Felipe Alfau - Chromos

The drama has to do with ghosts and as we Spaniards like so much to make puns, I had said something like this to Garcia: “If we were speaking English, I could say that the drama was not ghostly but ghastly, get it?”

And Garcia had answered that he got it all right but did not know what to do with it. So we left that behind us and kept walking. I had got even with him for the invitation.

This was a Saturday night and quite hot still. We talked of that and Garcia said that New York was the only city in the world where it got hotter at night in the summer than during the day and I reminded him that he only knew some cities in Spain and this one here, but he said that he felt certain anyway that it could not be as hot at night anywhere else in the world, but we did not mind too much, because I for one like the heat and everybody complains about the heat and humidity in New York and the Spaniards, who cannot complain about the heat because our country has some pretty hot places too, then complain about the humidity if only for the sake of complaining. But Garcia and I agreed that summer in New York is very good and could not understand why everybody wants to go to the country. It is the only time when one can loiter around in comfort in the city without one’s nose and eyes running and one can walk about free to move without overcoats and mufflers. Even without a jacket.

And this is the way we were walking. We had removed our coats and loosened our neckties and walked on in freedom, unnoticed, unsung and uncondemned, something we could certainly never have gotten away with in Spain where everyone has to keep up appearances, and so we commented about this also and about the wonderful anonymity one enjoys in this city where no one knows or cares who you are, and most of the people we saw on our way had their coats off or no coats at all, even many young gallants who were walking their best girl home, and we went along talking like this because we had nothing much to talk about except the play we had seen and we did not want to talk about that.

Garcia suggested: “Let’s keep going all the way to my place. I have a whole bottle of Fundador and anyway it is too hot to go to bed early. I want to show you what I have done with my story.” He did not say anything about it being too hot for walking all that distance, but we both like to walk.

“You mean, the one about that Spanish family? You still working on that?”

“Naturally. You didn’t think I was serious about it when I told you. I have already some chapters written out and some other parts somewhat worked out. I’ll read you and tell you some.”

I said that this was going to take too long but sounded lame. The Fundador was a good bait.

“Come on,” he insisted: “After all, it is Saturday night and it is so hot. ”

So I said all right and we kept going and we commented on how in Spain we are never as conscious of Saturdays as they are in this country, but we did not go into the reasons for that.

It was then that I bought the newspaper and looking through it, standing with Garcia under the street lamp, saw the headline on the second inside page. It was about some former Spanish millionaire who had died destitute in the Bowery. Garcia and I read the item. It explained that the man had been a familiar figure in that district although he did not mix much with the other men there, but usually sat in silence and if any of the men asked what he was doing, he would answer that he was waiting, but never said what he was waiting for and if they asked him what he was thinking, he only shook his head and said “Memories. memories.” Whoever wrote the article had gone to the trouble of piecing his life together and had come up with the astonishing facts about his past wealth and influence on the financial world. His life had been a mixture of success and tragedy and then final dissolution. He had been found dead in a doorway, his eyes closed, his hands formed into fists at his sides, but despite this rebellious gesture, his face was serene. The whole item was written in the sentimental and tear-jerking style. I read it through and when I looked up at Garcia for a comment, I saw that he was looking away and seemingly absorbed in thought. So I went back to the paper and looked quickly through it until I came near the back and my favorite cartoon, which was the reason for buying the paper. I finished that and started walking again still laughing — that cartoon seldom fails me — when Garcia’s attitude arrested me:

In the best theatrical tradition, a Hamlet incarnate, he declaimed in Latin: “Humbra fugit velox et sic fugens denotat horas.”

I was nonplussed and inquired silently with shoulders reaching for my ears, with palms of hands turned to the heavens in an appeal for illumination.

“Yes,” he continued: “that is the way I will begin my story about Julio Ramos.”

“What story? what Ramos? what now?”

“The fellow we just read about in the paper, man. Haven’t I told you? I knew him personally, that’s why the shock at learning of his death so unexpectedly. I was with him not so long ago. ” His voice trailed off effectively and he was a picture of heartbroken desolation, then his voice, still talking to himself, came into resonant focus: “The most extraordinary experience I have had since I came to this country. I must write it down, because the most remarkable thing is that it is true.”

I was not impressed. Garcia is given to exaggerations and to speaking carelessly and claiming that many things, including anecdotes which have been known for generations, have actually happened to him. Then when confronted with a challenge to his veracity, instead of yielding like a sensible fellow and admitting that he only presented it as his own experience to lend it more drama, he will insist on braving it out to the bitter end and sometimes creates very embarrassing situations. However, I did not know enough about this particular thing and waited.

“I tell you, the thing is incredible. It is a supernatural story and yet I have seen and spoken to the man, but of course, it would lend itself better to a moving picture because of the more flexible technique.”

“A moving picture in Spanish?”

“I was thinking of that. I know one or two concerns in Latin America and have done a little work for them, but I would prefer to make it in English. It pays more, you know.”

He was looking at me again in that way that suggested that I would wind up doing a lot of translating and perhaps a little collaborating too, although Garcia was quite impervious to suggestions, and I did not relish the thought. Translating being my business and means of livelihood, I am naturally disinclined to take on extra work, particularly of doubtful remuneration. Besides Garcia knows as much English as I do and is a professional writer which I am not. Maybe he likes to read to me and tell me stories.

But this one was a natural result of Garcia’s spiritual equipment. The Lower East Side preyed on his mind. It worried him. He often spoke of its small and fast disappearing landmarks and said that they had the antiquity of day-before-yesterday as compared with a more convincing antiquity, that it was like the difference between a broken Roman lamp, which although useless for its original purpose still retained some artistic value, and a burned-out electric bulb or a rusty, discarded gas jet. Nevertheless that neighborhood fascinated him and he was considerably put out by the encroachment of modern urban developments which were obliterating it. We had often walked through the small, dingy streets and he always had a searching look during those walks as if trying to make out something and I suspect that he was trying to capture and savor a resemblance to his memories of Spain. It was his hobby, together with writing, to relive the past; but in the Lower East Side, it was more like rummaging among rubbish and I felt that we were but frustrated scavengers of memories.