when he’s standing close to its base. Then, as Nick led him into the sun-room, where Acosta and I had been waiting for them, I made an effort to look up at the face which rose a full foot above mine. I felt like a kid in a sideshow peering up at the Tallest Man in the World.
When I stared at Toro that first time the word
giant
that Acosta had been beating me over the head with didn’t occur to me at all. It was
monster
that was in my mind. His hands were monstrous, the size of his feet was monstrous and his oversized head instantly became my conception of the Neanderthal Man who roamed this world some forty thousand years ago. To see him move, slowly, with anawkward loping gait, into the sun-room, bending almost double to come through the doorway, was as disconcerting as seeing one of the restored fossils of primitive man in the Museum of Natural History suddenly move toward you and offer a bony hand in greeting. But if anyone were making book on who was the most disconcerted, he would have had to string along with Toro.
Toro acted like a large field animal, a bull or a horse, that has suddenly been lassoed and led into a house. But when he saw Acosta he looked relieved. Acosta said, quickly in Spanish, ‘El Toro, come over here, I want you to meet a new friend of ours,’ and Toro came obediently, placing himself a little behind Acosta, as if seeking protection from the pudgy little man who would have to stand on his tiptoes to tap him on the shoulder. That brown suit with the red and blue stripes that Acosta had bought for him in Buenos Aires was pinched in the shoulders; the pants were tight and the sleeves fell short several inches above the wrist. Looking at him more closely as the first shock was wearing off, I remember having the impression of seeing a trained monkey of nightmare proportions dressed up like a man mechanically going through his act under the watchful eye of the organ-grinder. Only in this case Luis Acosta didn’t need an instrument strapped over his shoulder. He played his own music and wrote his own words and apparently could grind them out tirelessly.
‘El Toro,’ Acosta said (and even the way he snapped the name out and paused a moment reminded me of the way an animal trainer fixes the attention of his beast before giving the command), ‘shake hands with Meester Lewis.’
Toro hesitated a moment, just the way you’ve seen them do it hundreds of times in the animal act, and then obeyed. I was afraid it was going to be like putting my hand in a meat-grinder, but he didn’t grasp it very hard, wasn’t sure enough of himself, I guess. Instead it felt like the end of an elephant’s trunk pushing into your hand when you’re feeding it peanuts, heavy and calloused, unnatural, and with a strange massive gentleness.
‘
Con mucho gusto
,’ I said, throwing six months of Mexico into the breach.
Toro just nodded perfunctorily. After we shook hands he stepped back behind Acosta again, looking down at him inquisitively, as if waiting for the next command.
‘Whadya think of him, Eddie?’ Nick said. ‘Think we oughta start renting him out by floors like the Empire State?’
That was the first of the Toro Molina jokes. This time I laughed, but, oh, how weary I was to become of those jokes about Molina’s size!
When Nick made jokes he was feeling good. ‘Well, did you get everything you want?’ he asked me. ‘Did the little guy talk?’
‘To fill a book,’ I said.
‘Hey, that ain’t such a bad idea, a book,’ Nick said. ‘Maybe one of those comic books. Like this Superman. Know what Superman sells? Eight, ten million copies. At a dime a throw, not bad.’
Some day, when they put out a new edition of old Gustavus Myers’
History of the Great American Fortunes
you may be reading how Nicholas Latka (‘illustrious great-great-grandfather of Nicholas Latka III’) got his. Itmay be right in there with the Vanderbilts and the Goulds and the rest of the fancy who knew when to break a
When I stared at Toro that first time the word
giant
that Acosta had been beating me over the head with didn’t occur to me at all. It was
monster
that was in my mind. His hands were monstrous, the size of his feet was monstrous and his oversized head instantly became my conception of the Neanderthal Man who roamed this world some forty thousand years ago. To see him move, slowly, with anawkward loping gait, into the sun-room, bending almost double to come through the doorway, was as disconcerting as seeing one of the restored fossils of primitive man in the Museum of Natural History suddenly move toward you and offer a bony hand in greeting. But if anyone were making book on who was the most disconcerted, he would have had to string along with Toro.
Toro acted like a large field animal, a bull or a horse, that has suddenly been lassoed and led into a house. But when he saw Acosta he looked relieved. Acosta said, quickly in Spanish, ‘El Toro, come over here, I want you to meet a new friend of ours,’ and Toro came obediently, placing himself a little behind Acosta, as if seeking protection from the pudgy little man who would have to stand on his tiptoes to tap him on the shoulder. That brown suit with the red and blue stripes that Acosta had bought for him in Buenos Aires was pinched in the shoulders; the pants were tight and the sleeves fell short several inches above the wrist. Looking at him more closely as the first shock was wearing off, I remember having the impression of seeing a trained monkey of nightmare proportions dressed up like a man mechanically going through his act under the watchful eye of the organ-grinder. Only in this case Luis Acosta didn’t need an instrument strapped over his shoulder. He played his own music and wrote his own words and apparently could grind them out tirelessly.
‘El Toro,’ Acosta said (and even the way he snapped the name out and paused a moment reminded me of the way an animal trainer fixes the attention of his beast before giving the command), ‘shake hands with Meester Lewis.’
Toro hesitated a moment, just the way you’ve seen them do it hundreds of times in the animal act, and then obeyed. I was afraid it was going to be like putting my hand in a meat-grinder, but he didn’t grasp it very hard, wasn’t sure enough of himself, I guess. Instead it felt like the end of an elephant’s trunk pushing into your hand when you’re feeding it peanuts, heavy and calloused, unnatural, and with a strange massive gentleness.
‘
Con mucho gusto
,’ I said, throwing six months of Mexico into the breach.
Toro just nodded perfunctorily. After we shook hands he stepped back behind Acosta again, looking down at him inquisitively, as if waiting for the next command.
‘Whadya think of him, Eddie?’ Nick said. ‘Think we oughta start renting him out by floors like the Empire State?’
That was the first of the Toro Molina jokes. This time I laughed, but, oh, how weary I was to become of those jokes about Molina’s size!
When Nick made jokes he was feeling good. ‘Well, did you get everything you want?’ he asked me. ‘Did the little guy talk?’
‘To fill a book,’ I said.
‘Hey, that ain’t such a bad idea, a book,’ Nick said. ‘Maybe one of those comic books. Like this Superman. Know what Superman sells? Eight, ten million copies. At a dime a throw, not bad.’
Some day, when they put out a new edition of old Gustavus Myers’
History of the Great American Fortunes
you may be reading how Nicholas Latka (‘illustrious great-great-grandfather of Nicholas Latka III’) got his. Itmay be right in there with the Vanderbilts and the Goulds and the rest of the fancy who knew when to break a
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