideal. Once again, Norma’s association with institutionalized power elicits a
parodic inversion of official culture (religion) and individual expression (eroticism)’
(Forrest, p. 47).
as figures of power – St Michael, St George or the Marys – or as figures of
erotic fascination – Nuria, Fueguiña, Norma and Balbina – none of these
women plays any role, or has any voice, beyond what is specifically
prescribed by the author’s or narrator’s controlling male voice, and their
subordination points to strategies of containment built into the social circum-
stances and expectations that the novels depict in association with traditional
Catholic morality.
Paco depicts Montse’s ‘rapto’ in three stages. The first is dramatic, resem-
bling that enacted by Blanche Wittman with the violent contortions and
dramatic ‘arc-en-cercle’.
Richer’s drawing carefully drapes hair and dress so that, with the pointed
toes, the pose has an almost balletic quality. In contrast to this artistry, in the
second stage of her ‘rapto’, Montse burns with feverish heat and sweats as
she now lies passive in Paco’s arms, her hair not alluring but snakelike: ‘Su
cuerpo arde pegado al tuyo, las mechas mojadas se adhieren como negras
culebras a su cuello y a sus hombros, toda ella transpira una combustión
interna que la consume’ (PM, p. 122).
In the third, she clings to Paco, whose inner debate (he addresses himself
as ‘tú’) expresses uncertainty as to how to interpret what he sees, and his
embarrassment at Montse’s distress and desire, to which he cannot respond:
Con los ojos cerrados, te atrae hacia ella, tiembla ligeramente, es como si
tuviera frío y se abraza a ti, la boca abierta pegada a tu hombro [...]. Al
cabo, como temías, al resbalar aún más su arrebolada mejilla – luego su
boca – sobre la tela del pijama, roza apaciblemente tu sexo [...]. [D]eseas
librarte de este abrazo tembloroso e inconscientemente lascivo. (PM, pp. 122–
3)
Diríase que trata a sus pechos de una manera torpísima, o que los lleva sin
saberlo: te roza con ellos al pasar, se los chafa sin darse cuenta, se los toca
y al parecer los siente como si fueses molestas protuberancias cuya
utilidad no acabara de entender. No tiene aún conciencia de su cuerpo.
(PM, p. 98)
[N]ous voyons que les artistes, dans les représentations qu’ils ont faites
des extatiques, ont négligé à dessein toute apparence de violence, tout
phénomène convulsif. Pour eux, l’extase est une attitude passionnelle; tous
leurs efforts consistent à exprimer, à rendre extérieure un phénomène
interne, en un mot, à traduire objectivement, par les traits de la
physionomie et les gestes du corps, ce qui se passe dans les régions de
l’esprit inaccessibles à la vue [...]. L’artiste a donc cherché à rendre une
pensée, un sentiment. Tout est mesuré, réglé, rationnel dans sa figure.
(Charcot, pp. 108–9)
Freud, who studied with Charcot, stresses the link between hysteria and
sexual, rather than spiritual passion that is familiar in works such as
Bernini’s sculptures of Saint Theresa and The Blessed Ludovica Albertoni:
‘Investiga- tion of the childhood history of hysterical patients shows that the
hysterical attack is designed to take the place of an auto-erotic satisfaction
previously practised and since given up’. 24 The seizure replicates the sexual
act: ‘What points the way for the motor discharge of the repressed libido in a
hysterical attack is the reflex mechanism of the act of coition [...]. [A]
convulsive hysterical attack is an equivalent of coition.’ 25 Echoing Freud,
Paco also points to childhood, and a loss of a source of comfort, to explain
Montse’s unease in his description of the ‘rapto’. At the same time, he
reprimands himself ironically for taking too seriously theories more notable
for their ingenuity than their reliability: ‘guárdate por una vez tus
consideraciones freudianas más o menos ingeniosas’ (PM, p. 123). He sees
in Montse a desire to ‘volver un poco al mundo feliz de la infancia [...],
cuando el cuerpo nos prometía una fidelidad sin límites y aún no sabíamos –
nadie nos lo había de enseñar – que también él puede imponernos un
destino atroz’ (PM, p. 123).
Y fue al salir del agua cuando, con la piel grasienta y alguna mancha de
alquitrán, la arena empezó a adherirse, contaminándola [...]. Las olas se
abaten en la rompiente con estrépito, flota un pesado perfume a algas y
sudor [...]. Sintiéndose de pronto sola y cansada, se arrima a él [Manuel]
recostando la cabeza en su hombro [...]. Y abandonándose, Montse cierra
los ojos. (PM, p. 219)
The snake now symbolises new life rather than illness, however.
