Felipe Alfau - Chromos

As the years passed, he never forgot his benefactor and always followed his exploits with solicitous dismay. The man had become an arch-criminal, commanding a vast underworld empire, and all during his rise to that position, he had been the recipient of inexplicable favors, not knowing whom to thank for them. Once when it appeared certain that the law had him at last and all his sinister influence could not help him, he had been presented with an alibi which he and his lawyer had lapped up like manna from heaven.

Out of gratitude Fulano had protected a sinner and obstructed justice.

A moral dilemma but flavorful. The little man could not figure out how to maintain his anonymity all those years, how such an influential gangster had failed to discover his identity and connect him with the former beggar. Fulano had in reserve an ending in which he, having become a distinguished judge, resigned dramatically when having to pass a death sentence upon his protege, but there was another ending which he thought might be better. All these doubts annoyed him and he decided to skip it and reach unhindered the other grand finale.

The great moment came at last, the situation that would offer the proof of supreme gratitude.

The arch-criminal with his bodyguards was entering a theater, or a music hall or whatever it was, it did not matter which, when the black sedan closed in, its windows bristling with gun barrels.

And then Fulano threw himself in the way, arms outstretched, protecting his former benefactor—

A series of explosions disrupted and blacked out the scene that I was watching in the little man’s mind, and for a moment I did not know what to make of it. Then I realized that they were the Moor’s words intruding in his thoughts and scattering them:

“Boo, boo!” The extended fingers pointing at him, words shooting out of them, in one of Don Pedro’s habitual gestures: “Why so thoughtful and gloomy? Not that I blame you, but one must keep up appearances and, after all — you know—” There followed some more of his motions and incantations.

The little man smiled wanly but managed a quick introspective look to finish the scene in a hurry:

He was lying on the sidewalk, dead, and a crowd was gathering. One of the bodyguards said, and the uncultured words were well memorized: “The little punk must have been one of your admirers, boss. Maybe the guy who done you all them favors.”

“Yeah, maybe. Let’s get the hell out of here, boys.”

And Fulano lay there, still unrecognized, his debt paid in full.

But the Moor had really spoiled it and with satisfaction walked back to the table where the Señor Olózaga was waiting for him, surrounded by bottles. After this I can remember only a blank and a glimpse floating in its midst of El Cogote with a red and yellow cape making veronicas and adornos right in front of the crowd and demanding a bull desperately— Then nothing, and out of that, Lunarito in laughing collapse at her table and drinking manzanilla thirstily while fanning herself, and then I woke up to a clear scene.

A man detached himself from the crowd and staggered forward. He had a fine head of white hair and luxuriant beard and a manner of grandiose and hurt kindliness. The unusual silence which accompanied this, possibly the only complete silence since my arrival at El Telescopio, must have aroused me from my stupor and fixed the scene in my mind.

The patriarchal, godly man stopped before Lunarito’s table and stood there swaying drunkenly without uttering a word, only looking down at her with a mixture of regret and compassionate forgiveness. She looked up once startled at him and then lowered her eyes. Bejarano came quickly to her side and stood looking at the man belligerently, his face that maroon color that the rush of blood produces in a very dark complexion. For that type of scene, it lasted long without a word being said. Then one of the waiters approached and, touching the man on the shoulder, inquired whether there was anything he wanted.

“Go back to your chores,” Don Pedro commanded. “And don’t interrupt the dramatic moment. Don’t you know yet that Spaniards cannot get together without a tragic, heart-rending situation appearing like a rabbit out of a hat? Leave them alone, let the scene play itself. This is typical.”

There was a ripple of comment ever so slight while the waiter, feeling quite foolish, hesitated and the man looked him over with dignity:

“Nothing, nothing,” he said. “I made a mistake.” And with that he turned and began to walk away with faltering steps. Royal with solicitude, the Moor rushed over and held his arm to guide him out respectfully and the man then marched erect, with stiff aplomb, his head held aloft from all base, mundane ugliness, with all the heroic bearing of a stubborn invalid. If the old guy had come in, as we say, through the little door, now he was going out through the big one. Everybody made way for them and together they passed on processionally, the Moor holding an arm around the other with defiant solidarity, pouring words of consolation down his shoulder — one renegade to another— and thus they walked right through the crowd and out of the place.

The Moor returned and made straight for his table. Once there, he faced the audience: “Curtain! Bravo! Wake up!” He applauded loudly and others imitated him with relief: “I propose a toast: To the Spaniard’s love for the elegiac and may situations never fail him.” He drank out of the bottle.

This lessened the tension and all began to act as if nothing had happened. Lunarito became voluble with forced gaiety and the noise went on. More wine, more talk and confusion. I don’t know how long after I noticed the crowd of people who had entered the place begin to withdraw, but it could not have been very long because there were objections to their going. This was a fiesta for Spaniards and all those available should share it. Yet all those people, unanimously and politely, with a grateful murmur and a gesture, excused themselves and I heard Don Pedro praising the innate discretion of his countrymen.

Again more confusion and shouting. Lunarito and Bejarano exchanging steps and fine points with La Colombina and Pinto. The voice of the Moor: “National system — the fourth perpendicular— don’t know what it’s all about.” And El Cogote demanding a bull: “Please, gentlemen, a bull, a bull, even a little bull—” the English phrase running stupidly through my mind: “My kingdom for a horse. What kingdom?” — “Please, gentlemen. For God’s sake, señores; un toro, un torito,” and the controversial Moor telling him: “Hay que vaciar. Let me show you how to vaciar.” All this against the ample well-satisfied inspection of the Señor Olózaga and above all Cáceres, rising majestic in his serenity while all around him broke down, still standing in the unassailable omnipotence of his art.

Here the pattern of the gathering was lost. The Moor was persistently toasting La Colombina and Lunarito as the two prototypes of Spanish women: both all fire, but one a smoldering volcano and the other an open conflagration. This led him to speak of women who believe their sole duty consists of being beautiful without contributing anything else, only to accept and nothing more.

“I recall the generation of the chorus girls: women without imagination, without talk, without expression, glorying in their statuesque stupidity — lifeless statues, posturing corpses, making one wonder whether one was living in a world of frustrated Pygmalions or necropsies; women with the same centripetal gluttony of the dead, accepting all homage and giving nothing in return. They could also come under my heading of perfect examples of feminine putritude—”

I felt an almost physical pull in my eyes and found myself looking into the face of Fulano and there was indescribable anguish in it. For a few moments I could see nothing but that face hanging in front of me and then the countenance of Dr. de los Rios floated in and out of cigarette smoke clouds, radiating infinite clemency and understanding, and I could only hear the conversation all around growing dim, as if it were receding and then returning and becoming banal. Garcia had said something about the limerick form not having a counterpart in Spanish and somebody recited a ribald one. Then someone else began to recite another—