This gossip must have been founded upon certain visits which he paid Laura undercover — one may accept this part of the gossip — whenever he came to Madrid.
Serrano did not live in Madrid by this time. He lived in Paris and some said that he was linked with the underworld there. La Torre, his old crony, was the first one to bring news to Madrid concerning the life which Serrano led in Paris.
According to him, he was returning to his hotel late one night and, as he passed a doorway in a dark street, a man came out and ordered him to stop and hand over all his valuables.
La Torre turned to face the bandit. He saw a man slightly shorter than himself but much thinner, wearing a cap and dark glasses, with the collar of his coat turned up. This was winter.
La Torre said: “My dear fellow, I am sorry to disappoint you. I have been gambling tonight and have lost my last cent; otherwise you don’t think I’d be returning home on foot? If you can find anything on me, why, I’ll share it with you for the service.”
The speech is of course too long for any hold-up man to tolerate. However, La Torre has the floor. His story goes on:
The man had approached La Torre and dropped the hand which held the gun. He scrutinized him closely and said:
“Can it be you, La Torre?”
“I did not know that I was so popular among your class. That is my name. May I inquire who has had the honor of holding me up?”
The man removed his glasses and turned his face to the light.
“Se. Serrano!”
“Exactly, your old friend Serrano.”
“But. ” La Torre extended his hand to shake Serrano’s.
“You don’t mind, after this?”
“On the contrary. You know I always considered it a privilege, and by God! I congratulate you. I thought that I only knew lounging puppets in this world.”
“It is fortunate that the first person I have met who knew me has your moral standards. Even if they are not sincere, they are comforting.”
They embraced each other fondly and Serrano took La Torre to a café. La Torre had not bluffed when he said that he had lost his last cent
According to La Torre, it was one of those cafés one sees in moving pictures; of course, less theatrical, but quite as effective nevertheless. There Serrano related his adventures to La Torre and then inquired after some people from Madrid.
“And how are the Bonafés?”
“They seem to be quite happy now. They go everywhere together. He has accumulated quite a fortune. The bearded ox! And she behaves like a model wife.”
“How the world changes!”
“You remember how she acted when you left her for your little Frenchy? Well, when she learned that you had disappeared and heard some rumors about your death. ”
“What do you mean, my death?”
“Yes, some people believe you are dead. Anyway, when she heard all that she was in a sea of tears and looked more than ever like the Mary Magdalene I painted of her. I believe she reformed since.”
“And what about my family?” He tried to make this question offhand, but it was only stiff.
“Your boys? No one knows where they are.”
“But I understood they had been placed in an orphanage.”
“They escaped from there long ago and no one knows where they are.”
“Oh, I see.”
“As for your brother-in-law and his family— He is as ostentatious as ever and making an ass of himself in society. They say that the oldest one of the girls is quite a beauty, red hair and all that. I have not seen her except once at the opera and from a distance.”
Paco was not listening to La Torre and the latter studied him:
“Tell me more, Serrano. How did you come to step into this road of virtue? Tell me more about yourself.”
“There is nothing to say.” Serrano had arisen and paid. La Torre was following him. “You see me here. You knew me in my days. This is what I have come to. That’s all.”
“Then, Serrano, let’s get together, say tomorrow night, and do something.”
“Listen, La Torre: I don’t think I will see you again. You know? We have drifted apart, we don’t belong together anymore. Tonight, well, I wanted to find out some things. You are as good a fellow as ever, La Torre, but I don’t think I will see you again. If I bump into you. ”
“Look well before you shoot.” They both laughed.
“Good-bye, La Torre.”
“Good-bye.”
And they never met again.
Here Garcia stopped to say that he only had disconnected notes on the section that followed which he had not worked together yet. He wanted to describe Serrano’s extralegal activities, his life and associations in the Paris and Madrid underworlds between which he traveled frequently, and his sinister missions — international intrigue and mystery stuff — and he wanted to describe in detail one of the smuggling trips from Paris to Madrid, but first he intended to document himself well in order to give his narrative more authenticity.
I told him that his story was supposed to be truly authentic: the facts, the people, as told to him by his mother, if he remembered, but that if at last he was ready to break down and confess, to concede that the game was up, it was perfectly all right and in that case he could see more moving pictures and get all his standard situations right.
“Maybe I will,” he taunted. “But now listen to the last scene. This is the first draft, but it is stereotyped enough.” He laughed shamelessly: “It will kill you.” The word he used in Spanish was not “kill” but “pulverize.”
I waved his right-of-way. Felt too heavy to bow aside.
One night he arrived at the palace, having previously notified his sister. When he knocked at the door, Laura opened it for him. She was in an evening gown. He entered the small library where they always held their meetings, the same one where he had seen his father for the last time.
Paco sat down, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with a tired gesture. He looked old, old and worn out. He must have been near fifty then, but he looked older.
“God! I am tired. I have been on my feet all day and must take the express back tonight. What a life!”
“Why don’t you stop it? Why do you keep this up?”
“I can’t stop. I am too far in it now. It is too late to get out.”
There was the sound of music and Paco listened.
Garcia looked at me puzzled and said:
“I cannot make up my mind whether to have them play here ‘The Blue Danube’ or leave it the waltz from The Merry Widow as I have it here. ‘The Blue Danube’ might be carrying things a bit too far, might show lack of originality, but on the other hand, the reader might imagine some foolish implications in The Merry Widow. What do you think? For the life of me, I can’t decide.”
If I had been drowsy, this woke me up and I exploded: “At this point you worry about that! It should be the least — use either one, or use another waltz. It doesn’t have to be one of those two, or simply say that they were playing music and let it go at that.”
“I’ll see. I can always change it,” and he went back to his reading. What a man!
“What is this? Did you prepare a serenade to receive me?”
“Don’t you know? This is my opening reception of the season. You know everybody holds it about this time of the year.”
“That’s right. I see you are all dressed up, but God! I don’t notice anything. I don’t know what is going on in the world I used to know. I don’t know what is happening to me.”