Speaking of Estévanez, I recall also Bonafoux, whom I saw frequently.
According to González de la Peña, the painter, he held my versatility
against me.
"Bonafoux," remarked Peña, "feels that you are too versatile and too
volatile."
"Indeed? In what way?"
"One day you entered the bar and said to Bonafoux that a testimonial
banquet ought to be organized for Estévanez, enlarging upon it
enthusiastically. Bonafoux answered: 'Go ahead and make the
preparations, and we will all get together.' When you came into the café
a few nights later, Bonafoux asked: 'How about that banquet?' 'What
banquet?' you replied. It had already passed out of your mind. Now, tell
me: Is this true?" inquired Peña.
"Yes, it is. We all have something of Tartarin in us, more or less. We
talk and we talk, and then we forget what we say."
Other Parisian types return to me when I think of those days. There was
a Cuban journalist, who was satisfactorily dirty, of whom Bonafoux used
to say that he not only ate his plate of soup but managed to wash his
face in it at the same time. There was a Catalan guitar player, besides
some girls from Madrid who walked the tight rope, whom we used to invite
to join us at the café from time to time. And then there was a whole
host of other persons, all more or less shabby, down at the heel and
picturesque.