Read an Excerpt
Fog
A Novel
By Miguel de Unamuno, Elena Barcia Northwestern University Press
Copyright © 2017 Northwestern University Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8101-3536-9
CHAPTER 1
Augusto appeared at the door of his building, extended his right arm, palm down, and maintained this august, statuesque pose as he looked up at the sky. He wasn't taking command of the world, he wanted to see if it was raining. He frowned as soon as he felt the cool slow drizzle on the back of his hand. He didn't mind the drizzle, but he hated to open his umbrella. It was so elegant, so slim, neatly folded inside its cover. A closed umbrella is as elegant as an open one is ugly.
It's too bad we have to use things, Augusto thought. Use spoils and even destroys beauty. An object's most noble function is to be contemplated. An orange is so beautiful before it's eaten. This will change in heaven when our purpose is reduced — I mean expanded — to contemplate God and in Him all creation. Here, in this pathetic life, we're concerned only with using God. We expect to unfurl Him like an umbrella so that He'll protect us from all sorts of misfortune.
He bent over to roll up his pants, finally opened his umbrella, and paused for a moment. Now, which way shall I go, right or left ?, he wondered. Augusto didn't walk, he meandered through life. I'll wait for a dog to pass by, he thought, and continue in that direction.
It wasn't a dog that passed, however, but a beautiful young woman, whose eyes Augusto followed unwittingly. They drew him like a magnet. Street after street after street.
That boy — Augusto preferred dialoguing with himself to thinking — what's he doing there, lying face down on the ground? Probably watching an ant. Ants, hah! One of nature's most hypocritical creatures. They're always scurrying around to persuade us they're working. Like that deadbeat over there, charging ahead, elbowing everyone out of his way. I'm sure he has nothing to do. What could he possibly have to do? He's a bum. A bum just like ... No, I'm not a bum. My imagination never rests. They're the bums, the people who pretend to work but sit around in a daze, stifling all thought. There's that stupid chocolatier rolling something in the window so that every one can see him work. What a show-off! He's nothing but a bum. Who cares if he works or not? Work ... work ... hypocrisy! If you want to see real work, look at that poor cripple, dragging himself down the street. But then, what do I know?
"Excuse me, brother," Augusto said aloud. Brother? Brother in what?, he wondered. In paralysis. They say we're all sons of Adam. Is this Joaquinito the son of Adam? "Good-bye, Joaquin!" Of course here's the ever-present automobile, all noise and dust. Is there any advantage to shortening distances? This obsession with travel comes from topophobia, not philotopia. People who travel all the time are running away from places, not toward them. Travel ... travel ... Umbrellas are such annoying gadgets. Hmm, what's this?
He stopped at the door of a building where the beautiful girl who'd been luring him with her eyes had entered. It was then Augusto realized he'd been following her. The concierge was watching him with malicious little eyes, and her gaze told Augusto what he needed to do.
This Cerbera is waiting for me to ask the name of the girl I've been following and whether she's married, he thought. Obviously, that's the next step. I could turn around and leave, but ... No, you should always finish what you start, I hate imperfection. He put his hand in his pocket, but he had only a duro. It wouldn't be smart to leave and get change. He'd lose time and the moment would pass.
"Tell me, good woman," he said to the concierge — his index finger and thumb still in his pocket — "would you be so kind as to tell me confidentially, entre nous, the name of that young lady who just entered the building?"
"That's not a secret or anything bad, señor."
"That's why I'm asking."
"Her name is Doña Eugenia Domingo del Arco."
"Domingo? It must be Dominga."
"No, señor, Domingo. Domingo is her father's last name."
"Since she's a woman, it should be changed to Dominga. If not, where's the concordance?"
"I don't know any Concordance, señor."
"And tell me" — his hand still in his pocket — "why does she go out alone? Is she single or married? Does she have parents?"
"She's single and orphaned. She lives with her aunt and uncle."
"On her father's or her mother's side?"
"I only know they're her uncle and aunt."
"That's more than enough."
