Felipe Alfau - Chromos

Instead of being annoyed, Garcia was delighted: “That’s fine, fine. I might go over the whole thing in the light of what you say — easier to find a producer. Cheaper, you know?”

I knew I couldn’t win and let him read on:

He had to put a stop to this. He had to take life calmly now, take care of himself, his time, be quiet, be patient. That was it: be patient, and he continued to repeat this as he left.

He had the chauffeur drive his limousine slowly even for those days. They rode up Broadway. He surveyed the passing scenes with contented close attention and repose and was aware of the immensity of the changes in town. For several years he had seen in a few passing glances the whole city change before his very eyes. He had walked in a serene avenue to be brutally awakened by the roar of the elevated train overhead where there had been nothing between one’s eyes and the sky. He had opened his eyes to find himself rushing through what he knew was the road to infernal regions in the tunnels of the subway. He had looked skywards to stare at cruising airplanes and had seen enormous buildings appear where slums had stood a few moments before, and what is more, he had seen world events parade in the same absurd and disconnected manner, without cause, without effect

He would never skip time again. He had to be patient.

At 23rd Street the car continued along Fifth Avenue. He was not surprised at the new direction taken. He was ready for anything. All the way to the Sixties he continued to contemplate things with peaceful curiosity, as if he were seeing them for the first time or perhaps for the last, and he kept repeating that he had to be patient, to nurse time.

He was still repeating this when he arrived at his residence, a splendid, sumptuous building facing the park. He let himself in quietly and although he never remembered having seen the place before, his muscles, his senses seemed to recognize things, to guide him. He ascended the stairs, his epidermis calling out for a warm bath. His body knew there was a luxurious and restful bathroom in this strange palace. That was all that mattered for the moment.

As he passed Jenny’s room he heard conversation inside. He recognized Charlie’s voice and her eternal laughter. The door was sufficiently ajar, but the hall was dark and the floor carpeted. He could neither be seen nor heard, but in turn he saw and heard enough to confirm a suspicion whose roots seemed to lay in one of his dark moments.

For a few moments he stood still, chilled through. Like precipitous torrents coming from distant, forgotten sources, his old traditions, instincts and prejudices converged to feed and agitate the wide stream of his turbulent rage. They rose from the rocking ground, twining themselves about him, to reach his head and burst in it. How much of this had gone on during those unknowing moments? How much shame had he skipped with time? For this men killed, his mind repeated, eroding his soul.

But one had to be cool. He would obtain all the proofs. He turned and silently went downstairs, his head held high as if literally endeavoring to keep it clear from a mounting sewer. He entered his drawing room and walked instinctively toward the windows, to seek light and air. He lifted one window gently to avoid making noise. The bars on the outside irritated him. He recalled having them placed there under the pretext of an added protection, but truly because they reminded him of the windows in Valencia, and now they irritated him, he did not know why.

He had to compose himself, he had to think cleverly, to spy on them. His hands closed on the window bars, yearning for their throats, his hatred burned his chest, his breath hissed spasmodically through dilated nostrils. He heard her laughter again through the window, pouring out his dishonor. His teeth appeared. He hated them! He had to stop them now! It was impossible to wait, to reason. No! He could not wait His hands tightened on the bars, he shut his eyes. God! For this men killed—

Coolness descended upon him and he heard isochronous steps upon a hard floor. He opened his eyes. He was holding on to the bars of his prison cell door. A guard was walking along the corridor in front of the cells.

Ramos had been leaning against the back of his chair while talking. The room was quite dark except for some light from a street lamp coming through the window and illuminating mostly the ceiling with a reddish light, but in the corner where Ramos stood, it was dark. He felt his way around the chair and sat down once more:

“And that was the time I regretted least having that power. For once I had encountered the often-dreaded pitfall awaiting my mad unconscious rush and had fallen in it, but I did not regret it. That time my recollections of the period erased were more and clearer. With time I have acquired gradually a greater capacity to recall those moments, to bring out things from my subconscious. I remembered quite clearly the scandal covering front pages in the newspapers. I remember also much of the trial. I had money and influence and hired the best defense counsel that could be had. He was a brilliant man, that lawyer. In the end he got me off with a comparatively short sentence, but it did not make any difference.” Again I heard his laborious breathing.

“But I must not hold you here any longer. You must go back to your Sociedad.” He noticed my expectancy: “No, there is nothing more. After I regained freedom I saw the downgrade of my life extending ahead uninterrupted, but even had life held something for me, I had nothing for life. Yet, I had no impatience, I knew that I was finished and kept going with the dying momentum like the hair, like the nails that grow on a corpse. I was only mildly curious. I wanted to see my life a few days before the end and I took a long chance, the longest and safest in my life. I could not lose— And here I am. Now I know the wait will not be long. It does not matter, you see? That is why your Sociedad must not bother with me. I need no help or charity now. I have all that counts now: memories. I am living over now all the moments of my life through which I passed unconsciously. They are all coming back now, emerging from the shadows with tremendous power, clear, dazzling, some horrible and some magnificent. I am sitting and resting, waiting, living and being conscious of every moment of this last and short wait.”

I knew that anything I could say was superfluous. This was final. I tiptoed out of the room shutting the door noiselessly behind and, unable to turn away from it, held on to the old banister and thus descended those dark stairs backwards, hypnotized, eyes fixed where that door should be that could not be seen.

I was on Cherry Street once more and walked away slowly, the feeling of depression increasing with every step, and suddenly I could stand it no more. I wanted to go home and almost broke into a run. Hailing a passing cab, I plunged in shouting my address. I sat tensely on the edge of the seat and in my desire to be home, shut my eyes and pounded my knees with my clenched fists.

A sudden screech of brakes and a swerve caused me to open them. The cab was standing in front of my house, and the driver was speaking to me over his shoulder and saying that it was a pretty narrow escape we had had back there.

When Garcia finished, he walked to the desk, gathered what he had read with the rest of his story and placed it in a large envelope. “It’s all yours,” he said, sending it spinning across the room to me.

Also during those days Garcia gave me several cursory descriptions of the second part of his novel, particularly the beginning. Concretely, he was not decided on how to open the second part, but he favored a family gathering that would permit him to show the younger generation of the Sandovals, with comments he expected to be of deep social significance regarding the new generation after the war of 1914 and also considerations regarding the older set of the family and the changes which time had wrought on each. The profound social comments had not yet materialized in black and white but that did not efface Garcia’s literary optimism. He also hoped to expound a theory to the effect that the nineteenth century had not really ended with the year 1900 but with the First World War. All these ambitious philosophical plans must have gotten sidetracked in his subsequent attempts, because I never found them in what he read or made me read or, if they were implied somewhere, I did not notice them.