Felipe Alfau - Chromos

That music reminded him of his brother and it reminded him of himself. He felt a grossly obvious affinity between that and his own and his brother’s life, and then he did not hear the music anymore and thought of his childhood and felt something surging within him, very much like pride, pride in things for which inferior people felt shame, and he felt that he was very much like those three ratas who jingled and made merry inside the mechanical piano, because they did not dare cry as he dared smile now, to assert his contempt for the sadness that was eating his heart away.

In that café there was also a machine where one inserted five centimes and by pressing a lever one might or might not get one peseta. He studied this machine and discovered that the peseta always came out after forty five-centime coins had been inserted.

He waited and observed the people come in and out of the café and insert coins in the machine. He counted carefully and when the count reached high enough, he stepped up, inserted up to forty and pocketed the peseta.

Then one day, a man who had missed repeatedly and then seen Jacinto win the coveted silver coin approached him:

“Listen, boy, how did you do it?” The man spoke in a melodious voice, used very high heels and licked his lips when he spoke.

Jacinto looked at him impudently: “Brains, my dear sir, brains.”

“You seem quite fresh, my lad.”

“I am quite young yet, am I not?”

“You certainly are, but I’ll bet you know a great deal already. I wish you would tell me some of the tricks you know.”

“It is a pleasure, sir, to enlighten those who seek knowledge.”

The man laughed and took Jacinto by the arm: “Let’s have some vermouth together and then you can tell me everything. I wouldn’t ask a boy of your age to drink but I feel differently about you.”

“I know you don’t, but your generosity overwhelms me just the same,” and Jacinto bowed and headed for the bar.

“We had better sit at that table. They can serve us there and we can talk more easily.”

Not so long after this incident, Jacinto could be seen very well-dressed— in fact, overdressed — and to all lights having solved the problem of living.

As to Ricardo, he had not been able to endure the life Jacinto led after they left the orphanage. He went back to the portería, but the woman was no longer there and he returned the same way he had come. He went from one place to another. He worked in some printing plants but the air he inhaled there only served to weaken his lungs further. He sold newspapers and did odd jobs, his health failing him.

One afternoon when he was at Recoletos, hungry, bewildered, not knowing where to turn, he met his brother strolling arm in arm with an elderly man.

“Lo and behold!” exclaimed Jacinto, opening his arms. “If it isn’t my dear brother who has become visible once more.”

Ricardo opened his arms also and advanced, but then stopped short. He looked at his brother slowly from head to foot. He noticed that his eyes and face were made up, that he wore a shirt very open at the neck and a pink scarf, that his coat fitted him tightly about the waist, and he wore pumps with large bows. Ricardo turned his face and regarded his brother sideways:

“Maricon,” he whispered.

Jacinto still held his arms open dramatically. Some people were looking on. He also regarded Ricardo carefully and noticed his haggard expression and shabby clothes:

“What holds you there, my dear brother? Does this unexpected meeting stupefy you? Did you not expect to find me still in the flesh after the days and nights we passed together?”

Ricardo was turning away. Jacinto walked over to him and held him by the hand. His companion was standing a few feet away and looked on annoyed.

“Never mind. I can understand. You feel slightly embarrassed because you think you don’t look quite your part. I think you are in need of a good meal. Come on, let us celebrate this happy encounter.”

Ricardo shook his hand free violently. He looked squarely at his brother and said with rage: “I don’t need your dirty food, do you hear?”

“But, my dear brother, one has to live.” He pronounced this so as to lend it a double meaning. “I can understand you are proud and all that, but one has to live.”

Ricardo had been seized by a paroxysm of coughing. He held his chest and said brokenly: “I don’t want anything from you — and don’t call me brother — do you understand? Don’t call me brother,” and he went away, his weak frame racked with coughing.

The elderly man placed a consoling arm about Jacinto’s waist: “Don’t mind him. He has no gratitude — and besides, he is very ugly.”

When the Count of X. died, Paco Serrano reappeared on the scene for the litigation of the will. He produced papers which he claimed entitled him to part of the inheritance and on their strength he managed to appease some of his creditors. However, the matter was soon hushed up, and to the surprise of many, he gave way easily. It was officially stated that he was an imposter and entitled to nothing. The fortune of the Count passed to his only daughter, Laura, and Paco Serrano disappeared once more. People said that he held papers which compromised the Count’s daughter, that she helped him because she feared he would make public certain embarrassing facts.

This gossip must have been founded upon certain visits which he paid Laura undercover — one may accept this part of the gossip — whenever he came to Madrid.

Serrano did not live in Madrid by this time. He lived in Paris and some said that he was linked with the underworld there. La Torre, his old crony, was the first one to bring news to Madrid concerning the life which Serrano led in Paris.

According to him, he was returning to his hotel late one night and, as he passed a doorway in a dark street, a man came out and ordered him to stop and hand over all his valuables.

La Torre turned to face the bandit. He saw a man slightly shorter than himself but much thinner, wearing a cap and dark glasses, with the collar of his coat turned up. This was winter.

La Torre said: “My dear fellow, I am sorry to disappoint you. I have been gambling tonight and have lost my last cent; otherwise you don’t think I’d be returning home on foot? If you can find anything on me, why, I’ll share it with you for the service.”

The speech is of course too long for any hold-up man to tolerate. However, La Torre has the floor. His story goes on:

The man had approached La Torre and dropped the hand which held the gun. He scrutinized him closely and said:

“Can it be you, La Torre?”

“I did not know that I was so popular among your class. That is my name. May I inquire who has had the honor of holding me up?”

The man removed his glasses and turned his face to the light.

“Se. Serrano!”

“Exactly, your old friend Serrano.”

“But. ” La Torre extended his hand to shake Serrano’s.

“You don’t mind, after this?”

“On the contrary. You know I always considered it a privilege, and by God! I congratulate you. I thought that I only knew lounging puppets in this world.”

“It is fortunate that the first person I have met who knew me has your moral standards. Even if they are not sincere, they are comforting.”

They embraced each other fondly and Serrano took La Torre to a café. La Torre had not bluffed when he said that he had lost his last cent

According to La Torre, it was one of those cafés one sees in moving pictures; of course, less theatrical, but quite as effective nevertheless. There Serrano related his adventures to La Torre and then inquired after some people from Madrid.

“And how are the Bonafés?”

“They seem to be quite happy now. They go everywhere together. He has accumulated quite a fortune. The bearded ox! And she behaves like a model wife.”