The Accordionist's Son by Bernardo Atxaga

Author:Bernardo Atxaga [Bernardo Atxaga]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2008-04-03T04:00:00+00:00

Burnt wood

I

‘I ASSUME YOU still play the accordion,’ said Ángel, appearing at my bedroom door. I continued what I was doing, putting my summer clothes in a bag, without even looking at him. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ I said. It was the end of June 1970, and, having passed my fourth-year university exams, I could see stretching before me three whole months of vacation; but the minutes and hours I had to spend at Villa Lecuona seemed to me unbearable. I wanted to leave as soon as possible for the house in Iruain.

Ángel made an attempt at a smile. ‘Yes, I can tell you’re in a hurry. You haven’t even had time to turn on the light.’ ‘Leave it!’ I yelled, when he raised his hand to the switch. ‘I can see fine with the light from the window.’ ‘You’re in a bad mood,’ he said, with a still more strained smile, ‘just for a change.’ He disappeared down the corridor and returned with the accordion. It was in its case, ready for the trip.

I closed the bag and stood there, arms folded. ‘What do you want?’ I said. ‘The sooner we get this over with, the better.’ I didn’t want to talk to him; all I wanted was his confession: ‘The gorilla on the cover of the notebook is telling the truth, my son. During the war, I was a murderer. And I deeply regret it.’ Remorse could be a first step, the beginning of a better relationship between us. Or perhaps not. ‘All hearts soften before the repentant sinner, even hearts of stone,’ Obaba’s parish priest, Don Hipólito, used to say. I wasn’t so sure.

‘I get really tired playing at the hotel dances now,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot of hours. I want you to take my place.’ I eyed him distrustfully. The hotel was his second home, and he hadn’t missed a dance or a fiesta for years. The shirts and jackets he wore for these performances were still hanging in the wardrobe in his practice room, as impeccable as ever. ‘I’ve spoken to Marcelino, and he’s happy for you to replace me.’ ‘And what about Geneviève? What does she think?’ I said. According to my mother – she’d told me this on one of her visits to the student flat where I lived in San Sebastián – Geneviève was annoyed with me because of Teresa, who refused to come to Obaba and preferred to spend the vacation with her relatives in France. She thought her daughter’s actions were motivated purely by rancour, and that it was my fault because I’d aroused ‘false hopes’ in her.

Ángel ignored the question and pointed to the accordion. ‘If you want to work this summer, you’d better start practising. The sooner, the better.’ I lit a cigarette and began putting some books into a smaller bag than the one containing my clothes. I’d been smoking since my second year at university. ‘All Marcelino and Geneviève want are for the dances this summer to be a success,’ Ángel said.

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