Felipe Alfau - Chromos

Then I knew who the man was because I had heard the story several times. It was like this. This fellow was an enthusiastic follower of every new fad. Once he was speaking in the presence of Don Pedro and the conversation touched on the legend that in Spain people don’t know how good the sun is for them and they avoid it like an evil emissary of the devil, parade around overdressed in black clothes in the shade and therefore grow pale and anemic. This riled Don Pedro, who decided to play a joke on the fellow. He told him that the latest thing was a chlorophyll compound that had just been discovered. He gave one of his pseudological expositions on how this substance in plants synthesized the sunlight and said that by covering one’s body with this compound, one could obtain in a few moments as much benefit from the sun as from continuous exposure during one year. He said that the stuff was not on the market yet, but that he would obtain some through Dr. de los Rios. All very seriously.

A day or so later, he brought him a large jar of some kind of green greasepaint and the fellow, who was an easy mark for all such novelties, believed him, and they tell me that he put on a pair of bathing trunks, smeared himself with the greasepaint from head to foot, and went up on the roof of his house, where he almost created a riot among the neighbors living in buildings overlooking his when they saw this green apparition. Someone called the police and a radio station, fearing some kind of interplanetary invasion. A great mob gathered before the house. The riot squad rose to the occasion and, under the cheering crowds and with every conceivable precaution, surrounded the building and then assaulted it, while the poor fellow paraded about, oblivious of the commotion he was creating. In the end he was arrested on a charge of disorderly conduct and Dr. de los Rios and Don Pedro had to vouch for him and bail him out.

The poor fellow — even an antipático under attack becomes less repugnant — was trying to smile and was visibly embarrassed. His words immediately cost him what little he had gained: “I still think that Spain is a country of darkness and I feel what every Spaniard with common sense must feel when leaving: that he has come into the light.”

“That’s it; into the light and then turn green—”

“Never mind that. Anyone can fall for an evil joke, and as for my citizenship, I repeat that I am making a living in this country—”

Lunarito’s voice came from the kitchen: “Carmen, come and help me carry these things.”

The woman called Carmen, who had been setting the table indolently, went to the kitchen.

“What living are you talking about? Man, you are killing yourself with all this fresh air, cold baths, exercise and dieting, and growing more spherical every day. A man’s mode of living is determined by his race and not the medium where he finds himself — with certain exceptions, you know? One must not be too radical — but simply because a cat has kittens in the oven, one cannot call them muffins. Why, man, everybody knows that garlic is the best thing for anyone, including a Spaniard. It lowers arterial pressure, promotes longevity—”

“I wouldn’t believe you again if—” The man looked with hopeful doubt in the direction of Dr. de los Rios, who contented himself with whistling while the Moor held the floor:

“I tell you, you are killing yourself. You leave Spain and see the light— No more garlic or olive oil. Nothing but all kinds of insipid food à la mode. Everything with a ball on top— Wonderful! You can play golf with it and get your exercise at the same time.” He swung his shillelagh: “Watch it go: golf à la mode. That’s it; the Spaniard conquers America, the land of the red man, and immediately turns green and begins to play golf à la mode— The enormity of it. You have seen no light. The moment you left Spain is when you were plunged in total darkness and you don’t know what it’s all about.”

The man stood up with a forced dignity that was all the more ridiculous because of his shape: “I think I will go home now.”

“Listen to him. The ambiguity — he thinks. And then he claims he is no longer Spanish. He knows that he is not going home at all, that he is simply running away because he can’t stand his countrymen, especially since he got that Junior at the end of his name — that’s good; Junior at his age.”

“I am going away!” the man almost screamed, and he rushed toward the door where he met Lunarito and the woman Carmen bringing in the casseroles with the paella. Lunarito stood aside, holding the heavy casserole with both hands, a towel wrapped around it: “Are you not going to stay to eat?”

“No. I ate already. I believe in eating at a civilized hour and in the middle of the day only a light lunch. I, for one, watch my figure.” It was pitiful.

“But if only for the company, stay a while.”

The woman called Carmen said that she was not going to stand there while they argued: “This thing is heavy and hot.” She walked to the table and planted the casserole on top of a pad.

“No. I am going. I wouldn’t stay anyway and eat with this man — and I still think that Spaniards are backwards and crazy, and when they insist on remaining the same after they have the fortune of leaving Spain, I think they are crazier still. So there!” The man was indignant in earnest. He stood at the door surveying us all superciliously and then spat down his shoulder the words: “Good-bye, Spaniards,” and walked down the corridor.

The Moor greeted that parting shot with triumphant and louder laughter. He had attained his point and now was wiping his eyes and still laughing some more.

When we heard the front door bang, Dr. de los Rios regarded the Moor reproachfully and said without much conviction: “Satisfied now? You made the poor man go away in a huff. What a Moor!”

“Yes, you know? Very satisfied. That is not a man; it is an emetic, and although one knows the inclinations of which Moors have been often accused, that is not one of mine. One gets tired of the fellow and of stepping on his verbal droppings. It has reached the point that whenever he arrives someplace, people go away. It is high time that one begins to stay and make him go— But let’s attend to something more pleasant, like this paella.” He reached unceremoniously and began to pile his plate: “Look at that rice! I tell you—” He frowned at a clam speared in his fork and chewed it with concentration.

“All right, eh?” said Lunarito. “No shells to bother with, and if only the chicken had no bones—”

“And perhaps you would also want the peppers and the chorizos without the skins? What kind of a paella is this? If we continue with the refinements, it is going to be like the refrigerator — the vanishing paella.” He began to pour the wine all around while the others were helping themselves to food. He had a way of becoming the host wherever he was. Everybody began to talk, mainly on the subject of this country. It is the usual thing in front of new arrivals from one’s land. It is the necessity of explaining a different people and its different habits and sense of values and also of explaining one’s own minor concessions and surrenders, almost like giving them a new tariff on life. The bullfighter, however, was not listening. He was telling and seemed well satisfied with his rash appraisal of the country which he was almost explaining to all the others with that authority which comes from lack of familiarity with a subject. Without hesitation, he listed what was wrong with the country, what was right, and what was fantastic, insane and incomprehensible to any person with common sense. Because of his misadventure with the Señor Olózaga, he had soon found out about the ASPCA — he pronounced it Aspca — and was talking about it. He mentioned that he had seen a moving picture of a bullfight in Mexico and that the part when the torero kills the bull as well as the placing of picas and banderillas had been suppressed, but not the part where a bull gored and killed the torero: “Well, I think a man is at least as deserving as an animal,” he concluded with moving candor.