Sanibel Scribbles (44 page)

He stopped again in the middle of the narrow street, raising his arms toward the black sky above. “What, what do you want to talk about?” He looked at his watch. “We talk now.”

She stepped up to him, eye to eye. “The piano. Play the piano for me. Let’s find a piano.”

“No se
. It has been a long time.”

“So it’s true. You do play the piano?”

“Si
. I once play every day, every
minuto
, but these days, no. Today I don’t play anymore.”

“Nacho,
por favor
. I am leaving your country soon. I beg you to play for me.”

He rolled his eyes as he opened the car door for her.
“Vamos
. We go to the apartment of my mama. She is not home tonight, and I respect her. If she were home, we would not go there now. But because she is not there, I take you. I will take you. I am taking you,” he spoke English with a sense of pride, having nearly mastered it, yet wanting to practice it and now was his chance. “Yeah, that’s right. I take you. No, I will take you. We go now to my piano. My piano is at the apartment that is my mama. No, that belongs to my mama. Yeah, that’s right.
Vamos.”

As he sped down the cramped and curvy roads in his bright yellow car, Vicki sat in silence, shocked at the discovery that her mysterious friend spoke English and proud of herself for remembering the key that might unlock his secret. She felt as impressed as the time on the island when
Howard of all people switched from jabberwocky to perfectly fluent Spanish and an intelligent conversation.

Asking people why they had come to Tarpon Key had once proved fascinating. She now tried a new question with Nacho, hoping to achieve similar results. “Nacho, why do you play the piano?”

“Stupid question,” he replied with his lips and with hand gestures that always danced in tune with his emotions and that meant they hardly stayed put on the steering wheel.

“No. Don’t say that. It’s not stupid,” said Vicki. “I don’t come from a musical background. Music isn’t my domain. Do you understand me? I am envious of people with a talent for music. I just wonder why you hit the ball across the room when I said the word ‘piano.’”

“Tranquilo, tranquilo
. You wait.” His eyes frantically traveled from her eyes to the rearview mirror to the radio, but never to the road ahead, it seemed. She decided not to talk any further until they had arrived safely, and she could step out of this carnival ride.

If there were a ticket booth outside his mother’s apartment, people would purchase tickets to get in. Art sculptors, statues on white rugs stood upright and still, making Vicki self-conscious of her own posture upon entering. As in a painting, the dark object caught her attention immediately, the only dark item in the elegant living room.

“My piano. I introduce you to my piano,” said Nacho as he walked over to the black object and softly touched it with his fingertips, as if caressing a woman’s body. Then he pulled his black sweater over his head and set it on a chair. He walked over to a mini-bar and poured himself a glass of dry sherry, took a few sips, then closed the window blinds, shutting off any outside view, dimmed the lights, lit a candle, and cracked his knuckles before taking a seat on the piano bench.

He sat there a moment, closing his eyes, and took a deep breath. “This is my piano,” he said as he opened his eyes. “I told you we were taking time apart. That time has now ended. Vicki, I would like you to meet the love of my life.”

As she stood in the center of the white room, she felt a chill, similar to that which entered the dorm room before Rebecca had died. “It’s my pleasure,”
she said and nodded.

He didn’t answer. As if he had forgotten he had a one-person, informal audience standing before him, his fingers hit the keys, and his nervous facial glitches and eyebrow twitches danced in tune with the notes. As if the piano contained mysterious electricity, it jolted him. The lines on his forehead deepened, and his eyes closed.

As she stood alone in the large room, Vicki felt fear. The death of her friend frightened her. She too would die some day. Her other loved ones might also die. She had no control over its timing. It would arrive when it liked, a thief in the night.

His music switched keys, and now she felt guilty. She should have stayed in Michigan long enough to attend the funeral, to comfort the family, to wear black. She should have met Rebecca twice a week for coffee instead of once a week. Sure, they studied together nightly, but she should have insisted they have more fun together. She should have told Rebecca how much she loved her as a friend. She should have this and that. She should have, she should have.

The music exploded into storms of octaves echoing each other as Nacho’s hands pounded the keys, almost violently now. She felt anger bursting from the keys or going into them—she didn’t know which. Rebecca had left her at a very bad time, just before their semester in Spain. She had never said good-bye. How rude! Vicki felt angry at life ending without warning, mad that God had made it all part of some plan. Nacho also looked angry as he too looked afraid, then guilty. They both seemed to be taking similar journeys.

His music slowed, and she felt sad. She wanted to block out the music, but it demanded sensitive listening.

Sweat dripped from Nacho’s face, and she felt exhausted watching him, tired from going through the stages of grief. When his fingers stopped, the room filled with a lonely quiet. The silence ached, so she had to say something, but she self-consciously knew that her voice sounded ugly after such gorgeous notes. She stood still, alone, in the center of the room, her arms hanging awkwardly beside her.

“Nacho, who did you lose?”

“My father,” he said, and then slammed his hands down on the keys.

She jumped. “Why don’t you play the piano anymore?”

“I told you. We were too emotionally one, connected.”

“That was the most incredible thing I have ever heard, Nacho. Your music is beautiful.”

“Gracias
. There is something you do not know about me,” he said. “There is,” she replied.

“I was child prodigy,” he continued.
“Mi padre
, he became ill and died not long ago. That is when I stopped playing. He was my, how you say it,
mi maestro, mentor de la musica.”

“He taught you how to play the piano?”

“Si, si
, when I was three years old. My piano, we have been together since I was a child.”

“Thank you for playing for me.”

“No! I no play for you!” he pounded the keys again. “I play for
mi papa
, for his spirit.”

