Felipe Alfau - Chromos

The shawl opened up about her like the cloak of a torero, exposing her exorbitant limbs, or closed about her displaying curves that caused one’s heart to sink. Her black hair brushed her face in which the red full lips glowed with maddening lust. The men looked at her and their nostrils dilated and their eyes grew dull.

Jorge was standing in a dark corner of the garden and a girl dressed as an infanta clung to his arm, but he did not notice her. He was looking at Lolita with a strange expression in his eyes and his breath was coming fast.

The infanta said: “You should not look at your sister that way.”

“I like the way she dances.”

Oh dusky and voluptuous Lolita! How far will you go? Poisoning feelings and trampling instincts, awakening things which if latent had better be left undisclosed. But you arouse the most dangerous emotions. You lure them to the surface and they emerge gaping, appealing, like hungry sharks in the sea. Do you not fear, Lolita? Do you not think it is wiser to stop?

But Lolita went on in the mad swirl of her dance. She knew what she was arousing and enjoyed it with infernal delight, with thirsty curiosity. Oh tempting, perverse Lolita! She danced like a witch in a Saturday’s dream. Jorge looked as if held in a spell; he looked and he sank in her abyss; he looked and was burnt in her hell.

But perhaps these are but deceiving fantasies of the moment. What a night!

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

They are playing the pantomime in the little theater, but no one pays much attention to it and least of all Rojelia. She is thinking of her poet, who at this moment is probably jumping the back fence and with his face hidden by a mask will mix with the others unnoticed and tease her by letting her guess which one he is. Rojelia is so distracted scrutinizing every máscara that they have to fetch her when her number is called.

Rojelia was on the stage. She was singing a beautiful song and playing the harp and now they all realized how beautiful her voice was. On that stage she looked like something that does not belong in this world. The men looked at her and their brows grew smooth and they became peaceful. The women looked at her speculatively and pressed their men’s arms. And she sang wonderfully because she was singing for him.

Suddenly a potent voice answered her song, a deep, rich voice. They all beheld the svelte and somber figure of Mephistopheles with a black mask, coming from nowhere as if he had emerged from the ground.

Who was this unexpected visitor from the infernal regions? Who was this intruder who had cast a spell of surprise upon the audience with something that was not in the program?

Like a dark cloud, the stranger had invaded the small stage where Rojelia sat, almost covering it with his great black cloak. He continued to sing beautiful verses with a powerful voice and Rojelia, entranced, accompanied him on the harp.

Kneeling before her with his weird horns, he was the devil himself tempting an angel.

Rojelia was pale and trembling. She had recognized in that sinister figure her lover, her poet, the undaunted conqueror of all conventions who broke all laws and came to her ruled by love only, who came like a hurricane of fresh and youthful romance, to enthrall her and to mock the stupefied audience, to frighten that historical and fantastic array of masqueraders without reality.

Everyone was afraid but his voice was so entrancing and his verses so delicate that all were held in ecstasy, and Rojelia played mechanically but she played more melodiously than ever.

Indeed it was Mephistopheles, who lured mortals with honeyed words and then poisoned their souls.

The curtain came down among a soft murmur of admiration. It had been a magnificent and unexpected performance and when the curtain went up again, he was not there, he had vanished as he had come, and Rojelia had also gone.

Then they were no longer afraid. It had all been a hallucination, it was the intoxication of the wine and the wonderful summer night, and they all laughed and applauded with delight. It had been a grand jest. Even Mephistopheles had been reincarnated that night of nights for the benefit of Rojelia and no one was surprised at her disappearance from the stage. They all laughed and applauded madly.

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

Enrique was dressed as Charles V in a gleaming red costume. It fitted him beautifully, but he had danced so much that it had become disarranged and one of his garters had burst. He decided to go to his room to fix it, but as there were so many people around the front entrance and he was vain, he chose to use the back door.

He had scarcely placed a foot on the first step when he beheld a couple sitting on the lawn beneath some bushes.

It was his sister Rojelia in the arms of a man. No! In the arms of the devil. Undoubtedly this was the evil spirit who had come to tempt and demoralize her.

She who was so circumspect and pure lay now in utter disorder like a bacchante, sprawling on the grass under the volcanic assault of Lucifer. Her dress was opened and exposed a milky shoulder glowing like a white flower in the shadows, and Mephistopheles kissed the shoulder with impure, burning, demoniac lips. One of her perfect legs was exposed.

Enrique could stand no more. He approached them with clenched fists, trembling with fury.

Rojelia jumped up and arranged her costume. The devil looked up. He wore no mask and Enrique recognized in him Urcola, the insolent tramp of Madrid. The poet’s face beamed with an impertinent smile, truly devilish:

“Well, well, if it isn’t my future. ”

Enrique did not let him finish. Possessed of insane rage, he leaped forward, foaming at the mouth.

Rojelia uttered a faint cry and ran into the house.

Enrique had the strength of a maniac, but Urcola was hardened by life and many fights. The struggle lasted a while and the devil gave Charles V a sound thrashing. He finally tripped him and hurled him to the ground. Then he jumped over the fence and faded into the night like a blast from hell.

When Enrique stumbled back to the guests, his face was scarcely recognizable. One of his eyes was blackened and his nose and mouth bruised. His beautiful costume had been torn to shreds. He was a pitiful sight.

His mother ran to him screaming: “My son, my son! What has happened to you? Talk to me! Are you alive?”

The guests had surrounded him and looked on astonished.

Enrique was still shaking with anger. He pushed Trini aside and, with all the dignity he could muster and with his only available eye flashing, he addressed the gathering, panting from exhaustion:

“It was — that tramp — that intruder, that Mephisto — pheles. He was seducing Rojelia, staining the honor of this — household, but I gave him what he deserved. I — pulverized him! And then the coward flew away because he knew I would finish — him. Yes, that is what I will do to anyone who dares stain — the honor of this family. Do you all hear me? Yes, I will kill — him, anyone. Do you hear? I will — annihilate — him!”

And then he was seized by an attack. He grew tense, moaned and collapsed. His mother cried like a madwoman and then his father came with two servants who carried the convulsive Charles V into the house, followed by Trini who behaved like a Mater Dolorosa.

Everyone was silent. The gentlemen looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders and smiled.

Polichinela said to Harlequin in a nasal voice: “The impertinence! Giving us that sermon about the honor of the family, as if we had anything to do with it.”

“It is too bad that such a beautiful fiesta should be so completely spoiled with this disagreeable ending.”