The Calligraphy of Dreams

8. ADVENTURES IN ANOTHER NEIGHBOURHOOD

In the years between thirteen and sixteen, many things happen to him, the importance of which he does not grasp at the time. Shortly after he has turned thirteen, one luminous autumn afternoon, stuffed in the grey coat he hates because it immediately labels him as an apprentice on an errand, he is standing on the corner of Calles Valencia and Bruch, in the select Ensanche district, staring in wonder at the facade of the Conservatorio Municipal de Música. No-one, and still less the music students who pass by to enter or leave the conservatoire, could imagine that at only thirteen, working more than nine hours a day, earning twelve pesetas per week, and obliged to wear his ugly, oversized coat, this youngster has on him an emerald and ruby necklace, and a gold brooch in the shape of a salamander dripping with enamel, pearls, opals and diamonds, two pieces valued at more than thirty thousand pesetas. He has to deliver them to an important jeweller’s shop near here, without loitering in the street or getting distracted by anything. To avoid the pieces being stolen on a tram or the metro, he is carrying them in a small canvas bag tied to his belt and dangling inside his underpants, very close to his cock. Every so often he feels with his fingers to make sure the bag is still there beneath his clothes, but right now he isn’t even thinking about it, because he’s listening to music he believes was always destined for him.

Despondent, hands in the pockets of his overall, he is admiring the philharmonic reliefs on the grand entrance to the conservatoire, the two towers ending in their upturned cones, piano and clarinet music escaping through the tall windows as students practise. From the street he can also see the staircase up to the foyer — ten steps, he’s already counted them — and a little higher up the stairs leading to the classrooms. Why am I not climbing those steps as well, he wonders, why does the finger of fate always have to come between the piano and me? He knows the answer — somebody told him you needed the school exam to be able to enrol at the conservatoire, and he doesn’t have it — but whenever he passes by here, usually on an errand for the workshop, he comes to a halt in front of this imposing building and asks himself the same painful question. How high and solid the walls look, how impenetrable, he often thinks.

On this occasion he is feeling sorry for himself, and lingers too long, until he senses someone is staring at him. Standing by the door, behind a small group of students who are coming out noisily, a girl in granny glasses and a white raincoat with a hood is openly observing him. To judge by her crestfallen appearance, in spite of the distance and the glasses she is wearing, the boy could swear she’s been crying, and could also swear she doesn’t care whether anyone notices. She looks to be two or three years older than him, sixteen perhaps. Her pale white forehead is framed with black curls, and she is clutching a violin case and a folder to her chest. Her small snow-white hand on the black case seems to be beckoning him. All of a sudden the folder slips from her grasp and falls open. Some sheet music and a notebook fall to the pavement. He goes over and bends down to help her pick up the scores and the notebook; her smile of thanks sends a shiver down his spine.

“Thank you.”

As they straighten up she is peering at him from so close that they bump heads. The dreamy apprentice sees the pitying look she gives his grotesque coat, and thinks: that’s done it. But he hears her say in a friendly voice:

“Are you a magician? Where did you spring from, magician?”

“I’m no magician.”

“You are to me. What’s your name?”

Quick, think of a name, he tells himself as he continues staring at her like a dummy.

“My … Mi Minor.”

“What’s that, are you making fun of me?” The girl’s bright smile floods over him. “Alright, Mi Minor. Fine. Would you like to do me another favour? Could you come into the conservatoire with me for a moment?”

“Me? What for?”

“It’s a very special favour. I need a magician.”

“A magician? But I’m not one.”

“But you could be for a few minutes. Would you do that for me?”

Her half-open mouth suggests the anxiety of an asthmatic, and she has a cold sore on her top lip. This red patch serves to accentuate her anxiousness, especially when she licks her lip with the tip of her tongue to stop it itching.

“Just for a minute,” he stammers, still holding her notebook. He starts leafing through it with sudden interest, or simply because he is still disconcerted. She lets him do it, without asking for it back.

“You’d be doing me a huge favour, Mi Minor. Will you?”

The sound of a trombone comes through one of the big windows.

“But why? Why me?”

“I’ll tell you later. I’m going to present you to somebody as though you were my cousin, and you say to him: ‘It was me’. That’s all. ‘It was me.’ And then you can go.”

To encourage him, and as a foretaste of her grateful thanks, she holds out her hand. As he takes it in his own it now seems to him as though he is holding a bird’s wing, a handful of down that is soft to the touch.