"And she gives piano lessons."
"Does she play well?"
"That I don't know."
"All right, fine. Take this for your trouble."
"Thank you, señor, thank you. Is there anything else? Can I help you in any way? Would you like me to give her a message?"
"Maybe ... maybe ... but not now. Good-bye."
"Don't hesitate to ask, señor. You can count on my absolute discretion."
Goodness, Augusto thought as he left the concierge, now I'm obligated to this woman. It wouldn't be dignified to leave things the way they are. What would this paragon of concierges think of me? So ... Eugenia Dominga, I mean Domingo, del Arco? Good. I'll make a note of it so I won't forget. There's no better mnemonic device than a notebook in your pocket. That's what the unforgettable Don Leoncio would say: "Don't fill your head with something that'll fit in your pocket." Of course, the opposite is also true: "Don't fill your pocket with something that'll fit in your head." That concierge ... what's her name?
He took a few steps back.
"One more thing, good woman."
"Of course."
"What's your name?"
"Mine? Margarita."
"Good, very good. Th ank you"
"You're welcome."
Augusto set off again, arriving a short time later in the Paseo de la Alameda. It had stopped drizzling. He closed his umbrella, folded it, and put it inside its cover. Then he approached a bench. When he touched it, it felt wet, so he opened a newspaper, spread it, and sat down. Next he took out his notebook and held up his fountain pen. This is a very useful gadget, he thought, otherwise I'd have to write down that girl's name in pencil and it could get erased. Will her image be erased from my memory? What does she look like? What does the sweet Eugenia look like? I remember only her eyes. I feel the touch of those eyes. As I rambled on poetically, a pair of eyes gently tugged at my heart.
Let's see. Eugenia Domingo ... yes, Domingo ... Del Arco. Domingo? I can't get used to her name being Domingo. She'll have to change her name to Dominga. What about our sons? Will their second surname be Dominga? I'm sure they'll drop my name, this undignified "Pérez," and shorten it to a P. Will our eldest son be named Augusto P. Dominga? Where is this wild fantasy taking me? He jotted down in his notebook "Eugenia Domingo del Arco, Avenida de la Alameda 58." Above her name there were two heptasyllables:
From the cradle comes sadness
And from the cradle comes joy
My goodness, Augusto thought, this piano teacher, Eugenia, cut short the excellent beginning of a transcendent lyrical poem. She interrupted it. Interrupted? We look to the events and vicissitudes of life to feed our innate sadness or joy. The same situation can be happy or sad depending on our temperament. What about Eugenia? I have to write to her. But not here, at home. Should I go to the club? No, home. These kinds of things should be done at home. Home? My house is not a home, more like an ashtray. Oh, my Eugenia!
And Augusto headed back to his apartment.
CHAPTER 2
When the servant opened the door ...
Augusto was alone in the world and wealthy. His elderly mother had died barely six months before these trivial events. He lived with a male servant and a cook, longtime employees and the off spring of others who'd served there before them. The servant and cook were married to each other but had no children. When the servant opened the door, Augusto asked if he'd had any visitors.
"None, señor."
The question and answer were part of a routine. Augusto rarely had visitors.
He entered his study, grabbed an envelope, and wrote, "Miss Eugenia Domingo del Arco, to be delivered to her personally." With the blank paper in front of him, he propped his elbows on the desk, lowered his head between his hands, and closed his eyes. First let's think about her, he said to himself.
In the darkness, he tried hard to recapture the radiance of those eyes that had accidentally drawn him to her. He spent a while conjuring the image of Eugenia. Since he'd caught only a glimpse of her, he had to use his imagination. As he strained to evoke her image, a vague figure shrouded in dreams began to take shape in his mind ... and he fell asleep. The night before had been difficult, filled with insomnia.
"Señor!"
"Yes?" he woke up.
"Your lunch is ready."
Was it the servant's voice or hunger, echoing through that voice that awakened him? Psychological mysteries! These were Augusto's thoughts as he walked to the dining room, muttering, "Oh, psychology!"
