Free The Spanish Bow by Andromeda Romano-Lax Page A

bow against his knee. A girl yawned.
    "I don't accept beginners," Don José said. Then, noting my mother's crestfallen expression, "But you've come a long way. I can provide the name of a tutor who can give your son private lessons."
    He took a pencil from the music stand nearest him and withdrew a slip of paper from his jacket pocket.
    "But where would Feliu live? We have no family here in the city. We were looking for a full-time school, perhaps a stipend—"
    "Your son has demonstrated no ability. If I may be frank, he is too old to begin a new instrument."
    "Too old? He's only fourteen."
    "I have more skilled student cellists than the entire world can employ. Perhaps you can find some trade for him before he is a burden to you and your husband."
    "My husband is deceased."
    "My condolences," Don José said, pausing to write quickly on the slip of paper and hand it my mother. "Students await me."

    My mother shuffled despondently along the Ramblas, Barcelona's broad main boulevard. I should have been dejected, too. But the city radiated energy and promise. More was happening here between two divided lanes of traffic than in our entire village. A policeman haggled with two wide-hipped women who gripped their burgundy-colored skirts in defiance, baring their ankles as they sashayed toward the waterfront. Knots of people clogged the walkways—here, a group of older men spilling out of a narrow bar, enveloped in cigarette smoke; there, a flock of younger men competing for a pretty flower-seller's attention. A boy plucked an orange from the bottom of a fruit pyramid and ran shrieking from the avalanche. In Campo Seco, the vendor would have known the boy's name, perhaps would have chased him down the street. But here, with a half dozen customers waiting, the vendor simply gestured for his younger assistant to chase the rolling oranges while he reached out a hand to steady the swinging scale.
    Light filtered through the plane trees overhead, and beneath the green canopy, stacks of golden cages lined the walkway, forming a sundappled tunnel that blocked the views of carriage traffic left and right. Within those cages, a hundred yellow birds sang.
    "They love music here, I know it!" I shouted to my mother, but my words were swallowed by the raucous birdsong.
    Past the cages, we found ourselves funneled between rows of finished paintings. Mamá apologized every few steps, as if trespassing through someone's private studio; but there was no other way to pass. We threaded our way through mazes of café tables, and I ducked just in time to avoid colliding with a tray billowing with garlic-scented steam. Rubbery pink tentacles overflowed the sides of diners' plates. I tugged on my mother's arm. "
Calamar!
" she explained over her shoulder, barely sidestepping a second waiter approaching from the side. She started to apologize, then stopped at the sight of him. From the waist up, he was dashing: white ruffled shirt, black bow tie, tray balanced on one upturned hand. From the waist down, he was dressed as a horse, a costume complete with head and bushy tail swinging loosely from threadbare suspenders.
    "
Paella?
" he droned, citing the day's specials. "
Gambas al ajillo? Biftec?
"
    I thought his appearance was spectacular, but Mamá recoiled, saying "No, no," as she quickened her step.
    We were carrying everything we 'd packed hastily that morning in Campo Seco. The air under the plane trees smelled sweet and green, but the humid press of bodies all around us was harder to bear than Campo Seco's dry heat. The Ramblas was like a river, its current at midday in full force. Newspaper stands and café tables were like boulders in the stream, serving only to quicken the flow of people trying to get past them. Mamá's bag crashed into a pram, provoking a litany of insults. I paused to set down the suitcases, and a man bumped into me from behind. I was still muttering apologies when a woman's swinging arm clipped my shoulder. Leaning over to