The Spanish Bow

by Andromeda Romano-Lax

  Sitting in the Alcazar with Al-Cerraz, I had not been able to imagine what a medieval battle really felt like, let alone a modern-day battle in those lands just a short boat ride across the Strait of Gibraltar. I could not imagine what desert thirst felt like; the monotony of scrub-covered dunes; the terror of approaching hoofbeats; the smell of cadavers left for six weeks in the sun. Clouds of flies. The sticky awfulness of sand-soaked blood. What did I even know of real purpose and real camaraderie, or of its essential ingredients, sacrifice and self-denial? Nothing—that's what my brother would have said.

  I could imagine, though, that my brother felt the sense of purpose he'd not felt in peacetime, while polishing his saber in El Ferrol. Better to be an africanism than a peninsnlare, especially when the folks back home didn't appreciate a career soldier's efforts. In Morocco, unlike in Spain, there were opportunities for fast advancement, and also opportunities to change the course of history. It was the beginning of something terrible and new—for one soon-to-be-lauded africanista hero at least, my brother's friend, whom Enrique might not have befriended in the first place had not the runt reminded him of me.

  Regarding this time in my brother's life, I know only what I read later from books. That may sound like a boast, but there is no boast in it. Who wants to read in cold print what one should have read in a man's own hand—or, better yet, heard from his own living voice?

  I read that Enrique was one of his battalion's best mapmakers. He never went anywhere without the compass he 'd inherited, the same day I'd inherited my bow. I read that he had helped route fresh water from the nearby mountains to the barracks. Certainly, there were legionnaires who tortured prisoners and brandished Moors' heads on pikes—they even presented a duchess, a philanthropist dedicated to nursing, with two heads cradled in a basket of roses.

  But not Enrique—I won't believe it. And not most of the thousands of regular soldiers who inhabited that godforsaken place—endless square kilometers of parched terrain that we'd spent years struggling to keep. They did it to make up for losing Cuba and Puerto Rico way back when—that's how Enrique had explained it to me once. One disaster spawns another, and another, on down the years; da capo, back to the top, again and again.

  ***

  I invited Al-Cerraz to visit me several times, but he said he was too busy, which I interpreted as a good sign. Not far away, in Segovia, the director of a music festival beseeched me and my duet partner to play. I was willing, but Al-Cerraz didn't even answer the director's telegram. Two more invitations arrived, from León and Ávila. These were convenient for me, but Al-Cerraz said he couldn't tolerate the distraction. Our manager wrote to ask if we were adopting some new strategy, trying to enhance our reputations by becoming reclusive. If so, he wrote, it was working. We were more in demand than ever.

  Finally Al-Cerraz agreed to visit me—not to perform, but only to share a dinner, a play, and a walk around the university. He teased me about my pride in the city and accused me of becoming a homebody. I reminded him he'd spent the same nine months in Málaga, to which he said, "Oh, but I haven't noticed. I rarely leave my room, in the mansion's quiet wing; even the maids forget I'm back there. I didn't even emerge for Carnaval. One evening I asked my hostess, the Doña de Larrocha, if we might watch any of the processions together, and she laughed and said I'd already missed them—every last party."

  I tried to talk him into staying another day, but he begged off, even when I promised him a grand dinner in his honor. Walking with him to the train station, I asked, "Will you keep turning down concert requests?"

  "Only until I'm done. It's very close now. I'll be finished by summer. In fact, it's now that I need your help, to premiere the work. It's for solo piano—a suite. I may orchestrate it later. For now, I'm just hoping to find a really grand venue for it."

  "Certainly. The symphony hall here—"

  "No," he bowed his head apologetically. "I was thinking of Madrid. A royal premiere."

  "That would be something."

  "I have the Queen Mother's ear, which might not hear so well anymore. You have the Queen's. I was hoping you'd help me arrange it. It should be a night of several acts, to keep the press from asking too many questions about my part in it. They'll be expecting Al-Cerraz the performer of Chopin and Liszt, not Al-Cerraz the composer. I want the audience to have an open mind. I want them to be surprised."

