Felipe Alfau - Chromos

Unfortunately, as society grew more lax, disgrace closed upon the Sandovals whose fall was as steady and fast as its rise. Misfortune persecuted them mercilessly and for many years it was like a siege. As many people in Madrid say, it seemed as if a curse hung upon the family.

According to many, the Sandovals did everything in their power to precipitate misfortune. Of course people in Madrid contribute their own theories to every gossip which trails along the town, but several of them knew the family closely enough to discover the authentic facts.

It was known to everybody that the Sandovals were boastful and ostentatious, that incompetence in the younger generation annihilated the business, that discord reigned among them, that, as they would say now, neuroses ran in every member of the family, but as they said then, they were all crazy in the head.

There were many things said about the Sandovals. Things spoken too loudly to be believed and things spoken too softly to be understood. But through that struggle against misfortune and against themselves, the stronger walked quietly upon the road which leads to peaceful rest; the others scattered wildly in that sad stampede of the weaklings toward oblivion.

Doña Rosario had once said almost prophetically: “The place where people are brought up has a decided influence upon their lives, it charts their existence which acquires in time almost the same shape that their place of origin and early development presents.”

And Ledesma had answered cautiously: “One should never generalize. In that case everybody who has been brought up in the same place would have exactly the same kind of life to live,” and she persisted: “They usually do.”

Ledesma granted politely but not convinced: “Perhaps.”

However, the life of the Sandovals ran very much in the same style of the city they came from, Jauja and its characteristic sloping ground, if that is what Doña Rosario meant. It was accidented inasmuch as it rose and then descended, but the temperament of the Sandovals always ran true to form. It always traveled in a straight line and only the accidents of life met it occasionally. Sometimes it seemed as if the depths rose to the plane of their existence.

That family was broken like the houses of Jauja, their path was accidented, their temperament straight as if it found, by thus continuing, its restful level on the slanting ground.

Had it not happened in this age, it would have very well formed a legend. However, the happenings are too recent and only constitute gossip, but considering that the gossip of today forms the legend of tomorrow, one may assume that this story will accumulate with time a certain degree of significance worth recording.

Garcia looked at me over the page he was reading and which I noticed with relief was the last: “I expect to write the facts exactly as I learned them and only change the names and places slightly in order to avoid the accusation of libel and also to spare some people any embarrassment.” He resumed his reading:

At this time of true narratives, biographies and earnest confessions, when many people seem convinced that even if truth is not stranger than fiction, it leaves more to the imagination, it is well to risk this deficient account of unreliable data, too short and incomplete to be considered the biography of a family or even to satisfy this general thirst for supposed truth. But as things when written have an inevitable tendency to wrap themselves in the unfitting garments of secondhand literature, this will probably turn out to be but a grotesque parody of what once was truth.

He began to stack up his papers and pocket them: “Well?”

“Oh, it is fine, fine — the only thing: to come all the way to New York to write a novel about a family in Spain. ”

“I did not come here to write it, you ought to know that. I am here and I happened to think of writing it. That’s all.”

“But who is going to read it? Unless it is for your own satisfaction or records. ”

“I am not thinking of publishing it in Spanish here. I have in mind one or two publishing houses in Latin America, or perhaps even Spain, although I would rather — but what I was really thinking is that you might help me with the English translation. I will show you some other parts I have already written out, even if they still need a little polishing.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. My English is not so good. I think that an American. ”

“Now, come, it would not be the same thing. You come over to my place one of these nights and I will show you what I have written.”

“All right. We’ll see.”

The seats were getting hard and in spite of all the wine, or maybe because of it, I was growing a bit chilly and this was summer. It seems that with a man away from his native land the weather is like the coffee, either too hot or too cold. We both stretched.

“Let’s go in and watch the billiards.”

“It is getting late,” I said, “and I will have to be going. I am having dinner with Dr. de los Rios.”

“Come in for a while anyway and let us finish these in the barroom.”

Bottles in hand we went through the dining room which was empty at this time of day and into the barroom with the billiard tables.

The bartender was leaning on the bar following the progress of the game, his chin firmly planted on the heel of his hand, yet his head bobbing up and down. He was chewing gum. When he saw us he came immediately to attention, but Garcia waved him at ease and he resumed his acquiescent pose with relish. The men playing were mostly Basque and laborers, probably factory workers, one could see from their good clothes. At one table they were playing plain billiards with three balls, and at the other, some Spanish version of the game with a dish in the middle of the table which had some coins in it.

One of them had finished a good run. He shrugged off the last miss generously and walking to a table by the windows reached for his bottle. It was empty and he called for another.

The bartender did not bother to disturb the barmaid who was perched on a stool reading a tabloid paper. Instead he reached ponderously behind and sent a bottle across the room at the man. He did not throw it holding it by the neck, but against the palm of his hand as a football player might throw a pass, and it sailed beautifully, smoothly and true. Whether it is in a free-for-all with intentions of mayhem, or simply as a friendly serve as in this case, this is the approved Spanish fashion of propelling a bottle and the only one that will yield consistent good results.

The man caught it in his left hand and with the same flowing motion, set it on the table. He tucked the cue under his arm and uncorked the bottle himself. Then he began to drink with long, thirsty swallows, the bottle pointing at the ceiling, his neck going like that of a gobbler. Most extraordinary drinking capacity and technique: El Telescopio in its glory.

His opponent, a swarthy, heavy-set man with sharp features and a sharp mustache, was squinting at the balls on the table, figuring his shot, a cigarette delicately held not in his lips but between his teeth. He poised his cue, concentrated and then, as if he had eyes on the back of his neck, he said as he struck the ball, to the barmaid: “Que piernas, Nescacha, que piernas.!”

The girl looked up from her paper and hastily pulled her skirt over her knees: “You attend to your game. If your wife ever hears you. ”

A couple of kids looked in through a window and one of them called at his father to come home for supper.

It was getting late and I spoke to Garcia: “I’ll have to be going. ”

Garcia did not hear me. He seemed transfixed and, although his eyes were on the billard table, I knew that he was not following the game. He was looking beyond. He had been transported to the past and I knew what he was remembering.