Felipe Alfau - Chromos

Rojelia had noticed a couple walking along the opposite side of the avenue. A man with a woman who pushed a perambulator. Rojelia looked more attentively and then stood erect, her eyes wide open.

The woman had a chalky complexion and looked sickly. She wore spectacles and aimed them lovingly at the child inside the worn-out carriage. The man was Urcola. He walked on resignedly, but was a little stouter. His black romantic clothes fitted the autumnal background. He also saw her and lifted his hat politely, as the most natural thing in the world.

Trini had not noticed the couple, but she was surprised by Rojelia’s attitude: “What is the matter?”

“Nothing — nothing.”

“You look very pale. Shall we turn back?”

“No. I am all right now. Maybe we could walk a little.”

The carriage stopped and they alighted. They walked along the row of small trees which still remained a deep green, the carriage following slowly. The part where they were was deserted and there was a great silence broken only by the rustle of the leaves beneath their feet and the horses’ hooves upon the pavement.

They walked without speaking, their eyes following the somber paths leading away into shadows, always receding, always beckoning. They walked thus for some time and then a breeze began to blow and grew stronger and the dry leaves rained copiously in the orchestral wind.

They entered the carriage and returned homeward.

They passed under the Puerta de Alcala noticing the broken stone where bullets had smashed to leave an emblem of quality. They crossed the Cibeles, in the center of which stood the fountain with the goddess of that name, sitting on a cart drawn by two lions, always drawing, always in the same place. Behind, they had left a palace whose windows were always shut and housed a sad legend known to all Madrid and respected enough to be little commented upon. In front and at the right were the gardens of the Ministry of War. Rojelia had a fleeting glimpse of La Castellana, Recoletos and El Prado extending right and left with rows of trees and heavy ornate lampposts in the middle. The victoria began to ascend the slight hill flanked by cafés made famous by illustrious habitués.

Then through the clouds the sun burst and set brightly, turning the street into a river of fire. It shone right in their faces, dazzling, tinting them a glowing red. They sought the shadow of the coachman in front and their heads came together. Rojelia pressed her mother’s hand and looked distractedly at the sidewalks filled with people.

At their right they saw the entrance to the Gran Via, the brand-new and long-awaited street which had inspired Chueca and Valverde to write some of their best music and words for a revue featuring it. The broad modern street rose slightly, majestically, cutting its way through an old part of the city, leaving at one side the narrow street of Caballero de Gracia where a delicate romance still dwelt in wandering shadows that trailed a short way from the present and through the past of a sentimental tale, back to the present of prosaic Madrid.

Trini said: “I was at the theater the first night they played La Gran Via . It was not built then.”

“They have not got very far with it yet.”

Trini had not heard Rojelia. Her thoughts were rushing to the past: “That night I was with Fernando and your poor Aunt Julieta. I was happy then— your father and I had just been married. You know? There behind that building is the street the famous waltz is about.”

Rojelia knew that part of Madrid well but she looked in the direction pointed by her mother, even though the street could not be seen from where they were.

They had reached the top of the hill and their carriage stopped, held by the traffic. Then their attention was arrested by an amusing scene that was taking place near the sidewalk. A bicycle policeman was chasing a boy. The boy dived into the crowds that jammed the sidewalk and the policeman had to abandon his machine in the gutter and follow on foot. The people, siding as usual with the enemy of the law, made way for the boy and hindered the policeman’s path as much as possible. In the end, the boy emerged from the crowd where the bicycle lay, seized it and pedaled swiftly down the street among general laughter.

Trini had turned to see the boy ride down Alcala Street toward La Cibeles. Her eyes rested once more on the entrance to La Gran Via but they seemed to be looking into the past.

Here Garcia talked about the way in which he had worked the theme of the Gran Via throughout his story and spoke of it as if this literary trick were his own discovery, admitting only that he had perfected it more from ideas gathered when hearing the Moor talk about thematic development in music. I suppose he wanted to make sure that no one would miss his virtuosity and he asked whether I had noticed it: “Something like the principal song in a musical comedy, you know?”

I told him he need not worry, that it was quite clear and therefore he should not overdo it. We spoke a while about this question of development of ideas and then he proceeded:

The traffic began to move again. They were descending mildly onto La Puerta del Sol. Every sunny afternoon this place lives up to its name. They were blinded by the glare of the sun, deafened by the noise of traffic and people. Rojelia felt tired of all these things. She knew them all by heart. They bored her and she had a strong desire to go away. She wondered how her mother could relish the past of such things, having lived among them so many years.

When they arrived home, Trini went directly upstairs and Rojelia entered the shop. A gentleman who was coming out held the door open for her.

At the bottom of the store was Ledesma behind a glass counter. Rojelia advanced and over the counter took both of Ledesma’s hands in hers:

“How is my good Ledesma?”

“Not so well, my child. Troubles of age. That gentleman who just went out is a customer and while he was here, there was a terrible row going on upstairs between your father and your sister. These things are embarrassing. The man was listening to it. That creates a disastrous impression.”

“I understand, Ledesma, but don’t worry. This can’t go on forever.”

“That is why I worry. I know it can’t last and I see the end coming fast. I am doing all I can to hold it back, to fight against the inevitable, but I can’t all alone. I am too old now. Are they all blind?”

“Ledesma, you are doing your best. So am I. I have tried to bring equanimity into this insane household, but it is impossible. They are all mad with vanity and nerves. But we must not worry. When one does not worry, half the adversity has been conquered.”

“But even if it were only for selfishness? What will become of me when this sinks?”

“Ledesma, where I go, you can always go.”

“Ah, but that does not worry me. I know I will have nowhere to turn, but I will be too old to care. Then the end is at hand and one can always precipitate and make sure of it—”

“No — not that, Ledesma.”

“—but what kills me is to think of what will become of you and your younger sister. Especially you, Rojelia. You know how I have come to love you. I have known you ever since you were just so high and you have always been so good to me. Although you are a different type from your Aunt Julieta, may she rest in peace, sometimes you have exactly her expression, and then I don’t know what I feel. When you came in and held my hands, you looked so much like her—! And she was so unhappy—!”

“Don’t worry about me. When the time arrives, I trust I will be out of the wreck with someone who will teach me to walk again on the road to happiness.”

“You will, Rojelia. You will find someone very good. He will have to be very good to deserve you. In the meanwhile be strong and calm.”