  "I don't get to hear a preview?"

  "It's an autobiographical work. You've been with me for years—that's your preview."

  "So you're writing about indigestion and mischief."

  He didn't smile.

  "Give me the title at least." It was a warm spring night, and breezy; a girl with fashionably short-cropped hair chased her cap down the street; it looked like a bird's nest that had tumbled off a tree. The alleyways were full of students looking for the entrances to dark, cheap restaurants. I was feeling jocular. "So this is a fantasia of the Alhambra—a reverie of Andalucía? Tell me."

  His face darkened. "You're mistaken. After our last trip, I started over completely. It's nothing of the kind."

  His touchiness surprised me. "I'm sorry, Justo. I'm looking forward to it, that's all. It will be a new start for you. Just as you've said."

  A month later, I sent him the word for which he was waiting:

  The perfect opportunity has presented itself. Better than Madrid, and fully royal. King Alfonso is planning a great public event on July 25 at Burgos, to coincide with the Feast of Santiago.

  I followed it almost immediately with a second letter:

  The King, I hear, will also be making a speech honoring El Cid, whose remains are being translated to the Burgos Cathedral. Word is that he will use the same platform to extol our troops in Morocco; evidently he is counting on his latest favorite, General Silvestre, to produce some good news worth celebrating by that date. Yon wanted a "night of many acts"? This one will have a half-dozen at least, only a few of them artistic.

  I paid a visit to Queen Ena. Modernity had caught up with her; her hair was bobbed and crisply waved, and her skirt had risen one or two centimeters for every year since I'd last seen her. She took my hand in hers, asked after my family, mentioned that she'd seen my photograph in the newspapers many times. It didn't seem to bother her that I had become publicly associated with political causes that did not necessarily favor her husband's positions.

  Tired as she looked that day, Queen Ena seemed excited about planning a national party. Special Masses were scheduled in more than one location, and arrangements for the evening's concert were made: this cathedral, that hall—no, better an entire square, given the thousands that would be expected. Diplomatic invitations must be sent. The rail schedule must be adjusted. And more entertainment—would that be all right? Another musical prelude wouldn't overshadow our plans? Not at all—medieval cántigos by a children's choir before the classical concert, the more the better. And all to set the stage for what I hoped would satisfy my partner—my friend. Had I ever called him simply that?

  I planned to play two cello pieces, the first solo, the second with piano. Justo asked if I didn't mind having someone else accompany me, just to draw a clearer distinction between my performance and his original work, to follow. The Queen Mother was bothered by this—Spanish musicians were like fashion accessories to her, to be mixed and matched at whim—but Queen Ena helped to placate her.

  One week in advance I wrote to him: We haven't rushed yon? Yon are sure you're ready? Yon are satisfied?

  His immediate response:

  As satisfied as a cat dragging home a bird in its month. The satisfaction of instinct brought to fruition. Of course, we all know that when the cat arrives, the lady of the house might give it quite a beating. The audience's response can never be assured. But yes, Feliu, I am satisfied—as satisfied as I know how to be.

  That week, the newspapers reported that General Silvestre, who had cultivated a reputation as daring, was marching his men forty miles across the desolate Rif highl
ands, from Melilla to Alhucemas, to suppress Berber tribesmen and occupy the area. King Alfonso was eager for a victory. He'd grown impatient with his minister of war and had decided to direct operations himself, over the heads of the War Office.

  I traveled to Burgos two days early, to arrive before the royal procession. Stepping off the train, I went to buy a newspaper. There were none available. After checking into my hotel, I found a café. Near the back of the room, a circle of men were arguing violently, one of them holding up a newspaper and smacking it with his open palm. Another man reached up to take his arm and spilled a cup of coffee. A chair tipped as a third man tried to evade the flow. An explosion of swearing erupted.

  "Excuse me," I said, barely audible above their shouts. "Abd-el-Krim? Are you talking about the Berber chieftain?"

  "Another disaster," one of the men said to me and pushed past my seat, his pants soaked. Did he mean the spilled coffee, or something that had happened overseas?

