The Spanish Bow

by Andromeda Romano-Lax

  When the headmaster shut his office door, I saw the long wooden bench along one side. Aviva was sitting there, with the boy next to her. She looked at me once, then hid her flushed face behind one hand. Around her neck she wore a small bronze medal I'd never seen before, on a thin blue ribbon. It was a thank-you gift from the school. The boy had walked her to the principal's office to receive it because Aviva did not know the way.

  ***

  "I'm going to tell Weill," I told her after we argued that night in our hotel room.

  "What will you tell him—that you are obsessed? That you are imagining things?"

  "I will tell him," I said again. Four quick raps on the wall beside the bed made me jump—it was Frau Zemmler in the next room, letting us know our voices carried.

  "Maybe I was wrong about that boy—"

  "Of course you were wrong. He wasn't even the correct age! And what do you think I would do if I found the right boy—just walk away with him? Kidnap him?"

  I didn't answer.

  "There's only one more month—then we take a break for the summer. I'll be ready to leave Germany."

  I whispered again, "I will tell him: first, that you are obsessed with these children. Second, that you have been taking morphine and opium, that you aren't to be trusted."

  "But this year's tour is almost done. I'm almost finished—"

  "You will be finished after I talk to Weill. You may not respect me, but he does."

  I lifted my head, and with an energy coursing through me that I hadn't felt in months, I saw that finally Aviva looked afraid. She sat down on the bed. After a minute she went to the bathroom, and sometime later, she came out wrapped in a towel and sat on the bed again. She said, "What do you want from me?"

  The rapping sound came again from the next room.

  Aviva glared at the wall. Then she turned toward me, all light extinguished from her eyes. In a harsh whisper, she said, "I'll do anything you want."

  CHAPTER 20

  Returning to Spain after so long away was like waking from a dream and realizing one has overslept disastrously. I spent the next month with an imaginary alarm ringing in my ears, alerting me to all that had happened in my absence, on both musical and political fronts.

  Several renowned conductors requested my appearance as a soloist in the upcoming year, performing the Dvořák Cello Concerto in B Minor, Elgar's Concerto in E Minor, and Glazunov's Concerto Ballata in C Major. Just as many civic organizations—several of them without any connection to the musical world—asked me to speak to their members. Having traveled across Europe and America, didn't I have a better view of how Spain stood in the world and how she should choose to stand in this era of rising nationalism?

  Rita had decided to get married that year, and had resigned her position as my secretary. I could have found another, but I didn't want the help or the company, preferring instead to busy myself in the comforting piles of unanswered mail and telegrams that had accumulated while I was away. I needed to immerse myself in my old life—the letters and awards and royalty statements and requests, antidotes to the powerlessness and invisibility I'd felt in Germany. I needed time to sort out what had happened—that last week, that last night with Aviva.

  In Salamanca, I had requests, too, from other cellists—younger musicians wanting master classes, letters of introduction to conductors, or my approval for recordings they had made. I took this role seriously, enjoying the chance to help others and to establish high standards, not only for music, but for behavior. I kept a close eye on the rising stars of the day, and did not lend my name lightly to others' pursuits. How good it felt to be in control again, to have my views sought, my advice heeded.

  Of course, I continued to write to Aviva. I couldn't have abandoned her completely as she was that last night, but I couldn't have stayed. And yet, much as I tried to forget what had happened next, it kept coming back to me.

  "I'll do anything you want," she had said, the towel loose around her chest, eyelids heavy. When I wrapped my arms around her, they found dead flesh. Sharp elbows collided with my chest; cold, damp hair flicked against my cheek. I opened my eyes in time to see her lean back into the bed, one tear running sideways, across the bridge of her nose, expression fixed halfway between submission and revulsion. Suddenly she sat upright, shouting. My palm stung, though I had no awareness of using it. But there was the proof, blooming across her reddening cheek, the sight of which only fueled my wrath.

  They say that empathy and compassion are the first steps toward peace. But the empathy I felt in that moment brought no one peace. Because I did not come closer to understanding Aviva in that moment; I came closer to understanding Don Miguel Rivera. I felt the frustration he must have felt, the fury that comes when a person has not bent to your will, when a situation cannot be endured, when humiliation overwhelms your senses. I almost believed in that moment that I could make her obey me, and love me—then everything would be better. I did not do what Don Rivera did, or what Aviva's own teacher had done, or what Franco and his men in Morocco had done and would do again—but I came close enough to taste what they had tasted. Sand and sweat, salt and blood—the taste of passion, pain, and justification.

  I had never been so angry in my life, or so afraid. I walked out of that hotel room without speaking. I took the next train out of Germany, feeling that I had escaped just in time. From that moment, my life changed again. I gave up, finally, on personal satisfaction. I became more wholly dedicated to practical concerns, to fighting an enemy I finally understood.

  Al-Cerraz was in Málaga, on the southern coast, when I returned to Spain.

  We 'd planned to join him in Barcelona in April, with ample time to discuss programs, to have some new photographs taken to keep Biber happy, and to sort through the recording offers he had forwarded, as well as to rehearse before we commenced our summer tour.

