The preacher

            It had been some time since Amparo and I used to meet up at Café Manuela, in the heart of Madrid’s quarter of Malasaña, and we used to spend some time there speaking, of literature above all, clear it is, and we used to take books with us to lend to each other or to exchange, and we liked the place and had something meanwhile, coffee most times. I had been there with Robin too, but I was used to do it more with Amparo, who had a more liberal profession and was not such subject to time schedules. One day Amparo and I talked to Juan, the owner of Manuela, who invited us to take part at a poems recital that was going to be celebrated there. We came to an agreement with other participants in the event and we met up a lot of people. Finally I backed out and did not participate, because till then I had only written a poem and I had read very few poetry, even though I used to write it had been years already and I felt rushed because, first, Amparo had published already books of poetry, even she had been awarded with a National Prize for Poetry in Argentina when she was thirteen, and besides because I saw the level was good, of addicted ones. We attented a couple of encounters with other participants, accompanying I Amparo in a very good mood, but having told them all already I would not participate.

       During previous occasions we had gone to Manuela we had taken notice of a client with a bushy moustache, threads full black or full white, glasses, how usually happens, they gave him a look graver and serious than he really was, medium height, brush cut hair, black and white too, yellow shirt and dark troussers, aged more than me, who was in nearly always, he used to order gin and tonic and nearly ever he sat down, he rather went and came from an end to the other parallel to the counter, he caressed his face and shook his hair, he fit his glasses every bit of a time and he used to talk to himself, some time we saw him crying. The epoch I am writing about was late days of Spring or Summer, so it was too hot, and the man I am writing about used to dry up the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

            Tuesday before Friday, day on which the recital would take place Amparo and I had been first waiting for others to come while we talked and had coffee and later conversing with poetesses and poets who were going to participate. Not reaching it what is a tumult the contests of the participants, but a little mess that took shape until they came to an agreement when they were deciding about turns and times, the case is Amparo with the heat and the hustle needed a glass of water to moisten her lips and refresh, and I quick offered myself to take it up to her, so I went by the counter and ordered it saying it was for my friend. By the counter and following his custom of entertaining himself the way I have already told you, was the man who talked to himself, and while waiting they served me the glass of water for Amparo, it seemed to me to listen to the man saying to me some words. I asked him at once if he was talking to me. He kept glancing at me an instant as if he did not understand or as if he did not understand how I could possibly had not heard him. Very well I might have done it, he said. Then? Did you say something to me or did you not?, I asked him at same time I stretched my arm to take with my hand the glass of water they were serving to me. Many times I do talk to myself but I have got always someone that listens to me, he said. Good, man, I said, I am going to take this water to my friend Amparo and later we shall speak if you want to. I went to bring to Amparo her water and came back at once to the man of strange proceed.

            Well, he said, What’s your name? José Antonio Jiménez Lozano, he said then briskly taking the lead as he stretched his hand to me. My name is Leopoldo, I said stretching hands with him. He glanced at me with interest, adjusted his glasses once more and asked to me: Why is it they chose the name Leopoldo for you? After my great grandfather by my mother’s side, whose name was Leopoldo too, I said. And you, why is it José Antonio your name? José Antonio Jiménez Lozano, he repeated, briskly again. I waited while he stared at me. José after my father; Antonio after my great grandfather on my mother’s side; Jiménez after the Jiménez of León; Lozano after the Lozano of Valladolid. Good, I said to him, it sounds well saying it that briskly. Do you belong to the group of poetesses and poets that are getting ready for this Friday?, he asked me. Well, rather Amparo my friend has much interest in reciting her poems in public and I like accompanying her. I took notice of you and of your friend and of the Englishman times I have seen you here, you always bring books and talk about literature. Yes, that’s clear, we three like to read. I like myself to read too, and I read, the truth is, but very little, I haven’t got much time, he said. Are they a couple, the Englishman and she?, he asked. I first met up her husband, Robin, in Cantabria. Both of them have studied Philisophy in Manchester, England. We always have a good time when we meet up. There was a silence lasting for just an instant. I guess, he said, you have took heed of my presence and I have deserved some comment between you some time. Between us we have commented that you are a preacher, by loose words we have caught up and the way you have of talking to yourself, and for the way to go and come from a spot to another, but more than a drinker we consider you a preacher. Well..., he said, I wouldn't mind to be a preacher. And taking me by the arm he said after: I'm a cab driver, although I'm an industrial engineer. What words have you caught up? I don’t know, well…, laments… complaints… I was going to go on speaking but he interrupted me saying with an overwhelming head’s movement: Because it comes out from my soul, it is like I feel. And yes, they are laments, complaints, as you have said very well, because I am angry, I cannot be happy if the people is not happy. I could not be it in the meanwhile. If someone is starving, I am starving too. Under no circumstances you cannot leave the working class be cornered by wretches that think only in themselves. Logic attributes to the class enjoying privileges and social advantages and more material goods, the contempt of people of the popular masses, and besides these precisely have insulted always, with deeds and in thought, the class with privileges and advantages, the wrechtes that hoard material goods and foment misery.

            I saw he was a bit moved and I imagined him somewhere else being more poignant still. I know that affection is proper of high minds, I said to him. Yes indeed, I rather would say Yes indeed, he said nodding. It may seem even I don’t know what I’m saying, he said, when I talk to myself and go from a spot to another, it is no surprise to me they see me like someone hallucinated, for I know that’s the impression that can cause my way of driving myself. I am really quieter when I drink, because I am free from the tension and I untie on my way. My bad humour does not disappear at all for days, not when I am working, only when I come in to have something, although among comrades of course I have moments of exaltation, and of jubilee too, he finished by saying.

