Felipe Alfau - Chromos

The doctor arrived and then Paco entered with him. The doctor examined Julieta rapidly and pronounced her dead from asphyxiation and then departed hurriedly to fulfill the necessary formalities. At the door he met Fernando, who was in a fearful condition.

“How did Fernando get there?” I interrupted. “Did anyone summon him, or did he have the gift of premonition?” To be perfectly frank, I did not care, but I was afraid that Garcia might notice how sleepy I was and I wanted to show him that I was paying attention.

“Why, yes. Perhaps you are right.” Garcia made a quick note: “I will fix that later,” and he went on undaunted:

Fernando stopped before his sister’s body, staring at her as if making an effort to grasp the meaning of this scene, and then raised his eyes to Paco who sat in a chair on the other side of her body, his head between his hands.

Fernando said in a dull voice: “Assassin.” Paco looked up blankly. “Yes, assassin. What have you done to my sister? You have killed her. You have murdered her. You are responsible for this. Accursed criminal!”

Paco stood up, his legs scarcely able to hold him. His arms went out appealingly.

Fernando was disfigured, his features distorted, his mouth drooping on one side. He hissed through clenched teeth: “You low bastard! You son of a bitch!”

Paco’s face flushed. He was standing firmly now: “No man will call me that, you neurotic whelp!”

It was disgraceful. They stood with the corpse between them, hurling insults at one another. Fernando squared himself and spat in the direction of Paco:

“For you and for your lousy mother!”

Paco was ready to spring and then a commanding voice was heard at the door:

“Stop!”

Garcia did. He looked at me and said that perhaps I might find what followed somewhat of a stock situation. As if one could not see it coming. He read it:

They turned around with livid faces. There stood Ledesma in his long black overcoat. He advanced toward them and stopped before the dead woman:

“Is there no respect for death? Out! All of you, out! Do not desecrate things to that degree.”

He bent down and with difficulty gathered Julieta in his arms. Paco took a step as if to help him: “Stand away! Don’t touch her!”

And staggering under the heavy burden, he carried her into the next room and laid her on her bed. He laid her down with care, as a mother lays her child to sleep. He kissed her brow and said: “Forgive whomsoever is to blame. Forgive us all, because in this world no one is responsible for anything.”

And respectfully, tenderly, he covered her with the bright shawl.

I knew it. It was exactly as I had expected, but I was still too sleepy to protest. Garcia conceded that perhaps he did spread it on a bit too thick, but that this was the original idea of his story, to make it cursi, corny, remember? I said nothing. There was nothing to say. He had stolen my reluctant thunder and went on unhindered even by his own conscience.

That last scene must have been more than I could bear in my condition and I must have dozed off momentarily because Garcia’s voice faded and I only recall very obscurely something about Paco Serrano disappearing after his wife’s death and no one except his many creditors caring much, that the doorwoman of the house where they lived took in his two boys when she found them abandoned, and that none of their relatives did anything to help them because they wanted nothing to do with any Serranos. Then Garcia’s voice came back into focus:

They grew and developed in the sordid atmosphere of the portería, mixing with other golfos, running through the city and reappearing at the portería when they pleased, for the portera was either too busy or did not care enough to do anything about it

It was Ledesma who in the end decided to place them in an orphan asylum. After the death of Julieta, he had wanted to leave the jewelry shop and go away, but Fernando pleaded with him to stay if only for the memory of Don Mariano and in order that the business he built should not perish. Ledesma was moved and in the end decided to stay, but he did not mention to Fernando having placed the boys in the orphanage.

Nature had been little generous with Ricardo, the older of the boys. He was undersized, ugly, almost repelling, and spoke little. Perhaps this was due to his unfavorable upbringing, or perhaps he was that way, considering that Jacinto, the younger, brought up in the same environment, was good-looking, with large eyes, well-developed and with a delicate complexion.

They were as different in temperament as they were in appearance. While Ricardo was humble and shy with his superiors at the orphanage and wanted to learn what they taught him, Jacinto was of a dreamy disposition and did not care about what went on around him, but in the end he always seemed to know more than his brother and to guess things with amazing perspicacity and no effort at all. He was by no means humble, and once when he was upbraided for his behavior, he said calmly:

“I don’t have to put up with bad treatment, because if I don’t like it, I can go away.”

“Oh no, you can’t. Don’t think it is so easy to get away.”

“Don’t you think so? Wait and see.”

His superior was angered by this impertinence, but after that he did not scold him so often.

Ricardo took up printing at the orphanage. Jacinto did not study anything. His main occupation was to observe, but seemingly without paying much attention. One could only judge all he knew by his remarks. Although the younger, he was the leader of the two and his brother did anything that he told him.

One day Jacinto said to his brother: “I don’t like this place. I don’t like any place where they tell you what to do as if one did not know what one likes to do, where there is no time to loaf, and where they even tell you the time when you can play. I miss the times we used to have at the portería. I am going away. If you want to come, we can leave together.”

Ricardo hesitated: “After all, we learn something here and they take care of us. I have learned printing.”

“You have learned it already, haven’t you? Why do you want to stay any longer then? At least you know a trade now, which is more than I know. I am going away tonight. If you want to go, all right.”

And Ricardo, although afraid, followed his brother.

They found things a little harder than they thought, as is usually the case. They learned that eating was something extraordinary, and they slept on the rope. This is a special device to accommodate the least exacting of sleepers. It consists of a hall with a rope stretched from one end to the other. The men lay their coats on this rope and then their heads on the coats and thus go to sleep. In the morning the keeper loosens the rope and the sleepers are rudely but efficiently awakened by the consequent fall.

Jacinto did not mind this kind of life and even thrived on it. He had discovered all kinds of methods to obtain money without working. He learned to imitate cripples and beg for alms. He found a café where they kept a mechanical piano. Jacinto sat at the door and listened to the jingling music with avidity. The piano constantly played old selections from operas, musical reviews and zarzuelas. It played things from La Gran Via , among them, the “Jota de los Ratas” which was Jacinto’s favorite. He liked the impudence of that piece; he had known it for a long time and it reminded him of his brother whom he had not seen now for some time. He remembered singing it with Ricardo. He would step out and recite:

“Soy el rata primero.”

Then Ricardo echoed: “. y yo el segundo,” but as they never had another boy with enough memory to take the part of the third pickpocket, Jacinto always had to take it and add: “. y yo el tercero,” and that always made them laugh and they always stopped there.