Felipe Alfau - Chromos

Garcia continued to read but my mind wandered and I was not paying close attention. I remember not too clearly that his story went on to deal with the differences of race and background between Ramos and his girlfriend and their growing incompatibility. That he was serious and she frivolous. I caught one or two things that did not seem well-founded or convincing, but was not inclined to further discussion. Then there was something about a serious disagreement at some party where there was a certain Charlie something-or-other, a Spanish fellow who had become very Americanized, which irked Ramos and also gave Garcia food for some character study. Also there was some hint about an affair between this fellow and the girl. This Charlie had appeared out of one of those blank moments in Ramos’s life with several other things, even as it had appeared to me who had not been following the story.

Garcia continued to read and I continued to look around me and think of nothing too important. There was something about Ramos wanting to marry the girl Jenny and her raising objections, probably calculated to trap him better, and then Garcia read something about Madison Square which arrested my attention:

They argued while walking along Madison Square, the argument becoming more and more heated. Julio’s resentment increased; he did not want to wait. Jealousy at her liberty, at her other men friends, gnawed at his very entrails. She was unflinching; her mind was made up. And then impatience began to invade his being. He was walking arm in arm with her and heard a clock’s bell sounding the hours away, time passing, and he realized that he could wait no more, that to convince a stubborn woman would take eternity. He released her arm and clenched his fists as if to drive his fingers through the palms of his hands. He shut his eyes.

The clock’s bell had turned to solemn organ music. The sidewalk under his feet felt soft. He opened his eyes and continued walking with Jenny on his arm, along the luxuriously decorated center aisle of a church and out, in time with a wedding march.

And this time the impression was less. He only missed a step, a thing which did not surprise her under the circumstances, and he continued to walk very erect and out of the church.

“You see?” Ramos said, “I had already become more used to it. One becomes used to most anything in this world. I had grown weaker, my defect, my impatience, stronger. It is always that way.” He was walking again and I could see his shadow pass outlined against the livid window and then almost disappear again. It was much darker. He noticed it: “I have no light here. You must forgive me.” He walked on and then:

“I took my life as I found it, where I found it.”

The man standing in front of us was the personification of fallen and unvanquished dignity, of reluctant mendicancy. The full beard, yet the head respectfully hatless, the stoop due to the weight of years and misfortune, that could yet spring back erect in long-forgotten flashes of a regal past. He spoke to us in proud and nostalgic Castilian:

“Forgive the intrusion, little masters,” a flattering appraisal of our age despite Garcia’s prematurely white hair and my other timely and less becoming signs: “but I heard you speak our language and was certain that you would help a poor old compatriot with a few coins to fill this bota.” He patted an object he carried under his arm and which in the imperfect light I had taken for his hat held deferentially in this fashion.

“Is that a wineskin?” Garcia exclaimed: “I have not seen one for I don’t know how long.”

“That it is, sir, and it has accompanied me in my peregrinations all the way from Spain. It is thirsty now and as empty as a wretched mother’s breast. Will you gentlemen help to fill it up, so that I may have a drink to your health?”

His frankness in asking, as we say, for vices was disarming and I began to reach for my pocket, but Garcia stopped me. This honor would be his. I gave him a dissuading nudge which went unheeded and then to my surprise and consternation, he brought out a ten dollar bill. I nudged like a pneumatic drill, but Garcia was pachydermia

“Look: I have no change. If you can go and change this someplace in the neighborhood, I shall be glad to contribute.”

The beggar took the bill and stood more erect: “Thank you, little master. I know a place nearby where I can get this bota filled up for very little and I will bring you the change right back. I knew you would not let a compatriot down,” and with this he walked away and disappeared around some bushes.

I knew this was Garcia’s last money in this world. Either he was going to follow my advice and bring about a reconciliation with his landlady that same night, or else he wanted to go back to washing dishes sooner than necessary, because I was certain that this would be the last he would ever see of that bill. Undoubtedly we had drunk too much arrack.

Garcia read my thoughts like one of his own manuscripts: “Look: perhaps it is the drinks, but what is the purpose of drinking aside from the taste? This is an experiment for my own, and maybe your, satisfaction. Here we meet a compatriot, in this big city, at this hour, in this square of memories. To fail him is out of the question.”

“Of course it is out of the question, but you did not have to give him all you have. I could have given him some change.”

“I have not given him all I have. He will take what he needs and will bring the rest back.”

“He may decide he needs it all.”

“Oh no! When you give a Spaniard a foot, he does not take a yard, but returns eleven inches, and that is the experiment I am talking about. If he returns with the change, I know that Spain still lives. If he does not return. But tonight the opportunity has presented itself, and I must find out. It is worth much more than all I have. If he broke faith with a countryman, I wouldn’t give a damn what happened to me. ” Garcia was moved and his eyes were bright in the semi-darkness: “But I am sure he will come back. A faith like mine cannot be unfounded. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that he returns. ” His voice broke.

“You have, literally,” I thought, but did not say it, and then we fell silent and waited. Time dragged on, perhaps because we were waiting or because we did not speak, but Garcia smiled confidently to himself. He slid a little on the bench, his legs, one over the other, stretched before him and his hands in his empty pockets. I looked in the direction where the beggar had gone, started to say something and left it unsaid. We waited some more. One could not see the clock in the Metropolitan tower because of the trees. Garcia closed his eyes and bent his head down, a lock of white hair fell forward, and the contented smile remained. He was awaiting the verdict with serenity, with confidence.

And as I was about to plant the final stamp on my condemnation of mankind, with avowed contempt and abhorrence of all its members and an oath to trust no more such hypocritical duplicity, the man appeared walking from the opposite direction, his steps accelerated by solicitude as much as his age permitted.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, little masters,” he announced, “but I had to try a couple of places.” He patted the wineskin bursting under his arm like a fat jolly suckling and spoke to it: “Thank the gentlemen for the transfusion,” and addressing us: “She can’t talk, she is too full.” Then he took out some bills and handed them to Garcia: “There you are, little master, nine dollars and a little change.”

Garcia took the money in a matter-of-fact way. He had scored and I looked away. I was ashamed before him and the beggar, and to avoid thinking of it, I considered that wine must be pretty bad for that price, but that only made me feel worse.