Felipe Alfau - Chromos

By this time, Don Pedro decided that the chickens were cooked enough. He called for the rest of the things, cooked the peppers a while, poured in the rice, the shrimps, pitted olives, and finally gave in and shook the clams out of the jars and onto the whole thing. Then he doused in the saffronized clam juice, added more water ostentatiously without measuring it and with an air that said, “That’s only for beginners.” Then with a grand swipe of his hand he turned the burner on full blast.

As he washed his hands under the tap, his whole back consoled: “Just a little more patience, my children. I have done my best to feed you and after all, my best—” He picked up his shillelagh from the table, once more the conductor, and we moved to the dining room. As we crossed the door he shot over his shoulder: “When the water boils, cover the pots and turn the fire very low. You can take care of the rest, I trust, Lunarito.” He kept going without seeing the murderous look of Lunarito.

As he entered the dining room with the rest of us in tow, we heard the end of a sentence spoken in English with a shrill voice: “. why, she ought to be spanked!” There was something about the voice of rejoicing, suppressed baby laughter that practically tickled one’s tonsils.

The man who had spoken the castigating line was middle-aged, very happy and antipático — I can’t find another word. He was remarkably pink and rotund, like a piggy bank, with kinky reddish hair growing far back on his head and very bulbous eyes. Another one was a striking-looking woman. She was very dark, with black shiny hair and low narrow eyes set aslant over prominent cheekbones. She was dressed all in black, stockings and all, wore large gold rings in her ears and around her neck, like a necklace, a magnificent rosary with beads and cross made of rubies. She also wore a tortoiseshell comb in her hair, of proportions somewhat large for these parts.

The antipático man greeted us all with vociferous merriment, his words almost massaging our backs. The woman acknowledged our presence with a smile that was so mechanical and forced as to be an insult, and the other fellow who waved at us absently, looking up from the Spanish paper, was a young and languid-looking chap, very much at home, wearing no jacket or necktie. This one, as I learned, was Gaston Bejarano, alias El Cogote, older brother of the dancer. Although much fairer, he bore a general resemblance to his younger brother, but for that matter, so did the woman, although in her case, it may have been the dark complexion which marked her and Bejarano as the Gypsy type.

El Cogote was what is referred to in Spain as a winter bullfighter and wore the badge of his profession: the coleta, a pigtail that when seen in profile made him look like the old lady Doña Felisa, who had very sparse hair knotted into a small bun at the back of her head. Like his brother, he also wore the small gold ring in his left ear.

The indefatigable promoter Señor Olózaga had brought him to this country with some fantastic idea of introducing bullfights here. The idea had been, of course, a total failure. They had run into difficulties with organizations whose purpose is to make life as dull as possible for all animals and, in the Moor’s own words, deprive them of their right to a glorious and tragic life and death.

In view of the opposition encountered, the Señor Olózaga at first had thought of eliminating the suertes of banderillas, picas with horses and sword killing, but even with these concessions the anti-cruelty groups proved adamant and, in any case, a bullfight without these three suertes and consisting only of capework would be either too short or too tiring for the diestro, or too dull, and it would prove nothing at all because it would be no bullfight. As a last resource, the Señor Olózaga had thought of rigging some sort of a contraption resembling a bull with an oversized pincushion where the estoque, the banderillas and the picas could be thrust and give a performance at Madison Square Garden, no less, but again Dr. de los Rios had pointed out the ludicrous aspects of the whole idea and the Moor, the great purist in matters tauromachial, had denounced with righteous indignation this obscene mockery, this unmentionable travesty, this unthinkable sacrilege.

The result was that the Señor Olózaga found himself with a bullfighter on his hands for whom he had no earthly use, but the younger Bejarano made more than enough as a dancer to take good care of his brother, so that he would be no financial burden to the Señor Olózaga whom they had come to look upon as their kindly Maecenas and advisor. This then was the other fellow at the table. As for the woman, all I knew was that the bullfighter addressed her, without regard for the author’s rights of Bizet, by the name of Carmen.

There was another fellow sitting very circumspectly on the edge of his chair and looking quite like a bad student who has been punished. He was small, inconsequential, a fellow by the name of Fulano something-or-other, his complexion putty-like with violet shadows, and he wore glasses with the thickest lenses I have ever seen. It was the one thing about him that arrested one’s attention at first sight. When we entered he had jumped to his feet with a certain servility and officiousness, murmuring:

“Doctor— Don Pedro—” and to Garcia and me: “Caballeros—” and then stood smiling, blinking behind his thick lenses, attentive and pitifully trying to make himself pleasant, until the Moor waved him back to his seat with one of his gestures that spoke for him and for a whole race. The hand, the arm, the head said:

“Be at ease, man. Don’t try so hard. You are under no obligation. I am sure the Bejaranos like to help you if you are in difficulties, and we all like to befriend any countryman who is in need of reassurance. Remember that you are a Spaniard, remember your pride — and also ours.”

Bejarano with innate, easy good manners was saying that of course, everyone there would stay for dinner.

“Not me. Oh, not me!” the antipático man shrieked in English. I don’t know why he insisted on speaking English there when we were all Spanish and the Bejaranos scarcely understood one or two words of the language. “Don’t mention Spanish food to me. I tried it once—” and he began a gloating, nauseating description of a past attack of indigestion, with much accent on fainting, being a mess and puking— of all the synonyms, he would pick that one — all in English. “But go ahead. See if I care. Ruin your stomachs and your complexions and disgrace yourselves in public. See if I care,” he challenged with almost libidinous, flirting condemnation, his voice reaching for the ceiling. He finally quieted down, fanning himself with his handkerchief.

The Moor burst into a prolonged, loud laugh, slapped his knee and pointed at the man with his shillelagh:

“The green man. Look at him there, acting his part. There is no one like him. Don’t you know him, fellows? Why, he is the one who could stand nothing Spanish since he took out his first papers, and now he is back for more. Why, more American than the Americans. He was living in blissful confusion, like so many others. They come here and immediately acquire the art of picking out and liking precisely those things which Americans would most like to get rid of; they unfailingly repel them with their ingratiating imitations. Completely misinformed. They never miss — could drop in the middle of an international group and instantly arouse unanimous dislike that would cause the group to disband and leave them alone like the illustrations of some well-known advertisements — and this one is the champion, my friends— He is wise and he knows. He has learned everything since he left Spain and now he is properly ashamed of his past ignorance and doing his best to live it down — the perfect example of the repentant foreigner. No more garlic or wine, no more chamber pot under his bed at night. Oh, no! He freezes gymnastically on his way to the bathroom and back because he also sleeps with windows wide open, believes in fresh air, dieting and exercise, and also in the equality of the sexes, when one well-directed look could convince anyone who still needed convincing of the fallacy of the assertion. But don’t let it confuse you, my green friend. Take a good look before you make a pass — the equality of the sexes — haa— And he believes it like the gospel. Completely misinformed. Doesn’t know what it’s all about and has overlooked one thing that we have been saying in Spain for a long time: that there are no more Indians in America — that is good; Indians indeed — what he wants to be. He wants to be more American than the Americans, so he will have to be an Indian. But Indians are red and this is the green man — no more ignorant old-fashioned Spaniard, but the green Americaniard—” The Moor collapsed in a chair convulsed by loud, impudent, brutal laughter, a picture of Satanic mirth: “The green Americaniard—”