Garcia said that he thought I had had enough of the other story for a day — very generous of him — and that he would read what he had left of his moving picture story which, I learned with dismay, was not yet finished:
Ramos dropped the cigarette butt and ground it with his foot on the bare floor with distracted determination and for a long time.
“You know?” he said: “Those were happy days.”
To speak of happiness in our surroundings was so incongruous that he must have noticed my expression.
“Yes, they were happy, but for one thing. I could not remember my courtship. Mind you, the girl was not worth a damn, as I found out later, much later unfortunately, but that is beside the point. A courtship is one of the happiest moments of love, or so we have been taught to think, and I had missed its charm. A man fears to miss happiness almost more than to encounter trouble. Otherwise men would never seek adventure or take a risk. I regretted having missed the only part of the affair that was any good. For the first time I began to think of all the happy moments I must have missed during those dark hours. Like diving from the day into a great cavern full of wonderful sights and rushing through in complete darkness, seeing nothing, to come out at the other end into the light. If I had only brought along the torch of consciousness. Did I love the girl? Considering the fantastic manner in which she entered my life and what my life had been, this is one of those things I cannot answer. It is something which you may debate in your mind as you please. Some people may opine that one only thinks one is in love. I am old now after all these wasted years and it seems to me that love is not to be discussed, but to be felt. It is for the emotions, for action, not for meditation or reasoning. I don’t know whether I loved her, but I feel I loved her, at least at one time.” Ramos half raised both hands in a deprecating gesture which held infinite tiredness.
But at that time Ramos was younger, less tired, and he questioned such things. He could not understand why he was in love with the girl. Indeed, he doubted very much that either one was in love with the other. Yet they remained together. The reasons for this, at least his own, must have been strongly planted during those unconscious moments when he supposedly met her and undoubtedly loved her. He could feel the aftermath of a profound passion in his whole person. As for her reasons to remain with him, very early in life Ramos had concluded that women did not usually employ what one might call reasons for their actions and he looked for none. They did not precisely quarrel, but there was a perennial smoldering disagreement between them. To her he was introspective, “dull” and “gloomy” she called it. According to that girl, smiling and laughing were something at which people should always be exercising regardless of motives. Hers was an insane obsession with laughter. But after all, he must appear puzzling to her. There was something very definite which prevented him from having a normal relationship with others: these periods of time which he skipped. She called it absentmindedness, but perhaps she already suspected something else she did not dare or could not formulate.
Garcia continued to read but my mind wandered and I was not paying close attention. I remember not too clearly that his story went on to deal with the differences of race and background between Ramos and his girlfriend and their growing incompatibility. That he was serious and she frivolous. I caught one or two things that did not seem well-founded or convincing, but was not inclined to further discussion. Then there was something about a serious disagreement at some party where there was a certain Charlie something-or-other, a Spanish fellow who had become very Americanized, which irked Ramos and also gave Garcia food for some character study. Also there was some hint about an affair between this fellow and the girl. This Charlie had appeared out of one of those blank moments in Ramos’s life with several other things, even as it had appeared to me who had not been following the story.
Garcia continued to read and I continued to look around me and think of nothing too important. There was something about Ramos wanting to marry the girl Jenny and her raising objections, probably calculated to trap him better, and then Garcia read something about Madison Square which arrested my attention:
They argued while walking along Madison Square, the argument becoming more and more heated. Julio’s resentment increased; he did not want to wait. Jealousy at her liberty, at her other men friends, gnawed at his very entrails. She was unflinching; her mind was made up. And then impatience began to invade his being. He was walking arm in arm with her and heard a clock’s bell sounding the hours away, time passing, and he realized that he could wait no more, that to convince a stubborn woman would take eternity. He released her arm and clenched his fists as if to drive his fingers through the palms of his hands. He shut his eyes.
The clock’s bell had turned to solemn organ music. The sidewalk under his feet felt soft. He opened his eyes and continued walking with Jenny on his arm, along the luxuriously decorated center aisle of a church and out, in time with a wedding march.
And this time the impression was less. He only missed a step, a thing which did not surprise her under the circumstances, and he continued to walk very erect and out of the church.
“You see?” Ramos said, “I had already become more used to it. One becomes used to most anything in this world. I had grown weaker, my defect, my impatience, stronger. It is always that way.” He was walking again and I could see his shadow pass outlined against the livid window and then almost disappear again. It was much darker. He noticed it: “I have no light here. You must forgive me.” He walked on and then:
“I took my life as I found it, where I found it.”
The man standing in front of us was the personification of fallen and unvanquished dignity, of reluctant mendicancy. The full beard, yet the head respectfully hatless, the stoop due to the weight of years and misfortune, that could yet spring back erect in long-forgotten flashes of a regal past. He spoke to us in proud and nostalgic Castilian:
“Forgive the intrusion, little masters,” a flattering appraisal of our age despite Garcia’s prematurely white hair and my other timely and less becoming signs: “but I heard you speak our language and was certain that you would help a poor old compatriot with a few coins to fill this bota.” He patted an object he carried under his arm and which in the imperfect light I had taken for his hat held deferentially in this fashion.
“Is that a wineskin?” Garcia exclaimed: “I have not seen one for I don’t know how long.”
“That it is, sir, and it has accompanied me in my peregrinations all the way from Spain. It is thirsty now and as empty as a wretched mother’s breast. Will you gentlemen help to fill it up, so that I may have a drink to your health?”
His frankness in asking, as we say, for vices was disarming and I began to reach for my pocket, but Garcia stopped me. This honor would be his. I gave him a dissuading nudge which went unheeded and then to my surprise and consternation, he brought out a ten dollar bill. I nudged like a pneumatic drill, but Garcia was pachydermia
“Look: I have no change. If you can go and change this someplace in the neighborhood, I shall be glad to contribute.”
The beggar took the bill and stood more erect: “Thank you, little master. I know a place nearby where I can get this bota filled up for very little and I will bring you the change right back. I knew you would not let a compatriot down,” and with this he walked away and disappeared around some bushes.
I knew this was Garcia’s last money in this world. Either he was going to follow my advice and bring about a reconciliation with his landlady that same night, or else he wanted to go back to washing dishes sooner than necessary, because I was certain that this would be the last he would ever see of that bill. Undoubtedly we had drunk too much arrack.