Felipe Alfau - Chromos

“How the world changes!”

“You remember how she acted when you left her for your little Frenchy? Well, when she learned that you had disappeared and heard some rumors about your death. ”

“What do you mean, my death?”

“Yes, some people believe you are dead. Anyway, when she heard all that she was in a sea of tears and looked more than ever like the Mary Magdalene I painted of her. I believe she reformed since.”

“And what about my family?” He tried to make this question offhand, but it was only stiff.

“Your boys? No one knows where they are.”

“But I understood they had been placed in an orphanage.”

“They escaped from there long ago and no one knows where they are.”

“Oh, I see.”

“As for your brother-in-law and his family— He is as ostentatious as ever and making an ass of himself in society. They say that the oldest one of the girls is quite a beauty, red hair and all that. I have not seen her except once at the opera and from a distance.”

Paco was not listening to La Torre and the latter studied him:

“Tell me more, Serrano. How did you come to step into this road of virtue? Tell me more about yourself.”

“There is nothing to say.” Serrano had arisen and paid. La Torre was following him. “You see me here. You knew me in my days. This is what I have come to. That’s all.”

“Then, Serrano, let’s get together, say tomorrow night, and do something.”

“Listen, La Torre: I don’t think I will see you again. You know? We have drifted apart, we don’t belong together anymore. Tonight, well, I wanted to find out some things. You are as good a fellow as ever, La Torre, but I don’t think I will see you again. If I bump into you. ”

“Look well before you shoot.” They both laughed.

“Good-bye, La Torre.”

“Good-bye.”

And they never met again.

Here Garcia stopped to say that he only had disconnected notes on the section that followed which he had not worked together yet. He wanted to describe Serrano’s extralegal activities, his life and associations in the Paris and Madrid underworlds between which he traveled frequently, and his sinister missions — international intrigue and mystery stuff — and he wanted to describe in detail one of the smuggling trips from Paris to Madrid, but first he intended to document himself well in order to give his narrative more authenticity.

I told him that his story was supposed to be truly authentic: the facts, the people, as told to him by his mother, if he remembered, but that if at last he was ready to break down and confess, to concede that the game was up, it was perfectly all right and in that case he could see more moving pictures and get all his standard situations right.

“Maybe I will,” he taunted. “But now listen to the last scene. This is the first draft, but it is stereotyped enough.” He laughed shamelessly: “It will kill you.” The word he used in Spanish was not “kill” but “pulverize.”

I waved his right-of-way. Felt too heavy to bow aside.

One night he arrived at the palace, having previously notified his sister. When he knocked at the door, Laura opened it for him. She was in an evening gown. He entered the small library where they always held their meetings, the same one where he had seen his father for the last time.

Paco sat down, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with a tired gesture. He looked old, old and worn out. He must have been near fifty then, but he looked older.

“God! I am tired. I have been on my feet all day and must take the express back tonight. What a life!”

“Why don’t you stop it? Why do you keep this up?”

“I can’t stop. I am too far in it now. It is too late to get out.”

There was the sound of music and Paco listened.

Garcia looked at me puzzled and said:

“I cannot make up my mind whether to have them play here ‘The Blue Danube’ or leave it the waltz from The Merry Widow as I have it here. ‘The Blue Danube’ might be carrying things a bit too far, might show lack of originality, but on the other hand, the reader might imagine some foolish implications in The Merry Widow . What do you think? For the life of me, I can’t decide.”

If I had been drowsy, this woke me up and I exploded: “At this point you worry about that! It should be the least — use either one, or use another waltz. It doesn’t have to be one of those two, or simply say that they were playing music and let it go at that.”

“I’ll see. I can always change it,” and he went back to his reading. What a man!

“What is this? Did you prepare a serenade to receive me?”

“Don’t you know? This is my opening reception of the season. You know everybody holds it about this time of the year.”

“That’s right. I see you are all dressed up, but God! I don’t notice anything. I don’t know what is going on in the world I used to know. I don’t know what is happening to me.”

“Never mind — now I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“Guess who is here.”

“A lot of imbeciles, I am sure. I could mention them to you. I still remember most of them.”

“No. Your son is here.”

“Legitimate or illegitimate?”

“Oh, quite legitimate.”

“Which one?” Paco had stood up: “Is it Ricardito?”

“No. Ricardo died at a hospital in Barcelona last year.”

“Oh, he did. ” Serrano said this flatly.

“Yes, from consumption.”

There was a silence.

“Then it is Jacintito. How did you find him?”

“I met him tonight. The Marquis of N. introduced him. When I heard his name, of course I knew who he was, together with other things I had already heard. I did not tell him you would be here in case you did not want to see him. Shall I bring him in?”

Paco hesitated, he pressed his lips together and joined his fingertips. Then he swung around and sat on the arm of the chair looking down at his dirty attire. “I don’t know, I don’t know. ”

“Don’t worry. He won’t be more ashamed of you than you will be of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Paco, what a family!” She had laid her hands on his shoulders: “Paco, do you really think it is too late? Have you lost all hope?”

“Too late for what? Hope for what?”

“Everything, Paco. You still have me. You will always have me. Say the word and you will be master of all this. You will own everything I have.”

Paco looked at her but his gaze was centered upon his own soul: “You know, Laura? There is greatness in what you say, but I think I would rather have your charity. It has been worth living until tonight to see what a great character you have. I don’t think I will see you again. Perhaps I only came to hear you say what you did and also to find my son.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Yes; bring him in.”

“But remember my offer, Paco. Think it over. I shall always be waiting with open arms. But if it is going to annoy you, I will never mention it again.”

A wave of music flooded the room as she went out, then it was silenced again by the closing door. Paco stood still. For a moment he felt an overwhelming desire to run after her, to cry, “Yes, I accept!” but he checked himself and the fear of his decision descended upon him like a cold draft. He slid down into the chair, adjusted his clothes and brushed off his coat with the palm of his hand. Then he lighted a cigarette and waited.

He listened absently to the music that filtered into the chamber. He straightened himself and listened more attentively.

They were playing the waltz “Caballero de Gracia” from La Gran Via . The music brought back his whole life. He remembered the first night he had heard it. He too was a caballero then, a graceful caballero, pampered by Madrid. He had thought that when old, he would be as graceful and neat as that old crisp dandy who sang it on the stage, like the gentlemen he imagined listening to it now, dancing to it, without hiding, shining in society as he had shone once. And what was he now?