A Spanish Corner in Shanghai

This article is subtracted from:
Leonardo Pérez, Alvaro. 2019. “Abelardo Lafuente García-
Rojo (1871–1931), a Spanish Architect in China.” PhD
diss. Alcala Henares University. Annex 07.10, page 549.

Translated to English by Google Translate:
At half past five in the afternoon, work in the city almost completely ceases. People take a break from their chores and go out into the streets eager for leisure. Minutes later, the shop window would open and the first visitor would enter, beginning the gathering where a handful of Spaniards would share their impressions and longings on a daily basis

The shop, modest, though elegant and well-maintained, faced North Szechuan Road, a busy street in Shanghai's European quarter. On its shelves were hippies and felt hats, pith helmets and Spanish wines, cork stoppers and wool coats, and many other incongruous goods, all in a picturesque hodgepodge. Its owner, Jerónimo Candel, was a Spaniard from Manila who, after struggling with varying degrees of success in the Philippines, moved to Shanghai, where he managed to prosper until a disloyal partner ruined him. Finally, he was able to open this shop, where, widowed and childless, he lives out his old age alone, sustained by the emanations he receives, despite the distance, from his longed-for homeland

Because this little shop serves as a Spanish casino for two hours at dusk. It's the meeting point for the thirty or so Spaniards who make up the peninsular colony. During those two hours, that small space is like a special jurisdiction where a few sons of Spain ideally reconnect with their homeland and gain new energy

The newcomer is Pepe Aguado, a sturdy figure, dark complexion, lively eyes, and a determined air. Still young, but already graying, he moved to Shanghai in 1914, ready to elbow his way to success. And he has succeeded. He enjoys a good position. He has barely said hello when the shop window gives way to Ramos. Antonio Ramos, in partnership with another Ramos, embarked on the most outlandish business imaginable in that latitude, one that no one had ever attempted before: the cinema. They were poor in capital, though rich in imagination and ambition, and they had to do everything, even build the buildings from scratch. At the time, Antonio owned the three best cinemas in Shanghai: the sumptuous Olympic, the charming Victoria, and another of more modest attire, but very spacious and popular

Coinciding with Ramos, three of his collaborators enter the premises: Abelardo Lafuente, the architect who drew up the plans and directed the construction of the Olympic and Victoria hotels, and the Martís, father and son, brilliant artists who decorated them. Abelardo Lafuente is the pride of the colony. A talented architect, and aware of it, after demonstrating his skill in the Philippines, he moved to Shanghai to fight on his own turf, where everything was against him, as architects from many different countries, and mainly English, worked there, strongly supported by their government and their compatriots

But he won. A few years later, some of the main buildings that enhance Shanghai were his work. The finest American Club, built in the lavish style, vast in proportions, and with a marvelous ballroom decorated with paintings by a painter also Spanish, though naturalized French, named Ribera; the Jewish Club, of original design, erected in the middle of a large park, with majestic beauty; and the Star Garage, the best and largest in the city, a four-story building, impressive for its solid and magnificent appearance, are all his work. At the time of this gathering, Lafuente was occupied, among other minor works, with the

construction of a large hospital for cholera patients, which was commissioned by the municipality in a competition, which he won

Gradually, other attendees arrive: Jerónimo Canda, a merchant; Enrique Muñoz, an import-export agent; Luis Irure and Francisco Aboitez. A weary-looking compatriot sits silently by a table. He was a writer. He dreamed of flying, and fate broke his wings. Surrounded by respect and burdened by years, Juan Mencarini sits at one end, one of the men who have most honored our lineage in China, to whom we owe an excellent translation of Pindar's "Odes" directly from the Greek. Nature is so fertile that a flower can bloom everywhere

Other visitors arrive. The conversation livens up. At first, it revolves around trivial matters. But joy appears in their eyes, as if they were sharing pleasant and fortunate news for everyone. The pleasure lies in conversing in our language, in being together. It is a true communion of souls in the flame of a love that resists ostentation

One recounts his recent trip to Beijing; he describes the paradisiacal landscape as far as Nanjing; the crossing of the Yangtze by ferry; the passage through Pukow, Tsinanfu; the change of scenery in Tianjin, and the surprise of being offered baskets of fragrant strawberries two hours from Beijing, at a station similar to that of Aranjuez. Another discusses Spain's possibilities in China, and praises the magnificent book by the Augustinian Father Gaudencio Castrillo, procurator of his Order in Shanghai, "Trade in the Far East," in which he thoroughly explores the subject. Others speak of the great Chinese actor Mei Lang Fieng, unsurpassed in the female roles of the classical repertoire, the only ones he agrees to perform

A gentle tendency is drawing the conversation closer to things about Spain. As usual, the argument arises about the excellence of the flowers and fruits from "there" and "here." Some prefer mangosteen, ate, chico, mango, and avocado; others opt for plum, peach, pear, melon, or muscatel grapes. Through this crack filters a nostalgic vision of their homeland. Finally, someone asks the question that has been wandering from everyone's lips since the beginning: "And what news from there?" "There" is their region to each person, Spain to everyone

As if a dam had broken, the gathering fragments, the conversations multiply. Each one tells their story. Everyone knows them. They are the same as yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and tomorrow. Always fresh, with unfading youth, because each one speaks to themselves, and in their words overflows the sap that fills their heart. But eight o'clock is about to strike. It is time to retire. The gathering attendees file out. Someone takes their rickshaw, pulled by a vigorous Chinese man. The tent is left dark and silent: one would say that in its atmosphere lingers the murmur of words that were not spoken. An attentive ear and a spirit accustomed to deciphering mysteries might perceive in that vague murmur the fervent whisper of a Hail Mary recited inwardly before the invisible altars of a distant homeland.

Now the communists are going to enter Shanghai. Will that little Spanish corner survive?

Baldomero Argente