He enjoyed his daily lunch: a couple of fried eggs, steak, potatoes, and a slice of Gruyère. Afterward, he drank his coffee and relaxed in his rocking chair. He lit a cigar, raised it to his lips, and whispering, "Oh, my Eugenia," began to think of her.
My Eugenia, yes, mine, he thought. The one I'm creating, not the concierge's. Not the flesh-and-blood one who accidentally appeared in front of my building. Accidentally appeared? What appearance isn't accidental? What's the logic behind appearances? The same as that behind the figures created by my cigar's clouds of smoke. Randomness! Randomness is the deep rhythm of the world, randomness is the soul of poetry. My random Eugenia! My placid, routine, and humble life is a Pindaric ode woven from a thousand daily trifles. The everyday ... Give us this day our daily bread. Give me, oh Lord, a thousand daily trivialities. We don't succumb to the great joys and sorrows of life because they are cloaked in an enormous fog of small incidents. That's what life is: a fog. Life is a nebula. Eugenia emerges from it now. And who is Eugenia? I realize I've been looking for her for some time, and while I was looking, she appeared right in front of me. Isn't this the same as finding something? When the thing you're looking for finally appears, doesn't it appear because it's moved by the search? Didn't America search for Columbus? Didn't Eugenia search for me? "Eugenia! Eugenia! Eugenia!"
Augusto found himself calling out Eugenia's name. His servant, passing by the dining room, heard him shout and entered the room.
"You called, señor?"
"I didn't call you. But listen, your name's Domingo, isn't it?"
"Yes, señor," the servant replied, not at all surprised by the question.
"And why is your name Domingo?"
"Because that's what people call me."
Good, very good, thought Augusto. Our name is what people call us. In Homeric times people and things had two names, one given by their fellow man and one given by the gods. What does God call me? And why shouldn't I have a different name from the one people call me? Why shouldn't I give Eugenia a name that's different from what others call her, from what the concierge, Margarita, calls her? What shall I call her?
"You can go," he told the servant.
Augusto got up from the rocking chair, went to his study, picked up a pen, and began to write.
Señorita: This morning, beneath the sky's gentle drizzle, you accidentally appeared in front of the building where I live but no longer have a home. When I became aware of what I was doing, I went to the door of your house. I don't know if it's your home. I was drawn there by your eyes — two luminous stars in the haze of my world. Forgive me, Eugenia, and allow me to call you by this sweet name. Forgive my poetic language. I live in a constant, infinitely poetic state.
I don't know what else to say. Actually, I do, but there is so much, so much I have to say to you, that I think it's better to wait until we can meet and talk.
That's what I want now, for us to meet and talk, to write to each other and get to know each other. Later, God and our hearts will decide. Will you, Eugenia, sweet apparition in my everyday life, will you lend me your ears?
Surrounded by the fog of my life, I await your response.
Augusto Pérez
He signed his name with a flourish thinking, I like this custom of signing your name with a flourish because it's so pointless. He sealed the letter and walked out onto the street again.
Thank God, he thought on his way to Avenida de la Alameda. Thank God I know where I'm going and that I have someplace to go. This Eugenia of mine is a blessing from God. She's already provided a destination, an end for my wanderings. I now have a house to go to and a confidant in the concierge.
As he continued down the street talking to himself, he crossed paths with Eugenia without even noticing the radiance of her eyes. The spiritual fog was too thick. But Eugenia noticed him. Who's this young man?, she wondered. He's very good-looking and seems well-off. Almost unconsciously, she sensed he was someone who'd followed her that morning. Women always know when you're looking at them, even if you don't really see them, and when you see them without really looking.
Augusto and Eugenia continued walking in opposite directions, their souls cutting through the tangled spiritual web of the street. The street is a fabric woven from looks of desire, envy, disdain, compassion, love, and hatred, from old words whose spirit has hardened, from thoughts and yearnings — a mysterious fabric that envelops the souls of all who pass by.
