Lina

by Diane Baumer

  “Please don’t leave me. Please, please... Don’t leave me, not you. My dear Tuna... You died alone... My poor baby...”

  François was driving frantically along the dreadful winding road as he disregarded every single speed limit. On one occasion, the car was about to go off the side of the road. He started dialing Endzela’s number. The cheerful man couldn’t wait to kick off his convertible by making love to the Georgian inside it! When it came to dialing the second-to-last number, he regretted it. No. That was not right. François Remy was still a man of principles. He decided to turn around on a stretch of the road with zero visibility and made a U-turn to return home.

  6. Mountain walk

  The favorite task of the friars was to make healing elixirs and fruit liqueurs. According to the urban legend, the countless benefits of these would increase if one sang throughout the preparation process. In order to satisfy all of their musical tastes, the repertoire included varied styles ranging from Gregorian chant to jazz.

  Brother Bartolo volunteered to go to the mountain and gather the necessary herbs. The other friars looked into each other’s eyes as they comically feigned to be fearful.

  “First things first, do you remember where you happened to leave your glasses? No doubt you will poison us all if you intend to grope your way there.”

  The friar’s absent-mindedness would often become a laughing matter in the monastery. Instead of getting upset, Brother Bartolo would appreciate them taking it with a pinch of salt. His endless distractions would definitely infuriate anyone not as patient.

  Brother Pedro arrived with Brother Lucas, carrying the forgetful friar’s glasses in his hand.

  “I found them in the pantry.”

  To round off the joke, they all sighed in relief. This time it had not been too bad. On other occasions, they had been found in the refrigerator, in the orchard together with the tomatoes, or among the books in the library.

  “One of these days, you’ll forget them in a bottle and we’ll make eyeglass liquor out of them.”

  “It may be a good remedy for near-sightedness,” Brother Bartolo said facetiously.

  When laughter faded, Brother Lucas suggested joining him in order to learn how to distinguish the herbs. Cinnamon was in next. The dog had been getting along with the new member extremely well. The friars enjoyed making jokes about how the animal now barked in Mexican.

  The walk through the mountains came to Brother Lucas as a break from his ruminations. During his waking hours, he was tormented by the questions and, as soon as he fell asleep, it came the turn for the answers to keep grieving him. Were his nightmares reflecting his state of mind, or the other way around? Why did they always have to be so atrocious and sinister?

  They reached a crystal-clear lagoon. Cinnamon was trying to keep himself busy by barking at the fish which would occasionally leap out of the water – he probably wanted to challenge them so they would play with him. Brother Bartolo sat down to rest a little from the walk. Brother Lucas, who was delighted by the calmness in the scenery, thanked God for creating the animals. He also thanked Saint Francis for regarding those as his siblings. How simple life seemed in that place – there were carefree birds happily chirping, cheerful dogs pleased by simply fetching a branch thrown with love, herbs that gave off scents to those caressing them...

  After resting for a while, Brother Bartolo taught him about some medicinal secrets of the plants – wood sorrel is temperate, antiscorbutic, and diuretic; winter savory is used to get rid of intestinal parasites; green anise has anti-inflammatory and carminative properties, useful in a gastritis or an aerophagia, while its seeds can relieve colds and bronchial conditions; hawthorn is a hypotensive cardiotonic used to reduce anguish and dizziness; large horsetail, applied as a poultice, can disinfect wounds and stop the bleeding; St. John’s wort is a natural antidepressant.

  “I could easily recognize them by their smells, even with my eyes closed.”

  “Keep them wide open, anyway. Just in case.”

  Cinnamon approached running excitedly, carrying a long branch between his teeth.

  “This dog doesn’t need to take any St. John’s wort. How energetic it is!” Brother Lucas said jokingly.

  The Mexican had a good time playing with Cinnamon. However, he stopped suddenly as he noticed that the scenery had become blurry. Seconds later, the young friar fainted. Cinnamon began to whine around him in unease. Poor old Brother Bartolo… After noticing that the Mexican would not regain consciousness, he became pale with fright and hurried to pick a handful of rosemary leaves. He quickly made a ball out of them and placed it under the young friar’s nose as he drenched his forehead with cold water. After a few distressing minutes, the remedy finally worked.

  “What happened?” the young man asked in shock.

  “You passed out. You need to see a doctor.”

  “I’m just tired. I find it hard to sleep more than three hours in a row. It has something to do with the time change, I guess. Once I come to terms with it, I’ll get my strength back.”

  Brother Lucas asked him not to mention anything about that in the monastery. Why make the others worry about something unimportant? Brother Bartolo promised that he would keep the secret provided that the Mexican started eating better and taking an infusion every night before bedtime.

  They put the herbs in the sack and proceeded to their way back. Cinnamon, aware that this was no time for games, seemed more reliable than ever as he walked quietly beside Brother Lucas. Every now and then, he would glance at the Mexican to make sure his human friend was fine. The friar stroked the dog’s head.