  I heard Silvestre's name, and then King Alfonso's, appended with a few unrepeatable words. "Anual?" I asked, trying to intrude upon their fiery conversation. "Where is Anual? Please? Damn it!" And I banged my fist on the table, making the silverware jump. "May I see that, please?"

  I wrested the newspaper from a young man's hand and spread it out on my own table, soaked as it was. The headline read: THOUSANDS POSSIBLY DEAD....TERRITORY GAINS SINCE 1909 LOST OVERNIGHT. ACTION CONTINUING....

  I walked back to my hotel, stopping at every newsstand along the way. One newspaper carried no reports at all, only a puff piece about the King's planned festivities. Another newspaper's banner headline: tribesmen on the rampage. I held the coffee-soaked newspaper in my left hand, and this one in my right, unwilling to discard either, hoping that somehow they'd cancel each other out, that the news from Morocco was simply wrong.

  The details filtered in slowly over the next two days. Garrison after garrison, slaughtered—by the thousands. Other garrisons remained under siege, without water, forcing the trapped men to drink their own urine, sweetened with sugar. Some soldiers who had managed to escape had deserted the army. Silvestre himself had either killed himself or been murdered. Could it all be true?

  OVERCONFIDENCE, LACK OF PREPARATION BLAMED, said the left-wing papers. REPORTS UNRELIABLE, said the right-wing papers.

  On July 25, St. James's Day, I met my partner coming off the train: "Justo, have you heard?"

  He walked past me, anxious to count his trunks.

  "It seems to get worse by the hour. They're saying it's the worst defeat Morocco has ever known. Some young men made a scene in the Plaza Mayor last night, throwing rocks, breaking glass, but the Civil Guard cleared it out quickly. Justo—we have to do something about this."

  "The King hasn't canceled the festivities, has he?" Al-Cerraz asked.

  "No. For his own safety he should, but I think he's trying to put a brave face on it."

  "Thank goodness," he said, and headed off the platform, guiding a small army of porters. At the waiting car he added, "It would be just my luck to have this premiere wrecked by a battle in—what is this place called? Anual?"

  "It's not one battle."

  He opened the car door, started to get in, then stepped back. "You know what Jesus said about the poor—that they'll always be with us? It's like that. Morocco will always be with us. This is the most important night in my life."

  "Please," I said. "I think we should—"

  He wouldn't listen. "No matter what happens, everything changes tonight," he said. "Now get in."

  The rest of the day was a blur of frantic preparations. Streets blocked off. Cameras clicking. Hammers pounding all day, constructing the stage in the square just under my window. I sent a message to Queen Ena, begging to see her. Instead of a letter, I got congratulatory flowers in response—flowers!

  And then I was in the square, the sky darkening, a lower false sky of twinkling lanterns strung in zigzags above my head, the spokes of streets fanning out from the square packed with people as far as the eye could see. Voices rumbled ceaselessly.

  King Alfonso and Queen Ena sat to one side, on their own higher dais, strung with lights. The royals were formally announced. Applause, at first tepid, then wilting, while the rumble rose and overtook it—catcalls and that one repeated word: "Anual! Anual!" I could feel the collective anger like a vibration under my feet. Alfonso ignored the jeers, stood smiling, and said a few words that faded before they reached my seat. He lifted an arm in my direction, introducing me. The rumble quieted; applause erupted. Someone shouted, "El Rey!" Confusion. I looked around. Applause again. "El Rey del Arco! The King of the Bow!"

  They were cheering for me—and insulting the King. But still he smiled—shrewdly—one side of his mouth lifted, under that thin dandy's mustache. He lifted an arm again, as if to join the throng, as if to command them to do what they were already doing. The crowds pressed forward, and despite the cordon of soldiers pressing back, I could feel the platform beneath my feet tremble.

  I tried to acknowledge the crowd with a wave. I stood and faced the King, bowing to him. Where was my cello? Back inside, at the end of a protected corridor that ran from the stage into a hotel where Al-Cerraz was waiting, warming up on a second concert grand inside the lobby. It wasn't like him to warm up. First, though, came the children's choir. I was meant only to introduce them.

