Free The Acrobats by Mordecai Richler Page A

the floor?”
    “He was ill for a month when he came here. He hadn’t been eating properly or something like that. He imagines things. Guillermo told me all about him one night. He comes from a very wealthy family.”
    “You would think he could afford a better room than this?”
    Manuel was sprawled out on the bed and sipping cognac. García had pushed the canvas tablecloth to one side and cleared a seat for himself on the trunk. He was also drinking.
    “They enjoy pretending that they are poor,” Manuel said. “It broadens their education. It is romantic.”
    “You shouldn’t talk that way. He is a good friend of Guillermo’s. He has done him many favours. Perhaps he is really poor?”
    “Favours? I have had enough of their charity. It stinks!”
    “Still, he is a friend …”
    “Guillermo is a romantic. Having a foreign artist for a friend appeals to the bourgeois in him.”
    “But …”
    “You are a boy. You understand nothing. I know the type. They do you favours. They sympathise. The workers sufferso much. My, my. But as soon as there is a crisis, poof! – they disappear.”
    André opened the door and stared blankly at the two strangers. He didn’t know what to think. He smiled weakly.
    García jumped up. “We are friends of Guillermo’s,” he said shyly.
    “Well then.” André said, grinning broadly now, “I’m glad to have you here. Where’s Guillermo? I’m sorry that I’m late. I went for a walk. I wasn’t expecting him until later in the afternoon.”
    “He gave us this address. He said he would be here later. I hope you don’t mind,” García said.
    “Why should he mind?” Manuel, still lolling on the bed, said dryly.
    “Yes, of course,” André said. “Please sit down.”
    “García. My name is García. This is Manuel.”
    “My name is Bennett.”
    “We know your name. We know all about you. You paint.”
    André picked up the bottle of cognac from the floor and poured himself a drink. He was anxious to make a good impression. “Would you like me to refill your glasses?” he said.
    García smiled shyly. He was stocky and dark and probably still in his teens. He was dressed shabbily, but his clothes were obviously well taken care of. He spoke Castilian with the clipped accent of a
Mallorquín
. “If you like,” he said.
    André filled the glasses.
    “Do you like Spain?” García asked.
    Manuel laughed. He was a bony man with a hard face and mean eyes. His hair was grey. A long curving scar, probably from a knife wound, ran down his left cheek. André stared at him. Manuel smiled cynically. “It is very ugly, isn’t it?”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that I was …”
    “Have you ever been in prison? In one of Franco’s prisons?”
    “Do you like Spain?” García asked again – quickly.
    “Does he like Spain? Fool! It is cheap. If you are a foreigner, Spain is cheap. The beggars are ugly, I admit, but one gets used to that.”
    “Do you think that Guillermo will be here soon?”
    “Would you like us to leave? Do we embarrass you?”
    “I didn’t say that at all.”
    Manuel got off the bed and walked over to the easel. He poked André’s unfinished canvas with his finger. There were no nails on his fingers, just black sores. “Isn’t there anything more important to paint than naked women?”
    “I think the woman is very beautiful,” García said timidly.
    “What do you know about such things!”
    “Let him alone!” André said. “I’m sure he knows just as much about it as you do!”
    Manuel smiled contemptuously. “That’s right. What do we know about art? We aren’t gentlemen. We haven’t had an education.”
    “Stop twisting my words.”
    “Why do you come to Spain at all? Does it amuse you? Do you think our women make good whores? Do you think it is droll to be a young idler while better men than you die in prison?”
    “Shuttup!”
    Manuel turned to García and shrugged his shoulders ironically. “It disturbs the poor child