Carlos Rojas: The Ingenious Gentleman and Poet Federico García Lorca Ascends to Hell

“ … ”

The doorbell sounded again with three long rings, which you recognized immediately. It was Rafael Martínez Nadal, who had promised to pick you up precisely at one so you could have lunch together. I don’t know what ailment had covered his high skull with scabs, but it had been shaved with a razor and smeared with sulfur. Now his hair had begun to grow back, dark and curly on his elongated head with the tiny ears of a small-eared lamb. He waited patiently, leafing through a book on the sofa, while you gave a few pesetas and a letter of introduction for Lola Membrives to the great-grandson of the woman who played Medioculo. You wrote the note on a sheet of paper, sitting at your desk and looking at Picasso’s drawing of a labyrinth for Balzac’s “The Unknown Masterpiece.” The actor left, saying goodbye very ceremoniously, and Rafael continued to wait while you shaved and dressed. On the street, the two of you were greeted by a sun as bright as quicklime, and only then did you remember that you had closed the balcony and left the empty cup outside.

“I had lunch for the last time with Ignacio Sánchez Mejías in this restaurant the year he died. At this same table,” you said as soon as you both had sat down. “I have a feeling we won’t come back here together either.”

“Soon it will be two years since the tragedy,” he agreed, intentionally ignoring your presentiments. “Still, at times one would think Ignacio hasn’t died, that the goring in the bullring in Manzanares hasn’t happened yet, even though it inevitably will happen. I’m not sure if I’m clear.”

“I understand completely. On one hand I’d swear we’ll never have lunch again, here or anywhere else.” Andalusian after all, you touched the wood of the table beneath the cloth. “On the other, I’m certain that everything that happens this morning has happened before in this same place.”

He was going to respond, as he is about to do now in this theater, but you were interrupted by the maître d’ and a couple with the air of recently married provincials. The maître d’ was bringing the menus and the young people wanted to know, encore une fois , whether you’re the poet who wrote “The Unfaithful Wife.” They asked for an autograph and you signed in your delicate hand with very tall capitals, which in eternity looks to you vulgar and absurdly precious. They left, extremely moved, after shaking your hand and telling you they were teachers. Martínez Nadal ordered lunch, smiling and claiming that soon your friends wouldn’t be able to walk down the street with you because women would contend for your feet in order to kiss them, which is what happened to Joselito in Sevilla. You replied that a woman also yelled at Joselito on the eve of his death: “I hope a bull kills you tomorrow in Talavera!” The gods promptly granted her wish. Rafael fell silent, shaking his head, because they were beginning to serve the meal. You ate almost nothing, for that day you were indifferent to everything except your own fate, which you feared was sealed.

“Rafael, what’s going to happen here? If a war comes, I won’t survive it.”

“This country was always on the brink of chaos. The attraction of the abyss is part of our national character, the exact opposite of what happened with the ancient Egyptians, who, they say, abhorred a vacuum. Eventually everything is fixed with pins and glue. Blood won’t run in the river this time either.”

He lied to keep you from despair. He was as convinced as you that a feast day of crime was approaching. The only difference between you was his deep certainty that whatever happened, he would survive the slaughter.

“Our time is short and the uncertainty consumes me,” you went on somewhat irrelevantly. “A little while before they arrested him, I had supper one night with José Antonio Primo de Rivera.” Rafael almost dropped the fish forks as he looked at you, not believing what he was hearing. “Don’t be so surprised. That wasn’t the first time we got together in secret. Since it didn’t suit either of us to be seen together, we always went to some godforsaken inn in a taxi with the curtains closed.”

“But why? For God’s sake!”

“Oh, no reason! To talk about literature. He knows Ronsard by heart and is very lucid about French poetry from any period. Still, on that day he couldn’t say very much. We ate without looking at each other until I exclaimed in a loud voice: ‘If there’s a war in Spain, neither of us will see the end of it. We’ll both be shot as soon as it begins.”’ With no transition you took hold of Martínez Nadal’s arm at the edge of the table. “Rafael, I don’t want to be killed like a dog. Rafael, I could hide in your mother’s house, couldn’t I?”

He looked at you, astonished at your fear, his eyes sad and stupefied between those tiny ears and beneath the stubble of his sheep-like hair at the top of his forehead.

“Yes, of course you could hide in my mother’s house. But who would want you dead? You’re only a poet.”

“That’s exactly what José Antonio Primo de Rivera said. I told him that’s why they would kill me, for having written verses. Not for being queer and on the side of poor people. Of course good poor people, you understand. I added that this country is a republic of killers from all classes and that Spaniards exterminate one another like rats at the first opportunity history offers them. They’d shoot me for writing verses and for being incapable of defending myself. Just for that, yes sir. ‘Come and look here,’ I said to José Antonio Primo de Rivera, using one of the expressions I learned in Havana. ‘Do you know that days before the death of Ignacio Sánchez Mejías, the Gypsies in his crew said he reeked of death? If they came in here now, they’d be terrified of the stink of our mortal remains.”’

“Don’t raise your voice. Try to calm down.”

“I’m very calm. Confident enough to refer to my posthumous glory as if it were someone else’s. Many years after I’m shot dead, they’ll still be writing books asking why I was murdered. At least I won’t leave this world without knowing that.” Suddenly, changeable and inconsistent, you went back to your pleading. “Rafael, do you really think your mother will hide me in her house?”

“I’m sure of it. If you like, let’s go there this afternoon.”

“Yes, let’s go, the sooner the better! I’ll lock myself in with your mother and sister and not go out until the storm of hatred and crime that’s approaching passes. Let’s go, ask for the bill. It’s possible that even hours are precious these days.” Suddenly you slapped the table with the palm of your hand and gave an anguished cry. People sitting near you turned to look. “But, Rafael, what am I saying? Have I lost my mind? I can’t hide in your mother’s house. I have to go to Granada this afternoon. The day after tomorrow, July 18, is my saint’s day and my father’s too. We always spend it at home, at the Huerta de San Vicente. I can’t miss it. The place will be filled with jasmines and morning glories.”

“Now you’re being imprudent,” he said as he paid the bill, including a tip, which he folded under the cruets. “If anything happens and you’re so frightened, you’d be safer in Madrid than in Granada. Many people there who’ve never read a book can’t forgive you for being so famous and for liking men. They’ll never be able to understand either one, and they’ll find the first more irritating.”

“How can you talk this way if you’ve never been in Granada?”

“It doesn’t matter, I can imagine it.”

“Well, I’m going anyway, and now it’s in God’s hands. Why did you pay for lunch? I wanted to. We may not see each other again and you’re sure to survive me. Let’s have coffee at Puerta de Hierro. Let me buy you a brandy or as many brandies as you want.”