“You should know better than that,” he said acidly. “Now sit tight because you are going to listen to the end of the moving picture story and after that you are going to get busy with the translation.”
If he had changed at all, it had been for the worse, but even so, having Garcia back was good. I had really missed him, and realizing that everything has its price, I listened:
He found himself living in Chelsea and, to all appearances, quite prosperous. He had fleeting recollections of arguments and more arguments with Jenny and of having a Charlie held up before him as a paragon of practical success. Then blanks and more blanks and more brief visions of working and again scheming and eventually owning the company for which he worked and of Jenny always coaxing, goading him with relentless ambition.
Those were hectic days of his rise to prosperity. He was associated with Charlie, an association born from a contract which he never remembered having signed, but now Ramos never bothered to question his past actions. He had found himself during his life with so many things, in so many positions which he could not explain, that scarcely anything surprised him anymore. Besides, with time, Charlie had grown softer, he was no longer the potential and never-proven forcible character he had been assumed to be, and he was now in the subordinate role. Ramos had proven the stronger of the two by a wide margin, almost a revengeful margin.
He and Jenny had then a short and belated honeymoon trip. She had insisted on arranging it even as she had insisted on delaying it. All he remembered from it was a vertiginous amount of water falling before his astonished eyes with a deafening roar.
Upon his return he had to face a delegation of South American businessmen who, in a tumultuous meeting, accused him of monopolizing the Latin American market, flooding it with American products. They spoke of unethical business methods. One of them was particularly offensive. He threatened cutthroat competition, a formidable boycott:
“My group is large. We shall fight you with your own weapons. We will fight you for years if necessary. You will have to give in.”
“You think?” queried Ramos, already in the grip of impatience.
“I know. You will give in. You cannot afford to wait that long.”
Ramos knew the man was right, that this would be a long, wearisome war, intolerably long. The tone of the man’s voice, its challenge, irritated him beyond proportion. He could not wait. He forgot himself. With fists pushing against the conference table, he rose, he closed his eyes.
The noisy voices subsided, the irate Spanish words turned to polite English words. Julio opened his eyes. He stood at the head of the same table, or one very much like it, and he was bringing to a close a very successful conference with a group of American bankers in which a very profitable loan for all concerned had been negotiated with a Latin American republic.
He remembered then portentous days in Wall Street, unnecessary days of trouble, of multitudes of people losing all they owned, of absurd panic, and from all this turbulent crisis he had been one of the few who had emerged successful. He saw like one sees from a fast-moving train his financial position extending to cover other fields, his business connections growing to a dominant position.
When the bankers filed out majestically, Ramos sat down again and regarded the span of the long empty table before him. He sat that way alone in the conference room for a long time and finally came to with a start. This time he had skipped a long time, he had cast a handful of years aside, a good handful. He could not go on like this or death would be upon him in no time at all. What if he should close his eyes, never to open them again? He rose slowly and leaned on the table. The glass top sent back his reflection, clear enough to show deep changes. It seemed like only yesterday that he had seen it like this in the mirror of the old pensión.
“Listen, Garcia,” I interrupted. “With scenes like the ones you describe, it ought to be a cinch and you will not have to bother about a scenario. They probably have made them thousands of times and all they would have to do is to clip them off old pictures. You have it down pat.”
Instead of being annoyed, Garcia was delighted: “That’s fine, fine. I might go over the whole thing in the light of what you say — easier to find a producer. Cheaper, you know?”
I knew I couldn’t win and let him read on:
He had to put a stop to this. He had to take life calmly now, take care of himself, his time, be quiet, be patient. That was it: be patient, and he continued to repeat this as he left.
He had the chauffeur drive his limousine slowly even for those days. They rode up Broadway. He surveyed the passing scenes with contented close attention and repose and was aware of the immensity of the changes in town. For several years he had seen in a few passing glances the whole city change before his very eyes. He had walked in a serene avenue to be brutally awakened by the roar of the elevated train overhead where there had been nothing between one’s eyes and the sky. He had opened his eyes to find himself rushing through what he knew was the road to infernal regions in the tunnels of the subway. He had looked skywards to stare at cruising airplanes and had seen enormous buildings appear where slums had stood a few moments before, and what is more, he had seen world events parade in the same absurd and disconnected manner, without cause, without effect
He would never skip time again. He had to be patient.
At 23rd Street the car continued along Fifth Avenue. He was not surprised at the new direction taken. He was ready for anything. All the way to the Sixties he continued to contemplate things with peaceful curiosity, as if he were seeing them for the first time or perhaps for the last, and he kept repeating that he had to be patient, to nurse time.
He was still repeating this when he arrived at his residence, a splendid, sumptuous building facing the park. He let himself in quietly and although he never remembered having seen the place before, his muscles, his senses seemed to recognize things, to guide him. He ascended the stairs, his epidermis calling out for a warm bath. His body knew there was a luxurious and restful bathroom in this strange palace. That was all that mattered for the moment.
As he passed Jenny’s room he heard conversation inside. He recognized Charlie’s voice and her eternal laughter. The door was sufficiently ajar, but the hall was dark and the floor carpeted. He could neither be seen nor heard, but in turn he saw and heard enough to confirm a suspicion whose roots seemed to lay in one of his dark moments.
For a few moments he stood still, chilled through. Like precipitous torrents coming from distant, forgotten sources, his old traditions, instincts and prejudices converged to feed and agitate the wide stream of his turbulent rage. They rose from the rocking ground, twining themselves about him, to reach his head and burst in it. How much of this had gone on during those unknowing moments? How much shame had he skipped with time? For this men killed, his mind repeated, eroding his soul.
But one had to be cool. He would obtain all the proofs. He turned and silently went downstairs, his head held high as if literally endeavoring to keep it clear from a mounting sewer. He entered his drawing room and walked instinctively toward the windows, to seek light and air. He lifted one window gently to avoid making noise. The bars on the outside irritated him. He recalled having them placed there under the pretext of an added protection, but truly because they reminded him of the windows in Valencia, and now they irritated him, he did not know why.
He had to compose himself, he had to think cleverly, to spy on them. His hands closed on the window bars, yearning for their throats, his hatred burned his chest, his breath hissed spasmodically through dilated nostrils. He heard her laughter again through the window, pouring out his dishonor. His teeth appeared. He hated them! He had to stop them now! It was impossible to wait, to reason. No! He could not wait His hands tightened on the bars, he shut his eyes. God! For this men killed—