Yet the beach also performs another symbolic function, prefiguring the
manner of Montse’s death. The heat, sweat, seaweed and Montse’s physical
union with Manuel recall the sweat of her ‘rapto’ seven chapters earlier, with
its ‘intenso olor a algas, como si acabara de surgir del mar’ (PM, p. 121) and
in the scent of sex, an ironic echo of the spiritual union of religious ecstasy.
Indeed, there is a network of water images in the novel, recalling Christian
imagery of baptism and rebirth but with the opposite consequences for
28 The Claramunts are ‘fabricantes de tejidos de seda’ (PM, p. 51) – luxury goods –
and Paco identifies silk with the Claramunt daughters: ‘la cálida y sedosa entrepierna
de mis primas’ (PM, p. 55). Silk later typifies the glamorous prostitute Aurora/Menchu
in Si te dicen. Its use in relation to the Claramunt girls is both apt, for the professional
association, and ironic in its suggestion of erotic glamour.
Montse. Paco suggests mystical aspirations in Montse’s childhood in a
memory in which ‘la niña está sentada al borde del estanque y contempla
con sus ojos muy atentos los turbios peces rojos, soñando quizá con un
mundo de luz’ (PM, p. 56).29 That image is then recalled with profound irony
as Montse plunges off a bridge to her watery death on a rain-soaked night.
Paco’s imag- ining of her death offers a tragic parody of her earlier childish
dreaming and the ‘rapto de los sentidos’, but in contrast to the intimations of
religious ecstasy in those earlier episodes, it shows her turning her back on
the statue of Christ which overlooks Barcelona but has not saved her. Her
rocking mimics an attitude of prayer but also shows mental perturbation:
In the bible and Christian liturgy, water represents life, cleansing and,
through baptism, redemption and eternal life. The Children of Israel passed
safely through the Red Sea (which then closed on the pursuing Egyptians)
and began their new life as God’s Chosen People (Exodus 14.21–7). Jesus
entered the water of baptism and emerged to be acknowledged by the voice
of God as ‘mi Hijo, el Amado’ (Mark 1.9–11). Icons of the Nativity of
Christ, through the water and blood of birth, place the Virgin Mary outlined
against the mouth of a tomb-like cave, as a reminder that Christ was born to
die – and to rise again. To a Catholic, then, the imagery of water suggests a
possible rebirth and reinstatement of Montse, and perhaps of Manuel too.
That does not happen in La oscura historia.
A religious reading of Montse’s rapture leads to new insights on other
images besides water in the novel. The obvious image of light and darkness
suggested by the book’s title is evident in the symbolism of life and death
already mentioned in icons of the Nativity. ‘Truly’, Quenot writes, ‘light is
the theme of iconography’ (Quenot, p. 107). Light and Darkness accompany
the Good/Evil binary that Paco seeks to unravel over the course of his narra-
tive. On one occasion, Montse has a halo which, in iconography,
‘symbolizes
When she talks of Manuel, ‘Su sonrisa se ensancha, es casi luminosa’ (PM, p.
100) – ‘luminosa’ agreeing with both the smile and Montse – and she has
‘los ojos inundados de luz’ (PM, p. 56). The ‘rapto’ takes place in the night
and is an experience of darkness. Yet this fits with the mystic’s Dark night of
the Soul which San Juan de la Cruz defined in the following terms:
Paco’s apparently pleasant imaginings are in fact bitterly ironic, for Montse
herself, like Amaya, will stumble, become pregnant and need support, but
she will not find it. Her mystic path will lead only to a brief union with
Manuel and to a brief, limited glory symbolised by the only poor parody of
an ‘agape’ love feast (of which the communion is a symbol) that they can
afford: ‘Se adentraba más y más en su diario deslumbramiento camino de la
pensión Gloria y hacia un alto en alguna tienda de barrio para comprar un
kilo de naranjas o una botella de Vino Común’ (PM, p. 214 [my emphasis]).
The gipsies’ carnations become a symbol of her real desire to identify with
‘charnegos’. Like the gipsy women visiting prisoners with her (PM, p. 36),
she wears a carnation in the ‘centro parroquial’ (PM, p. 21), and has a posy of
them in Manuel’s room (PM, p. 198), together with the washing she has done for
him, on the line she has hung for him, near the wireless she has given him along
with herself.
