Barcelona Hunger

It was during my stay in Barcelona that I became interested in Christopher Columbus. I had rented a room with a sink in the Hostal Alfonso X, a malodorous dive in the Barrio Gótico. In the late afternoons, before I started cruising Las Ramblas, and later the bars, I’d sit on a bench on the quay in front of a replica of one of Columbus’s caravels, the Santa María, and marvel at the Admiral’s boldness to wander off into the unknown in such a flimsy vessel.

Sitting on the hot bench for hours, with no money and no place to go, scanning the promenade for cigarette butts, dreaming of taking a long shower, and having a good meal accompanied with a bottle of red wine, I’d think of Jose and get sad, thinking that perhaps I might never see him again. I didn’t even have an address for him in Andalucía, and he had no way of contacting me in Barcelona. Mesmerized by the stagnant waters of the bay, I’d daydream about him: Jose in the mountains of Jaén, reading poetry in an olive grove, or Jose working in the family orchard, sweating, wearing shorts and a hat.

June had come to an end and I had planter’s warts on the soles of my feet from making fruitless rounds to restaurants, fondas, and hotels looking for work as a waiter or dishwasher. But without a work permit no one would hire me. I was behind in the rent. It was weeks since I had taken a shower, and although I cleaned myself at the sink every day, before I went out and after I came back late at night, and washed my hair often with soap, I was convinced I smelled like rotten fish. I was tired of sneaking out of the pensión in the morning and coming in late at night, when the ancient clerk behind the desk was so drowsy he’d mechanically hand me the key to my room in his sleep.

Although I had sworn never to do it again, I went to sell my blood. Somehow—I can only attribute it to the sea air, and the many hours of inactivity on the bench, and all the water I drank from the stone fountains all over the city—I had gained weight, so I wasn’t turned away. After I caught up with the back rent, paid for a shower, and devoured a deluxe paella in a cheap restaurant, I was broke once more.

To aggravate the situation, it was impossible to write anything in my room. Because the hostel was on the Calle Del Barro, in the heart of the gothic section, all throughout the day and night the ancient churches clanged their bells, keeping me awake at night and incapacitating me to compose a single line during the day. Besides, I was so hungry all the time, I could only think about the succulent dishes of sea food I saw the tourists wolfing down in the outdoor restaurants. In that state of slow starvation, fetid, the unthinkable occurred to me: I’d pawn my typewriter. It was an electric typewriter my mother had given me as a birthday present. I figured I’d get a few thousand pesetas for it. I wasn’t ready to go back to hustling again. What had happened with Rasmus, I reasoned, was a freak occurrence, and I was determined to make money in a more conventional manner.

I hauled my typewriter to the nearest Monte de Piedad and got in a long line of indigents who were pawning their china, silverware, and their finest linen. I consoled myself by thinking that pawning my typewriter would be just a temporary measure. Sooner or later, I figured, I’d get a job off the books. When I handed my typewriter to the window person, she plugged it to an outlet to make sure it worked. Satisfied, she said, “I need to see some proof of ownership.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. All strength seemed to ebb from my...