My hand went up in an instinctive gesture of self-preservation: “All right, all right, I have had enough.”
“There is more to it, but I think this will hold you. Are you satisfied? Now let me go on with this.”
In the part that followed, Garcia’s story introduced the first serious love of his heroine, but I will let him do it himself:
One afternoon, she was out on her balcony when she saw a young man crossing La Puerta del Sol.
He had all the ease and dash of an individual who shares not one single binding convention with the rest of the world, an air which, as everyone knows, commands sincere admiration.
He stopped in the middle of the street and looked up at her openly, the light shining upon his unique features, his black hat to one side, one end of his long bow tie blown by the wind over his shoulder. No character in romantic literature could do better.
Rojelia tried to look away but his fascination held her. He remained there looking up until a car that had been forced to stop almost on top of him began to honk its horn.
Rojelia smiled. Then he calmly stepped onto the sidewalk and removed his hat with an ostentatious bow.
Rojelia realized it was time to go in, but all that evening and even that night, she thought of the young man with his black loose clothes and that life-defying air, so different from the stiff, pattern-cut gentlemen dipped in brilliantine that she often met.
Garcia had cast this leading man in a role and atmosphere shamelessly suggested by La Bohéme. He lived of course in an attic, with illusory Spartan paucity of material possessions: wooden cot, working table — where the word “working” is given a very special and flattering meaning — shelves for books of course, fireplace and the irresistible added touch of a cage with a canary. A nightingale would have been more suggestive of the role of a poet, but perhaps Garcia realized that he could carry things only so far and settled for the canary.
The portera of the house, a devoted admirer of Urcola — that was the name — was responsible for the white linen, occasional flowers and the well-fed bird. She had a pale daughter who wore spectacles, read romantic novels and always looked at Urcola with the eyes of a beheaded lamb, as they say. The more one saw of Garcia’s production, the more one suspected that many of his ideas had been developed abroad and he had forgotten much of the Spain he knew. But again I will let him take over:
One day Urcola came down from his attic in excellent spirits. All morning one could have heard him whistling as if in competition with the canary. That was the day after he had seen the wonderful woman on a balcony at La Puerta del Sol. That night he had composed a poem dedicated to her entitled “La del cabeilo rojo,” meaning the one with the red hair, and he was quite satisfied with it.
At the door he met the daughter of the portera: “Good morning, bard. I see you are happy as the birds in the spring, singing to life and nature.”
Urcola assumed an afflicted aspect. The girl produced a piece of paper and her eyes were cast down, exactly upon his worn-out shoes. He bent his knees so that his trousers would cover more of them.
“This is my first poem and I want you to be the first one to read it and tell me what you think of it.”
Urcola, standing as he was, looked like a man about to spring upon his victim. He took the paper instead and read its contents:
“Hmm— If I were you I would not write poetry but help my mother around the portería. And by the way, my dear Sappho, don’t call me ‘bard’ anymore, will you do me that favor? I resent it. It is embarrassing, as if I called you Saint Peter simply because you are always at the door.”
The girl dragged herself dejectedly into the portería.
But the poetry of Urcola had filtered into the daughter of the portera; it took root in her and sprouted so convincingly several months after that Urcola and two ferocious brothers of the portera, not having ever expected the girl to take him so seriously, decided it was high time to do something. Yet, this is getting ahead of time.
Garcia went back to describe the relations of his heroine and the poet, their clandestine meetings, carefully arranged with the complicity of her personal maid. The only thing he had worked out in this section was a dialogue in Madrid vernacular between Urcola and the maid when he gave her his first letter to his beloved. Garcia was quite enthusiastic about the typical words and phrases he had collected in that dialogue but I argued that it could not be put successfully into English, and its virtues, if virtues they were, should be lost in a translation. Strangely enough, Garcia could not see the point and insisted that English also has a vernacular and therefore the thing he proposed should not be so difficult. We argued back and forth. He was stuck on his piece of dialogue, proud of it, and probably for that reason he could not see the absurdity of his stand. Then he also wanted to introduce a scene where the heroine, Rojelia, whom he had described as a fine musician, put some poems that her lover had sent her to music and sang them from the music room with windows wide open so that he stood in the street and listened to them. Considering that her windows faced the Puerta del Sol, with so many people and so much noise, this serenade in reverse was insane. Garcia said that he had intended this for foreign consumption but I quoted our saying that there are no more Indians in America and this time he saw the point.
A few days after that we were sitting in the park with nothing to do and I was in a good mood because it was something we had not done for quite some time. It was the good old days all over again. Garcia passed me a stack of papers which I had learned to recognize even without looking at them. He said this was a section he had almost ready for the final copy. I read it:
Tonight is a great night. The whole of the Sandoval country residence outside Madrid is ablaze with gaiety.
Cheer long! Cheer loud! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Madrid.
A big costume ball is taking place. The garden in front of the house is brilliantly illuminated with lanterns, like a verbena. They hang from the trees and from garlands of flowers. There is a long table at one side with many candles and heaped with exquisite foods and rows of bottles with delightful wines, the whole table strewn with fresh dewy petals.
Even the moon and the stars look on with envy and have come closer, wanting also to participate in the amusements and congratulate the happy girl. What a magnificent fair! What a wonderful summer night!
Cheer loud! Cheer long! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden of the region.