Whether we view Montse’s ‘rapto’ as psycho-sexual or religious, what
makes it irremediably self-destructive is that the foundations of her faith, as
Paco sets out to demonstrate, are themselves flawed. As an iconic
protolanguage, the ‘rapto’ reveals how extreme is Montse’s desire for union
with God and with those she seeks to serve, just as the icon of a Saint in
Ecstasy reveals to the believer the mystery of spiritual union with the Divine.
However, Paco’s reading of the icon points to the absence of the mystery and
the hollowness of the image. In so doing, it also exposes the tragedy of
Montse’s loss of belief. For Montse, this means her Catholic faith which, in
Paco’s view, may be one of the ‘distintas floraciones de un mismo ideal de
personalidad’ manifested by all five of the novel’s young protagonists, but if
so, it is a tragically destructive one. In one sense, then, Montse’s tragedy is
shared by all the young who must face disillusionment – the end of the game –
in a lying society. In another sense, her loss is worse because of the treacherous
deceit of a Church that promised so much more and gave so much less,
awakening hopes of heaven in her only to deny her entry there:
[Montse] lucha desesperadamente al encuentro de aquellas normas y
principios que le han enseñado desde niña, aquellas fórmulas claras,
estables, convincentes e irreversibles de ayer, y que hoy, al parecer, todos
cuantos están en esta mesa han olvidado: ignora Montse que la palabra
viva, como todo lo vivo, traiciona, y más aún en materia de religión, y se
debate en una trampa. (PM, p. 103)31
The extent of her ‘desengaño’ and loss is best appreciated when we accept
that to read her rapture as an icon implies the presence of the divine acting in
and through her body. The fact that her body – the outward form of the icon
– lets her down, by its unattractiveness, its irrepressible desires and in its
conception of a new, transgressive life for Montse and for the child she bears
as a fruit of her own physical flowering, is a desperate final paradox: death
in life, subverting the assumption of a divine in-dwelling capable of
imparting life in death.
31 There is an ironic play on the words ‘la palabra viva’, for to the Christian, Christ
is God’s ‘Verbo de la vida’ (I John 1.1), ‘pan de la vida’ (John 6.35) and ‘agua viva’
(John 7.38).
32 ‘La Betibú era viuda y no tenía otros medios de vida que las faenas que hacía en
algunas casas y sus primorosos encajes de bolillos, muy apreciados por las beatas de Las
Ánimas y las señoras ricas de la barriada’ (ES, p. 25). Being without husbands, both La
Betibú and Susana’s mother are suspected by ‘cuatro beatas de la Parroquia’ of being
prepared to ‘aceptar de los hombres cierto tipo de ayuditas’ and of ‘devaneos amorosos.’
(ES, pp. 30–1).
33 The dedication alludes to where Marsé grew up (L’Arboç), has a house
(Calafell), and to the name of his daughter (Berta) and wife (Joaquina).
spoken by a fantasy film character: Capitán Blay (Bligh of Mutiny on the
Bounty, alias the Hombre Invisible), and Marsé thus makes plain from the
outset that El embrujo is an exploration of dreams and fantasies in Daniel’s
last weeks of childhood, before he joins the adult world of work. It is about
Daniel’s erotic fantasies concerning Susana, his morbid dreams about his
father’s death, Daniel’s and Susana’s exotic dreams of the mysterious ‘más
allá’ symbolised by a mythic Shanghai, and adventure fantasies they build
around Susana’s absent father. Daniel is between school and an apprentice-
ship, and Susana is in the limbo of disease, so as with Andrés and Tina in
Encerrados, their exploration of childhood fantasies is made freer by
parental absence and idleness: boredom and a discovery of the resources of
play. Their fantasies also feed on the unreliable yet entertaining flights of
fancy of the crazed Capitán Blay and fascinating stories of the lying yet eloquent
Nandu Forçat. Daniel’s experiences suggest that perhaps it is the madman and the
liar who hold the key to enchantment.
The narrative is constructed around the icon of the Virtuous Susanna
both in the sense that the novel inverts a bible story, and because it is about
the painting of an image: how the subject – Susana – is seen and read by
different spectators, and how images of her may serve different functions,
including the iconic function of offering a window on to a mystery. The
biblical Susanna is a model of female beauty and an icon of virtue and
piety. As a wife, though, she is sexually experienced and knowing, and it
is her knowingness that is Marsé’s starting-point in his exploration of the
icon.