            We all are waiting a world’s revolution to understand each other with communist principles for ever. I saw he was waiting for me to go on, but I let him have the chance to do it. On realizing it he came nearer to me a little more and lowed down his voice’s volume to say to me: I did not say anything that can have made you think I am committed is some strange story, did I? No, I said to him at once, in no case we would suspect there is a strange story, of course, for us you are a preacher. Well, well…, I do not insist more, he said as though ditching the question, although he let it be seen he was worried about something, I don’t know if on purpose. He excused himself and went to the counter to give a draught of his gin and tonic. At that moment Amparo and her group were agreeing in coming again next day for a rehearsal, that it was fine for poetesses and poets. It seems they are going to make a rehearsal tomorrow, I said to José Antonio, who had come back to me. It is better because I shall watch the rehearsal tomorrow, on Friday I am sure this place will be plenty of people. Leopoldo, we have finished already, said Amparo to me as she was coming to us. Have you introduced to each other? Yes, I responded. Amparo; José Antonio Jiménez Lozano. Then, besides a drinker, I am a preacher, said José Antonio to Amparo. Amparo told him it was so, that we used to see him drink several glasses and at a big draughts, but more than a drinker we considered him a preacher. Thank you very much, thank you very much, he said laughing. I prefer to be considered a preacher than to be considered a drunkard, the truth is, and he went on laughing. I did not attend the rehearsal next day because I could not, but I promised to go on Friday, and on Friday I went and had a big time even though the recital lasted for half an hour more. Amparo herself made me blush because when she took the word she said that among the attendants there was someone poet very friend of hers whose name was Leopoldo Barge Álvarez and many attendants turned their eyes to mine. Amparo recited poems she had had published already in other books and new poems she was going to include in her new book, and another two poetesses and a poet recited some poems, there was recital. Robin could not come, always busy with his English lessons. We lingered there till an hour after the recital’s closing time talking to a group of people who crowded around the participants. Later I accompanied Amparo up to Tribunal underground station and on our way along I asked her if the preacher had gone to the rehearsal on Wednesday. Yes, she told me, he was in. He greeted me and asked me for you. I was observing him. He did as always, go from a spot to another talking to himself, remain lost for some reason like it is usual in him and look at some spot in the infinite, now and then have a draught and like a picturesque image or shadow in there. When I came in, Amparo continued speaking, Yolanda, Andrés and Pedro were waiting for me and I went straight to them. A bit later we greeted waving, he came nearer to me and asked me how I was, that he had expressly gone to watch the rehearsal, and later he asked me for you. As always, he seemed worried.

            We didn’t come back to Café Manuela until a week after. I had agreed with Amparo I would be waiting for her at the way out of Tribunal underground station. A minute had passed when Amparo and Robin came. Robin had unexpectedly found a gap in his time schedule and he had felt like having something in Café Manuela, which was the kind of place he liked to go to, and we had never before been together the three of us till then. He knew Café Manuela before I met him up in Cantabria, because staying there the subject about the places we used to go to in Madrid turned out and we both mentioned Café Manuela. Robin is two meters high and is very slender, with hair long and blond. He’s got the perfect image of an Englishman. When we came into Café Manuela José Antonio kept looking fixedly at the three of us, so fixedly that Amparo went to him and they shook hands. You must have seen Robin in here, he is my husband. José Antonio; Robin, she introduced each other. They shook hands. I have missed you, you haven’t been here these days, he said with a wheeze I detected, due, I was sure, to Robin’s presence. We couldn’t, I said stretching his hand. Let’s sit down, Robin said, I have to leave my briefcase somewhere once for all. I told José Antonio I would come back to him later to speak with him and saw he was restless. We three sat down facing the counter where José Antonio was, unexpectedly, not going from a place to another as it was his custom, and he didn’t talk to himself either, rather as though he didn’t want to look at us. We had a good time speaking English about Literature, History, Philosophy, Cinema, Politics. Seeing now and then José Antonio alone as always but with an unusual attitude, I told myself I ought to go to him next time our glances crossed. As if guessing my thoughts he glanced at me at once and I took advantage of it to talk to him. I am going to chat a little with José Antonio, I told Amparo and Robin.

            I went to him and we stretched hands again. He looked at me earnest and worried, but he suddenly smiled when I asked to him if he knew that in the morning López Berkeley had been killed, the Army’s general who threatened to take the tanks to the street if people went on protesting for the economical measures, against the plans of the government and for the situation in general. He held on his smile looking on purpose at Robin and I could see how he and Robin made to each other the thumb up sign. I know you would never say anything, he said laughing softly. When one drinks one says things not realizing it. Man, said he after with resolute spirit although speaking in a low tone, I remember clearly I mentioned, not realizing it, the last name that keeps us busy one day you came with the Englishman, because when I had let it escape twice or thrice already, I looked at him and I realized he had been watching me and he had caught it up, I am sure. It is a last name that sounds catchy to him. José Antonio smiled and I smiled too, he touched my elbow friendly and then he put his hands into his trousers pockets and looked at the ground, and after he moved slightly his head to one side and to another, and he could not, didn’t want either, to hide at all his face of satisfaction. Better so, dear preacher, I said to him, the annoying general had given us much to talk about.