Felipe Alfau - Chromos

“It is not the Aspca you are thinking of, but the Society for the Extermination of Men, of which Dr. Jesucristo here is president,” the Moor was bantering. “The trouble with you is that you have no conception of foreign sportsmanship. Have you ever heard about fox hunting? Of course not. You are a torero of sorts and have no feeling for the chase.”

El Cogote pursued his theories with obstinacy: “They are crazy, but absolutely crazy. From home to the office and then back home. No life at all, but only work from morning to night. No loitering, no killing time, no nothing. Only the other day in the subway — you know — one of those big crowds was waiting and then the train arrived, and when the doors opened, the people inside rushed out and the people outside rushed in, all at the same time. Like two bulls in a head-on collision and no one gave ground. They stood there and fought it to a dead heat, toe to toe, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder; and in the end, the doors were closed again and those who were in stayed in, and those who were out stayed out. Now I ask you—” He interrupted himself to eat some more but held up a hand all the while to forestall any objections: “And the restaurants— Last week with Carmen here. She will bear me out— You know they don’t put a bottle of water on the table as we always do.” He pointed at the bottles of water which, incidentally, no one had touched. “And they don’t drink any wine with their food, and so I forgot myself and asked the waiter in Spanish to bring some water and of course he looked blank, which was not surprising, so I repeated only the word, mind you — I know now that the word in English is ‘water’, but I didn’t know it then — and I repeated as clearly as possible ‘agua’ and went like this, you know.” He pointed with his thumb toward his open mouth. “Nothing. So, and I am very patient, I repeated the word slowly, almost spelling it out. You’d think anyone would have understood, but not that waiter. He stood there, stiff as Don Tancredo, until Carmen here picked up a glass — mind you, they put glasses on the table and no wine or water— and showed it to him and then he understood. I ask you again— This lack of water everywhere. I have never been so thirsty — and also lack of public places where to get rid of it.” I looked at Garcia, remembering an experience that I am sure he wanted to forget “Once more, I ask you—” but he barred any answer with raised hand while chewing rapidly. He went on to praise highly the status of women in this country, that they could go about the streets by themselves without the men pinching them or dropping obscenities in their ears. This seemed to impress him very much, but immediately he regretted having found a tendency in the majority to flat chests, being too tall and having exceedingly long feet. This worried him and he was not certain what to attribute it to:

“I don’t know whether it is due to the independence, or maybe those sensible shoes they wear, which I think make for an ungainly walk. I still think that independence or no independence, the only sensible thing for a woman is to look pretty. I remember some of those women back in our land, walking so gracefully and lightly; as they say, like a bit of paper blown by the wind. But I think it is wonderful for women to be so self-reliant. Just like men, you know?”

Don Pedro stopped eating just long enough to say: “If you continue along that line, you will soon be talking like the green man. Look, you have only been a few months in this country. You still don’t speak or understand the language and cannot even read the newspapers, but already you know what is wrong and what is right with the whole country. A lifetime is not enough to understand a country, or anything for that matter.” He spoke to de los Rios: “I tell you, these Spaniards are ineffable. One glance at a situation and they know all about it.”

Dr. de los Rios was temporizing as usual: “That is not an exclusive Spanish trait. You can hear most people, when they are in the mood, not only finding what’s right or wrong with a country, but with life itself.”

“This Dr. Jesucristo, always with the cape to the feint.” He moved his arm imperceptibly, yet his gesture was so eloquent and well-aimed that for a moment one could see the bull coming out of a pica and being suctioned by the cape in the most decelerating veronica. Instantly El Cogote was on his feet. With his serviette, he made two very stylized low passes and ended with a half veronica that as far as form could not be improved: “And I could show you a farol — but I have no room here.” He sat down again: “Excuse me. I was carried away. It is a long time since I have felt the tools in my hands.”

I was looking at Garcia and remembered a description in his novel of a bullfight; full of stock situations and cast-iron sentimentalities and impossible feats of courage and skill; something in the manner of “Casey at the Bat,” or the Kid’s last fight. He felt that in English this should prove very edifying and instructive to readers and help them understand the Spanish soul. We had argued the advisability of introducing it in his story and in the end, I convinced him by saying that it would be as silly as getting sentimentally technical in Spanish with descriptions about baseball, or to translate the Merriwell series.

Then my attention was disturbed by the meek, servile fellow, Fulano. He had spoken little and with great respect, prefixing every sentence with Doctor when addressing de los Rios, or Maestro if addressing the Moor, and Diestro and Bailador if addressing El Cogote or his brother. Garcia and I were still caballeros, and apparently he did not dare address Lunarito and the women Carmen unless spoken to first

He had finished eating and was looking attentively at my dish and then, in order, at the dishes of all the others. He was one of those persons who eat with rapid voracity, as if trying for the title of the fastest thing on teeth, and then, having won the race, sit contemplating longingly, with deep regret and unconscious indelicacy, the plate and the mouth of those about them. They do not make good dinner companions and this particular one was one of the best. Even Lunarito, who was very much engaged in conversation about women here and in Spain, and asking innumerable questions of Dr. de los Rios, noticed it:

“Have some more paella. Why don’t you help yourself? Go ahead; you are in your house.”

“Oh! Excuse me,” he answered, startled out of his reverie. “I really don’t want any more. It is only—” His arm dropped to his side and he half turned his head as if to avoid facing the audience while baring a secret: “— This habit acquired from a life of privation and misery, of hurrying to get it while one can — absolutely uncalled for here with your generosity and — You have the souls of hidalgos—” The man was almost in tears and thirstily took a long drink of wine. It was good acting and I bet he was enjoying it, feeling it was in the manner of a partial payment for what he alone priced as a debt of honor.

The consequent embarrassment fanned the fire of conversation, but I was not listening. Something extraordinary was happening. Dr. de los Rios’s eyes were sweeping from me to Fulano and back again, not focused upon us but going through, far beyond us, expressionless, cold. His gaze was like a blank abyss upon which we oscillated dizzily. I averted my eyes and looked at Fulano and for a moment felt as if I were falling into a deep well, rushing past strange visions that gradually took on very clear shapes. Perhaps it was his insignificant yielding personality which offered no resistance, perhaps it was the thick lenses of his glasses that were like little transparent wells leading into his head. I even wondered if Dr. de los Rios had anything to do with it, but I could swear that I had entered the man’s mind and was seeing and hearing him think, and at the moment he was casting himself in a sad role.