Marsé’s Susana Franch has natural attractions enhanced by the delicate
sensuality associated with TB. Bringing her more within reach of a wider
public, TB also links her with a popular literary and musical icon, the cour-
tesan Marguerite Gautier – La Dame aux Camélias of Dumas’ novel and
Verdi’s La Traviata – and Susana lives in the Calle de las Camelias which
marks her with a tragic-romantic eroticism, arousing in the reader expecta-
tions with which Marsé, as ever, will play games. Her glamour is enhanced
by the drama of the threat of death, and by having a heroic father equally
endangered as a resistance fighter, and she is aware of her allure: alive to the
possibilities it offers for amusement in her disease-induced confinement.
Admirers become a necessity in whose gaze she enjoys new life. Her
attitude, until the close of the novel, shows neither the inward-looking
absorption of the mystic nor the heavenward gaze of the saint. It is outward-
looking, through the glass of the ‘aquarium’ where she spends her days,
towards the spectator, as in Rembrandt’s painting of the subject.
Unlike the biblical Susanna, obscured modestly – and supposedly safely –
from public view in her ‘hortus conclusus’, Marsé’s Susana is exposed to,
and thrives on, her admirers’ gaze. Gilman comments: ‘Rembrandt’s image
covers both the genitalia and the breasts, showing the viewer Susanna’s
gaze, a gaze as indicative of the revelation of the inner truth about human
sexuality
as the direct depiction of the genitalia would be.’ 34 Susana’s gallery likewise
both reveals and veils. Daniel stands fascinated, like a believer striving to
discern the mystery of an icon, trying to perceive her through the misted
glass and instead becoming the object of her detached gaze:
me pareció ver una mancha rosada girando como una peonza detrás de la
vidriera, junto a la cama, y era la niña tísica que bailaba abrazada a su
almohada. Fue sólo un momento, enseguida se dejó caer de espaldas sobre
el lecho, luego se incorporó y vi con claridad su mano limpiando el vaho
del cristal y seguidamente su cara pegada a él, pálida y remota, mirándome
como si flotara en el interior de una burbuja. (ES, p. 31)
Marsé inverts the bible story to make Daniel – named after the devout,
ascetic prophet – a voyeur, while the two ‘charnego’ Chacón brothers,
associ- ated in the story’s character distribution with the two Elders, protect
her.35 This passage, in which Daniel evokes the alternating frenzy of activity
and passivity, the frantic enjoyment of a fleeting life and the sickly pallor of
the TB sufferer, marks the beginning of a fascination with Susana that fills
his dreams with increasingly erotic images:
Like Montse’s ‘rapto’, Marsé again describes the febrile gestures, sudden
collapse backwards on the bed and the sweating that are also symptoms of
hysterical attacks. However, whereas Montse is either unconscious of, or
only just awakening to, her sexuality, the adolescent Susana is precociously
and knowingly tantalising.
Susana increasingly takes the lead in the relationship with Daniel. She
enhances her pallor with glow-worms – a sinister reminder of the decay of
death, yet intensely erotic to Daniel – and goads and entices him: ‘¿Te
gustaría besarme ...? ¿Te gustaría, tonto? Pero un beso de tornillo.
¡Contesta!’ (ES, p. 138) In a role-reversal that picks up the imagery of La
oscura historia, just as Montse’s final yielding to Manuel is depicted as
cada día me veía más prisionero de un decorado venal y falso [...]; había
diseñado la galería como si fuera un invernadero, tal como la veía, pero en
ese invernadero nada podía florecer; había intentado reproducir en el papel
la frente tersa de Susana y la rosa aterciopelada y cada día más encendida
de sus mejillas, y sólo conseguí el pálido remedo de una pepona sin vida.
(ES, p. 114)
Like Paco trying to capture conflicting images of Montse from his own
memories and desires and from those of her family, Daniel tries to reproduce
the ‘muñeca delicada’ that Susana wants to be for her father, and the ‘pobre
tísica birriosa’ of Capitán Blay’s ‘delirantes expectativas’ (ES, p. 114). He
finally manages – from his own memory, not her life – ‘una figurita de
porcelana dentro de una caja de cristal’ (ES, p. 179) that he likes, but he real-
ises that it is not so much a portrait of Susana as ‘el dibujo de mi candidez’
(ES, p. 182).