  “Good boy.”

  Honored by the comment, Cinnamon started wagging his tail as he raised his muzzle with pride.

  7. Evocation

  Lina had been sitting at the piano for a long time, staring at a picture on the shelf in which she appeared with her dog Tuna. Her fingers, left standing on the keyboard, awaited the order to start playing “Evocación,” the first piece of Isaac Albéniz’s Suite Iberia7. François keeps refusing to tell me where he buried you. Can you please forgive me for not holding you in my arms vigorously enough? I thought he would end up breaking your bones. I was so scared... At least, I could keep a link of your leash for my heirloom box. Every time I see it next to the other objects, I’ll take comfort in thinking that you are not alone. Belén was so heartbroken by the news... I begged her to join me in inspecting the area. I haven’t been able to see any disturbance on the ground, but maybe she has... Anyway, she may deny it. Belén is also afraid that I may become obsessed. She worries too much about me.

  The dog had been a gift from her friend to keep her company in that remote mansion.

  Belén, so far the only person that has survived my love... The idea of losing her just because she’s my friend gives me so much pain.

  Her friendship had built up at music school when they both were eight. Lina had enrolled later in the year as a result of her parents’ death. Her dad had been killed in a car accident on his way to the hospital where his wife was dying of an illness. She died on the following day.

  The afternoon the orphan attended musical theory class for the first time, the children had burst into tears. The tragic story had spread among the students and affected them all – Lina’s mother used to teach piano lessons there. Determined to share her affection with that unfortunate child even before meeting her, Belén was surprised that Lina was not the girl in need of love she had first pictured. The orphan seemed lost in thought, as though she was constantly trying to shy away from people’s contact. Her one and only interest was the piano. Her talent would bring about wonder and admiration.

  “Who are you living with now?” Belén asked one afternoon.

  “My grandma.”

  She adored her grandmother. Lina was terrified at the thought of that woman dying, too. She imagined living alone in that house forever as l
ife went on outside without her. The old woman was keeping her attached to the world of the living; the piano, conversely, to that of the dead – Bartók, Bach, mom, dad...

  Belén had been first to congratulate her at the end of the final-year concert.

  “When you grow up, you’ll give concerts all over the world, and I’ll be there to see you.”

  Lina looked at Belén uncertain as to what to say – if her wish eventually came true, she would not be alive by then. Every night the orphan would pray that her parents would take her along in her sleep.

  “We’ll wait and see,” she answered.

  “When you play, the piano seems to come to life.”

  With downcast eyes, Lina considered revealing her secret to her classmate for a while. As she looked up and met the kindness inside Belén’s big dark eyes, she shared a confidence with her.

  “My parents are still here. They refused to abandon me. Their souls are hiding inside the piano. My mother told me this in my dreams. That’s why I’m so good at it, because they help me.”

  Belén felt a little scared.

  “Did you see them?”

  “No – I just know.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense,” she said with her usual self-assurance of a know-it-all.

  Belén’s mother had told her that Lina imagined this story in an attempt to find some comfort.

  “Don’t tell her. It’s better this way. That girl has suffered too harsh a blow. Please ask her to give you her grandma’s phone number so we may have her over one of these weekends.”

  “I hope she will accept. She doesn’t like people too much.”

  Thanks to Belén’s persistence, they ended up becoming friends. Some years went by. Belén left the music school and then enrolled in a higher degree to focus on physics. By then, she already regarded Lina as her sister, her adopted sister, whom she had chosen with both her mind and her heart.

  If anyone in the world was too proud of lovely Lina’s brilliant career, that was her – the only person who happened to know why the pianist was able to shake the souls of her audience. Lina could not see her deceased parents, but she imagined talking to them through the piano. In her performances, there was mourning, love, and rebelliousness. Her weak mind would hold on to the strings of the instrument to prevent her from going downhill. Her fingers were propelled from one key to the next on the scale as she tried to break through disharmony in her life. Lina Maldonado was constantly in need to create something to believe in.

  Belén decided to visit Lina – she was worried about her friend’s mental balance after Tuna’s death. Time and again, the pianist had been rereading “The Canary,” a short story by Katherine Mansfield:

  “… ‘You see that big nail to the right of the front door? I can scarcely look at it even now and yet I could not bear to take it out. I should like to think it was there always even after my time. I sometimes hear the next people saying, «There must have been a cage hanging from there.» And it comforts me; I feel he is not quite forgotten,’” she said, performing the character aloud with such wildness that would make anyone’s blood freeze.

  Belén gently removed the book from her hands.

  “Let’s go out for a walk.”

  “Okay. Let’s find where François buried Tuna!”

  8. The gift

  Brother Pedro could not help but laugh as he walked past the window. Down in the garden, Brother Lucas was picking the ripe persimmons under the watchful eye of Cinnamon, the goat, and the ducks.

