The Lizard's Tale by José Donoso

Author:José Donoso [Donoso, José]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780810127029
Google: 2NTpeldQpsgC
Publisher: Northwestern University Press
Published: 2011-10-29T13:00:00+00:00

“Bruno won’t let me say anything yet.”

Bruno. His name was Bruno—black—and he said:

“Later, in a while . . .”

His Spanish was perfect, though with an Andalusian lilt and a strong Italian accent. When he changed to our table he said that he was in fact Italian, but that he had worked in a restaurant in Torremolinos, when Torremolinos really was Torremolinos, not as it was now, ordinary and horrendous: he had gone there, been there three days, had returned in disgust, and would never return again. He was fed up with Italy and had come to Spain thinking that he might still find some virgin land, some opportunity, but nothing, and tomorrow he would leave again, in the morning, back to Italy to look for things elsewhere. How old was Bruno, I wondered, to be wandering about as he did? Perhaps thirty-eight, thirty-seven, forty, at least, in this light and close up. I had thought he was younger from afar, but no, the wrinkles around his thick-lashed eyes were not only the wrinkles of the sportsman, the man in perpetual contact with sea and wind, but rather more doubtful, subtle wrinkles that neither affirm nor negate character, that do not affirm the flesh but rather undermine it and make it droop. Nevertheless his fine Italian face, so perfectly chiseled even in its roughness, his lean physique, his well-defined muscles under the cloth of his shirt were impressive. Why was he drifting? He answered:

“I don’t like the Spain of today, I like how it was before.”

We also loved it before, the Spain of La Garriga, of El Ensanche. But he only “liked” it as a gourmet devouring a delicious dish, hence his relationship was frivolous, with a global

Spain, excluding him from the true Spain. We, on the other hand, liked the Spain of the past but also hated it and that’s why we were her prisoners. He was leaving. We couldn’t leave, even if La Garriga’s park of chestnut trees was being developed. We talked about Cinecittà, where he had worked several years in small roles—he named some roles in some important movies, but those roles were so insignificant that we had to lie claiming to remember but we didn’t remember anything—a Cinecittà that was no longer what it had been ten or fifteen years ago. Nothing was like ten or fifteen years ago, I thought to myself, not even you, old man, especially you, yourself— and I, I myself, though lesser, I have more resources—you’re not what you were fifteen years ago when you were young. He said:

“Well. I’m off. I want to make it to Barcelona to spend the night there.”

And he stood up to say good-bye. At the moment he was getting into his car—he had the top down—Lidia, in her long djellaba with her hair tied back, and long jingling earrings, walked out of the inn, and came toward our table. She didn’t sit, but stood watching the man who shut the car door at that moment and started the car.

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