The Eldorado Network Read Free Page A

worth out of the American movies, which were his big interest in life. He was about thirteen when he realised that Spanish subtitles were far briefer than the dialogue on the soundtrack. This was not only a swindle but also an insult. In Luis's experience the only things worth his attention were stuff the authorities wanted to hide. He bought a teach-yourself-English book and studied it all day in school: through geography lessons, algebra lessons, divinity lessons. The book was confiscated. He bought another. Eventually he knew enough English to identify what the Spanish subtitles were avoiding, and sometimes he took it upon himself to fill in the gaps for the benefit of others. When a cowboy punched a gambler through a saloon window, and the Spanish caption offered only a terse 'Begone!', Luis loosely but loudly translated the soundtrack's actual beat it, you fourflushing sonofabitch or I'll kick your teeth past your tonsils. He was thrown out of so many cinemas that he became known to the police. Also to the secret police.
    At first that didn't much matter. It was 1934, he was only fifteen, the disapproval of the police or the secret police meant no more to him than had the disapproval of a whole series of teachers and headmasters. And young Luis had no politics, unless chronic dissatisfaction with everything counts as politics. His parents had other things to preoccupy them: railway timetables for his father, piano-playing for his mother. She was convinced that she had talent, perhaps great talent, if only she could bully her fingers into expressing it. One of the perquisites of her husband's job was that every time he got transferred the company moved all their belongings free; so Luis became accustomed to travelling with her scratched and scarred grand piano. He never got accustomed to her tirelessly bad playing. Senora Cabrillo attacked the keyboard as if it were a lengthy combination lock, a bit stiff, a bit grudging, which had to be struck scientifically but ruthlessly in the correct sequence before it would deliver up its treasure. Day after day she kept striking it, year after year, with chords like village carpentry and cadenzas like heavy rope, and still no treasure showed itself. To Luis each of his parents was lost on some endless, pointless search. His father was the Flying Dutchman of the Spanish railway system, and his mother had a stranglehold on her piano if only she could find its jugular. They fed, clothed and housed him, but otherwise took little interest. When the incident of the tripped referee brought about angry and tedious repercussions, he decided to leave school and get a job. Neither parent interfered.

Chapter 3
    They were living in Barcelona at the time.
    The man who wrote film reviews for Barcelona's biggest evening paper, Luis noted, was also the bullfight critic and sometimes covered football matches. The editor got a letter from Luis proposing himself as the newpaper's first full-time film critic. Attached was a review of a film currently being shown in the city. It was a miracle of compression: Luis managed to libel the star, the director, the film critic of a rival newspaper, and the owners of the cinema, all in 250 words. But he had a certain style  --  'the trouble with this film is that it goes on long after it has finished', he wrote  --  and so the editor offered him a job as a copy boy. 'I have a nose for talent,' the editor said. 'Work hard, learn all you can, and maybe one day you'll be sitting in this chair.'
    That was fine and very encouraging, except for one thing: Luis was fifteen and the editor (as he discovered by looking up his file in the obituary department) was fifty-three. Luis took the job but he wasn't willing to wait thirty-eight years. For a couple of weeks he trotted about the building, carrying copy from writers and sub-editors, from subs to typesetters; taking proofs in the reverse direction; fetching coffee; finding taxis; listening to arguments over