“Be at ease, man. Don’t try so hard. You are under no obligation. I am sure the Bejaranos like to help you if you are in difficulties, and we all like to befriend any countryman who is in need of reassurance. Remember that you are a Spaniard, remember your pride — and also ours.”
Bejarano with innate, easy good manners was saying that of course, everyone there would stay for dinner.
“Not me. Oh, not me!” the antipático man shrieked in English. I don’t know why he insisted on speaking English there when we were all Spanish and the Bejaranos scarcely understood one or two words of the language. “Don’t mention Spanish food to me. I tried it once—” and he began a gloating, nauseating description of a past attack of indigestion, with much accent on fainting, being a mess and puking— of all the synonyms, he would pick that one — all in English. “But go ahead. See if I care. Ruin your stomachs and your complexions and disgrace yourselves in public. See if I care,” he challenged with almost libidinous, flirting condemnation, his voice reaching for the ceiling. He finally quieted down, fanning himself with his handkerchief.
The Moor burst into a prolonged, loud laugh, slapped his knee and pointed at the man with his shillelagh:
“The green man. Look at him there, acting his part. There is no one like him. Don’t you know him, fellows? Why, he is the one who could stand nothing Spanish since he took out his first papers, and now he is back for more. Why, more American than the Americans. He was living in blissful confusion, like so many others. They come here and immediately acquire the art of picking out and liking precisely those things which Americans would most like to get rid of; they unfailingly repel them with their ingratiating imitations. Completely misinformed. They never miss — could drop in the middle of an international group and instantly arouse unanimous dislike that would cause the group to disband and leave them alone like the illustrations of some well-known advertisements — and this one is the champion, my friends— He is wise and he knows. He has learned everything since he left Spain and now he is properly ashamed of his past ignorance and doing his best to live it down — the perfect example of the repentant foreigner. No more garlic or wine, no more chamber pot under his bed at night. Oh, no! He freezes gymnastically on his way to the bathroom and back because he also sleeps with windows wide open, believes in fresh air, dieting and exercise, and also in the equality of the sexes, when one well-directed look could convince anyone who still needed convincing of the fallacy of the assertion. But don’t let it confuse you, my green friend. Take a good look before you make a pass — the equality of the sexes — haa— And he believes it like the gospel. Completely misinformed. Doesn’t know what it’s all about and has overlooked one thing that we have been saying in Spain for a long time: that there are no more Indians in America — that is good; Indians indeed — what he wants to be. He wants to be more American than the Americans, so he will have to be an Indian. But Indians are red and this is the green man — no more ignorant old-fashioned Spaniard, but the green Americaniard—” The Moor collapsed in a chair convulsed by loud, impudent, brutal laughter, a picture of Satanic mirth: “The green Americaniard—”
Then I knew who the man was because I had heard the story several times. It was like this. This fellow was an enthusiastic follower of every new fad. Once he was speaking in the presence of Don Pedro and the conversation touched on the legend that in Spain people don’t know how good the sun is for them and they avoid it like an evil emissary of the devil, parade around overdressed in black clothes in the shade and therefore grow pale and anemic. This riled Don Pedro, who decided to play a joke on the fellow. He told him that the latest thing was a chlorophyll compound that had just been discovered. He gave one of his pseudological expositions on how this substance in plants synthesized the sunlight and said that by covering one’s body with this compound, one could obtain in a few moments as much benefit from the sun as from continuous exposure during one year. He said that the stuff was not on the market yet, but that he would obtain some through Dr. de los Rios. All very seriously.
A day or so later, he brought him a large jar of some kind of green greasepaint and the fellow, who was an easy mark for all such novelties, believed him, and they tell me that he put on a pair of bathing trunks, smeared himself with the greasepaint from head to foot, and went up on the roof of his house, where he almost created a riot among the neighbors living in buildings overlooking his when they saw this green apparition. Someone called the police and a radio station, fearing some kind of interplanetary invasion. A great mob gathered before the house. The riot squad rose to the occasion and, under the cheering crowds and with every conceivable precaution, surrounded the building and then assaulted it, while the poor fellow paraded about, oblivious of the commotion he was creating. In the end he was arrested on a charge of disorderly conduct and Dr. de los Rios and Don Pedro had to vouch for him and bail him out.
The poor fellow — even an antipático under attack becomes less repugnant — was trying to smile and was visibly embarrassed. His words immediately cost him what little he had gained: “I still think that Spain is a country of darkness and I feel what every Spaniard with common sense must feel when leaving: that he has come into the light.”
“That’s it; into the light and then turn green—”
“Never mind that. Anyone can fall for an evil joke, and as for my citizenship, I repeat that I am making a living in this country—”
Lunarito’s voice came from the kitchen: “Carmen, come and help me carry these things.”
The woman called Carmen, who had been setting the table indolently, went to the kitchen.
“What living are you talking about? Man, you are killing yourself with all this fresh air, cold baths, exercise and dieting, and growing more spherical every day. A man’s mode of living is determined by his race and not the medium where he finds himself — with certain exceptions, you know? One must not be too radical — but simply because a cat has kittens in the oven, one cannot call them muffins. Why, man, everybody knows that garlic is the best thing for anyone, including a Spaniard. It lowers arterial pressure, promotes longevity—”
“I wouldn’t believe you again if—” The man looked with hopeful doubt in the direction of Dr. de los Rios, who contented himself with whistling while the Moor held the floor:
“I tell you, you are killing yourself. You leave Spain and see the light— No more garlic or olive oil. Nothing but all kinds of insipid food à la mode. Everything with a ball on top— Wonderful! You can play golf with it and get your exercise at the same time.” He swung his shillelagh: “Watch it go: golf à la mode. That’s it; the Spaniard conquers America, the land of the red man, and immediately turns green and begins to play golf à la mode— The enormity of it. You have seen no light. The moment you left Spain is when you were plunged in total darkness and you don’t know what it’s all about.”
The man stood up with a forced dignity that was all the more ridiculous because of his shape: “I think I will go home now.”
“Listen to him. The ambiguity — he thinks. And then he claims he is no longer Spanish. He knows that he is not going home at all, that he is simply running away because he can’t stand his countrymen, especially since he got that Junior at the end of his name — that’s good; Junior at his age.”