At last Augusto found himself again before a smiling Margarita, the concierge. The first thing she did when she saw him was take her hand out of her apron's pocket.
"Good afternoon, Margarita."
"Good afternoon, señor."
"Call me Augusto."
"Don Augusto," she added.
"Some names shouldn't have a Don before them," he said. "Just as there's a huge difference between Juan and Don Juan, there's an equally big one between Augusto and Don Augusto. But, whatever. Has señorita Eugenia gone out?"
"Yes, a few minutes ago."
"Which way did she go?"
"That way."
Augusto started walking in that direction but soon returned. He'd forgotten the letter.
"Señora Margarita, would you please deliver this letter to señorita Eugenia's own snow-white hands?"
"I'd be happy to."
"To her own snow-white hands, understand? Th ose hands as ivory-white as the keys of the piano they caress."
"Yes, I've done this before."
"What do you mean, you've done this before?"
"Does the gentleman think this is the first letter of its kind?"
"Of its kind? Do you know what kind of letter this is?"
"Of course. Just like the others."
"Just like the others? What others?"
"The young lady has had quite a few suitors."
"Is she free at the moment?"
"At the moment? No. She has something like a fiancé, although I think he's still just vying for the position. She could be testing him. He might be temporary."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
"You're right. Anyway, give her this letter. Put it into her own hands, understand? We'll fight! Here's another duro for you."
"Thank you, señor, thank you."
It was hard for Augusto to leave. He was beginning to enjoy Margarita the concierge's hazy daily conversations. Maybe it was a good way to kill time.
We'll fight, Augusto thought as he walked down the street. Yes, we'll fight. So she has a boyfriend, another potential suitor? We'll fight! Militia est vita hominis super terram.
My life now has a purpose, I have to win someone over. Oh, Eugenia, my Eugenia! You'll be mine. Well, at least my Eugenia will be mine. The one I've created from the brief glimpse of those eyes, from those two stars in my nebula. This Eugenia will be mine. The other can be the concierge's or whoever's. We'll fight! We'll fight and I'll win. I have the secret to victory.
Oh, Eugenia, my Eugenia!
And he found himself at the door of the club, where Victor was waiting to begin their daily round of chess.
CHAPTER 3
"You're late today," Victor said. "You're usually so punctual."
"You know how it is. I'm busy."
"Busy ... you?"
"Do you think only stockbrokers are busy? Life is a lot more complicated than you can imagine."
"Or I'm less complicated than you think."
"Anything's possible."
"All right. Your move."
Augusto advanced the king's pawn two squares, but instead of humming bits of opera as he usually did, he thought, Eugenia, my Eugenia, purpose of my life, sweet radiance of twin stars in the fog. We'll fight! There's definitely logic in this game of chess. And yet, how nebulous, how unpredictable after all. Maybe logic is also accidental and random. My Eugenia appearing like that ... Could there be logic in it? Maybe it's part of a divine game of chess.
"Come on," Victor interrupted. "Didn't we say that we couldn't take back any moves? You touch it, you play it."
"Yes, that's what we agreed," Augusto said.
"If you make that move, I'll take your bishop."
"You're right, I was preoccupied."
"Well, focus. A game of chess isn't a walk in the park. Remember, you touch it, you play it."
"Right. There's no going back."
"That's how it should be. That's why this game is so educational."
Why shouldn't you be distracted while you play? Augusto wondered. Isn't life a game? Why shouldn't you be able to take back certain moves? So much for logic. The letter might already be in Eugenia's hands. Alea iacta est! What's done is done. What about tomorrow? Tomorrow is in God's hands. And yesterday? Whose hands is yesterday in? Oh, yesterday, treasure of the strong! Blessed yesterday, essence of the fog of daily life.
"Check!" Victor interrupted again.
"You're right, you're right. Let's see. How have I let things get this far?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Fog by Miguel de Unamuno, Elena Barcia. Copyright © 2017 Northwestern University Press. Excerpted by permission of Northwestern University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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