The Parc
Maria set the violin in its case. She could feel the deep ache in her forearm that shot all the way to her shoulder. She put the thoughts out of her mind of what this meant, could mean, and blurred the vision of the metal framed white light of shadowy bones from her mind’s eye. It was just one of those days, where the clouds splintered and concealed casting a humorless glow in all directions. The moisture before the rain crawling into her skin, rounding corners through her veins and surrounding her heart with that familiar feeling of dread. That unknowable layer that rushed in without the sounding of an alarm. From a cloud, from playing f instead of f sharp, from the passing terrier with a long-lost familiar strut. “Paco eres tu?” In these moments, the passion was absent. Inspiration like a thief in the night, ransacking all he could and fleeing through an open window. “There is a point in which practice yields a diminishing return as compared to raw talent,” said Profesora Cardona. Her dark eyes looking past her as if she was not even in the room, just another body, the pupil of the month, with either the possibility of being graced by her hard lined instruction or simply falling by the wayside, another casualty of the conservatory. “Go to Vienna”, Papa would say, trying to redirect the downcast of her eyes as she pushed dinner around on her plate after some grueling practice session. He knew she wanted to make it in her hometown or not at all, despite the invitations to study abroad. His platitudes floated up and over her closed ears as she resided somewhere far beyond the walls of their small apartamiento.
After resting the instrument in its case for the day, she recalled the day mama had given it to her. Before the news that would change their lives. Before the doctors, and the treatments and the never-ending worry that walked beside her in every daylight moment. The beautiful spruce top, maple back and sidings, the rosewood fittings. Aged wood covered in layer upon layer of varnish. A full cycle of life given by its luthier, a deep love that grew well before it rested under her chin. This work of art that her mother saved for, becoming not just an instrument but an obligation, that she might live up to the promise it carried. A hope that lived beyond the woman who gave it to her, a gift that became a burden often far too heavy to bear. It was a week before her 16th birthday. An afternoon spent after rehearsal with friends getting heladería dulce, gossiping and being a regular student. Not cellists with national competitions looming at months’ end, or 2nd chairs silently cursing principals. Just teenagers, soaking in their youth, their naivety and shaking off the heavy cloaks of expectation that were laid upon their thin shoulders.
On that day, she burst through the front door, flush and breathy from laughter. Her birthday was further from her mind than the whispers of schoolgirl crushes and forbidden rumors. “Maria is that you?” Her mother beckoned from the kitchen. She could smell the esqueixada de bacala rising through her forehead like a symphony, simmering sauce like woodwinds and boiling beats like a metronome. Somehow all in her world was music even if she didn’t want it to be. Sights, sounds, smells always converging like a cacophony that she would arrange unwittingly, instinctively. A composer of sensations born of repetition, of living notes and bars as natural as breath. The table was set earlier than usual that night and she could feel a restlessness from her mother that reminded her of Christmas morning. “Papa will be home soon, and we are going to eat.” Maria really wanted to unwind in her room, scroll on her phone and keep the conversations going with her friends. In her home, dinner was as religious as church. It was the place where all feelings, unsaid and said were collected, a round table of life. Even 50 minutes of silence was mandatory on those days where teenaged frustration trumped all communication and disdain permeated the room. You still sat there together, happily or unhappily until you were excused. And so, she knew tonight would be no different, it was simply what would unfold that took her by surprise.
As mother brought the café to the table, a certain grin stretched across her high cheekbones. Mother’s deep set eyes looked straight through her as if she knew some secret Maria was hiding. Had she looked through her phone? The stare was so penetrating that it forced a defensiveness in Maria that made her shift in her seat. Maria caught her mother’s gaze intently, as if waiting to do battle, like knights mounted across a dirty terrain. As Maria tensed, her body prepared for confrontation, and suddenly her mother’s grin drew upwards into a smile. Relief cast over her as her mother then left the room, returning with a case wrapped in a red ribbon. There was no mistaking it even though it was not the same shape as her current rectangular case and that what was held there was a scroll to endpin. The fact that this one was wooden and shaped could only mean, to her, that something very special was inside. She recalled her parents’ faces as she unraveled the bow from the case, and gingerly opened the cover. Without thought, tears fell from her eyes as she gazed upon the shiny varnish thick with natural oils. A new bow also lay beside it. She soon learned that it was a custom antique Guarneri, the price she was too frighted to ask. “Careful with those tears linda, you don’t want to stain it,” her papa joked as she stared into the case, too afraid to pick it up until her parents gave her the nod of approval. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Maria picked it up and played a scale, as she felt her mother’s eyes on her like two suns so bright that she dared not open her own.
It was almost two years since that moment. A moment she almost questioned ever happened as everything changed only weeks after, as if opening that case unleashed something that could not be contained. But it had happened, and life continued as did practices and concerts and competitions with almost more fury than ever before. As if this loss left no choice but to succeed. As the leash that grief is lessoned its hold, thoughts, desires but more often doubt started to return. A questioning of this unwavering path that started at the age of seven. On this day, the ache in her fingers and the heaviness in her chest whispered of other choices. Of other paths not taken. Maria decided to go to the place where they once were together, the three of them and Paco. Where sunlight filtered through concrete pillars shaped like trees. Where a man-made wonder inspired by nature sparkled in her childish eyes. When the world was still unknowable but simple and free.
