believe in
me,
Alberto."
His heavy-lidded eyes met mine; his lips formed a patiently condescending half-smile.
"Maybe
you
aren't the thing she doubts."
I didn't understand.
"Music isn't everything, Feliu."
So it was not only my ability and fortitude that were suspect, but music itself? But of course, I'd always known it.
My irritation made me less shy. "Why don't you play the cello anymore, Alberto?"
"I have not played my own instrument for years. Teaching doesn't require it."
"Don't you miss it?"
"A little, yes."
He 'd said this before, and I'd never pursued the question any further. But I wasn't going to let it go this time. Something in my expression must have told him so.
"I was employed by an opera company and later, by a symphony. I toured all of Europe, of course—"
"Europe!"
Alberto shook his head, cautioning me not to interrupt again. "And at least I had the sense to save some of those earnings. But I missed many years in my daughter's life. Now she has moved away. She doesn't write. I played through my wife's illness, and she died. And I played through my own illness, wishing to die."
I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap.
"But that wish was not granted," he continued. "I got better. I dedicated myself to one instrument for two-thirds of my life, but I never found an answer to one question:
Why?
"
"Why play?"
"Yes—what point does it serve? What is music
for
?"
"Why does it have to be for anything?"
"I played for powerful men and saw them, a day after crying to my cello, govern without mercy. I played for workers and saw them no better able to feed their families. I asked myself—"
"You must not have loved it then," I interrupted. "If you loved it, you would play music for its own sake."
"What in this world exists for its own sake? Food nourishes. Water quenches. Women bear children."
"Beauty—" I started to say.
"A flower is beautiful, Feliu. But a flower's beauty and scent have one purpose: to attract a bee. To allow pollination to take place. To allow life to continue."
"Art exists for its own sake."
Alberto shook his head vigorously. "No, that's not true. Anyway, I loved it
too
much. Too much for it to be mere entertainment, for me or anyone else."
I did not like this side of Alberto. I did not understand how he could speak ill of something so obviously wonderful and pure. But I felt even more displeased by what he said next.
"Your mother understands this. I know she gave up her own music career. I know that after your father's death, she had to give up many things. Maybe that's why we understand each other." He sighed, "It's good to have a friend in times like these."
To hear either of them talk, the world wasn't nearing its end, it had already ended. Didn't they see how unfair it was to make a young man feel that he 'd been born too late, that he was lucky to have survived at all, that there was no point in believing in anything anymore?
One night at the café, Ramón, the scarred oboist, asked what concerts I had attended.
"None," I told him.
"Not even the Liceo?"
"He doesn't belong there," Alberto said quickly. I took this to mean I was too young, too low-class, ill-mannered and ill-attired. I wouldn't have denied any of it. Just passing the brightly lit, block-long building made my heart pound in my chest.
Ramón persevered. "How can a boy learn classical music without hearing it?"
I'd heard many musicians on the streets, I told him—Andalucían guitarists, strolling violinists, comical performers playing reedy Moorish flutes, even an African drummer.
Ramón cocked an eyebrow at Alberto. "Is that what you're preparing him for—to busk on the Ramblas?"
When Alberto didn't answer, Ramón continued, "Would you have been content with that kind of life? Do you think he should play it safe just because of y
our
mistakes?"
Alberto had been staring at his own crossed forearms, propped on the table. Now he peered up through his gray eyebrows. "Our mistakes, you
me,
Alberto."
His heavy-lidded eyes met mine; his lips formed a patiently condescending half-smile.
"Maybe
you
aren't the thing she doubts."
I didn't understand.
"Music isn't everything, Feliu."
So it was not only my ability and fortitude that were suspect, but music itself? But of course, I'd always known it.
My irritation made me less shy. "Why don't you play the cello anymore, Alberto?"
"I have not played my own instrument for years. Teaching doesn't require it."
"Don't you miss it?"
"A little, yes."
He 'd said this before, and I'd never pursued the question any further. But I wasn't going to let it go this time. Something in my expression must have told him so.
"I was employed by an opera company and later, by a symphony. I toured all of Europe, of course—"
"Europe!"
Alberto shook his head, cautioning me not to interrupt again. "And at least I had the sense to save some of those earnings. But I missed many years in my daughter's life. Now she has moved away. She doesn't write. I played through my wife's illness, and she died. And I played through my own illness, wishing to die."
I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap.
"But that wish was not granted," he continued. "I got better. I dedicated myself to one instrument for two-thirds of my life, but I never found an answer to one question:
Why?
"
"Why play?"
"Yes—what point does it serve? What is music
for
?"
"Why does it have to be for anything?"
"I played for powerful men and saw them, a day after crying to my cello, govern without mercy. I played for workers and saw them no better able to feed their families. I asked myself—"
"You must not have loved it then," I interrupted. "If you loved it, you would play music for its own sake."
"What in this world exists for its own sake? Food nourishes. Water quenches. Women bear children."
"Beauty—" I started to say.
"A flower is beautiful, Feliu. But a flower's beauty and scent have one purpose: to attract a bee. To allow pollination to take place. To allow life to continue."
"Art exists for its own sake."
Alberto shook his head vigorously. "No, that's not true. Anyway, I loved it
too
much. Too much for it to be mere entertainment, for me or anyone else."
I did not like this side of Alberto. I did not understand how he could speak ill of something so obviously wonderful and pure. But I felt even more displeased by what he said next.
"Your mother understands this. I know she gave up her own music career. I know that after your father's death, she had to give up many things. Maybe that's why we understand each other." He sighed, "It's good to have a friend in times like these."
To hear either of them talk, the world wasn't nearing its end, it had already ended. Didn't they see how unfair it was to make a young man feel that he 'd been born too late, that he was lucky to have survived at all, that there was no point in believing in anything anymore?
One night at the café, Ramón, the scarred oboist, asked what concerts I had attended.
"None," I told him.
"Not even the Liceo?"
"He doesn't belong there," Alberto said quickly. I took this to mean I was too young, too low-class, ill-mannered and ill-attired. I wouldn't have denied any of it. Just passing the brightly lit, block-long building made my heart pound in my chest.
Ramón persevered. "How can a boy learn classical music without hearing it?"
I'd heard many musicians on the streets, I told him—Andalucían guitarists, strolling violinists, comical performers playing reedy Moorish flutes, even an African drummer.
Ramón cocked an eyebrow at Alberto. "Is that what you're preparing him for—to busk on the Ramblas?"
When Alberto didn't answer, Ramón continued, "Would you have been content with that kind of life? Do you think he should play it safe just because of y
our
mistakes?"
Alberto had been staring at his own crossed forearms, propped on the table. Now he peered up through his gray eyebrows. "Our mistakes, you
Similar Books
