The last time we ate together was at Goizeko Kabi, in Madrid. It was summer, and Arturo appeared in a blue linen jacket, very light, and a pink shirt, or maybe it was fuchsia. "The men who are afraid to wear a pink shirt is because they are not sure if it is," he said, speaking of the preventions that color awakens or awakens in traditional males. It was (how much it costs to write in the past) one of the most elegant types I've ever met, and it was inside and out. Elegant, etymologically, is who chooses well. Arturo chose very well his clothes and his friends, also his ideas and his plays. He once told me that the secret of elegance lies in letting oneself be advised by elegant women. "And in not getting fat: can you imagine Cary Grant with a gut?"
Some time ago he had invited me to dinner at his house. The driver left me at the outside door of the chalet and I had to walk in the evening towards the house through the garden. And there one of his dogs was thrown at me, a big and very handsome German shepherd, on the other hand. It was nothing: slight scratches on the chest produced by his legs when pouncing I do not know very well if to intimidate me or give me a welcome hug. Carmen, his wife, took me to the bathroom and washed the scratches with hydrogen peroxide. Arturo arrived, this time wearing a light blue silk shirt, and after apologizing for the dog's soon, he said: "I forgot to tell you on the phone that if one of my dogs approached you, you would say clearly and loudly that you were right-handed. "
He had written in a semblance that Arturo was a kind of "right anarchist," as Berlanga said of himself. He did not have time to call me: "Chatin, no, not at all; I am simply right; those who say they are right-wing anarchists only want to hide that they are right-wing, and that is the evil of the Spanish right: that
he looks in the mirror and does not like anything; they say what anarchism was like before, queers said it was bisexual, do you remember? "
Going back to the food at the Goizeko: Arturo was very concerned especially about the process. His mouth warmed, and we were taking a vichyssoise. "And how do you see it?" He asked me. "Bad very bad. I remember what Ortega y Gasset said almost a hundred years ago, when he was a deputy in Cortes: "The Catalan problem has no solution; we can only learn to live with him, "I replied. "That said Ortega? For besides being a philosopher, he was a prophet. " We went to take coffee to a terrace, to be able to smoke, because Arturo, like Foxá, had long since passed from the trilogy "country, bread and justice" to that of "coffee, glass and cigar".
Speaking of the things that happen to us, jumping from one topic to another, Arturo drank a sip of whiskey and without stopping looking at the people circulating on the street, he said as if he had just found inspiration in the landscape, in the public : "Do you know what is the worst thing that happens to this society? That people believe in false solutions more than in God. Something I have learned in these almost ninety years, chatín: there are things that can not be fixed. But who tells it? "
And we are silent for a moment, as if after that, only a cigar was left to smoke.