The Ingenious Gentleman and Poet Federico García Lorca Ascends to Hell

by Carlos Rojas

  In any event and as now appears punctually on stage, the doorbell rang in your apartment on Calle de Alcalá while you were still in your robe and slippers, preparing your first café con leche. You weren’t surprised and didn’t try to guess who it could be, because in an oblique way you were afraid to find out. It was an old actor, out of work and overwhelmed by every plausible and unimaginable misfortune, who the night before had almost anticipated his request for a loan. You invited him to a breakfast of coffee, biscuits, and toast and jelly, which you both ate standing up in your office beside the balcony. As you requested in one of your poems, at your death those windows should be left wide open to let in the wind so you can be buried afterward in a weathervane. On the sidewalks peddlers hawked sea crabs and river crabs, butter from Astorga and cheese from Miraflores. The sun poured in, spilling along the light marquetry and the blanket from Momostenango that covered the sofa.

  “You couldn’t add up my troubles. Not even I could count them all without forgetting some of the most important ones.”

  “ … ”

  He hesitated for an instant, not knowing where to put the empty cup. You were going to take it so he could return to his complaints, but he anticipated you and placed it on the stone floor of the balcony, at the threshold and next to the blinds and white shutters. He licked the marmalade from his fingers and continued his plaint of praise and academic questions.

  “You’re still young, but very deservedly famous. You have a natural talent that no one can deny without offending you. That’s why I dare to ask your opinion, thinking about my life today, yesterday, and the day before yesterday. Tell me, why are we born?”

  “ … ”

  “I’ll tell you why. It must be to die, though the justice of that escapes me. In any case, it couldn’t be only to suffer, which turned out to be my fate. Summing up a life as unfortunate as mine, I have to conclude that my passage through the world is a mistake, because the Great Architect can’t construct a life so badly no matter how insignificant it may be. What do you think?”

  “ … ”

  “I’d say I’m here by mistake and should have been born in another time. In another period in the life of my family, which on both sides is constantly enriched with famous actors and actresses. Did you know a great-grandmother of mine was the sister of the great Máiquez?”

  “ … ”

  “Yes, sir. Isidro Máiquez himself, who was booing one afternoon at the bullfight and met his match in the matador Costillares, who yelled at him: ‘Señor Máiquez, Señor Máiquez! This isn’t the theater! Here you die for real!’ I’ll bet you already knew the story.”

  “ … ”

  “In our family we’ve passed it from generation to generation since the time of my great-grandmother. Of course she premiered Don Leandro Fernández de Moratín’s New Comedy in the role of the young Mariquita. She also played Medioculo in The Oil Lamp’s Fandango, though this does not do us as much honor since it was a simple farce. I should have been born at that time and married my great-grandmother, in the days of The Comedy and The Fandango, of Máiquez and Costillares, of Goya and Moratín. I’d bet my life wouldn’t have been so unfortunate then, the bad Greek tragedy it is now. You, so brilliant a young man, perhaps can answer two questions that seem to me to be Siamese twins. Why do we come into the world and why do we do it at one, irrevocable time?”

  “ … ”

  The doorbell sounded again with three long rings, which you recognized immediately. It was Rafael Martínez Nadal, who had promised to pick you up precisely at one so you could have lunch together. I don’t know what ailment had covered his high skull with scabs, but it had been shaved with a razor and smeared with sulfur. Now his hair had begun to grow back, dark and curly on his elongated head with the tiny ears of a small-eared lamb. He waited patiently, leafing through a book on the sofa, while you gave a few pesetas and a letter of introduction for Lola Membrives to the great-grandson of the woman who played Medioculo. You wrote the note on a sheet of paper, sitting at your desk and looking at Picasso’s drawing of a labyrinth for Balzac’s “The Unknown Masterpiece.” The actor left, saying goodbye very ceremoniously, and Rafael continued to wait while you shaved and dressed. On the street, the two of you were greeted by a sun as bright as quicklime, and only then did you remember that you had closed the balcony and left the empty cup outside.

  “I had lunch for the last time with Ignacio Sánchez Mejías in this restaurant the year he died. At this same table,” you said as soon as you both had sat down. “I have a feeling we won’t come back here together either.”