  I said a few words. No one could hear me. The children began to sing. When the crowds quieted, I darted back into the hotel.

  "We have to do something." I laid a hand on the piano to get Al-Cerraz's attention. "At least saysomething. To go along with this party, as if nothing has happened—it's the worst thing we can do, endorsing all this."

  Al-Cerraz stopped playing. "All what? Who knows what's happened?"

  "It 's our responsibility."

  "This"—he gestured to the piano—"is our responsibility. There will be more bad news tomorrow. Let them forget their cares tonight. Or do you want all those people to take over the stage and pull the King and Queen down with them—and probably trample us, too?"

  I paced back and forth. "We cancel the rest of it. Send everyone home, peacefully."

  "Cancel it? You've lost your senses."

  I sat on the edge of the piano bench with my back to him and buried my face in my hands.

  He said, "A moment of silence, is that what you want? Nothing political. Just silence?"

  "They say it's Silvestre's fault, and Alfonso's fault—this was all just an arrogant demonstration, revenge against the parliament."

  "Cálmate."

  A young woman from the hotel shuffled toward me, breathless. "It's a telegram for you, Señor Delargo."

  "He'll take it in one hour, after the concert," Al-Cerraz said. "He needs quiet."

  "It has a military stamp. From Africa," she said.

  "Africa!" I jumped to my feet.

  "It's from"—she squinted at the form—"Francisco Franco."

  "Franco? I don't know him." And my stomach lurched. "Oh, Francisco—Paco, she means. My brother's friend. Paquito."

  "Don't read it now," Al-Cerraz said, but I already had it in my hands.

  The crowd outside was cheering for the children, momentarily assuaged. They exited the stage and filed into the hotel past me as I read the telegram. It informed me that my brother Enrique, the last of my three brothers, was now among the dead.

  I told Al-Cerraz my plan, and he—a genius at music, oblivious to more basic and practical matters, even simple multiplication—said nothing, only shook his head and turned away, battling his own demons.

  Onstage, I held up my hand until the crowds quieted. I explained the news I had just received. I said I would have rung all the city's bells if I could. But failing that, I intended to play one bow stroke for every soldier dead, as far as we knew.

  Each meditative, unadorned bow stroke took perhaps a second. Sixty of them in a minute. There was respectful silence for the first few minutes, then a rising tide of whispers. Some angry s
houts erupted; more jeers toward the royal dais; a shot into the air from a guard. But I wouldn't give it up. One bow stroke each second. Over three thousand in an hour. The open D string, unvarying. Al-Cerraz hadn't done the calculation, and neither had the crowd.

  By the end of the first hour, my shoulder ached, but I hadn't built up stamina all those years for nothing. The crowd reacted in different ways, as people will. Some walked away peacefully, bored, disappointed. Some gave angry catcalls; a bottle missed my head by centimeters. A third of the crowd, at least, remained, some unable to leave without knowing how the drama would end; some struck with grief. A woman at the front of the crowd started wailing—a primal wail, out of time with my bow strokes, a terrible syncopation.

  Heavily guarded, the King and Queen left their dais. Someone—who, I don't know—stood behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I lost track of the strokes; no one could count them all; they outnumbered the stars. But that was the point. That was precisely why I couldn't play, and couldn't let Al-Cerraz play. All that death, my brother's included. I couldn't bear the thought of everyone overlooking the scope of the tragedy, absorbing and accepting it, allowing the next week's news to overshadow what had happened. True silence might have been even better, but I hadn't learned true silence yet—only this. A protest of monotony. Three hours passed before I stopped.

  When I stumbled into the hotel, eyes blurred, I couldn't understand what I was seeing. Then the shapes resolved. It was the grand piano, lid open, with the bench tossed inside—my partner's frustrated demolition attempt. The musician who had been chosen to accompany me was asleep on a couch in the corner, head tipped back, mouth gaping. The girl who'd delivered the telegram was sitting on the marble floor, mascara streaks on her cheek.