And the next moment, the other individual was talking to somebody else, completely oblivious of Fulano.
I have seen Fulano at another introduction remain seated and extend two fingers in the most supercilious manner. Nothing! All in vain. A second after the other person had absolutely forgotten his existence and was blankly looking through him.
On one occasion I introduced Fulano to a friend and had to repeat three times:
“Please meet my friend Fulano.” In a normal voice.
“Please meet my friend Fulano.” In a louder voice.
“Please meet my friend Fulano.” At the top of my voice.
The friend looked around several times and at last he perceived Fulano almost on top of him, shaking him by the shoulders with murder in his eyes.
He opened his mouth and uttered in the most discouraging manner:
“Oh. how do you do?”
Poor Fulano’s unimportance had arrived at the degree of making him almost invisible and inaudible. His name was unimportant, his face and figure were unimportant, his attire was unimportant and his whole life was unimportant. In fact, I don’t know how I, myself, ever noticed him. True enough that he crushed my hand, dislocated my arm and kicked me on the shin when I met him.
Fulano had read all the pamphlets entitled: “Personal Magnetism,” “Individuality and Success,” etc. He had exhausted all the man-building literature, and in vain. One day he stood in the middle of La Puerta del Sol shouting:
“Fire. fire.!”
But no one seemed to hear him and at last he had to quit his post because a trolley car nearly ran him down.
Another day he threw a stone at a window of a well-known jewelry shop. At the noise of the broken glass, the owner came out. He looked at the window, and disregarding Fulano completely, muttered:
“Well, well, I wonder how that happened,” and went back inside.
Not even beggars approached Fulano for alms.
All this would have been considered a blessing by a more practical person, but Fulano had no other purpose in his life except to be important, to attract attention, and these things made him only the more desperate.
Once I was at the Café de los Locos in Toledo. Bad writers were in the habit of coming to that café in quest of characters, and I came now and then among them. At that particular place one could find some very good secondhand bargains and also some fairly good, cheap, new material. As fashion has a great deal to do with market value, one could find at that place some characters who in their time had been glorious and served under famous geniuses, but who for some time had been out of a job, due to the change of literary trend toward other ideals.
I remember seeing there a poor and shabby lean fellow. He claimed to have served Cervantes. Well, the poor man could interest no author at the present moment. In that manner, there was a score of good characters who had been great in their day, but were now of no earthly use.
On this particular day I had been sitting for some time at the table chatting with a friend of mine, Dr. José de los Rios, and looking around at the different faces and types. Suddenly I heard three blows struck upon my table and a hand pulled me by the collar. At the same time a voice said loudly:
“Here I am.”
I turned around and saw Fulano sitting by my side.
“Well, when did you get here?”
“About half an hour ago. I have been sitting right here and trying to get into your conversation.”
I apologized, saying that I had been absorbed in the contemplation of characters I expected to use in this book. After that, with no little difficulty and by applying some violent methods, I succeeded in introducing him to Dr. de los Rios. Then I observed that Fulano looked more dejected than usual.
“What is the matter? You look sad, Fulano.”
“What do you expect? I have come to realize that I shall never be important, no matter how hard I try. It is no use, the world will simply ignore me.”
“It is very disagreeable,” I admitted. “But there are a lot of other people in the same predicament. There are, for instance, a number of husbands, preachers, dictators and. ”
“This is no time for secondhand witty remarks. What I am telling you is serious. I know that I will never be important as a human being, and I have thought that perhaps I might gain fame and importance as a character.”
“. ”
“I don’t care whether it is you or somebody else. You are my friend. You know I am willing, and perhaps you can make me a great character.”
I bowed under the weight of the compliment.
“If you cannot use me, then pass me along to some other writer. If you could smuggle me somewhere in this book you say you are going to write, my gratitude would know no limits. I don’t care what I do, provided I gain importance.”
“And. what are your qualifications to be a character?”
“The deuce! My very lack of importance. I shall be rated as the most unimportant character in fiction. You know that every character has more or less of a striking personality, that extraordinary things happen to all characters. Don’t tell me that you will be ever able to find a character as flat and little interesting as myself.”
“Well. you can find a lot of that in present-day literature. I really. ”
Dr. José de los Rios, who had remained silent during this conversation, turned on my friend and spoke:
“Señor Fulano, although I have known you for a very short time, I can see only one way of hoping to get you out of your present condition. Señor Fulano, you must commit suicide.”
“What?”
“I don’t mean actually kill yourself, but commit an official suicide.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. This evening as soon as it gets dark, you walk over the bridge of Alcántara and leave your coat on the ground with all your personal identification, all your credentials, your money, bankbook, etc., and a note saying that you have thrown yourself to the Tajo. Then you go back to Madrid, having lost your official identity, and there we will try to make a character out of you.”
Fulano looked at me questioningly. I said:
“I think that what Dr. de los Rios proposes is very logical.”
Dr. de los Rios went on:
“You see? This apparent suicide will also serve as a little step toward notoriety. It is fortunate that this has taken place in this city. Toledo, the Tajo, and the bridge of Alcántara have historical background and that will lend color to your action.”
There was gratitude in the eyes of Fulano and he thanked Dr. de los Rios warmly, and I promised to do everything in my power to help him after he had complied with his part of the bargain.
By this time it was quite late in the afternoon. Dr. de los Rios had to go on a professional visit, and he left wishing Fulano a very successful enterprise. We remained seated at the table, and as Fulano had to wait until dark and we had nothing to do, I decided to amuse him by pointing out the characters that were gathered at the café.
“Do you see that fat, bald-headed policeman? He is Don Benito.”
The policeman was unsuccessfully endeavoring to light a cigar with matches that consistently went out. Then he noticed we were speaking of him and assumed a proud air.
“Now look at that table by the window. The waitress who is laughing now is Lunarito. They call her that because of a beauty spot which cannot be seen from here. The good-looking young man who is smoking a pipe and pinching her leg is Pepe Bejarano.
“Direct your attention toward that man whose collar is open. The one standing by the bar drinking. there now. the one that is pushing that woman away and insulting her. He is El Cogote.”
At this moment two nuns entered the café and went from table to table seeking alms for their convent. I pointed at one of them: