Felipe Alfau - Chromos

“Hmm— If I were you I would not write poetry but help my mother around the portería. And by the way, my dear Sappho, don’t call me ‘bard’ anymore, will you do me that favor? I resent it. It is embarrassing, as if I called you Saint Peter simply because you are always at the door.”

The girl dragged herself dejectedly into the portería.

But the poetry of Urcola had filtered into the daughter of the portera; it took root in her and sprouted so convincingly several months after that Urcola and two ferocious brothers of the portera, not having ever expected the girl to take him so seriously, decided it was high time to do something. Yet, this is getting ahead of time.

Garcia went back to describe the relations of his heroine and the poet, their clandestine meetings, carefully arranged with the complicity of her personal maid. The only thing he had worked out in this section was a dialogue in Madrid vernacular between Urcola and the maid when he gave her his first letter to his beloved. Garcia was quite enthusiastic about the typical words and phrases he had collected in that dialogue but I argued that it could not be put successfully into English, and its virtues, if virtues they were, should be lost in a translation. Strangely enough, Garcia could not see the point and insisted that English also has a vernacular and therefore the thing he proposed should not be so difficult. We argued back and forth. He was stuck on his piece of dialogue, proud of it, and probably for that reason he could not see the absurdity of his stand. Then he also wanted to introduce a scene where the heroine, Rojelia, whom he had described as a fine musician, put some poems that her lover had sent her to music and sang them from the music room with windows wide open so that he stood in the street and listened to them. Considering that her windows faced the Puerta del Sol, with so many people and so much noise, this serenade in reverse was insane. Garcia said that he had intended this for foreign consumption but I quoted our saying that there are no more Indians in America and this time he saw the point.

A few days after that we were sitting in the park with nothing to do and I was in a good mood because it was something we had not done for quite some time. It was the good old days all over again. Garcia passed me a stack of papers which I had learned to recognize even without looking at them. He said this was a section he had almost ready for the final copy. I read it:

Tonight is a great night. The whole of the Sandoval country residence outside Madrid is ablaze with gaiety.

Cheer long! Cheer loud! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Madrid.

A big costume ball is taking place. The garden in front of the house is brilliantly illuminated with lanterns, like a verbena. They hang from the trees and from garlands of flowers. There is a long table at one side with many candles and heaped with exquisite foods and rows of bottles with delightful wines, the whole table strewn with fresh dewy petals.

Even the moon and the stars look on with envy and have come closer, wanting also to participate in the amusements and congratulate the happy girl. What a magnificent fair! What a wonderful summer night!

Cheer loud! Cheer long! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden of the region.

The máscaras are arriving in luxurious carriages drawn by fine horses, and they fill the garden. There are young and gay Pierrots and Columbines and mischievous Harlequins and old serious Polichinelas and sullen Dominoes. Most of the famous characters in history are also assembled there, and even heaven and hell are represented by angels of indefinite sex and fearful red devils. The whole world has come to rejoice and wish Rojelia a happy birthday.

Fernando and Trini are dressed as two members of the Borgia family. Jorge appears as a clown and Lolita displays her substantial limbs in the tights of a page’s costume.

There is a little theater at the other side of the garden where a pantomime will be presented, and it is also gaily illuminated. Everybody talks and laughs and all eyes glitter and scintillate behind black masks. The pale bluish light from the moon and the warm light from the lanterns make a fascinating contrast and create fantastic effects. What a night!

Cheer loud! Cheer long! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Spain.

Rojelia comes out of the house to greet her friends and all are taken aback by her splendid beauty. She wears a white pompadour costume and carries a tremendous white fan, but she wears not the wig and her red hair flames like a bonfire in the night.

How many men would gladly jump into the crater of burning passions that woman must conceal! But perhaps this is only the glamour of the night when one dreams infernal fantasies which fade with dawn.

A clown tinkling with bells approaches Rojelia, makes a deep bow and, saying a funny rhyme, stumbles purposely and everybody laughs. Then a melancholy Pierrot kneels before her and sings her praise, fingering a lute, and an old Polichinela kisses her hand and pays her a compliment showing that his heart has not cooled with the years or else has revived in the proximity of her glowing womanhood. A jumping devil then tells her that a look from her eyes has redeemed him, and a colorless angel exclaims in heavenly transport that if fire in hell is like her hair, he will gladly seek eternal condemnation.

The whole world is at her feet in admiration. There are Nero and Julius Caesar, the Great Captain, Columbus and Napoleon, to say nothing of half a dozen other kings and emperors, all wanting to be nearest her.

But no one commands more than her polite attention. All these great figures with their historical background, glory, titles and power cannot move her. They are only máscaras, colorful, empty rags that live while the wind blows on them, that shine only for a night.

Who will attain this magnificent woman? Who will pass over her unyielding feelings, breaking them loose like a squall? Only one being can arouse her and cause her deep emotions to fall at his feet like the petals of a flower, one by one. Only one man of flesh and bone, only her lover. Only for one are all her thoughts, only for one is all her beauty, only for one she lives tonight, only for one. For that free poet who belongs to no time, for that eternal poet who knows no law, who with a burning hand has reached and crushed her heart, who has caressed her soul with melodious words, luminous and perfumed words like flowers at dusk.

Cheer loud! Cheer long! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Spain.

She is twice as beautiful tonight, because it is her birthday and she is happy to live. She is happy to live because she is in love and that makes her three times as beautiful. Her poet is coming in disguise, under cover of the night, and she alone knows it. He is coming to tell her how he blesses the day that she was born.

Everyone is growing happier and noisier. The abundant libations have kindled a flame in every heart. They all sing and dance madly. The men have grown bolder and their faces glow like the faces of satyrs. The maidens are no longer afraid and are generous with their favors, and the garden blazes in the pagan night

Cheer long! Cheer loud! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Spain.

Lolita appeared on the stage. She had exchanged her page’s costume for a bright shawl which she draped about her semi-naked figure and had taken a pair of castanets. The small orchestra played seguidillas for her and Lolita began to dance.

She undulated slowly, rhythmically, and moved from one side of the stage to the other like a wave. Her castanets rattled evenly and smoothly, fading like a distant echo and then increasing like the approaching drums of a conquering army.