The pension, on a third or fourth floor, had escaped from a novel by Pío Baroja. The one who was out of place was me, with my travel bag instead of a cardboard suitcase tied with a string, and I don’t think I was right with the astonished face of the provincial who steps on the capital for the first time.
The next morning, to celebrate my debut, I went into a nearby bar and ordered some chocolate cheers. “Chocolate cheers for the figure!” Sang the waiter. I stuck out my chest, I grew about ten or twelve centimeters and I was convinced that they did know how to calibrate the client there.
The obligatory visits continued, the astonishment at the essential paintings, the review of those shops where Berlanga had to sign his extras, the bewilderment over a meter that goes backwards and the fluctuating orientation due to lack of geographical landmarks, and there was no lack of calamari sandwich or tripe with chickpeas.
As an exceptional dish, I even went to the theater. The National Dance Company performed under the direction of Nacho Duato and in one of the pieces Maria del Mar Bonet sang. Come on, the best of the best. I got a box at a laughing price. The lights went out, the show began and, shortly after, when the spectacle had me captivated, a scream startled me: “Africa, scab!” Other similar exclamations followed. Then I found out that half the company was on strike, and the strikers had taken up positions in the next box. In the dark, no one could know exactly where the claims came from. In a solo by Nacho Duato, without music, with a particularly virtuoso execution, the dancer moved sideways like a crab and, coinciding with his spreading his legs, someone let out a fart. Of course, when María del Mar sang, the demands fell silent and one of the strikers even apologized: “It’s not for you, Maria del Mar!” he shouted.
Not even in a La Cubana show in its best times did I enjoy it so much. But the lights came on and half the theater turned its gaze towards the boxes. The one for the strikers was empty. And, for the first and last time in my life, someone took me for a dancer. To me, descendant of a family whose rhythm remained in the Cuban great-grandmother, who on the dance floor have received qualifications such as curious, peculiar, unique and even pathetic. There, they took me for a member of Nacho Duato’s company. And I left the theater with the springy gait of an angry dancer.
You might believe that all the fish was already sold. But the capital still had an ace up its sleeve, at the last moment, at the station. I arrived on time and, after reading for a while in the waiting room, I got up to stretch my legs. A few seats away, a girl was sitting with her bag next to her. I took a walk and, when I returned, next to the girl, a boy had sat down. He stood up, slung his bag, and headed for the stairs that led down to the platforms. Something pissed me off. I approached the girl and asked her: “Did you have a bag?” She snapped out of her reverie, tried to fix her gaze on me, craned her neck, took in her surroundings, and exclaimed, “My bag!”
I ran towards the platform stairs. The boy was already down and he must have seen me out of the corner of his eye because he started to run. I jumped the steps four at a time, and we walked the length of the platform and up the stairs at the other end. From there came the subway passage, which we walked like hell, until the boy ran into the ticket office at the end. He couldn’t go on. He had it. Then he, with all the calm in the world and a smile on his face, he opened his bag, took out the bag and handed it to me. Then he bought a ticket and got on the subway. And the girl came snorting. And I returned what was his, with the gesture of a modest figure-dancer savior of damsels.
I left Madrid more swollen than a peacock. It was a short stay, but of a solid intensity, without fissures. I have returned to the capital sporadically, but I have never stopped more than the essential. From that visit I think of Madrid as an extraordinary place, a Never-Never Land brimming with suspense, adventure and emotion, and I would be wrong to deny it.