At the same time, the ‘caja de cristal’ is actually symbolic of Susana’s
function within the novel, and in the minds of the male protagonists for
whom she is a source of images, a starting-point for stories and a focus of
eroticism. As an object of desire contained in the aquarium-like glass box,
Susana colludes in games of imaging and tries to manipulate the voyeurs.
Yet, even after she regains her health and is released from her glass-house by
her lover, El Denis, he inflicts confinement and brutal treatment in their rela-
tionship and Susana returns home. Home, but not to the past, for that, along
with the dreams of a better future that childhood held for her and Daniel, has
long gone. The icon has lost its allure; the ‘más allá’ is here and now. The
‘hortus conclusus’ has been violated and erotic mystery has given way to
drab reality: ‘Con poco más de veintitrés años, su frente seguía siendo
hermosa y su piel muy tersa, pero no quedaba ni rastro de la efusión rosada y
sensual de la boca, aquella enfurruñada plenitud del labio superior y su
turbadora ansiedad’ (ES, p. 191). Where before, disease and El Denis
imposed confinement on Susana, now she herself chooses the limited hori-
zons of a cinema box-office.
The close of the novel is ambiguous. Susana is in a limbo between the
reality of the street, and the second-hand fantasies of the silver screen:
‘dejándose llevar en su sueño y en mi recuerdo a pesar del desencanto, las
perversiones del ideal y el tiempo transcurrido, hoy como ayer, rumbo a
Shanghai’ (ES, p. 191). Her return to confinement after a taste of a wider
world seems regressive. With all Marsé’s silenced female figures she is held
for voyeuristic pleasure seekers in a vulnerable glass shell within which she
has only limited freedom. At the same time, her condition mirrors the
boredom of the voyeur and both are caught up in a form of play that mirrors
life: that may be a preparation for life, but that does not necessarily lead out
into life. Daniel is going off to do what Marsé himself did: military service
in Africa, meaning hours of idleness and boredom, but also an empowering
of the imagination that, in Marsé’s case, in his narrative play area, has
produced a literature with a sharp-edged subversive thrust that brings regime
languages into constant interplay with virtuoso displays of authorial
languages of freedom.
This study has examined how Juan Marsé uses Catholic iconography to
powerful effect in his novels to explore and subvert the ideologies of the
Catholic Church, Spanish National catholicism and Catalan Catholic
nationalism. It has considered both the broad background of Marsé’s depic-
tion of popular religious culture in post-war Barcelona, and has focused
discussion on specific discourses of Vatican II, on myths of biblical Paradise
Gardens, and on individual icons. It draws attention to Marsé’s
preoccupation with the extent to which religious ideology can permeate
public and private life, yet at the same time, throughout my discussion I have
emphasised that Marsé’s treatment of Catholic iconography is playful. In
leaps of imaginative invention, always tinged with irony and often with
nostalgia, he eagerly and mischievously exploits the wealth of a religious
heritage towards which he remains ambivalent. His approach is summed up
in a quotation from Nietz- sche that prefaces Rabos de lagartija:
There is room here for debate – room for play – and a welcoming of
openness to discussion. As a hybrid, Marsé plays across many boundaries of
nation- ality, class and ideology, and his games with Catholic iconography
demon- strate that hybrid freedom.
Storytelling is for Marsé a toy, a game and a narrative play area in which
to try out strategies of subversion and to entertain. I have described play as a
leap, an explosion of energy, as defying limits, as finding a ‘divine leeway’
for spontaneous, unrestrained, joyous experimentation, and I have argued
that these are characteristics of Marsé’s storytelling games too. Play is also
wicked, mischievous and provocative. It is Andrés and Martín in
Encerrados scandalising passers-by in the Parque Güell with obscene songs
sung loudly: ‘¡caritat caritat senyora, caritat pel meu germà, que va néixer
sense braços i no se la pot pelà!’ (EJ, p. 58). It is Juanito Marés in El
amante, contorted into
CONCLUSION 193
Not only does laughter make no exception for the upper stratum, but
indeed it is usually directed towards it. Furthermore, it is directed not at
one part only, but at the whole. One might say that it builds its own world
versus the official world, its own church versus the official church, its own
state versus the official state. (Bakhtin, p. 88)
Bakhtin adds that, when carnivalesque humour sets itself up – albeit playfully
– in opposition to authority, it exemplifies:
The acute awareness of victory over fear […]. [T]he defeat of fear
presented in a droll and monstrous form, the symbols of power and
violence turned inside out, the comic images of death and bodies gaily rent
asunder. All that was terrifying becomes grotesque […]. The people play
with terror and laugh at it; the awesome becomes a ‘comic monster’.
