Felipe Alfau - Locos - A Comedy of Gestures

“What did you say? Gaston a professional pimp?”

“Of course, you don’t know it, because I thought it would be better not to write to you about that. There are some other things in connection with him that I will not even tell you now. I would rather let you find them out yourself. But imagine! The nephew of the Prefect of Police, a chulo , a Bejarano and Calinez, mind you, a man who carries my name, a professional chulo ! Because let us agree that quixotic as your father was, he would have never stooped so low, even if he served a term in La Carcel Modelo.”

“You know what he did.”

“Yes, we all know that story. Felisa, your poor mother, always said that it was another of his heroic deeds for a great cause. But do you know what I have always thought of the whole affair?”

“What?”

“That fingerprints never lie.”

“That is another story. Now tell me about Gaston. You say he is a. ”

“Certainly, he has been one for some time. They call him El Cogote because he never wears a necktie and always shows his neck. It started because, when he asked me to increase his allowance, I refused, considering that fifty duros is more than enough, especially when one does not have to work for it. Then he began to contract debts which I had to meet, until I got tired. One day we met here. He sat just where you are and we quarreled.”

“Well, well. ”

“I cut him off completely. Then I learned that he was in misery, but always too proud to work. but not too proud to ask his uncle for money or to insert, as he did, an advertisement on the front page of El Heraldo , appealing to his wealthy and numerous acquaintances, an advertisement that stood in the center of that front page like a spot of shame on the family, saying that a Bejarano y Calinez could not be left to die from starvation. He thought that out of pride, if nothing else, I would come to his aid.”

“And what about the rest of the family?”

“Well, you know already that your sister Mignon died from tuberculosis, and as to your mother and your sister Carmen. Well, you had better ask Gaston. I cannot go into certain things. Your brother is a gem. In my business I have come across him already. He was arrested twice here in Madrid and I, his uncle, had to handle the case. The first time because of an obscene scandal. A woman who was supporting him, a woman whom they call La Pelos, because she has a mustache like a Guardian Civil , knifed another girl called Lunarito, who has a beauty spot in a certain part and will show it to anyone for one peseta. La Pelos said that she knifed the other woman because she found her in the apartment she had given El Cogote, undoubtedly showing him her beauty spot without charging the customary peseta. She said that she would stand for no cheap puta placing horns on her and all that kind of thing. The whole case nauseated me and I let Gaston go free, although he did not promise to reform.”

The Prefect went on speaking about the other time when Gaston had been brought to him on a charge of grand larceny, but Pepe was not listening to him. The first incident was the most typically Spanish and had arrested his attention. He was again smoking his pipe and felt once more a spectator witnessing extraordinary things in a strange land. Of course, he had read Spanish books while in England, portraying the habits and characteristics of his people, but books about a land which is remote from us are not convincing. Yes, there was no doubt now, his own brother was a chulo . Really, there was such a profession in Spain, there were real men in Spain yet. Then there were women like La Pelos and Lunarito, women generous in their love and even in their profession, not ashamed to show their passions publicly, proud of their sex weakness, taking their inferiority as an honor, because they were not afraid to admit to themselves that they needed a man. How different from the country he had just left. And Pepe, smoking his pipe, felt for his brother the admiration of a tourist.

When he concentrated again on his uncle, the latter was already taking his coat and hat.

“Let us go, it is late. I have had a terrible day and need some sleep.” Pepe followed his uncle. Their feet made no noise as they reeled over the carpeted floor. Their shadows shrank and concentrated as they receded from the candle. Everything had the appearance of unreality, of the hidden mockery of a guignolesque farce. When they emerged from the Casino, the night was black, not a single star shone in that usually lucid sky of Madrid.

Standing before the door, they spoke:

“We had better take one of the Casino coaches, uncle?”

“You had better take it, my boy, I am walking home.”

“Walking home in this darkness? Uncle, you are sure to be held up.”

From the plump Prefect there issued a sneer of contempt. He raised his hand to his armpit in true torero style:

“No mother has yet borne the man who will have enough pantalones to hold me up. I am the only person in Madrid who has not been robbed. As the Prefect of Police, I must walk home when other people are too afraid to leave their houses. I could not possibly acknowledge certain things, don’t you know?”

Pepe knew; he knew that after all that had happened, his uncle had an overwhelming desire to assert himself.

“I will walk part of the way with you, I am also walking home.”

The Prefect rested his hand on his nephew’s arm.

“They will hold you up, as soon as you leave me.”

Really, this boastfulness of Don Benito portrayed him as a true Madrileño to the core. He was speaking in the best Spanish style.

And the sneer came this time from Pepe. He also raised his hand to his armpit and his uncle noticed it too because that was the arm he was holding:

“The forefathers of the man who will hold me up have not yet begun hostilities. If anyone should attempt such a reckless act, I would simply spank him and send him to Mama.”

“We were always right in calling you El Españolito.” His uncle laughed delightedly. He felt that he was beginning to grow fond of his nephew again, and, swept by a sudden cheerfulness, he advanced:

“Shall we make a bet?”

“Go ahead.”

“A thousand pesetas if you are not robbed tonight.”

“The deal is closed,” cried Pepe quickly without stopping to consider that he did not own the thousand pesetas and that he might be robbed. Decidedly he was growing more and more Spanish. Almost with alarming celerity. “What about your getting robbed, uncle?”

This time the Prefect laughed openly.

“That is out of the question, my boy.”

They walked up the street of Alcala. At the intersection of Peligros there was a very faint glow coming from candlelight in the Café Fornos which stood on that corner. And it was there that they decided to separate.

“Well, Pepe, good luck to you. You had better smoke your pipe and let them think that you are a detective, in which case they are sure to hold you up.”

“So long, uncle, take care of yourself and prepare the thousand pesetas.”

The Prefect disappeared in the shadows of the street of Peligros and Pepe began to cross Alcala.

He had scarcely taken five steps when someone stumbled against him:

‘‘ Usted dispense ,” the person said.

‘‘ Igualmente ,”Pepe answered. But before he reached the center of the street a thought struck him. He fumbled in his pocket. His wallet was gone.

Without a minute’s hesitation he sprang back and saw by the dim light that came from Fornos the figure of a man disappearing in the darkness. Pepe ran behind and in Peligros Street he beheld a man faintly outlined against the glow of a match. Before he reached the figure the match went out, but Pepe had gauged the distance and took a leap, holding the pipe in his right hand. [7] His left hand landed on the other man’s neck and he poked the mouthpiece of the pipe in the small of the back.