  “Soon it will be two years since the tragedy,” he agreed, intentionally ignoring your presentiments. “Still, at times one would think Ignacio hasn’t died, that the goring in the bullring in Manzanares hasn’t happened yet, even though it inevitably will happen. I’m not sure if I’m clear.”

  “I understand completely. On one hand I’d swear we’ll never have lunch again, here or anywhere else.” Andalusian after all, you touched the wood of the table beneath the cloth. “On the other, I’m certain that everything that happens this morning has happened before in this same place.”

  He was going to respond, as he is about to do now in this theater, but you were interrupted by the maître d’ and a couple with the air of recently married provincials. The maître d’ was bringing the menus and the young people wanted to know, encore une fois, whether you’re the poet who wrote “The Unfaithful Wife.” They asked for an autograph and you signed in your delicate hand with very tall capitals, which in eternity looks to you vulgar and absurdly precious. They left, extremely moved, after shaking your hand and telling you they were teachers. Martínez Nadal ordered lunch, smiling and claiming that soon your friends wouldn’t be able to walk down the street with you because women would contend for your feet in order to kiss them, which is what happened to Joselito in Sevilla. You replied that a woman also yelled at Joselito on the eve of his death: “I hope a bull kills you tomorrow in Talavera!” The gods promptly granted her wish. Rafael fell silent, shaking his head, because they were beginning to serve the meal. You ate almost nothing, for that day you were indifferent to everything except your own fate, which you feared was sealed.

  “Rafael, what’s going to happen here? If a war comes, I won’t survive it.”

  “This country was always on the brink of chaos. The attraction of the abyss is part of our national character, the exact opposite of what happened with the ancient Egyptians, who, they say, abhorred a vacuum. Eventually everything is fixed with pins and glue. Blood won’t run in the river this time either.”

  He lied to keep you from despair. He was as convinced as you that a feast day of crime was approaching. The only difference between you was his deep certainty that whatever happened, he would survive the slaughter.

  “Our time is short and the uncertainty consumes me,” you went on somewhat irrelevantly. “A little while before they arrested him, I had supper one night with José Antonio Primo de Rivera.” Rafael almost dropped the fish forks as he looked at you, not believing what he was hearing. “Don’t be so surprised. That wasn’t the first time we got together in secret. Since it didn’t suit either of us to be seen together, we always went to some godforsaken inn in a taxi with the curtains closed.”

  “But why? For God’s sake!”

  “Oh, no reason! To talk about literature. He knows Ronsard by heart and is very lucid about French poetry from any period. Still, on that day he couldn’t say very much. We ate without looking at each other until I exclaimed in a loud voice: ‘If there’s a war in Spain, neither of us will see the end of it. We’ll both be shot as soon as it begins.”’ With no transition you took hold of Martínez Nadal’s arm at the edge of the table. “Rafael, I don’t want to be killed like a dog. Rafael, I could hide in your mother’s house, couldn’t I?”

  He looked at you, astonished at your fear, his eyes sad and stupefied between those tiny ears and beneath the stubble of his sheep-like hair
at the top of his forehead.

  “Yes, of course you could hide in my mother’s house. But who would want you dead? You’re only a poet.”

  “That’s exactly what José Antonio Primo de Rivera said. I told him that’s why they would kill me, for having written verses. Not for being queer and on the side of poor people. Of course good poor people, you understand. I added that this country is a republic of killers from all classes and that Spaniards exterminate one another like rats at the first opportunity history offers them. They’d shoot me for writing verses and for being incapable of defending myself. Just for that, yes sir. ‘Come and look here,’ I said to José Antonio Primo de Rivera, using one of the expressions I learned in Havana. ‘Do you know that days before the death of Ignacio Sánchez Mejías, the Gypsies in his crew said he reeked of death? If they came in here now, they’d be terrified of the stink of our mortal remains.”’

  “Don’t raise your voice. Try to calm down.”

  “I’m very calm. Confident enough to refer to my posthumous glory as if it were someone else’s. Many years after I’m shot dead, they’ll still be writing books asking why I was murdered. At least I won’t leave this world without knowing that.” Suddenly, changeable and inconsistent, you went back to your pleading. “Rafael, do you really think your mother will hide me in her house?”

