She shrank close to the walclass="underline" “You act like a maniac when you are like this and I don’t like it. If you don’t have the money, get out!”
He had one knee on the bed and reached for her with a clammy, quivering hand. He was disfigured: “Tell me that you were with another man last night, with a better man. God! Tell me that you were with the man who beat me up and you don’t want me today. I love that!” He rushed to the dresser and returned with something in his hands. It was a whip, a hideous-looking weapon of dark, resilient woven leather. He thrust it in her hands and fell to his knees: “Go ahead, go ahead, I am waiting.”
She took the whip and hurled it to a corner of the room. Her lower lip curled as she looked down on the trembling figure before her: “I am not acting today. I mean it this time, understand? No money, no whipping.”
He lifted his head: “I have given you all I can. I can’t get any more out of them. I have given you plenty.”
She said slowly: “Get out and don’t come back without the money.”
He rose with difficulty. In one of his hands he held one of her shoes that had been lying under the bed: “I hope you don’t mind if I take this. It is one of your old shoes and you won’t need it as much as I will.”
“Oh Christ! You turn my stomach. Get out!”
He slunk away like a beaten dog ashamed of his beating, or perhaps relishing it: “All right — you command.”
And there you have it. I have transcribed this scene almost literally so that the reader may judge for himself and not accuse me of unfairness. It bears its own and most damning condemnation, evidencing an amateurishness which should only help to increase the sentence. It is obvious that Garcia wanted very much to be the literary enfant terrible with delusions of being classified as one who submerges boldly into the depths of the human soul, behavior and depravity, startling revelations of the abnormal, lurid passages resolving into profound conclusions which are never disclosed and all such things which no one takes seriously and have long been out of date. I could not help saying all this to Garcia but will not report on our ensuing argument because it was only a repetition of previous ones and I have already made my views quite unequivocal. Instead I will go on with his story, which after this becomes less reprehensible, if not from a literary standpoint, at least in content:
Summer soon ended and autumn descended slowly upon Madrid.
Rojelia had not heard from Urcola since the night of the costume ball and this had proven a real disappointment to her. At first she only blamed her family and for some time almost treated them all as strangers. After that she considered other possibilities.
As she always did when unhappiness seized her, she had retired within herself, with a cool dignity, and tried to put the whole episode out of her thoughts.
Things had not gone well with the family. The jewelry shop did not produce as much as it should. Ledesma worked until all hours and looked older, if possible, and worn out. Enrique drew large sums from the store and on several occasions took jewels also.
Fernando limited himself to shouting at him and engaging in loud disputes which led nowhere. He also let himself be carried away by stupid ostentation and the business suffered all the more for this. Several lawsuits were pending against the business and the future of the family was, as they say, on the ropes.
But outside the Sandoval family, those were balmy, calm, still days. Madrid was beginning to bustle with the approach of the winter season, and the Retiro was more poetic than ever. Old people sitting on benches, storing the last heat from the sun for the coming winter. Nurses with children playing around them while they chatted with a sunburnt soldier wearing some decorations. Lonely young men with long hair and dreamy expressions. The faint rattle of the wheel on the red cans of the barquilleros.
Rojelia and Trini were riding in a victoria along the Paseo de Coches. There were scarcely any carriages and very few people in that most beautiful avenue. The great mass of trees bordering it covered all the autumnal polychromy, from deep red, passing through rich gold, to light yellow — and then the disorder of the dry leaves swirling along the way and flying about the carriage like bewildered butterflies.
Rojelia had noticed a couple walking along the opposite side of the avenue. A man with a woman who pushed a perambulator. Rojelia looked more attentively and then stood erect, her eyes wide open.
The woman had a chalky complexion and looked sickly. She wore spectacles and aimed them lovingly at the child inside the worn-out carriage. The man was Urcola. He walked on resignedly, but was a little stouter. His black romantic clothes fitted the autumnal background. He also saw her and lifted his hat politely, as the most natural thing in the world.
Trini had not noticed the couple, but she was surprised by Rojelia’s attitude: “What is the matter?”
“Nothing — nothing.”
“You look very pale. Shall we turn back?”
“No. I am all right now. Maybe we could walk a little.”
The carriage stopped and they alighted. They walked along the row of small trees which still remained a deep green, the carriage following slowly. The part where they were was deserted and there was a great silence broken only by the rustle of the leaves beneath their feet and the horses’ hooves upon the pavement.
They walked without speaking, their eyes following the somber paths leading away into shadows, always receding, always beckoning. They walked thus for some time and then a breeze began to blow and grew stronger and the dry leaves rained copiously in the orchestral wind.
They entered the carriage and returned homeward.
They passed under the Puerta de Alcala noticing the broken stone where bullets had smashed to leave an emblem of quality. They crossed the Cibeles, in the center of which stood the fountain with the goddess of that name, sitting on a cart drawn by two lions, always drawing, always in the same place. Behind, they had left a palace whose windows were always shut and housed a sad legend known to all Madrid and respected enough to be little commented upon. In front and at the right were the gardens of the Ministry of War. Rojelia had a fleeting glimpse of La Castellana, Recoletos and El Prado extending right and left with rows of trees and heavy ornate lampposts in the middle. The victoria began to ascend the slight hill flanked by cafés made famous by illustrious habitués.
Then through the clouds the sun burst and set brightly, turning the street into a river of fire. It shone right in their faces, dazzling, tinting them a glowing red. They sought the shadow of the coachman in front and their heads came together. Rojelia pressed her mother’s hand and looked distractedly at the sidewalks filled with people.
At their right they saw the entrance to the Gran Via, the brand-new and long-awaited street which had inspired Chueca and Valverde to write some of their best music and words for a revue featuring it. The broad modern street rose slightly, majestically, cutting its way through an old part of the city, leaving at one side the narrow street of Caballero de Gracia where a delicate romance still dwelt in wandering shadows that trailed a short way from the present and through the past of a sentimental tale, back to the present of prosaic Madrid.
Trini said: “I was at the theater the first night they played La Gran Via. It was not built then.”
“They have not got very far with it yet.”
Trini had not heard Rojelia. Her thoughts were rushing to the past: “That night I was with Fernando and your poor Aunt Julieta. I was happy then— your father and I had just been married. You know? There behind that building is the street the famous waltz is about.”