believe all they say about her being the gentle singer of love songs . . . But their row was just words. They didn’t see eye to eye because they had similar styles. Truth be told several boleristas sang more or less the same way, with lots of feeling, lots of high drama, as if they held everything in contempt. It was a very fifties style. Did you never hear the recording they made of ‘Freddy’? In the sixties, La Lupe changed that style into some thing else rather sorrowful, contempt turned to scorn, drama to tragedy: La Lupe marks another era . . . But when Violeta started out, Katy Barqué was the best known in her style, and apparently she thought the other woman was competition . . . Hence the row.”
“But wasn’t there room for everyone?” wondered Yoyi.
“Down at the base of the pyramid, there was. It wasn’t the same at the top. These boleristas were very special ladies, full of character. A bolero isn’t any old song, obviously: to sing one you really make it yours, don’t just feel it. Boleros aren’t about reality but a desire for reality you reach via an appearance of reality, if you follow me? No matter . . . That’s the philosophy behind boleros, I wrote about that in my book . . . And that was its golden age, because the classic composers who’d been writing since the twenties and thirties came together with these young men with lots of feeling who read French poetry and knew what atonal music was. And that encounter created those boleros that now seem to speak of life . . . Real life. Even though it’s all lies: pure theatre, as La Lupe said.”
“What about Violeta’s record?” asked the Count, clinging to the edge of the precipice.
“I’ve got it in there . . . but my record player’s broken. I’m waiting for a friend to bring me one from Spain, because . . . Do you know how many LPs, 78s and 45s I’ve got in there?”
Rafael followed his question with such an abrupt silence the Count was forced to follow his cue.
“No, how many?”
“12,622. What do you reckon?”
“Fantastic,” conceded Pigeon.
“They cost me a fortune, and now with CDs nobody’s interested. Every day someone comes with a box of records and gives them me for nothing.”
“What do we have to do to listen to Violeta’s?” the Count implored.
Rafael took his glasses off and rubbed them on his shirt-flap and the Count was shocked to see he hardly had any eyes. The sockets were two deep round holes, like bullet holes, darkened by the circles from the bags obscuring his mulatto skin. When he put his glasses back on, the man restored his wakeful owlish eyes and the Count felt relieved.
“I never lend my records, books or press cuttings. As you can imagine, people have nicked things hundreds of times . . .”
The Count’s brain began to spin in search of a solution. Come back with a record player? Bring a needle for Rafael’s system?... Or leave something in lieu?
“How about this for a deal? We’ve got seven boxes of books in our car boot you won’t find anywhere else. I’ll swap you the book of your choice for Violeta del Río’s record . . .”
Rafael’s unreal eyes glinted wickedly.
“Good books?”
“They’re something special, believe me. Take a look and chose the one you want. Come on.”
The Count stood up and held a hand out to Pigeon, wanting the car keys. The look on the young man’s face showed his disapproval: that whim could cost them dear and, as Yoyi swore, you shouldn’t gamble your children’s food away – though he had none and didn’t intend having any. The suggestion brought Rafael to his feet and they went into the street.
Pigeon opened the boot and pressed a button to switch on the light. Like any bibliophile stricken by the bug, the musicologist didn’t hide the desire aroused by boxes stuffed with books and, turning to the Count, he checked: “Whichever?”
“Uh-huh . . .”
The musicologist inspected the books one by one, slowly, lifting them up
“But wasn’t there room for everyone?” wondered Yoyi.
“Down at the base of the pyramid, there was. It wasn’t the same at the top. These boleristas were very special ladies, full of character. A bolero isn’t any old song, obviously: to sing one you really make it yours, don’t just feel it. Boleros aren’t about reality but a desire for reality you reach via an appearance of reality, if you follow me? No matter . . . That’s the philosophy behind boleros, I wrote about that in my book . . . And that was its golden age, because the classic composers who’d been writing since the twenties and thirties came together with these young men with lots of feeling who read French poetry and knew what atonal music was. And that encounter created those boleros that now seem to speak of life . . . Real life. Even though it’s all lies: pure theatre, as La Lupe said.”
“What about Violeta’s record?” asked the Count, clinging to the edge of the precipice.
“I’ve got it in there . . . but my record player’s broken. I’m waiting for a friend to bring me one from Spain, because . . . Do you know how many LPs, 78s and 45s I’ve got in there?”
Rafael followed his question with such an abrupt silence the Count was forced to follow his cue.
“No, how many?”
“12,622. What do you reckon?”
“Fantastic,” conceded Pigeon.
“They cost me a fortune, and now with CDs nobody’s interested. Every day someone comes with a box of records and gives them me for nothing.”
“What do we have to do to listen to Violeta’s?” the Count implored.
Rafael took his glasses off and rubbed them on his shirt-flap and the Count was shocked to see he hardly had any eyes. The sockets were two deep round holes, like bullet holes, darkened by the circles from the bags obscuring his mulatto skin. When he put his glasses back on, the man restored his wakeful owlish eyes and the Count felt relieved.
“I never lend my records, books or press cuttings. As you can imagine, people have nicked things hundreds of times . . .”
The Count’s brain began to spin in search of a solution. Come back with a record player? Bring a needle for Rafael’s system?... Or leave something in lieu?
“How about this for a deal? We’ve got seven boxes of books in our car boot you won’t find anywhere else. I’ll swap you the book of your choice for Violeta del Río’s record . . .”
Rafael’s unreal eyes glinted wickedly.
“Good books?”
“They’re something special, believe me. Take a look and chose the one you want. Come on.”
The Count stood up and held a hand out to Pigeon, wanting the car keys. The look on the young man’s face showed his disapproval: that whim could cost them dear and, as Yoyi swore, you shouldn’t gamble your children’s food away – though he had none and didn’t intend having any. The suggestion brought Rafael to his feet and they went into the street.
Pigeon opened the boot and pressed a button to switch on the light. Like any bibliophile stricken by the bug, the musicologist didn’t hide the desire aroused by boxes stuffed with books and, turning to the Count, he checked: “Whichever?”
“Uh-huh . . .”
The musicologist inspected the books one by one, slowly, lifting them up
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