  “I’m sure of it. If you like, let’s go there this afternoon.”

  “Yes, let’s go, the sooner the better! I’ll lock myself in with your mother and sister and not go out until the storm of hatred and crime that’s approaching passes. Let’s go, ask for the bill. It’s possible that even hours are precious these days.” Suddenly you slapped the table with the palm of your hand and gave an anguished cry. People sitting near you turned to look. “But, Rafael, what am I saying? Have I lost my mind? I can’t hide in your mother’s house. I have to go to Granada this afternoon. The day after tomorrow, July 18, is my saint’s day and my father’s too. We always spend it at home, at the Huerta de San Vicente. I can’t miss it. The place will be filled with jasmines and morning glories.”

  “Now you’re being imprudent,” he said as he paid the bill, including a tip, which he folded under the cruets. “If anything happens and you’re so frightened, you’d be safer in Madrid than in Granada. Many people there who’ve never read a book can’t forgive you for being so famous and for liking men. They’ll never be able to understand either one, and they’ll find the first more irritating.”

  “How can you talk this way if you’ve never been in Granada?”

  “It doesn’t matter, I can imagine it.”

  “Well, I’m going anyway, and now it’s in God’s hands. Why did you pay for lunch? I wanted to. We may not see each other again and you’re sure to survive me. Let’s have coffee at Puerta de Hierro. Let me buy you a brandy or as many brandies as you want.”

  He wanted two, and you drank down those Fundadors in a couple of swallows. Martínez Nadal looked at you almost furtively. Part of your panic and especially your uncertainty seemed to infect him. In his expressions you read increasingly clear grief or foreboding. Or perhaps you thought you read them, because you always made of your friends and the world not only a reflection but an extension of yourself and your changes of mood. But on that day and in that café near the Puerta de Hierro, you didn’t need to force your imagination to see a collective image of your uneasiness all around you. It was high summer, but people filled the streets of Madrid day and night. No one decided to leave before the war broke out. Assault Guard trucks came from University City and drove down Princesa. Some newsboys shouted headlines about the cessation of the last debate in Parliament. Rafael bought one and you trembled as you read it. The State of Emergency had been extended and the angry controversy over the assassination of Calvo Sotelo continued. Gil Robles said the Popular Front government was one of shame, mud, and blood, and very soon would also be one of hunger and poverty. Barcia replied in the name of the Council.

  “Rafael, do you remember the original of the unpublished play of mine, the one I call The Public? I lent it to you last week.”

  “Why would I forget it? Do you think I’ve lost it?”

  “Of course not! Good Lord, don’t get angry with me this afternoon!”

  “I’m not angry; but I don’t want you to think badly of me even for an instant.”

  “How would I think badly of you when I want to confess a certainty I didn’t even dare tell myself?”

  “What the devil are you trying to say to me?”

  “It’s about The Public, my play that you have in your house.”

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t read it yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I haven’t looked at it either, not for years; but I’m convinced it transcends our time. I moved writing for the theater, mine included, naturally, ahead by several generations. Perhaps entire centuries, though it may be hard for you to believe. Once I read the piece to the Morlas and they were horrified. Imagine, the Morlas, who are so fond of me, and as courteous as benevolent vicuñas! Bebé almost cried with rage as she listened to me. Afterward she said it was all nothing but sheer nonsense and blasphemies. Carlillo scolded me in his fashion, which was more diplomatic, but the man was livid. ‘You can’t publish that, let alone stage it,’ he wailed between deep Chilean sighs. ‘You’d better burn the thing and forget it.’ Then I realized I had written my masterpiece. You know, the eternal misunderstood masterpiece that to other people’s eyes is always a labyrinth.”

  “That’s what it must be, if you say so,” he agreed in an exhausted voice. “I’ll read The Public right away.”

  “You don’t have to read it. The plays of mine that are staged are full of easy concessions. People are astonished and pleased by them because everything else is even worse. In other words, it boils down to pure rubbish. Still, I know how easy it is for me to write them. I feel a little like Zorrilla, scandalized by his ability to rhyme clichés. And a little like Polycrates, frightened by his good luck. The Public is different. I had to demand everything of myself, absolutely everything, and climb down to the center of my being on the ladder into my soul to achieve a play that’s so authentic.”

