The Spanish Bow (19 page)

"It's rumored that they slept together," the count said, continuing to relish this day's discussion. "In the nude, she wears a ring that says 'Goya.' More of the artist inserting himself into the picture."

He paused, and belatedly I realized he was waiting for me to laugh. When I didn't, he said, "Forgive my play on words."

"The lesson from Goya?" I asked, to change the subject.

"There are hundreds of lessons, I'm sure. But when you go back, notice how poorly the nude's face is painted. Flat and yellow. So much less realistic than the clothed Maja portrait. This is not a statement against women, Feliu, but it may be a caution for men. Even an artist seems to have a hard time seeing well when a woman is undressed. Remember that."

"Yes, I promise," I said, grateful that the day's lessons finally could turn to grammar.

That afternoon I had my second session with Isabel. She opened the salon door wearing the same simple white dress she'd worn the first time I'd met her, but this time cinched with a bright red sash. My throat tightened.

"Have you thought about me?" she asked.

I thought about the hours I'd lain awake the night before, replaying the day's encounter, regretting my shyness. "You look like the Maja," I whispered.

"Who?"

"The Duchess of Alba."

Isabel smiled slyly. Leading me to the divan, she said, "My father has been sending you to the Prado. Do you mean the painting of the duchess standing, with the little white dog?"

"No, the one where she is leaning back. On a narrow bed. Against some pillows."

"Like this?" She tucked her feet behind her and reclined.

"With her arms up, I think. Hands over her head."

Her smile widened as she tucked her hands behind her hair. The neck of her dress gaped, and I could glimpse the swell of one breast. "Was the Maja beautiful?" she asked.

"She had ... small feet."

"Do you like feet, Feliu?"

"Not particularly," I said, voice cracking.

Isabel stood suddenly, flashing a satisfied grin, and strolled to the piano. "Ready to begin?"

We played for an hour. When passion for the music stirred my soul, when the tunnel of light began to blur my vision, I forced myself to focus on Isabel, studying her body for cues—the lift of her chin, the tension in her shoulders, the arch of her back, the sound of a note being extended, waiting. I'd never felt more alert to another's reactions and desires—even if the expression on my face, and in my playing, had all the sophistication of an obedient mastiff awaiting its reward.

After we'd finished playing, Isabel returned to the divan and resumed the Maja pose, gesturing to the floor. I looked around my feet to see what she had dropped. She gestured again, less patiently, until I understood and dropped to one knee in front of her. I lifted my left hand toward her bosom but stopped short until Isabel arched her back, moving herself closer to me, inviting me to trace her loose neckline with one finger.

"They're rough," she said, closing her eyes.

I responded with a quizzical grunt.

"Your fingers."

"Calluses," I mumbled, trying to breathe more slowly. "From pressing on the strings."

She laughed at the animal desperation in my voice. That set me back. But then she lifted the shiny white dress above her knees, and I moved closer.

"So this is what you meant by making up for lost time," she said.

"So this is what you meant by private lessons," I replied, trying to mimic her confidence.

"What if I did?"

I was grateful for everything she knew, and everything she would allow. Neither of us spoke again for several minutes, until her breathing was as ragged as mine.

"The other hand," she moaned.

"What?" I said, reaching for her hands.

"Not mine. Yours," she said impatiently. "Use your right hand."

And with her sighs, squirms, and own fingers guiding me, I switched hands and traveled as far as I dared, under layers of silk and cotton, into places I had not known existed.

At one point, she began to moan instructions, but I didn't comprehend—I didn't want to comprehend—until finally, she switched to musical Italian and barked a command I knew better than to ignore: "
Adagio!
"

Finally, she shivered and her knees clamped tightly, trapping my arm for a moment. I thought I had hurt her, or done something wrong, but her dreamy expression reassured me, and she pulled me up and onto the divan, until I was on top of her.

As soon as my weight was atop her, everything was over. My pleasure lasted only seconds before it was washed away by a flood of embarrassment. I started to roll away and pull my pants together, but she pulled me back.