“Would you do it for me?” she whispers. “We don’t know each other, but I can see you’re a good sort … Nobody’s going to ask you anything, and you won’t have to explain. You only need say: ‘It was me’. It’s nothing bad, I promise. Then you come out again, wait for me here, and I’ll explain everything … Are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

The girl lowers her hood, freeing a dark mass of curly hair. Her smile broadens.

“So, would you do that for me? Please!”

He is already nodding in agreement as he reads the title on the cover of the notebook he still has in his hands: Barcelona Municipal School of Music. Music Practice And Theory. Elementary Class.

“If you give me this book, I’ll do as you ask.”

“It’s yours.”

For a fleeting moment he considers the risks of carrying such valuable jewels on him and getting involved in something he shouldn’t, something that Señor Munté, the workshop owner, is always warning him against, but he dismisses the concern on the spot. It’s impossible that this girl, who looks like a diligent student mixed with a snow princess, no doubt destined to become the greatest violin virtuoso of all time, and who seems to have been in tears, could be part of a plan to rob him right there, on the steps of the conservatoire and at the heart of this discreet musical hubbub he has always wanted to be part of. He has several questions about her strange request, but does not ask any of them, for fear of breaking the spell and having to hand back the music book, so he tucks it under his arm, plunges his hands into his coat pockets and, plucking up his courage, follows her into the temple of music that would not admit him as a student.

He climbs the first steps to fame on the staircase to the foyer without taking his eyes off the girl’s elegant hair or the violin case propped on her hip, swept along by her enigmatic will, as it pushes her on to who knows where or what. His knees are knocking; his head is a whirl of tunes. They go down a dimly lit corridor, bypassing other students, children’s voices singing songs in the background, then cross the piano studio where scales and arpeggios fill the air, and follow another, less crowded corridor until the dark mane of hair comes to a halt. The boy finds himself outside what looks like a small, dark office, its walls lined with posters: Menuhin, Royal Albert Hall. Prokofiev’s Second Violin Concerto in G Minor. Sitting behind a desk he sees a young, good-looking man wearing a black roll-neck jersey and an air of authority. His glasses are pushed back on his forehead, and he is rubbing his eyes with a weary gesture.

As soon as she enters, the girl steps to one side, lowers her head, and pulls her hood up again.

“Sir, this is my cousin.” Staring at the floor and with a quaver in her voice, she adds: “He has something to say to you.”

The young teacher raises his head and stares at her. As he does so, his mouth twists in an angry grimace, and a vein pulses at his temple. He seems to want to say something, but cannot make up his mind. He really is a handsome man, thinks the apprentice. Now the door is going to close behind me and they’ll steal my jewels, he thinks. But the music teacher does not even seem to have noticed him: he only has eyes for his hooded pupil. Roughly straightening some scores on his desk, he finally turns his gaze towards Ringo. The bogus cousin is waiting for a signal from the girl, but doesn’t dare look at her for fear of giving the game away and getting her into trouble. He can sense her at his side, slightly behind him, standing stiff and expectant by the door she is still holding open.

“It was me,” he finally says, loud and clear. And unable to avoid it, driven by a sudden impulse, in a rasping voice that sounds as if it is coming from someone else, he adds: “And I’d do it again!”

Closing his eyes, he rushes to complete the rest of what he has agreed: to turn smartly on his heel and get out of there. He does not dare look at the girl, and lowers his hand to his groin, feeling for the bag with the jewellery beneath his coat and trousers. Almost at once, the door slams shut behind him. This happens so suddenly and violently, it must have been the girl who closed it, but why was she in such a hurry? He stands for a couple of minutes outside in the corridor, listening as hard as he can for the sound of voices on the other side of the door, but all he hears is silence.

As he paces up and down in the street opposite the conservatoire entrance, he wonders why on earth he had to go and say more than he should have. Then he starts to think about the door that almost hit him in the back when it was so quickly and eloquently slammed. It was me. Was that the magic formula? Obviously it was, and behind it there must have been a secret, disturbing settling of scores between the young violinist and her teacher. Once she had got what she wanted, of course she was keen to shut the door and leave him out. He also thinks about the pink cold sore on the girl’s lip, her slow, drooping eyelids, the soft down of her hand reaching for his, and all at once everything becomes clear. There’s no point waiting for her, she won’t come and explain anything to him, she never had any intention of doing so. Even so, he hangs around in front of the building for more than an hour, risking a telling-off from the jeweller because of the late delivery of his order.

He has been back three times on purpose, on different days and at different times, and whenever he goes into the centre of Barcelona with a delivery from the workshop he comes to the corner of Calles Valencia and Bruch and stands for a while outside the conservatoire in the hope of seeing her going in or coming out with her hood up, her violin case, and those hands that feel as soft as down. But he never sees her again.