Felipe Alfau - Chromos

We boarded a bus and sat on the open top. All the way down to 72nd Street, the sun coming through the trees beat a tattoo of light and shadow on our faces that produced the exhilarating confusion of a shower of sparks or confetti, of a disorderly activity directed by nature toward one’s person, of buffeting flattery; and then out of that luminous gauntlet of burning swords and corridors of gold, into the gloom portals of the city where a few embers from the great bonfire outside had rolled in. A sunny corner here, a store window there, the incandescent crown of a tree at an intersection and looking up, one could see the tops of the buildings already on fire. All the way down, the shadows of the trees kept growing to immense proportions until they were the shadows of the buildings and the streets themselves were ropes of fire holding down a prostrate giant. The great conflagration would burn itself out beyond to leave a few distant sparks floating in the sky and then continue to smolder in the city lights all through the night.

This is as much as I can remember and convey of Garcia’s comments on that occasion until we reached Madison Square. There we got off and walked along the north side of the park toward Lexington Avenue.

There is something about most of the East Side, rain or shine, that lies somewhere between what we call reality and what we call a dream. It is the quality of a memory that has lain forsaken like an unattended grave. Nowhere else in New York can one find so everpresent the spirit of the has-been, of the window of a shop on Sunday inhabited only by our own reflection as we go by. It has the eerie texture of a sudden breeze on a calm day. Garcia suggested once that it seemed as if the tradesmen, the children, even the domestic animals there were saying: “I remember, I remember,” without speaking, but I think that what they are really trying to say is: “Remember me?” And “remember” is one of the saddest words.

Perhaps it is the crowded conditions that turn many of its sections into something like a junk shop heaped with faded, dusty, useless things of yesterday. Perhaps it is the bridges that trample down those parts like a fallen drunkard. Perhaps it is the proximity of the morgue or a combination of all these things, or perhaps to be cautious, this is the way it affects some people. We decided to forget all this as we entered the restaurant.

We sat through a protracted and variegated meal of morsels impaled or shrouded in leaves with innuendos of the sacrificial lamb, or even suggestive of historically famous French chefs speared in self-immolation because of royal culinary contretemps: immaculate rice, salad dressed with oil that could have come from the Mount of Olives, vinegar worthy of a scriptural sponge, and bejeweled with pomegranate grains like holy drops of blood, the end sweetened and punctuated with honey and almonds. The gastronomical lyricism of Garcia did not exclude quantity; it was rather Wagnerian.

And it was after this edifying meal, with a feeling of savory righteousness, while sipping coffee emulsion and arrack in a dining room that was emptying as fast as our bottle and while considering how Garcia would look with a long beard, that he regaled me with some more of his writing. This was about that Spanish family. He drew faster than a Western hero, and without any preamble he fanned at me:

This is the day of the week when the Sandovals are at home to their friends. The bell rings incessantly and people pour into the house shedding their hats and overcoats all over the antesala. A little graceful maid with white gloves keeps one hand on the doorknob; another one attends to the guests as they come in.

There are presentations, not as many as people because most of them know each other. The hum of conversation fills the air of the drawing room. One can’t hear anything — it is just as well — there is nothing to hear.

There is a lull at the door during which the two maids look at one another and take a deep breath. Then the bell rings again, perhaps for the last guest.

The first maid gives the door a lazy pull and then stands at attention.

A handsome gentleman saunters in caressing her cheek as he passes her. He places his coat, hat and stick in the hands of the other, looking at her intently. She is a pretty creature. He takes her by the chin and she blushes.

“Do they keep you working very hard, preciosa? You can go now and rest. I couldnt allow anyone to arrive after me.” He kisses her swiftly and with two agile leaps turns toward the drawing room. At the door he meets Fernando Sandoval talking to a group of gentlemen.

“Hola, Paco.”

Outside the two maids look again at one another: “Well! What did you think of that?”

“I think we can go now. Señorito Serrano is always the last one to arrive.”

At the door of the drawing room Fernando said: “I think you have met most of these gentlemen, haven’t you?”

“More or less. I can always stand a second introduction.”

Fernando produced a shrunken little gentleman whose face was all wrinkles when he smiled.

“I don’t think you two have met yet, have you?”

The little gentleman did not think so and extended a hand as Fernando made the brief introduction:

“Señor Ricardo Echenique: Señor Francisco Serrano. You know? Señor Echenique is a lawyer like you, Paco. Perhaps you would like to talk of your profession.”

Paco kicked Fernando’s foot very obviously and said aloud that he hardly thought so. The other man’s face shrank to the limit.

Paco surveyed the room and located Julieta surrounded by young men and women. Without bowing to the gentlemen about him, he walked in her direction. It took him fully fifteen minutes to reach his destination. A buxom lady giving out a cloud of perfume addressed him with a voice like molasses:

“Where have you been hiding yourself lately Pa— Señor Serrano?”

“I have not been hiding at all, but perhaps you have not looked in the right places.”

“I know what kind of places.”

“In that case you must have appreciated already their importance, my dear Madame Pacheco.”

A taciturn gentleman approached the buxom lady scowling, and her smile faded immediately. Paco hastened away.

For a few moments all the attention was centered upon him, upon the graceful smiles he bestowed right and left. He was detained here, granted a passing introduction there. He remembered vaguely, yet obligingly, an admiring individual and made an anemic girl happy with a close scrutiny of her person. He eclipsed everyone by his witty and bold answers. He was the suave gentleman allowing short roaring bursts of the social lion.

An elderly lady who sat in the company of several older people held him by the hand as he went by: “Since when is it the fashion not to greet old friends?”

He looked at the lady and grew apologetic. He held her hand in both of his. “Why, Doña Rosario, please forgive me. I don’t know where my eyes are.”

“I know,” she laughed jovially and shoved him along in a friendly and familiar way.

“I want to talk to you after, Doña Rosario.”

“After what?”

“After — after tea.”

He rushed on but was soon detained again. A little interruption, a short repartee. By the time he was free he had to change his direction because Julieta was no longer where she had been.

He took her hand and put it to his lips, prolonging the action as much as possible, but he did not speak. He only looked at her very long.

The people around her began to talk among themselves. Julieta and Paco found one of those confidential settees and there they spoke in whispers for a long time. Then Doña Rosario called her daughter and Paco stepped into an adjoining room where the tea was being served.