Felipe Alfau - Chromos

They walked to the windows facing the street and some of us followed. A crowd had gathered in front of the restaurant, attracted by the music and noise, and many of them must have been regular customers who were told that the place was not open to the public as there was a private gathering going on. A couple of waiters were uncorking bottles fast and reinserting the corks halfway. The Señor Olózaga and Don Pedro stood at a large window, a bottle in each hand, and saluted the crowd.

“With the compliments of El Telescopio,” said the Señor Olózaga loudly, and a bottle sailed across the street. There was no crash.

“What do you mean the compliments of El Telescopio? This Chink always advertising and still he denies— With the compliments of the Chink and the Moor, fellows,” and off sailed two more bottles in quick succession. There was a roar of approval from the crowd across the street, and as the barrage of bottles continued and they passed from hand to hand, there were shouts to the health of the Moor and the Chink and even vivas.

Don Pedro kept a running commentary: “Look at them, Chink — That’s it, boys. Drink out of the bottles, that is the national — in this case I mean the colonial system of El Telescopio, the only true advance post of Spain— And now it is overflowing into the street and the epidemic is spreading. Drink up, boys, to the second conquest Catch!” And another couple of bottles went forth. “Come on, Chink. Let’s lay down a good barrage. The Latinamericanization of the continent is proceeding according to schedule. These are from the king of the tango.” A bottle: “the sultan of the rumba.” Another bottle: “The master of the ay, ay, ay imported from the land of eternal lamentations. These are from the emperor of Latin America appearing at the balcony of his palace, El Telescopio, to greet his faithful subjects.” The light from the windows was reflected across the street by a growing array of bottles with bottoms pointing skyward and Don Pedro turned to the audience gathered behind him and the Señor Olózaga: “Look at the convention of astronomers — this is castizo!”

A young voice speaking English came from the crowd: “That’s Pete Guz, the bandleader.”

“Right you are, my child, and here is my autograph on the label of this one. Leave the Pedro and cross out the other name. It is from Don Pedro el Cruel, but tonight Don Pedro the Just — as many Spaniards still insist he was. Let them go, Chink. Put more English into those bottles — haa — English into Spanish bottles — a hangover from prohibition. Typical. That’s Spain for you, and that’s El Telescopio in New York. Watch them go, like little airships that sail in the night— See if you can heave one over the buildings into Chinatown for your countrymen. The Chinks are tonight the allies of the Moors in this battle for the aggrandizement of Spain in a campaign for advertising El Telescopio.” The last two bottles were swallowed by the crowd which now packed the opposite sidewalk, and with a parting wave of the arm the good Samaritans ambled back to their table. They were quite a pair, these two. After having turned the gathering into an open juerga, they knew that things were out of their hands, going their merry way, and they settled down to their serious drinking.

But the juerga had become public property now and it was more like a carnival where friends and strangers mix alike. Every vestige of formal restraint was swept aside and everyone began to enjoy himself freely. Cáceres began to strum parts of tunes from different regions— ghostly ones from the north and warm ones from the south. Pinto and Bejarano began to show each other steps in time with the music and Lunarito and La Colombina were laughing together. Slowly the crowd from the street invaded the billiard room beyond, many of them still holding bottles in their hands, and then stood there reverently looking upon the celebrities they had never had occasion to see in person and only knew by fame and pictures.

“Look, Chink. They enter the palace as it should be and as it was done in Spain where individualism is what makes all men equal. They come to say: We, each of whom is as good as you and altogether better than you, elect you to be our king, eh, Chink? After this, you and I remain Spanish forever— Viva España!” He bellowed: “Come on, all of you. Put on a good show for the Spanish colony. You could never wish for a better audience.”

This is where my memory begins to fail me about that memorable night and from there on until the end, I have only recollections of disconnected scenes. One of these is that, at the words of the Moor, the crowd in the billiard room advanced into the main room, and then that Cáceres was playing for them with a devotion that he could not have surpassed in the concert hall. Then the four dancers dancing in pairs and together with a dedication impossible to understand after what they had eaten and drunk for hours and the crowd cheering, accepting the royal gifts with magnificent appreciation. I caught sight of Dr. de los Rios beaming with cheerful benignity. His eyes swept over the scene and then, almost unseeing, over me and Fulano and for one moment it was as if a very tenuous cloud had passed over the sun. Instinctively, I looked at the thick lenses.

More than once he had caught me looking at him and had looked away, but this did not make any difference. All I needed was to look into his eyes a moment. Once I had entered his mind, I was well established and he could look where he pleased without seeming to be aware of my presence in him. Otherwise, I assume, he would have changed some of his thoughts, although one can never tell and I was ready to believe anything, having witnessed how deceptive external appearances could be.

At this particular moment he was not recalling any dreams or experiences, but indulging in self-flagellation and savoring another of his favorite tragic roles. He enjoyed this game better, but at the same time, the implied responsibility made him restless. So as usual, he chose a good, solid, cast-iron stock situation with most of the well-tried-out and worn trimmings:

He was a beggar in his last moments of despair and shame, a meek panhandler, wanting but not daring to ask for a dime at a beer hall and looking hungrily at the free-lunch counter. The place he had well figured out; the circumstances not so well. At one end was a piano and a cynical, if intellectual-looking fellow, cigarette dangling from his lips, playing with a feeling and understanding that the most select audience would have been honored to hear. He too was a desperate soul, a kindred soul who, casting aside a brilliant career, swept by disillusionment, elected to seek solace in anonymity among the rough and simple folk. But he was there by choice and this made a difference.

Then in came the burly fellow, radiating self-confidence and insolence, surrounded by his henchmen: “Hello, Mozart,” he greeted the pianist who did not turn but acknowledged the greeting by a shrug of his shoulders without interrupting his play. “When are you going to play something cheerful?” Then he had bought drinks for everybody and, observing the forlorn beggar, had tossed him a bank note.

Fulano picked up the note avidly and wanted to kiss the fellow’s hand, thanking him profusely, but the fellow had pushed him away, telling him to forget it. He had made a killing that day and felt generous.

But Fulano did not intend to forget it. This was the turning point in his life. Having reached the nadir of abjection, when he was contemplating the redemption of suicide, this man had extended a helping hand and saved his life. He skipped over the details that followed, but his gratitude increased as he gradually recovered his self-respect and began to take his rightful position in society, until he reached that point where he was considered a solid citizen.