"Like everything, it takes practice," she said.

"It should last longer."

"Fast is fine once, but now for the slower part. Sonata form."

"So this is still part of the music lesson."

"What did my father say?"

"Oh, please, don't mention your father," I groaned, and I tugged at her dress, trying to cover her exposed breasts, which really did look like the Duchess of Alba's, only softer. But Isabel shrugged off my attempts to clothe her.

"'Not just cooperation, but two voices becoming one.' That is what he said. That is what I am supposed to teach you."

I started to laugh, but her face was serious. "If you don't know when to wait, when to hurry, how to please, you won't be a good lover
or
a good musician."

"Do you care for me, Isabel?"

She rolled her eyes. "Am I not helping you?"

No matter how I tried to elicit a profession of affection she remained disarmingly lighthearted about the whole affair. Finally I said simply, "Can we crescendo again—this time, more slowly?" At last I had found the words that lifted her smile and unlocked her legs.

"I haven't heard much music coming from the salon," Count Guzmán said at dinner the next day. "Is my daughter not keeping her end of the bargain?"

I swallowed hard and said, "She is."

At that moment, Isabel spoke up—"More, please"—and gestured for her mother to pass her the tureen of rice.

"Your appetite certainly has increased," the condesa said warmly.

"Has it?" Isabel said, shoveling large spoonfuls onto her plate.

That afternoon, we were already on the divan together—Isabel's dress askew; all my clothes except for my black socks in a pile at my feet—when the tall salon doors opened. We sat bolt upright and Isabel called out brightly: "We were just chatting on the divan, Papá, but we're ready to play now."

He turned slowly to face us, smiling, no sign of suspicion in his shadow-circled eyes.

"You're breaking your promise," Isabel said teasingly, "but I suppose you can stay to listen—just this once." She skipped across the room to the piano, giving her father a wide berth. Her scent was still in my nose, a flood of complex feminine smells that I hoped wouldn't carry his way. I reached down toward my pants, but realized I'd make too much noise trying to put them on. I looked up and saw Isabel glaring at me, gesturing frantically that I should come and take my seat.

The count declined his daughter's offer of a chair and positioned himself several steps away from us both, the third point in our musical triangle, with his hands clasped behind his back. As we played through the first part of our recital piece, I began to breathe easier, astonished to be surviving this close brush with exposure. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw the count's face tilt to one side. He lifted a finger tentatively, then lowered it; lifted it again and said, "It's good work. Very fine. But I hear a buzzing—there, against the cello."

Isabel and I stopped playing.

"No," the count said. "Keep going. Don't let it interrupt."

Now I heard it, too—a faint vibrating sound.

The count took one step closer.

"It must be a button," he said, while I continued to bow. That was a common problem: a jacket or shirt button pressing against the cello's wooden back.

The count twitched and stepped closer again. "Feliu—adjust that."

I was sweating now. There was nothing to adjust. I wasn't wearing any shirt—or pants. Or undergarments either.

"We'll skip the repeat," Isabel said over our playing as we neared the end of the piece.

"Don't," the count ordered, visibly annoyed by the sound. Perhaps his hearing was more acute than ours, after all. Or perhaps his fatherly instinct had detected something additionally amiss, compounding the aural imperfection.

He was at my shoulder now, bending forward slightly to bring his eye close to where my shirt should be, even as I bowed, my right elbow on a collision course with his torso.

"We're almost done, Papá," Isabel said, looking over her shoulder as she rushed through the repeat.

It was maddening—nothing was touching the cello, and yet the buzzing was still there. We came to a passage where Isabel played several chords while I rested.

"Perhaps it's the cello itself," I said, leaning forward quickly, hand over the bridge. Then I remembered the garters holding up my socks—the only clothed part of me. I reached down, found the small metal clasp that secured the left garter, and twisted it away from the cello rib. The buzzing stopped.

"There," I said quickly, "just a loose tuner at the bridge. Sorry." And I rejoined Isabel, only a measure late.

