mean."
The next day, Ramón showed up at our apartment door cradling a large box. "Your maestro loaned this to me three years ago. I am returning it."
It was the first phonograph I'd seen up close, a portable hand-cranked model set in a burgundy box, with a cone-shaped amplifier made of cardboard. I found it difficult to believe Alberto's explanation that he had given it away when his neighbors complained about the noise, since the sound of my cello playing was much louder. But I had to honor the restrictions he imposed as a condition of my keeping it.
"You can play it between five and seven in the evening, and no more," Alberto said. That, conveniently, was the time he went to the café, during his more energetic weeks. Other weeks, he had resumed his habit of not leaving at all.
"And only on the days you finish the schoolwork your mother sets out for you," he continued. Mamá had threatened to take away the cello if I didn't start spending at least part of each day reading the school-books and filling the math ledgers that had once belonged to Enrique, which she had brought all the way from Campo Seco. I hadn't believed her about the cello, but I believed Alberto about the phonograph.
"And if it breaks, I can't afford to fix it," Alberto said as I jumped up and down within a handbreadth of the cardboard cone.
Ramón also had brought a stack of thick shellac records. As we studied the labels, I tried to imitate the way he held them, the white patches of his scarred palms pressed gingerly against each disk's shiny black edges. He held up one, indicating the label with his chin. "Principal cellist—A. Mendizábal," it read, in tiny, curling script.
"I'll take that one," Alberto said. I never saw it again.
Enrique's letter came just in time, during a week when Alberto's moods were sliding downhill. I thought it was my fault, given our many arguments about my bowing arm. Alberto advised me to keep it pressed more closely to my body, while I was interested in experimenting with more varied positions, letting it move away from my body as I bowed. Exasperated, he tucked a thick book between my right elbow and rib cage, and ordered me to hold it there as I played. The result produced tension in my forearm, my shoulder and my wrist—I knew it couldn't be right, and I knew it contradicted everything he'd taught me in a more cheerful time. To spite him, I complied, but let the bow skate over the strings, filling the parlor with alley-cat screechings and yowlings that punished us both.
After the midday meal, Alberto retreated to his bedroom. I dragged a chair to the balcony, to read Enrique's letter.
Toledo, April 12, 1908
Dear Cerillito,
We wake every day to music here, or bugles at least. Do you think you could march with a cello? That would be a trick. If not, I guess you'll have to stay in Barcelona, eating pastries and watching girls.
How are your legs doing? I hope you don't sit the entire day playing your instrument, without exercising. Here, they make us march to the point of collapse. You would think all the men would befit, but that isn't the case. I thought of you the other day when I entered the mess tent and heard three men harassing a new cadet. I couldn't see his face at first, but I could hear his voice. It was high and whistly like a parakeet. Anyway, he is very thin and the men keep calling him Matchstick and it makes me think of you. Also he is your age and height almost exactly, unless you have grown a lot since I saw you last. I inquired about him and he was sent to Toledo by his mother, who probably doesn't realize her Paquito will become the butt of jokes here. The men hide his clothes and his books and torment him, but I can't say he complains. He keeps to himself mostly and does not seem to want or need a friend. But I will try to keep an eye out for him and I hope you have someone there who will keep an eye out for you.
They are recruiting many new cadets all the time. All talk is of
The next day, Ramón showed up at our apartment door cradling a large box. "Your maestro loaned this to me three years ago. I am returning it."
It was the first phonograph I'd seen up close, a portable hand-cranked model set in a burgundy box, with a cone-shaped amplifier made of cardboard. I found it difficult to believe Alberto's explanation that he had given it away when his neighbors complained about the noise, since the sound of my cello playing was much louder. But I had to honor the restrictions he imposed as a condition of my keeping it.
"You can play it between five and seven in the evening, and no more," Alberto said. That, conveniently, was the time he went to the café, during his more energetic weeks. Other weeks, he had resumed his habit of not leaving at all.
"And only on the days you finish the schoolwork your mother sets out for you," he continued. Mamá had threatened to take away the cello if I didn't start spending at least part of each day reading the school-books and filling the math ledgers that had once belonged to Enrique, which she had brought all the way from Campo Seco. I hadn't believed her about the cello, but I believed Alberto about the phonograph.
"And if it breaks, I can't afford to fix it," Alberto said as I jumped up and down within a handbreadth of the cardboard cone.
Ramón also had brought a stack of thick shellac records. As we studied the labels, I tried to imitate the way he held them, the white patches of his scarred palms pressed gingerly against each disk's shiny black edges. He held up one, indicating the label with his chin. "Principal cellist—A. Mendizábal," it read, in tiny, curling script.
"I'll take that one," Alberto said. I never saw it again.
Enrique's letter came just in time, during a week when Alberto's moods were sliding downhill. I thought it was my fault, given our many arguments about my bowing arm. Alberto advised me to keep it pressed more closely to my body, while I was interested in experimenting with more varied positions, letting it move away from my body as I bowed. Exasperated, he tucked a thick book between my right elbow and rib cage, and ordered me to hold it there as I played. The result produced tension in my forearm, my shoulder and my wrist—I knew it couldn't be right, and I knew it contradicted everything he'd taught me in a more cheerful time. To spite him, I complied, but let the bow skate over the strings, filling the parlor with alley-cat screechings and yowlings that punished us both.
After the midday meal, Alberto retreated to his bedroom. I dragged a chair to the balcony, to read Enrique's letter.
Toledo, April 12, 1908
Dear Cerillito,
We wake every day to music here, or bugles at least. Do you think you could march with a cello? That would be a trick. If not, I guess you'll have to stay in Barcelona, eating pastries and watching girls.
How are your legs doing? I hope you don't sit the entire day playing your instrument, without exercising. Here, they make us march to the point of collapse. You would think all the men would befit, but that isn't the case. I thought of you the other day when I entered the mess tent and heard three men harassing a new cadet. I couldn't see his face at first, but I could hear his voice. It was high and whistly like a parakeet. Anyway, he is very thin and the men keep calling him Matchstick and it makes me think of you. Also he is your age and height almost exactly, unless you have grown a lot since I saw you last. I inquired about him and he was sent to Toledo by his mother, who probably doesn't realize her Paquito will become the butt of jokes here. The men hide his clothes and his books and torment him, but I can't say he complains. He keeps to himself mostly and does not seem to want or need a friend. But I will try to keep an eye out for him and I hope you have someone there who will keep an eye out for you.
They are recruiting many new cadets all the time. All talk is of
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