Felipe Alfau - Chromos

Garcia finally settled on opening with a family gathering which, besides being a well-tried method, would permit his character studies of the members of the family and would present as the central figure the heroine of the second part of his story, who was Rojelia, the oldest daughter of Fernando and Trini Sandoval. He was all set on making it a musical soiree where the heroine played the harp, one of the accomplishments of this girl whom he wanted to describe as beautiful, proud and talented as well as discreet with lofty ideals that contrasted with the rest of her family. Also this he expected would give him an opportunity to discuss music.

Garcia had become interested in music through his association with the Moor, but his knowledge of it was sadly inadequate and he contented himself with saying very modestly that he simply liked good music. He was confident that he could get all the necessary information and facts from the Moor.

I told him that he knew the Moor disapproved of his literary activities and that perhaps he had better consult someone else.

“I know, but I will have to swallow my pride and spruce up my patience. The Moor can be approached. I can tell him, for instance, that I want to write about music but that I don’t know what it’s all about, get it? That will win him over.”

I winked my assent: “That’s the boy! You tell him that. The Moor is after all a good scout even if he — knows it.”

This encouraged Garcia, if he had needed it, to begin to read from his notes. There was a platitudinous character and physical portrayal of the heroine and a sketch of the mental vacuity of the two younger members, Jorge and his sister Lolita. It was a standard description that could have fitted any other contemporary youths. I told Garcia this but he stated that generalization of characters, making them universal, was one of the acknowledged virtues of great literature, so I let that pass and he read a description of Trini where she appeared considerably refined by maturity, a thing which was reflected by the more tasteful decorations of the house and probably tied in with the musical soiree on which the Moor was to collaborate with his learned advice. What had been once in the woman plain vulgarity was now an earthy exuberance with suggestions of nature’s nobleman, breaking at times like a geyser through the shell of acquired culture and ripe composure which held it in precarious check. Her voice had also remained a deep, rich, heartwarming contralto. These are, of course, Garcia’s own words.

He took less kindly to Fernando Sandoval. His description in this, the second part of the story, came down to that of a weakling and neurotic, but Garcia elaborated at length on the psychological and pathological aspects. He had a weakness for this sort of thing. I said that he should not commit himself in writing about things he knew so little about, but he insisted that he knew more than I gave him credit for and that anyway he would enlist the advice of Dr. de los Rios. This, I argued, was foolish, as his knowledge of de los Rios should make plain to him. The good doctor would be glad to help him in any serious problem which concerned his person, but he would never indulge such a waste of time and attempt to teach him in one easy lesson what he had accumulated in a lifetime of studies. He might tell him to read up on the subject, and even allow him to attend some of his lectures, and all this would take too long for impatient Garcia, but more probably, he would tell him to forget the whole thing or he might have a relapse and wind up once more on the Bowery.

This made Garcia laugh and he said that there was no danger of that. He had wanted an experience and he had had it and that was enough for him. Instead he was going to work earnestly, and to prove this he went on to read a section which dealt with the oldest son of the Sandovals:

Enrique Sandoval was a tall, thin boy, the darkness of his complexion nearing a sinister shade. There were decided contrasts among the members of the younger Sandoval generation.

Enrique had an aquiline nose, sharp features, sunken eyes, very thick eyebrows and very black hair.

His intelligence was very limited. Compelled by his father, he had with great difficulty studied a business career, although as a child he had wanted to be a general of artillery and later a physician. His father, however, thought better of a business career and Enrique took it up. He took the examinations twice and the second time he managed to come through. He then graduated to his father’s shop to help him, gain experience, and complicate matters.

He did not seem to profit much by his education. The pursuit of pleasure was the sole object of his existence, whether at a gambling table, a café or in bed.

His somewhat warped nature was first encouraged when still a child by the maids of the house, who in more ways than one were responsible for his later development. From a very early age he showed a marked degree of discrimination about being punished. When his father did it, he showed very plainly that he did not like it, but if it happened to be his mother or one of the maids, he did not appear to mind it much but rather taunt them into it.

As a matter of fact, at the age of four or five, he was in the habit of going into the kitchen and addressing a husky washerwoman, after ascertaining that no one else was around:

“Spank baby,” he beseeched her and presented his buttocks with all the meekness of a monk before an irate abbot. He had developed a predilection for being spanked, particularly by the husky washerwoman.

She would spank him once and then send him away: “Go on, you little—” she would say wonderingly. “And don’t come back in five minutes and make me waste time. One of these days I am going to spank you real hard and then you won’t like it so well.”

“I wish you would. You never spank me hard enough.”

The description was built up out of several other such foolish incidents, then a cursory description of a life of excesses which in the end turned the boy into a full-fledged victim of epilepsy. I suggested to Garcia that he check up on his facts. He acknowledged my remark with a nod of his head without stopping:

It was soon after he began to work at the jewelry shop that he made the acquaintance of a certain girl who exhausted both his scanty vitality and abundant money and soon made a worse case of him. He was absent from the store for days at a time, burying himself in the room she kept on the Street of Jacometrezo, there to smother his epileptic attacks in her arms.

When he showed up at home, he was haggard, his eyes were more sunken than ever and he looked like a corpse. Then his mother would flare out in a fusillade against the girl:

“Look at him! See how he comes! That cheap puta is killing him. He could get better ones for one peseta, but who knows what she is doing to him. A boy in his condition! She is killing him.”

“Don’t talk that way before the girls, Trini. And please let me handle this, will you?” Fernando shouted.

“But look at him!” And then shaking Enrique by the lapels as if he were a rag: “What do you think you are? You are not even half a man. You can’t stand that life. You haven’t the physique for it. She will finish you like any other woman would and then throw you aside. Tell me, what is she doing to you?”

Then Enrique lost his temper: “Leave me alone. I tell you to leave me alone. I am not a child anymore and I suppose that I can take care of myself. You are driving me crazy with your constant bickering. I am going to leave this accursed house someday and never return.” He went into a frenzy and collapsed on a sofa, sobbing and cursing.

“Trini! I tell you to let me handle this. Who is master in this house? Or are we all going crazy too?”