The count commented little on our performance, only smiled and wished us continued good luck, then took his leave. Isabel was giddy over the close call, the danger of discovery, the hilarity of my nakedness. She was even more frisky and eager to take our chances on the divan again.

I wasn't as gleeful. We seemed to have gotten away with it, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the count had
known
—that whether or not he had seen me, he had seen
through
me. I already had the sense that Isabel was toying with me, that her game would be a short one, and that I might be indulging one kind of pleasure while sacrificing another: the gratification of a mature and long-lasting mentorship with her father.

Still, our lovemaking really had made me more aware and more accommodating as a musician. I learned to follow Isabel, to chase her, to turn away, to draw her to me. I knew when to hurry and when to delay, how to read pleasure in the movements of her face and fingers, how to satisfy her.

After one session on the divan, I lifted my head from her heart and said, "You were right about learning this way. I promise never to play selfishly again."

She laughed, gasping for air beneath my weight. "Don't feel bad. Some things are difficult to learn, or to teach."

"And who taught you?" I regretted the words as soon as they escaped.

"Taught me...?"

"Piano duets, I mean. Not the other thing."

"Don't worry, Feliu," she said, pushing herself up, and rearranging her curls around her shoulders. "I'm not shy. It was one of my father's students who taught me both things. His most celebrated student, in fact—"

"Don't tell me. I think I've heard of this famous student more than enough already."

"He convinced me that a virgin can understand music only so well. He did the favor for me, and I am doing it for you."

"Favor?"

"Certainly."

I was standing already, pulling on my clothes. "I'm sorry I asked."

"Why are you upset? You didn't think I'd never been with another man, did you?"

"Not that." I balanced on one foot, trying to push the other foot into my shoe without bothering to loosen the laces. "But I don't like to be compared. And I didn't realize this was merely an exercise for you."

"What's wrong with exercises?"

"I suppose it depends on how many people you exercise with."

"What are you implying?"

I grabbed my cello case and bow tube. "If this is how you practice for a duet, I'd hate to see how you prepare for a symphony."

Before she could respond, I slipped out of the music room and closed the door. I heard the sharp thud of flying objects on the other side, followed by her muffled rejoinder. "You're still a child, Feliu!"

Something heavier hit the door, making it tremble.

"Worse than that, you're still a soloist!"

From my apartment window overlooking the hot, flat parade grounds, I watched the preparations for the Queen Mother's concert. Forty men on forty horses—white, with bulging flanks and glossy tails—enacted the changing of the guard. Then the guests arrived, and the tops of the ladies' parasols formed an unbroken sea of shimmering white polygons, winking in the sun.

I had no desire to wade into that decorous ocean until another sight caught my eye. Two silver open-topped motorcars pulled into a corner of the square grounds. I packed up my cello and hurried outside. I had approached to within five or six meters when a driver glared at me threateningly. Glancing around, I recognized one of the servant girls from my floor.

"I thought this was supposed to be a small party," I said to her.

"Bigger now, with
Sus Majestades
back early."

That explained the buzz of activity around the Grand Railings enclosing the parade grounds, the dozens of extra pennant-bearing ceremonial guards, the rifle-bearing soldiers lined up outside the Palace gates.

I hadn't expected to glimpse the King and Queen until October. They moved from one royal residence to another through the cycle of seasons, avoiding Madrid at midsummer. Most recently, they'd been vacationing seaside, at San Sebastián, near the French border. But Queen Ena had wanted to see her doctors in Madrid.

"They say she is making a baby," the servant girl told me.

"But Beatriz is only three months old."

"The
nena
is a girl. They need another boy," she said and walked away, as if to put a safe distance between herself and my ignorance.

The two motorcars were parked at right angles. Behind them, against the wall of the palace, three men stood chatting, cigars in hand, while near them a tall, thin boy in baggy knickers and argyle socks played with some childish contraption. It was one of those stick-and-ball toys, and the tall boy was having trouble spearing the ball, though the three men were giving him what seemed like an excessive amount of encouragement: "
Bien, bien.
" "Almost got it." "Bad luck." "
Otra vez
"