The Spanish Bow by Andromeda Romano-Lax

Author:Andromeda Romano-Lax [Romano-Lax, Andromeda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9571351857
Publisher: Mariner Books
Published: 2007-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

That night, despite the train's soporific rocking, Al-Cerraz didn't sleep well.

"What did I say about Rite of Spring?" he whispered, then barreled out of the bottom bunk to stand next to me, his mouth level with my head. I rolled away from him and told him to ask me in the morning.

"When I came to see you in Madrid, and found you in the bar," he persevered. "We went to the park. I told you about Stravinsky. About the premiere, and the riot it caused. I agreed with the detractors. Do you remember?"

I rolled back and felt his steamy breath on my face—no smell of liquor, only the sweet staleness of long, dark hours. "We talked about a lot of things that day."

"I wasn't fair. I was narrow-minded."

I thought for a moment. "You told me how you'd heard jazz, that same month in Paris, and loved it. See? You weren't narrow-minded. Go to sleep."

Silence. But I knew he was still there. His fingers, resting on the edges of the bunk, pulled it downward. Rolling slightly toward him, I could feel the pressure of the guardrail against my leg. After several minutes, I must have fallen asleep again. His next words interrupted a dream.

"I can still hear..." he whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"The catcalls. Debussy—he was there, pleading with the audience, telling them to calm down and listen. The dancers couldn't hear the orchestra. Ravel was in the audience, screaming Genius! Genius!' at the top of his lungs while a veritable brawl broke out. Those two men recognized what they were hearing. They weren't threatened by it."

"Next time, listen to men like Debussy and Ravel."

"You know why I didn't?"

When I didn't respond, he answered the question for me. "Because of Ravel's Rapsodie Espagnole—1908. And Debussy's Iberia—191o. I heard them both. I saw them performed. I bought the scores. I was a Spaniard in Paris, and every French composer was writing Spanish music—my music!—what I should have written, if I had been more focused, more forward-thinking, more willing to abstain from the instant gratuitous pleasures of performing, of being admired..."

I was wide awake now. "The French are always writing picture-postcard music about Spain. Bizet started it, before you were born."

"Yes. Precisely. Picture-postcard. But what beautiful postcards. And what Englishman doesn't hope to meet some exotic Carmen dancing outside a cigarette factory when he vacations in Andalucía?"

I waited for more, but when he didn't continue, I offered, "Rimsky-Korsakov. Capriccio Espagnol—what, 1887? 1888?"

"Must have been. I think I was five years old."

"Just so you don't blame the French."

I stared into the darkness, listening to him breathe, until he said, "Perhaps the well is dry."

I sat up on one elbow. "It's just exoticism—writing about some faraway, folkloric land that's easier to capture than your own. The way the Russians love to write about the Orient, for example."

He wasn't listening. "They have created a Spain more real than our Spain; their art has transcended our reality."

"That's a dangerous thing, transcending reality. Look at Don Quixote—he was beaten to a bloody pulp.

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