  I knew I would have to tell Al-Cerraz what had happened in Germany—at least enough to explain Aviva's changed appearance if she returned, or her absence if she did not. But there was no point in alarming him if there was still a chance that everything would soon be set right—or right enough. And so I delayed, hoping each day for a letter or a telegram from Aviva, something more than the short note she had sent me as soon as I'd arrived back in Spain, in which she had apologized for her behavior and forgiven me for mine. She had written:

  I know that wasn't the real you in that hotel room. It's easy for me to believe, since I know that wasn't the real me.

  I had written back:

  I'm sorry, too. Let's not talk of it again. Just come and we will perform together, like old times.

  But she sent no indication that she had decided one way or another.

  If Al-Cerraz had any sense that our concert season faced disruptions, he would have been expecting public difficulties, not private ones. Across Spain, the political climate had been tense for several months. The dictator Primo de Rivera had lost the support of the army and stepped down, to be replaced by another bland dictator who didn't last long enough to make an impression. Since then, the King had agreed to municipal elections. Posters, flyers and banners papered every lamppost. Early polls predicted an antimonarchical landslide, even with the rural vote controlled by the headstrong political bosses.

  I met Al-Cerraz at his hotel on April 12, and we spent the day together going through the motions of preparing a tour. A photographer met us in the lobby to discuss his fees and schedule a session. Al-Cerraz showed the man what we already had: a horribly dated photo of him and me from ten years earlier and a beautiful shot of Aviva, problematic only because we weren't in it with her. She 'd had it taken months earlier in Berlin—face forward, slim nose, darkly shaded eyes; the top of her head covered by a fashionable, nearly brimless cloche, with brown curls on each side of her face. She looked so well, I couldn't bear to tell him.

  That following night we had dinner at an outside table on the Ram-bias. Al-Cerraz said, "Funny that she hasn't telegraphed the hotel. Mayb
e they lost it. I suppose we should stop by the station tomorrow morning, in case she's on the 11:15 coming south."

  A paperboy ran by, calling out the latest headlines.

  I cleared my throat. "It might not be the best time for a tour."

  Al-Cerraz let his gaze wander to the boy, galloping away from us with a fat sheaf of papers under one arm. "The election? No matter who wins, someone will dispute it. It will drag on for months. It will be the same old mess it always is. You can wake me when it's over."

  "Yes—I mean, no." A waiter came to clear our dishes. "I meant the tour might not work without Aviva. I don't think she's coming."

  "That's ridiculous. Have you heard from her?"

  "Not recently. .. "

  "There you have it. Of course she's coming. We'll go to the station tomorrow."

  "And if she's not on the morning train?"

  "Well, there are only two—the 11:15 or the 2:38. She knows we have a concert in one week. I wrote her a letter explaining everything we'd need to do first. She'll be here tomorrow at the latest."

  "And if she isn't?"

  He didn't respond.

  I said, "You haven't heard from her in weeks either, have you?"

  The waiter brought us coffees that cooled, untouched, on the table.

  "It's my fault," Al-Cerraz said finally. "That argument I had with her, back in the fall, the last time I saw her"—he mulled it over, struggling with his memories—"I thought we'd patched it up. But maybe not."

  "Well, she and I had arguments, too," I said quickly—cringing as I said it, because as true and innocent as the words were, the intentions behind them were not. It would be so easy to let Al-Cerraz think he was to blame. "One really bad argument at the end," I tried to say, more forcefully and honestly. "It wasn't pretty. I have to say—she wasn't well. Not at all..."

  The catch in my voice caught me unaware. I tried to speak again and then gave up, and finally hailed the waiter angrily, to tell him that the coffees were cold.

  Al-Cerraz studied me warily.

  After a while, I said, "Maybe it's impossible to rescue a person."

  "I don't know. I've been rescued two or three times in a day—and that was before dinner." He smiled and patted my shoulder. "I remember when I came to see you in Madrid. I had to throw you into a pond just to shake some sense into you. Some people would call that a rescue."

  It wasn't a fair comparison. But all I said was, "What I did to her was worse."

  "I trust that it wasn't." He looked at me more sternly. "You know, losing hope is what gets people in the most trouble."

  "She's in a fantasy world. Her problem isn't losing hope, it's about seeing clearly—"

  "I wasn't talking about Aviva," he interrupted. "I was talking about you."

  The next day a telegram came at breakfast—not from Aviva but from Biber, explaining that our Madrid concert was being postponed, due to concern about the election and the mayhem that might ensue in the coming week if a new dictator arose.

  "Well, let's just cancel then," Al-Cerraz said without looking up from the newspaper he had opened to the sport pages.

  "Madrid?"

  "All of it. The spring and summer tour."

  He wasn't upset. "So we had another year together, because of her. We made one great record. I'm back on my feet; you're busier than ever."

  "That's it?"

  "When she's done with Weill and his projects, she 'll come back." He closed his newspaper. "Find somewhere to spend your energies. Create something beautiful. Be the kind of person she'd want to come back to, if you're still thinking along those lines."

  Later that day, in a cab bound for the train station, I asked him, "Where will you go?"

  "Málaga."

