Rojelia knew that part of Madrid well but she looked in the direction pointed by her mother, even though the street could not be seen from where they were.
They had reached the top of the hill and their carriage stopped, held by the traffic. Then their attention was arrested by an amusing scene that was taking place near the sidewalk. A bicycle policeman was chasing a boy. The boy dived into the crowds that jammed the sidewalk and the policeman had to abandon his machine in the gutter and follow on foot. The people, siding as usual with the enemy of the law, made way for the boy and hindered the policeman’s path as much as possible. In the end, the boy emerged from the crowd where the bicycle lay, seized it and pedaled swiftly down the street among general laughter.
Trini had turned to see the boy ride down Alcala Street toward La Cibeles. Her eyes rested once more on the entrance to La Gran Via but they seemed to be looking into the past.
Here Garcia talked about the way in which he had worked the theme of the Gran Via throughout his story and spoke of it as if this literary trick were his own discovery, admitting only that he had perfected it more from ideas gathered when hearing the Moor talk about thematic development in music. I suppose he wanted to make sure that no one would miss his virtuosity and he asked whether I had noticed it: “Something like the principal song in a musical comedy, you know?”
I told him he need not worry, that it was quite clear and therefore he should not overdo it. We spoke a while about this question of development of ideas and then he proceeded:
The traffic began to move again. They were descending mildly onto La Puerta del Sol. Every sunny afternoon this place lives up to its name. They were blinded by the glare of the sun, deafened by the noise of traffic and people. Rojelia felt tired of all these things. She knew them all by heart. They bored her and she had a strong desire to go away. She wondered how her mother could relish the past of such things, having lived among them so many years.
When they arrived home, Trini went directly upstairs and Rojelia entered the shop. A gentleman who was coming out held the door open for her.
At the bottom of the store was Ledesma behind a glass counter. Rojelia advanced and over the counter took both of Ledesma’s hands in hers:
“How is my good Ledesma?”
“Not so well, my child. Troubles of age. That gentleman who just went out is a customer and while he was here, there was a terrible row going on upstairs between your father and your sister. These things are embarrassing. The man was listening to it. That creates a disastrous impression.”
“I understand, Ledesma, but don’t worry. This can’t go on forever.”
“That is why I worry. I know it can’t last and I see the end coming fast. I am doing all I can to hold it back, to fight against the inevitable, but I can’t all alone. I am too old now. Are they all blind?”
“Ledesma, you are doing your best. So am I. I have tried to bring equanimity into this insane household, but it is impossible. They are all mad with vanity and nerves. But we must not worry. When one does not worry, half the adversity has been conquered.”
“But even if it were only for selfishness? What will become of me when this sinks?”
“Ledesma, where I go, you can always go.”
“Ah, but that does not worry me. I know I will have nowhere to turn, but I will be too old to care. Then the end is at hand and one can always precipitate and make sure of it—”
“No — not that, Ledesma.”
“—but what kills me is to think of what will become of you and your younger sister. Especially you, Rojelia. You know how I have come to love you. I have known you ever since you were just so high and you have always been so good to me. Although you are a different type from your Aunt Julieta, may she rest in peace, sometimes you have exactly her expression, and then I don’t know what I feel. When you came in and held my hands, you looked so much like her—! And she was so unhappy—!”
“Don’t worry about me. When the time arrives, I trust I will be out of the wreck with someone who will teach me to walk again on the road to happiness.”
“You will, Rojelia. You will find someone very good. He will have to be very good to deserve you. In the meanwhile be strong and calm.”
“I will if you don’t work anymore, Ledesma. I don’t want to see you working anymore. I want you to have more time for me. I am happy with you.” Two tears rolled from her eyes and shone upon the glass counter.
“Rojelia, this has been my life. When it ends, I shall end also. Then I will rest.”
“Wait, Garcia! Let me finish it for you.” I recited: “And the two tears sparkled among the gathering shadows like the best gems in the store.”
Believe it or not, that is exactly the way he had it written down. Garcia was amazed, stumped. For once I had scored a bull’s-eye, made my point convincingly clear by implication, and won a smashing victory. One does what one can.
After this I did not mind what followed of Garcia’s novel, which was a jumble of notes with references and more references, sheets with small slips of paper pinned to them as intended insertions, with red penciled marks and much of “this goes here and this there.” I watched him as he tried to assemble all this rough work and make some sense out of it. Most of it he told me and some he read.
The next chapter introduced the character who was destined to become Rojelia’s husband. He was an officer in the Spanish colonial army in Morocco, and it was against this background that Garcia attempted to present him in a full chapter. Garcia lacked all the necessary preparation and equipment to handle the task. All he knew about war was to lay down a barrage of clichés that would have discouraged the most desperate offensive of foolhardy readers and listeners. The thing contained every known situation of swashbuckling heroics, men who talk and act tough, tyrannical discipline dished out with aching heart and unwavering hand, disillusion in the great cause and in the chosen career degenerating into hard professional militarism salvaged in the nick of time by the sporting gesture, and everything generously sprinkled with foul words.
This has been done by masters of the trade and Garcia had taken in every stock situation with amazing powers of retention, but he had not put things together right and had used extraordinary discernment in not adding one single touch of originality.
These were the most specific defects; the others were of a more general and intangible nature. This fellow, whose name by the way was Albarran, in case one has to refer to him again, was intended as a contrast to the carefree, unpredictable poet who had caused our heroine so much sorrow and disappointment. He was supposed to offer her a sense of stability, of security, to represent her change of course from the foolishly sublime to the wise and soundly prosaic, but as he appeared cast in the role of a soldier and in a manner more or less consciously copied by Garcia from moving pictures and romantic popular yarns, the fellow was inevitably surrounded by an atmosphere of adventure which destroyed the proposed contrast with the other one. It was a meaningless change from devil-may-care to devil-should-worry. I suspect that Garcia considered the military career as something very dependable, which in some ways it is, with regular promotions, increases of salary and eventual pensions, but his logotypes had led him astray and his thesis suffered from inconsistency. In order to maintain a measure of contrast in the face of these essential obstacles and against all odds, Garcia described his hero as matter-of-fact, even somewhat unimaginative and inordinately healthy both in spirit and in body, thus disclosing unintentionally that Garcia, for reasons of his own, considered poets unhealthy in every respect. All this was in direct contradiction with the thoughts and actions of Captain Albarran who, immediately after, is shown as continuously harrassed by dreams of his farm back in Spain, because it seems that everywhere the background of a farm is a guarantee of normality, and who toward the end of the chapter tells his colonel that his soul is sick, that he is tired of the African campaign and wants to return to Spain.