Maria descended the train in the Gracia district. She walked uphill to the entrance of the Parc which covered two sides of the Tres Creus and El Carmel hills. Walking on Av. Del Santuari de Sant Josep de la Mutanya she could see the gingerbread gatehouses. As a child, they looked like magical playhouses where she could hide with the imaginary sibling she never had. Where tea parties and princesses could dwell and be surrounded by magical characters all there only for her delight. Now, in her older eyes, she saw the foresight of this architectural wonder. The stairs leading through a double stairway rising to Dori columns above with the famous “El Drac” residing in the middle, a salamander of bright tiles, blues, seafoam, yellows and green, an iconic piece of art that had come to be a symbol of her hometown, of the heart of Catalonia that which is Barcelona.
It had been years since Maria’s feet walked through the parc. Though she visited once in junior high on a field trip, her strongest memories were of seeing the irregularly shaped spaces, viaducts and porticos through the wide eyes of a child. Maria climbed up through the parc to the famous bench made from Trencadis, defined by mosaics and a serpent style shape so that visitors could face each other for conversation. It was here that she sat in the late afternoon, the Mediterranean in view and the sun setting subtlety in between and through the panoramic terrace. Maria closed her eyes and heard Concerto in D Major, Beethoven. Always Beethoven in these moments of doubt. Always the cascading of the strings, the hard stops, the drama, the melodic twists and turns that lead to salvation with what has been called sublime serenity. The work is rumored to have been composed in just over a month, finishing only two days before the concert where it would premier. Proof that genius can be born of grace. The orchestral introduction was a welcome mat for the soloist. It was this work she dreamed of performing, of recording … of becoming. And yet, the distinct soreness of her bones, as if below the serene surface of the piece with the violins pulsing five note motifs, there, unmistakable, unavoidable. In her soul she heard the dialogue between the violins and lower strings and the tears came in both glory and fear, the fear of success and the fear of failure, one orchestral movement folding over and on top of itself.
“Senorita.” She heard a voice interrupting the notes in her head. She ignored what seemed to be a whisper until, it ushered in again, “Do you have the time?” Maria opened her eyes fully and saw a man, clad in a black wool suit, far too warm for this summer day. On his feet were low cut shoes in the oxford style, pointy and of a softness of leather she had rarely seen. He had kind but stern eyes set closely alongside a strong sloping nose framed by thick eyebrows. A beard that was not of the times, sitting low beneath his cheeks and low below his chin line. The hair parted severely; the side kept too thick for the geometry of the top. A certain white hue seemed to fray around the sleeves of his blazer. He was a young man but had the air of middle aged, and he was somehow familiar to parts of herself she did not recognize.
“Disculpeu-me senyoreta.” She heard again from the figure. He asked again for the time, and she glanced at her phone, about 19.30 she offered. She saw him glance at her phone with a quizzical look. Not feeling like having conversation but somehow compelled by her new companion who sat facing her, she offered, “It’s a beautiful sunset, and here, well, its simply magical.” “Thank you,” the man responded, Maria at once thinking he was showing gratitude for the conversation, as there was an isolation to him, a loneliness that she felt both through him and as some unsaid understanding. “If only everyone else felt that way,” he said as an almost mocking smile stretched wide across his firm features.
Maria could not understand his response. She could not fathom anyone not appreciating the ingenuity, the splendor and the beauty of this parc. Yet, something kept her from responding, as if this stranger just knew better, as if there was some secret that he was not revealing, and that while nothing logical said she should trust his words, somehow, she did. Her eyes must have still been wet, as her new companion reached into his vest pocket and produced a handkerchief for her. Embarrassed she took it and dabbed at her cheeks. “Sometimes we just see things other don’t,” he said to her, “Are you an artist?” Maria could feel a heat rising in her cheeks at this question, which despite years as a musician she never really asked herself. The words of Professoria Cordona ringing in her ears about talent versus practice, and the questions that were now surfacing more frequently than ever. “I suppose I am,” she responded, her response both surprising her and affirming something that needed to be spoken, at that moment and to this person. “Good,” he responded, “It’s the only life I know.” Once again, something passed between the pair, a knowing, and bond that could only be described as real. It made no sense and yet, nothing had ever made more sense in all her life. Maria looked past the city below to the sea on the horizon. This parc, this place was as perfect a place she could imagine. As she turned back towards her company, he was gone. She looked around the terrace and saw no trace of him. Only a few visitors, gathering their belongings as they made their way towards the staircase that would lead them out. As she drew her bag to her shoulder a gusting breeze caught the handkerchief. She watched it being carried away below but somehow evading the trees, as if absorbing into the landscape. Maria looked in every direction and saw nothing but the clouds above, and the fading day.
***
Maria walked slowly to take her place in front of the seated philharmonic. She stood beside the Abonnementdirigenten of the night as he announced the piece, Beethoven, violin concerto op 61. Her black dress fell lightly on the floor as she held her instrument to her heart. In the shimmering lights of the stage, she looked out onto the audience. She could see Papa in the first row along with her Tia. The beats rapid in her chest, slowing to a normal rhythm as she gathered her composure. And, somewhere deep in the distance of the orchestra row, she felt him there, smiling, watching and clapping.