  In the distillery, the voices of the choir were singing Pange Lingua8. The Mexican paused to listen. This is so beautiful… He headed there, singing, with an entourage of animal followers. On the next verse, the singing friars, who had fallen prey to the young man’s charming voice, became silent. What was that? How could someone so thin have such a tone, like one coming from an abyss? That deep vocal range caressed the ears in the audience as delicately as silk. Each note would melt into a rainbow of colorful harmonics. How was it that he had not told them about it? The blushing Mexican asked them not to leave him alone. The choir resumed the hymn. Brother Pedro, who was in the library, said to himself that God had given that boy the heart of a warrior and the voice of an angel. He went there with a request.

  “Brother Lucas, do you know Summertime, by Gershwin?” As the Mexican nodded, he added, “I’d like you to sing with them.”

  Brother Daniel stepped forward and looked up to the sky.

  “Lord, among all convents, why did You choose us to send the only Franciscan jazz lover –I presume– on earth? How I miss the times when everything was just about Gregorian chant…!”

  “Were you already in this world? You look incredibly fit for your age,” Brother Bartolo said sarcastically.

  They gave Brother Lucas a copy of the lyrics – no one but he was familiar with the melody.

  “Do you sing in English?” he asked as he read over the lyrics.

  “We do, according to us; according to the English, we don’t.”

  The motherly words in the lullaby caught the Mexican off guard, with the door wide open. Questions about his origin came from the hiding place where children usually keep those things that hurt. Had his mother ever sung words of hope while cradling him in her protective arms? Was it your or my father’s decision to abandon me at the monastery threshold? Or did someone leave me there without you knowing?

  Despite having been raised surrounded by the friars’ affection, not knowing who his parents were caused him great emptiness and consternation. Whenever someone congratulated him on his extraordinary voice, he wondered if that may have been an inherited gift. The Mexican seemed to carry music in his own blood. As a child, he would constantly go after Brother Damián, begging him to be allowed to play the Hammond organ in the monastery. The old friar had taught him everything he knew.

  As soon as he became an adult, after being ordained as a friar, he began to sing the solos in the chapel during public services. People would come from every corner of the region to listen to his talented voice. One day Brother Lucas informed Brother Simón, the monastery custodian, that he would no longer sign for the parishioners.

  “Why?”

  “A chapel is not a concert hall.”

  Brother Simón, who was like a father to him, had not agreed. It’s one thing to fall into vanity, but wasting a gift was something completely different.

  In the distillery, Brother Lucas was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that he had been away from his homeland for months. The young friar was worried about not having spoken to the Mexican custodian since his departure. I can’t reach him on his phone.. What’s going on? Is this strange behavior of his related to the documents?

  Brother Pedro took him out of his self-absorption. He proposed to join him and Brother Bartolo in the bottle delivery to bakeries and stores.

  “This way you’ll experience a sample of some of the breathtaking towns in the area.”

  Brother Lucas spent the rest of the day observing the custodian. The Mexican had to make sure that he could share his secret with him in case Brother Simón would not show up.

  9. Meeting

  François loved to celebrate parties in Lina’s mansion and bring in all sorts of personalities from the artistic circles. Nothing would ever cause a better impression on people than that luxurious house. It had been built with stones and wood to turn it into an extension of the mountainous scenery. The outside was made of glass, since privacy was guaranteed in such a remote and lonely place. A worthy sight was found in the several platforms hanging at different heights and harboring terraces, gardens, greenhouses, and swimming pools. Green and brown, colors typically associated with mountains, were prevalent on these places, along with the sea-like blue which could be seen in the background.

  The role of the pianist in such events was that of acting as a token warranty while her g
reedy partner would be carried away by the waters of a seemingly crystal-clear business – whose bottom used to be infested with mud. Crowning François as the king of the show, even for a few hours, could only be defined as an act of masochism – it was in that environment that the Belgian’s fiery noodle would be brought to a boil. He would be surrounded by artworks, checks, agents, dealers, sort-of-lawful transactions... François had overcome his fear of diving into dark swamps just to go a longer way than everyone else.

  During the previous hours, the Belgian had been sniffing the house like a hound hunting for a mistake which he might use to show off his condescending host manners. Any reason would do for him to admonish the lazy cleaners, the unhurried gardener, or the catering service.

  That day, Lina had taken shelter in the library. She was reading “The Garden Party,” by Katherine Mansfield, when François pushed the door open abruptly. His betrayed tense jaw was full of anger.

  “Follow me. I want you to see what your servants are up to with your own eyes.”

  “They are neither my servants nor my property.”

  “You should come with me.”

  Lina followed him. François pointed at some broken glass on the floor. It had been the fault of the cleaning lady, though the pianist wanted to save the woman from the embarrassment.

  “So what? My bad – I just forgot to pick up the glass pieces.”

  “How come you have such skilled hands to play the piano and yet you’re so clumsy with other stuff? That makes no sense at all.”

  “Sorry?”

  It’s totally insane to get so mad about a glass that isn’t even yours, Lina thought to herself.