Garcia had intended to make this character healthy and normal and a regular guy, but he had only succeeded in making him vulgar and rampant and unconvincing. In short, a fraud.
But the worst of it, what worried Garcia, was that his character had not turned out simpático. We argued the matter profusely, endeavoring to extricate Garcia from the literary traps to which he had fallen prey, and especially this last one, whose spring was so vague as to defy detection. No matter how much Garcia deleted and inserted, the man would not turn out simpático. Garcia was ready to rewrite the whole thing, and I suggested that perhaps everything emanated from the fundamental inconsistency of his thesis and its presentation and that it would be better not to make his hero a soldier in the African wars, but perhaps a merchant on the peninsula, some kind of a salesman, or even a farmer who goes occasionally to Madrid. I was only trying to help.
“But how many times do I have to tell you that this is a true story?” Garcia was quite exasperated by now: “I met the fellow myself in Madrid when I was a boy. He was already married to Rojelia whom I also met, in case you are interested. He was a captain then, tropa class, you know, had never been to a military academy, but I tell you he was a captain.”
“Well?”
“He was very antipático.”
After this there was no point in arguing the matter in hand further and we became involved in generalizations and a discussion about the merits of reality versus literature and Garcia quoted from a thinker something to the effect that art is more discriminating than nature and more concerned with arrangement and harmony, and we talked of several things like that which did not help Garcia’s problem, and then he went back to his novel.
Toward the end of this chapter Garcia considered the matter of fairness in peoples at war. He told me that many years ago he had been very badly impressed by the comments in the Spanish press about the campaign in Africa. If the Spaniards made a stubborn stand against great odds and died to the last man defending a position, they were praised as heroes, but when the Moors did the same thing, they were criticized as fanatics. He felt that this was not fair and that one should always give the devil his due. He presented this theory in a conversation between Captain Albarran and his colonel. I said that this happened not only in Spain but everywhere, and he said that this was precisely the point he was trying to make indirectly and once more repeated that generalization was one of the great virtues of literature.
“If this thing is going to be published in English, I must give the reader something of general interest. Can’t keep it so Spanish that he cannot find the point.”
The chapter ended with Captain Albarran finally getting his wish and sailing back to Spain, which is a short sail from where he was. I quote a small section:
And so it came to pass that Captain Albarran sailed from the coast of Africa where he had spent so much of his life, on his way to Spain.
It was a splendid day and when he saw the red and yellow flag against the blue sky, he felt something he had not felt since he first had left Spain, and when he turned and beheld the receding coast, he thought almost aloud:
“Look at me well, as I look at you in the hazy horizon, across the afternoon and the distance, because it is sad to part, perhaps forever, and not have looked at one another enough.”
Some loud thoughts for a prosaic character!
Next we find the hero in Madrid for the Jura de la Bandera, which is when the new recruits are inducted I think, and it was thus that he eventually met Rojelia. Garcia had this part written more in full and read sections of it without too much difficulty or hunting for the continuation of some particular paragraph. This is some of it:
It took place in La Castellana. It was in the spring and all the trees along the boulevard were in full bloom. It was a wonderful morning. Everything was bright, everything magnificent. There was still the novelty of seeing the Moorish soldiers parade through Madrid under the Spanish flag.
They advanced in colorful phalanxes. The Moorish infantry with their bronze chests bare, the red jaiques hanging from their shoulders and floating behind pompously, shining bright under the sun, as if the men were torches and the jaiques flamed flattened by the wind.
And then came the Moorish cavalry in all their stupendous African regalia, advancing in a tumultuous and rhythmic disorder. Wonderful horsemen, great white jaiques, dazzling white jaiques and black and white horses, clean, shiny horses and jet-black men, black and shiny faces and bright white teeth, and sound and movement and strange piercing cries and strange pirouettes. Everything against the background of fresh trees that tainted things with their greenish glow. An astounding display of savage glamour, of primitive glory.
There were the famous old Spanish regiments, all stiff and frozen with prestige. Each one was a gallant page sparkling in history, a walking page telling the story in straight lines of men. A magnificent parade with phalanxes of men and phalanxes of trees that stood as if presenting arms.
All the streets leading down to La Castellana from the Hipodromo to La Cibeles were closed. The boulevards were bursting with people whose drab mass spread far into the streets. They were on roofs, on balconies; they stood on the benches, on carriages and carts of all kinds, on top of the kioscos and clinging to the iron fences, and even the children hung from the trees like fruit
All Madrid was there to see the new soldiers swear fidelity to their country and their flag.
The Sandovals were standing in a carriage at the Plaza de la Cibeles, looking above the heads of the crowd. Everybody was cheering and waving their hats and handkerchiefs in the air.
Ahead of a large detachment of soldiers, almost isolated from the rest, a man advanced on a horse. He wore a white uniform and bright silver helmet. He had a mustache and his lower jaw protruded slightly.
When the man entered the Plaza de la Cibeles, a stocky individual wearing a cap darted out of the crowd. He seized the horse by the bridle and fired two shots. The man on the horse swayed to one side and the heel of his shiny black boot struck the aggressor on the head, knocking him to the ground; then he threw his horse over him and rode on calmly.
The scene had happened so quickly that no one had time to realize it. Other officers also on horseback closed in but their loyalty was no longer needed; the man lay on the ground still clenching the gun, broken by the horse’s hooves.
A great disorder followed, everybody rushed and some of the public wanted to lynch the man who was being dragged away by the police. Reporters ran from one place to another with the proverbial pad and pencil, but finally order was reestablished and the parade went on.
Rojelia and Trini looked on, excitement showing in their faces. Trini watched the soldiers march in tune with the pasodoble and shook her shoulders keeping time with it. Fernando had been commenting on the incident of the frustrated assassination with Ledesma and dispatched Jorge to investigate the details. Enrique looked sullenly and almost with resentment at the passing rows of soldiers. Lolita looked on distractedly and seemed to be far away.
“See there now!” Rojelia exclaimed. “The soldiers are taking the oath.”
Ledesma stood up and they all looked down La Castellana. In the middle, quite a way off, stood the small figure of an officer holding an enormous flag. It was Captain Albarran. He was calm and impassive and no one could have guessed what his thoughts were.