(Bakhtin, p. 91)
Play too acknowledges danger and death and brings them into the play area.
This is so with Marsé’s children ‘playfully’ rehearsing scenes of torture in
dark cellars, and with Marsé’s own depiction of Nuria and Montse
Claramunt, and with his startling representations of state repression,
religious power-broking, pain, disillusionment and suicide. Like carnival
Marsé’s play is hazardous, as though violence and fear can intensify
enjoyment as brief, ephemeral pleasure is snatched from life with a sharp
awareness of the pres- ence of death. He is not afraid to address these issues
and challenge the authority of regime languages in the freedom of his
narrative play area.
The ‘awesome’ that becomes ‘comic monster’ is for Marsé the Catholic
Church. He presents Catholicism, through its icons, myths and doctrines as
authoritarian and powerful. As a voice of authority in public, the Church is
seen in the novels to align itself equally easily with the authority of a
repressive Francoist state in Si te dicen que caí, and with a Catalanism once
in opposition to that state but presented as comparably coercive in La oscura
historia and El amante bilingüe. The Church is seen to preach – but rarely
practise – a morality based on its doctrine of Good and Evil that infiltrates
private lives, shapes
194 ROSEMARY CLARK
behaviour, and is held directly responsible for the tragic death of Montse
Claramunt. Whether, as a force in the background which affords Martín
powers of coersion in Encerrados (EJ, p. 185) and allows ‘cuatro beatas’ to
speculate on the morals of Betibú in El embrujo (ES, p. 30) and pronounce
on Rosa Bartra in Rabos (RL, pp. 26–9), or as central to a novel as it is in
Marsé’s critique of the methods of social control exercised by a powerful
Catalan Cath- olic élite in La oscura historia, the Church is a force to be
reckoned with towards which Marsé adopts a deliberately transgressive
stance.
Marsé’s transgressive play, depicted predominantly in children and young
adults, establishes in his novels a ‘language of freedom whose power
consists in what we threaten to become’, in defiance of a ‘regime language
that derives its strength from what we are supposed to be’ (Doctorow, p.
217). In relation to Catalonia’s campaign for the Normalisation of the
Catalan Language (what we are supposed to be), Marsé’s subversive play
with bilin- gualism in El amante should be seen in the wider context of the
infinite flexi- bility he claims for storytelling in his ‘aventis’ and in the
pungent refrain that runs throughout Rabos de lagartija: ‘¡Puñeta, David,
estudia idiomas!’ (RL,
p. 179). Confronting Catholic morality, Marsé’s ‘language of freedom’ takes
the form of transgressive sex and uses a strategy I have termed ‘sexualising
the sacred’ to locate sexual transgression at the heart of the Catholic Church
in what might be seen as a process of reversed infiltration and a challenge to
the divine authority at the heart of the faith. By exploring Catholic
iconography as erotic, Marsé exploits the subversive potential of this most
sacred pictorial form by reincarnating sanctity as sexual: by emphasising the
tragic frailty of the human body. In so doing, he undermines the religious
assumptions on which the conventions of the sacred stand, and ‘vole à
l’autre son langage […], lui “brûle” son discours, qu’il ne pourra plus
réemployer ensuite avec la même efficacité’ (Lejeune, p.25).
Marsé views the Catholic Church as a major deviser and propagator of a
‘regime language’ that appears to shift with the times and so persists as a
force of constraint despite change and modernity; one so closely interwoven
in the popular religious culture of post-war Barcelona, and so familiar to
those of Catholic background, as to be virtually invisible. Confronting his
readers through the silent figure of the transgressive eroticised female –
Tina, Montse, Norma and Susana – his novels demand a sharpening of
perceptions and a re-reading of regime languages which deny such figures a
voice, on whatever pretext. The figure has recurred at key points in my
discussion: as a female interlocutor posited as sex object or seducer in
Encerrados in Chapter 1; as the corpse of the ‘puta roja’ at the centre of an
investigation which will never reveal the cause of her death, but only her
sexual corruption and the forces deployed against her in Si te dicen in
Chapter 2; as the ‘ángel del hogar’ set on a pedestal and denied her humanity
in La oscura historia in Chapter 3; as subject to male authority –
dispossessed by being made a possession – in La oscura historia and El
amante bilingüe in Chapter 4; and as representing, and
CONCLUSION 195
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PERIODICALS