The Word of the Speechless
Page 25
At the beginning of the seventies I returned to Lima after an absence of ten or more years. The city, the country, had been transformed, whether for good or ill is another question. For a few weeks I revisited my youthful haunts, looking for signs, traces of happy or unhappy eras, and found only the ashes of some or the flickering flame of others. A few months later I decided to breathe the air of the provinces. My brother-in-law Genaro, who was by then a major, was stationed in Cuzco. He lived in a large villa on the outskirts of the city, where he loved to host family and friends. One day, out of the blue, I decided to pay him a visit and boarded an airplane. I arrived in the imperial city at noon, but as soon as the bus from the airport dropped me in the Plaza de Armas, I felt so sick from the altitude that rather than go straight to my brother-in-law’s house, I took a room in the first hotel I came across and fell asleep as if I were one of the blessed.
I woke up in the evening and immediately called Genaro to let him know I had arrived.
“Come right away,” he insisted. “There’s a concert tonight at our house. Berenson will conduct Beethoven.”
“Berenson?”
“Didn’t you know? He’s been living and working here for a long time. He’s the mainstay of our musical Tuesdays.”
No, I didn’t know, as I also didn’t know there was a philharmonic orchestra in Cuzco. Without delay I got dressed, called a taxi, and left for Genaro’s house. It was a colonial mansion, a bit run-down but stately nonetheless, right on the boundary between the city and the countryside. Several automobiles were parked out in front. Genaro led me into the drawing room, where he introduced me to about thirty guests—the music lovers of Cuzco—an eclectic crowd, which included the subprefect, two military officers, a priest, and several society ladies. Everybody was very excited, holding glasses and cigarettes and being served by my sister, Mercedes.
“And the maestro?” I asked.
“He’s coming now. He’s getting ready.”
A few seconds later he appeared through a side door, baton in hand, wearing the striped pants and black jacket I remember seeing him in when he conducted those unforgettable concerts in Lima. But his garments were shiny and worn, as worn as his own figure, which looked pale, bowed, and abbreviated. Genaro handed him a glass of beer, introduced me to him—he had no idea I knew him—and the gathering continued apace while I, looking from side to side, tried to figure out where the orchestra was and where the concert would be held. In these villas there was always a chapel or a courtyard reserved for such events. A moment later Genaro asked for silence, the guests took their seats, and the maestro took his place in the front of the room, under an archway leading into an enclosed patio behind which one could see an empty cloister. In the meantime Genaro went to a corner where—only then did I notice—there was a modern stereo set. He inserted a cassette and turned on the player. In a second there burst forth the powerful opening of Beethoven’s Fifth, at the same time as Berenson’s baton swept through the air to accompany the fourfold groan of chords with energetic and inspired movements.
During the entire first movement I stood dumbfounded, not moving my eyes from the maestro, who from time to time stopped to pick up his glass of beer, which was standing on a table within reach. His eyes avoided the audience and wandered over the night sky, God knows contemplating what celestial visions, and on his thin lips, between his sparse beard and moustache, there floated a foolish grin. As the spectacle continued, it became more and more intolerable to me. Even so, during certain passages, the maestro’s movements were convincing, and for moments I had the illusion of being in the presence of the great Hans Marius Berenson of my youth, the first time I saw him conducting that same symphony in the Campo de Marte in front of a perfectly tuned orchestra. But it was only an illusion. I was in the presence of a puppet, defiling his ancient glories in order to earn a few drinks, a little human warmth, and a bit of affability in a city where there was no orchestra at all, only one or another chamber ensemble with whom he might play the violin at weddings and funerals to make ends meet.
“The blows of fate,” I said to myself as the horns picked up the initial motif. “Poor Maestro Berenson!” But I found comfort in the thought that only those who have known splendor have the right to decadence.