  “All right, all right,” Martínez Nadal interrupted impatiently. “I told you I’d read it.”

  “And I’m telling you again that you shouldn’t. Don’t be offended but today you won’t understand The Public either. Just as I didn’t really understand it myself, to tell you the truth.”

  “Why did you lend it to me then?”

  “To ask you for a favor that’s bigger and much less useless than your reading it.”

  “Fine, go ahead.”

  Rafael Martínez Nadal looked at you, intrigued. Up to that point your panic had made him feel irritated and impatient. Suddenly and in spite of himself, he listened to you intently, hanging on your words. Gradually it was growing dark, to the chirping of sparrows and the shouting of newsboys.

  “If anything happens to me in this war that’s at our door, swear you’ll destroy the original of The Public right away.”

  “I’m not swearing anything!”

  “Give me your word, then.”

  “I won’t give you that either. Why do you want to burn it if it’s your masterpiece?”

  “Precisely for that reason, because only I could suspect the importance of what I’ve written. If I die, The Public has no reason to exist for other people.”

  “All I promise is to return it unread when you get back from Granada.”

  You yielded in silence, partly because of a sudden weariness and partly because The Public suddenly seemed like someone else’s work. As if contrary to everything you had just been saying, you were the only person on earth incapable of understanding it. Again you were overcome by the feeling of having lived that day before, in the identical, uncertain frame of mind. Not long afterward, in a taxi that took the two of you to Cook’s to buy your train ticket, you couldn’t stop talking about another play you had in mind. You called it T
he Destruction of Sodom, and even though you hadn’t written a single word of the work, in which the Bible impinged on surrealism, you described entire scenes in complete detail. Lot opened the final act with his invitation to the two angels of the Lord. The righteous man’s house would be on one side of the square in Sodom, and in a Pompeian gallery and portico (“Pompeii as seen by Giotto, Rafael”), Lot would offer his feast to the two beautiful men, Jehovah’s incognito archangels. The sides of the stage would be cut on a bias, a little walled garden would appear where the patriarch’s two virgin daughters would lament the indifference of the men in the city. Gradually the populace of queers would gather before the portico, hungering for perverse pleasures and shouting for the strangers. “Where are the men which came in to thee this night? Bring them out unto us, that we may know them.” And Lot: “I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly. Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof.” Deaf to his pleas, the mob of deviants would assault the gallery. Lot and the angels would flee then to the house, barring the door as the crowd, increasingly inflamed, pounded on it with their fists. From the house would come the screams of the terrified father. “I shall give you my daughters! I shall give you my daughters so that you may know them and conceive in them! Use them, all of you, and heal your sickness before the One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken destroys this city as punishment for your sins!” The chorus of roars would be in counterpoint to the lament of the virgins, deluded by lust, in a contrast of tones and timbres dictated by the same desire. (“As in the revivals of black evangelists I saw in a Harlem church. You can’t imagine the upsurge, the storm of songs whirling in the air and descending like a rain of whips and lightning flashes on the backs of the congregation.”) Unexpectedly the doors would open wide and through the opening the angels would come out, radiant in their beauty. But their gaze would blind like that of the Hydra, because the Lord transformed it into the thunderbolt of His wrath and His punishment in the city of queers. Their eyes burned by the stare of the prodigious creatures, the degenerates would run away shrieking and roll on the ground in the square (“ … something like Chirico’s squares, in his aseptic metaphysical paintings”), howling in terror and pain. Lot would take his daughters by the hand and flee to the mountains along the path through the desert. Behind him it would rain fire and brimstone, and Adonai, He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken, would burn the pederasts alive after blinding them. You added as a kind of final couplet, for this was the singular lesson taught by the fate of Sodom, that the invention of incest ironically followed the city’s condemnation and punishment. Alone with Lot and agreed on between themselves, the virgins would resolve to end their virginity with the help of their own father, for want of another man. They would make Lot drunk twice in a row and each daughter would lie with the patriarch who had sired her on each of those nights. Lot would sow his seed in both and from the elder’s lineage would come the Moabites. The younger would give birth to Benammi, father of the house of the Ammonites (“Rideau”).