Felipe Alfau - Chromos

The Señor Olózaga had ordered calamares for La Colombina and had before him a whole roasted suckling, a specialty of the house which no doubt felt with this like a loyal outpost of the famous Botin of Madrid. Don Pedro was eating angulas and his vocalist asked him what they were.

“Sewer worms, woman. See? They are heavenly worms and those two little black dots at one end are the eyes.”

The girl did not push her curiosity any farther, but Garcia, who was eating something with peppers, laid his tools down:

“Please! Do you have to put it that way? Besides, I am not so sure that they are what you say.”

“Ah! But they are, my friend. Handpicked by the light of a lantern at night.” Garcia bent over his peppers resignedly, a picture of utter desolation. “This national squeamishness, inevitably enhanced by the presence of foreigners.” The Moor held some of the angulas in his fork and shoved them toward the vocalist: “Try them. They are wonderful.” She averted the threat with agility born from panic: “Even better than calamares, eh! Colombina?” he shouted.

La Colombina engaged him in a short discussion about the comparative virtues of angulas versus calamares. Oh! The calamares in their own black sauce! According to Don Pedro, the only fish that wears mourning for itself at the table. He finally deferred to her gallantly, avowing that nothing could be so good as she, properly or improperly served, and would she submerge in a tub full of black ink and thus be brought to his table?

His attention returned to his companions. He explained that once, unable to procure angulas and in despair, he had tried, and communicated for the benefit of those who collect recipes, broken-up spaghetti with the juice of a can of herrings and plenty of fried garlic, but it had proven a dismal failure as a substitute. His English vocalist was following his every word with fascination and especially a favorite gesture of his which consisted of pulling his lower eyelid with his thumb and following up with extended index finger. His long, strong hands gave this common motion unmatched meaning. His talking mechanics were superior.

“That must be a Spanish gesture. Is it a Spanish gesture? I have seen him do it all the time and have also seen other Spaniards do it. I’ll bet it is a Spanish gesture.”

“It is more than that, my gambling Trilby. It is an exorcism. It captures the alter ego of the eyeball and makes it roll like this.” He picked up an olive and with astonishing skill made it roll back and forth on the curve between thumb and forefinger: “He knows the most amazing table tricks.” She applauded: “He is wonderful!”

“You see?” He went on: “The eye that has sighted the idea runs after it in hot pursuit and this offers the best way. The fingers form part of a cycloid — the tautachrone, the brachistochrone; path of swiftest descent and supreme equalizer of all starts, whose invited guests all arrive at the same time— The curve that captivated Galileo, Pascal, and impregnating the minds of the Bernoullis, Euler sired the calculus of variations nurtured by Lagrange, but never mind. That way it catches up with the idea sooner, do you see?” The olive left the curve of his fingers and popped into his mouth: “The desideratum of tobogganic democracy— It would be interesting to speculate on what would happen to a democracy if all immigrants chose such a path. What a convention! The valley of Jehoshaphat.” He had left his chair and ranted on while limping about the table, finishing the dish of angulas in his hand. Right in his element. That is what he liked, what most of us really like: to eat and drink in disorder and endlessly in continuous ingestion, alternating a little bite here and a little swallow there, all day long.

Someone mentioned the tapitas in the Spanish taverns and a chorus followed of many other words with diminutive endings and any other endings at the discretion of the speaker. One of the greatest freedoms of the Spanish language is that of endings which can impart to a word any number of shadings and implications. One takes a good part of the word and then ends it to suit the meaning intended as one wishes and the same word assumes all possible aspects: awesome or insignificant, lofty or contemptible, pugnacious, indifferent, benevolent, even back-slapping, caressing, tickling, and the endings used on that occasion for the well-remembered little things to eat were a masterpiece of endearment and reminiscent lip-smacking and tooth-sucking. Possibly it is this alternating of food and drink that makes for the high alcoholic tolerance of the Spaniard.

The Moor had finished his angulas and was in front of the table occupied by the green man and the two ladies who looked like schoolteachers. He laid the empty dish in front of one of the ladies: “Smell that garlic, madam. Good for you.”

She astonished everyone by agreeing with him and insisting on ordering some. The green man bounced and screamed: “Don’t you dare order those horrible things, you bad girl! You ought to be spanked. You should be tied to a post and thrashed with a horsewhip.” His voice had risen almost to a pitch that only a dog could hear, and he was congested with ill-concealed and uncalled-for delight.

Don Pedro turned away and called to a waiter to bring the lady’s order and then said that Garcia’s peppers looked good: “Bring me some, but with the meat cut thick. These Spaniards with meat are unbelievable. Don’t know what it’s all about. They take a cutlet and go into battle with it, swing it with all their might and slap it down on the chopping block so that when several of them are working at the same time it sounds like an ovation or a battery of guns. Bang! Every time the meat hits, they jump from the force. They treat meat as if it were their worst enemy. After that, they attack it with a special mace, bang! crash! swing it and slap it some more, crush it again: swish, slap, bang, crash! And tough as the meat usually is, they win in the end and attain their sworn purpose which is to make it so thin that it has only one side. A perfect dish for the great Möbius.”

The general eating and drinking went on. Most everyone had left his seat and walked about holding a plate or a glass. The conversation hummed and chairs scraped against the floor. The green man and his two ladies, probably thinking that the party was getting a little too fast for their speed, were gathering their belongings and getting ready to leave when the blast of the Moor’s laughter hit the fellow flush in the back. He turned around, purple with indignation, nostrils dilated, his fingers curled as if ready to scratch, eyes now flaring, lids now drooping with intolerable disgust, but the Moor pointed significantly at his stick and the fellow hurried behind the two ladies, his back attempting the impossible feat of combining dignity with swift evasion of a possible kick or a well-directed missile. The man did everything with an air of surreptitious guilt, of being caught in flagrante, even of getting away with things which anyone would have felt entitled to. I observed him. Right at the door, on his way out, he adjusted his face, but he did it as someone would adjust his clothes before leaving a washroom.

Besides me, the only ones left at our table were Garcia, munching quietly, and Fulano with his thick lenses focused into space. Someone had turned on the radio and a voice sang in English something about the secret tragedy of a woman of the streets. There were protests and loud commands to turn it off. I heard snatches of the Moor’s conversation and then looked into the lenses. He was thinking now of something that had happened and not a dream.

It was a Saturday and he was going to a party at the apartment of some Spanish fellows. They agreed that they should all bring girls, gay ones. He did not have any particular girl but he knew a prostitute uptown whom he visited with some regularity. She was a pleasant blonde girl with whom he felt at ease. Once on an impulse, he had decided to bring her a present in order to make things less businesslike and more personal, and perhaps she might dedicate the rest of the evening to him, go for a walk, sit on a bench in the park, like others did. Not that he wanted to become involved with a girl like that, but at least he could safely try to make it less cold, less clinical. He debated between bringing her flowers or candy and decided on the candy because there were always people at the entrance of her place who would notice flowers and might think him a fool.