The sound of ships’ sirens, of boat whistles, of hurried people and sharp voices, of words not spoken in Spanish, crowded in his ears and brought him to. Ramos opened his eyes and his knees sagged as his heart pulled him on its way down. The bay of New York was closing up on him.
Garcia waved his arms forward like an orchestra conductor. I looked in front and all I saw were our perspiring images reflected in the barroom mirror. This was the second thirst-quenching stop we had made to lay a foundation for the promised brandy at Garcia’s. He had been so fired by his narrative that he had infected me and during the last part, leaning there against the bar, the impression had been as vivid as was the letdown now. We left there and walked on, Garcia still talking with the same enthusiasm. We made only one more stop with him pounding on the bar to drive his point home and reaffirm the veracity of his experience with the fellow Ramos and by the time we got to his place all the fight was out of me and he had his story or moving picture or whatever it was considerably well planned out.
Garcia went up to his rooms turning around to talk to me all the way up the stairs. He was quite winded when we reached his place. His lights were on. He never failed to leave his lights on, or have them turned on for him. Did not like to walk into a dark room.
We discarded our coats and I flopped on an easy chair by the open windows. Garcia moved to his desk, which was well littered with papers, a typewriter, and of all things an old slipper which I later learned he used to slap flies with. There was a sheet of paper inserted in the typewriter. He bent over to read it, then pulled it out and threw it crumpled into the wastebasket. It bounced to the floor to join other scraps of paper. The basket was overflowing already.
“What about that drink,” I reminded him.
“Oh yes, the Fundador.” He went to a chest at the far end of the room and returned with a bottle and two tumblers. He placed everything on a small table by my chair and also an open pack of cigarettes, and then he uncorked the bottle. Quite hospitable and also quite ensnaring— “said the spider to the fly”—I thought.
“Help yourself,” he said, and I poured a couple of good ones and settled down.
“This is going to make us perspire more,” I said as if I cared.
“The more one perspires, the less one feels the heat,” Garcia philosophized absently and disregarding his drink went back to the desk and began fumbling again and stacking typewritten sheets: “Let me see, let me see.” He shoved our coats over and sat on the daybed facing me:
“I have this part pretty well worked out. Of course, the whole story is old-fashioned and I would like to present it in some parts, especially this one,” he waved the papers in his hand, “in a sort of old-fashioned — well stilted — if you know what I mean, to fit the period.” He searched for the right word or explanation: “Cursi is what I mean. That is the word: cursi.”
The word “cursi” is difficult to translate, its meaning almost impossible to convey with any other word, and the closest I can find to it in English is the word “corny.” I told him that I knew what he meant and he went on:
“I am quite serious about your helping with the translation and if I convince you, I hope you will bear that in mind and try to create that cursi feeling in English.”
I said that it was hard enough simply to express an idea clearly in English without attempting the fine points of style and shades of feeling, and then with modest, if true, self-appraisal, I added that he need not fear, because anything in which I collaborated in English was sure to turn out pretty corny anyway.
Garcia referred to his papers and settled more comfortably: “After what I read to you at El Telescopio as a sort of introduction, I may use this part to open the novel. I am not sure yet. Perhaps I might insert other material before. But listen to this now:”
Paco Serrano is a young man-about-town and has all the attributes that go with that title. He is very good-looking and dresses irreproachably. He does everything that is fashionable, or rather, everything he does becomes fashionable. Everybody knows him well in Madrid. His credit is ample and he has just enough honor.
Three or four duels (with a thin and becoming scar from one), many love affairs, and two acknowledged and generous mistresses complete his wardrobe.
Many things are said about Paco Serrano, among them that he is a natural son of the Count of X. and that his official father was an official cuckold.
According to many people, this official father never cared about the iregular life of his wife and profited handsomely by the generosity showered upon her and his official son by the Count of X.
Paco Serrano was excellently educated and never missed a luxury in life. His official father did not work, nor had he any known income, but nevertheless he lived with his wife and son in a luxurious mansion and went out in a carriage pulled by two horses with a coachman and a lackey.
It is told that he once said: “Horns are like teeth; they hurt when they come in, but after, they are good to eat with.”
This sentence has been attributed to others, but after all there are so many people in the same situation and so many who would like to be in a similar one that it must have occurred to many.
Apparently the generosity of the Count of X. did not stop with the disappearance of Madame Serrano’s youth, or perhaps he had provided indefinitely for her. This was the opinion of many who could not understand where Paco got the income that permitted him to lead the gay and brilliant existence he led.
Yet, all this is gossip. Who cares? Least of all Paco Serrano, who is tonight on his way to the theater and as a first-nighter is going to see the opening of a new musical revue.
The name of the revue is La Gran Via and it concerns the plans for the construction of a new avenue — which incidentally, has not been finished yet. Some of the streets through which it is expected to pass are represented by actors. There are the usual allusions to the political situation of those days.
Paco Serrano is reclining condescendingly in his chair. Although the play interests him more than the audience, he utterly disregards it to concentrate on the boxes and aim his opera glasses at the ladies. It is the fashion. Elegant Spaniards of the time go to the theater the first night and to church to the late High Mass, but only to see the ladies. In both places the performances are immaterial, even if they are confirmed lovers of the theater and devout Catholics.
A slender old dandy with a top hat at a rakish angle advances to the footlights with graceful steps. He is spinning a cane in his fingers and he begins to sing a waltz which has become internationally famous since that night:
“Caballero de gracia me llaman. ”
There were murmurs of approval. Paco Serrano felt eclipsed by a great actor on that memorable night and he turned languidly to inspect the scene. There stood the famous Joaquín Manini accepting the applause in a charming manner.
The performance went on. Something funny happened on the stage and the whole house roared with laughter and then above that roar, a unique laugh pierced the theater, a laugh like silver that for a moment seemed to steal and hold all the light and attention from the stage and music.