“Lo siento.”

“No! I am sorry. I am sorry I did not know my father as a man. I knew him as a father and as a teacher, but not as a man. I did not accept him as a friend, and now it is too late.” Nacho closed his eyes and struck the keys some more.

“Who’s Howard?” she asked quietly.

Nacho stopped playing. “My father’s lover,” he answered. “I did not know where Howard was leaving to, only that he was grief-stricken when he left. I did not know him well. That was my decision then, not to know him. In making that decision, I missed out on knowing my father as well.”

“Nacho, you speak English well.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SHE COULD HEAR OPERA
music blaring from Rafael’s Mercedes as he pulled up to the well-lit commercialized corner of El Corte Inglés. European shoppers with bags full of expensive clothes, perfumes and cosmetics scurried about the corner, and at times it seemed that the mutter of their voices rang louder than the blaring traffic noises.

Vicki looked at her wristwatch. It was nine forty-five. This time Rafael was only ten minutes late, but she no longer minded his typical tardiness, or the entire country’s lateness for that matter. A culture that runs behind schedule allowed her to do things she might not normally make time to do. But, since Rafael had shown up only ten minutes late, it left her no time to chat with her homeless friend, who again sat on the same sidewalk square between the same two sidewalk cracks.

Vicki waved to the woman who still mourned the damage Franco had done to her country and people during his autocratic rule and said hello to the man who celebrated the fashion and freedom that came to his country following Franco’s death.

“No
te preocupes. ¡Vive!
” The woman’s voice rang out like cathedral bells as she told her not to worry, but live. Go live life!

Rafael wore a black turtleneck and gray dress slacks. His shoes shone and his cologne always smelled good. Vicki didn’t recognize it, but knew it meant a night full of conversation, rich food, red wine and culture.

They left the skyscrapers and city traffic behind and drove fifteen miles
into country hills filled with ancient tall pines.

“Rafael,
no te gusta Franco, ¿no?”
She was learning about Franco in a history class, but preferred learning directly from the people of Spain.

“Some give credit to Franco,” Rafael answered in Spanish. “After all, he never opened Spain to Hitler and that is positive. But I give him very little credit. I made a mistake in life many years ago, a mistake very horrible. Because of Franco, I’ve had to live with that mistake, and my life has not been good.”

Vicki unrolled her window so she could feel the cool air hit her in the face as they drove.
“Digame?
What sort of mistake?”

As they pulled up to a ranch-style restaurant, Rafael put his fingers to his lips and shushed the topic, giving Vicki a subtle indication not to ask again. “This restaurant, where I am taking you, received five forks,
cinco!”

“Five forks?
¿Que significa?”

“It means I only take Victoria to the best.” He answered in Spanish.
“En España
, we rate restaurants on a scale of one to five forks, based on the quality and price.”

A hostess greeted Rafael by name and led them to a candlelit table on a glassed-in porch on the side of a cliff overlooking nearby chestnut trees and evergreen oaks in the distance.

A wandering flamenco dancer dressed in orange, purple and yellow stopped in front of their table to perform, and Rafael leaned over to Vicki to whisper loudly his opinion of the dancer. “This dancer is emotionally uninhibited. She is more concerned with experiencing the very moment than with anything else in life,” said Rafael.

Vicki didn’t understand. She only saw a dancer. “Do you know her?”

“No. Watch the flamenco. Watch her moves. She is completely care-free and has an attitude toward
la vida. La musica
and dance are her ways to express it.” Rafael sat silent for a moment, but the song and dance felt never-ending to Vicki.

“¿Que piensas? Digame, Victoria. Digame in inglés.”
He asked her what she saw in the dancer, but asked her to describe it in English, not Spanish.

“Describe what I see? in English?”

“Si, si, en inglés, Victoria. Inglés.”

“Okay, sure. I can do that but you won’t be able to understand what I’m saying,” she replied. “Oh, well, I’ll describe what I see. I see a dancer. A dancer in a colorful costume who’s getting a great aerobic work.”

Rafael interrupted by gently pushing her chin toward the dancer.
“Mira
. Look at the dancer, not me,” he urged in Spanish.

“Si, si
, I see a dancer, one who has a story to tell. It’s a long story because she’s been dancing a long time now. She wants to share her story. She wants to express it. This woman is expressing a story about, uh, death. She has some things to say about life and death and things worth doing.”

Vicki forgot about the man sitting beside her, and instead only noticed the lines on the gypsy’s forehead deepen as her voice turned rough, like sandpaper. “Oh dear, this song is tormenting. She is looking, her eyes shut now. It’s regret. it must be.”

As her neck jolted and her eyes rolled around, the woman didn’t notice the couple at the table. “She’s looking back on her life, the hardships, the frustrations, and how she handled them, or how she let them handle her. What else can it be? She’s dancing through the dark moments of her life,” announced Vicki, who could feel her own face responding to the scene before her. “And she’s not afraid to show her torment, her stress, her emotions.”

Then the gypsy’s teeth showed and her forehead crevices disappeared.

“Peace,” declared Vicki. “She has found peace in the present. She is going to focus on things worth doing, things she can control, her attitude toward hardships.”

“I thought flamenco was happy-go-lucky,” continued Vicki. “I thought flamenco was simply a reach, pick, twist, and toss. I was wrong. This woman is releasing every stress she’s ever had, I’m sure of it. This is an emotional outburst, and she’s not afraid to express herself. I want to learn from her. I want to express myself. If I’m having a bad day, I don’t want to smile. I want to feel. Then, I can genuinely move past it.”

“Muy
bien,”
said Rafael as the flamenco dancer moved to another table.