  "Whenever you're not touring—always Málaga."

  "It's warm."

  "The entire south of Spain is warm this time of year."

  "No," he laughed. "I mean it's very warm."

  "Well, I suppose—" I stopped. "You don't mean Doña de Larrocha?"

  His mustache twitched. "She is recently widowed."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'm not. Anyway, with liberalism running amok, the communists will be terrifying the latifundistas"—they were the owners of the immense southern farms. "She has Civil Guards to watch her fields, but at her manor house, Doña de Larrocha will want another man around, to look after things."

  "What will you do—guard the front door with a pitchfork?"

  "I think she has one of those old blunderbusses in a back closet. Word is that once they get the eight-hour workday passed, the workers will have more leisure than they know what to do with. They say the braceros' plan is to gather up all the wives and daughters, to create orgies of 'obligatory free love.' If I fail to stop that from happening, and the forces of free love break down our door, then I will enjoyably submit to the insurrection. If I manage to keep those scoundrels at bay, Doña de Larrocha will shower me with amorous gratitude. That is, more than she already has..."

  I held up one hand. "Don't feel you need to share the details."

  But he couldn't contain himself. "I'm not talking about physical relations, Feliu. I'm talking about money. She has paid all my debts, every last one. Every last cent to Thomas Brenan. My future compositions are mine alone."

  He grew more serious. "I was still willing to tour, but the truth is I don't have to anymore. I am free."

  I smiled. "Free from everyone except Doña de Larrocha."

  But he wouldn't let me put a damper on his happiness. "Some of her wealthy neighbors are leaving for Sevilla or the south of France—or at least sending their money there. But she's a tough lady." He smiled, savoring the thought. "She's like one of those prize bulls in their special pastures, glowering at the mischievous boys who stroll past, daring them to annoy her."

  Al-Cerraz got out at the train station. I stayed in the back of the cab, brooding, until the driver asked a second time, "Where to?"

  "Anywhere."

  He dropped me on the Ramblas. I paid for one overpriced drink at a wobbly table in the flow of pedestrian traffic, remembering how my mother had grieved over her lost grocery money on our first day in Barcelona. With the midday sun beating down on my head, I left a tip that was more than the cost of the drink, went to another café table under an awning, and ordered a coffee I barely touched. The waiter picked up my cup and saucer, wiped the table, and set it down again, eyeing the line of waiting patrons, but I refused to be rushed. The air was warm, the boulevard's graceful plane trees were green. Though I wasn't hungry, I ordered a cold cod salad, just to be left in peace. Everyone seemed to be out on the boulevard today, waiting for something. A popping sound at another café several doors down caused dozens of heads to turn, but it wasn't a pistol or explosive, just champagne.

  Al-Cerraz had left me with the program materials we 'd been assembling—worthless now. I thought about dropping the whole envelope into the nearest garbage bin, but then I remembered the publicity photos inside. I took out Aviva's again and stared at it. The longer I looked, the more this perfect image crowded out the last real images I'd seen of her, coming out of the bathroom, sitting on the bed, looking at me as if I were her captor, or worse.

  I was still studying that photo when the news came. I heard it from the waiter who brought my salad. He kept dashing between my table and the café kitchen, where the staff had their ears pressed to a radio: King Alfonso was leaving the country, bound for exile, possibly in Italy. I listened intently, ready to hear who the next dictator might be, and in what manner these latest pro-Republican elections would be suppressed. But there was no mention of a dictator, or of any sort of conservative backlash.

  When the next announcement came, the café erupted, its patrons spilling into the street. One and then two waiters ran out and pulled off their aprons. A little boy shinnied up a lamppost and began to sing indecipherable words at the top of his lungs. A man who had just bought flowers began to hand them out, and then ran back for more, but t
he flower seller distrusted the gleam in his eye and waddled to the front of her kiosk to pull the metal shutters closed with a long hooked pole. Her reaction goaded him; he reached around her for the flowers while she brandished her pole at him, prepared to strike. Other sellers, equally wary of anarchy, began to close up their kiosks and follow the crowd up the street, to any café with standing room. An older man sitting in the sun next to me pushed away his plate, stood, and said to his wife calmly but knowledgeably, "They'll let all the prisoners out—the innocent ones and the common criminals, too. Best to be getting home."

  Merriment, disbelief, joyful tears—all of it flooded the Ramblas that hour, that day, and into the raucous evening. There it was, that word, on everyone's tongues: República. The Second Republic. The First Republic, in 1873, when my own parents were children, had lasted only eleven months—and yet they'd talked about it for years, a time when colors were brighter, food tasted better, and music was everywhere. Now people were saying that a general election was yet to be held, but procedural challenges aside, the unthinkable had happened already. The King had admitted defeat, and no one had rushed forward to usurp parliamentary leadership, no martial law had been imposed. Could this republic be permanent? Was democracy possible?

  The dancing started. A group of older women set their handbags in the middle of a circle, joined hands, and began to perform the sardana, a Catalan dance that would one day symbolize political defiance, but on this day was simply a spontaneous expression of unity and joy. And from a fourth-floor window overlooking the street, a radio blared the triumphant strains of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.