Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  A celestial soul, she repeated silently to herself, shaking her head. That was what Ian, her husband, had called her the first time they made love. Exactly the same thing. “I love you because you’re so free, a bird who flies wherever its wings desire.” And she’d believed him when he swore that trying to change her would be like stripping her of precisely that which had made him fall in love with her to begin with. But that was exactly what he’d tried to do. Change her. Why was it that the men who seemed the most confident were often really the ones who were the weakest and most afraid?

  “Alejandra was even more at risk because she, too, was Jewish, but unlike my great-grandfather’s family, hers had not renounced their customs, although they’d agreed to take precautions. Like my grandfather, she was a musician, a clarinetist. In fact, they’d fallen in love while rehearsing one of Bach’s allegros. But, by then, the orchestra she played in had disbanded—many of its members were dead and others fled so as not to be recruited into the ranks of the Soviet front. Those who were left were begging in the streets and cafés of Budapest, playing Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and Wagner—more to the Germans’ liking. Álek detested the Germans, and showed equal contempt for the traitor Gyula A. Tagger, who of course vehemently refused to allow his son to keep courting her. Her hatred made her rash, arrogant to the point of provocation, particularly when talking about my grandfather’s father, or when she went to Budapest to play in the cafés where German soldiers gathered. She’d sing old Magyar ballads that the foreigners couldn’t understand, slipping jibes into the lyrics, insulting the Nazis, the Führer, President Horthy and his fascist-loving minions.

  “People had seen her on the streets of the capital openly fraternizing with gypsies and Jews marked with the Star of David; she’d politely step aside to let them pass on the street, and give them food. She herself refused to sew the obligatory Jewish badge onto her clothes—a crime that could be severely punished. My grandfather argued with Álek a lot, he’d even threatened to break off their secret engagement—which, year after year, had been postponed because of the war. Of course his threats were in vain; he loved Álek more than anything, despite her flaws, and would have married her under any circumstances. But it was the only weapon he could use in an attempt to shake her steadfast determination not to hide from the Nazis. Only when my grandfather threatened to leave, never to return to the lake, did he see her gray eyes cloud over with doubt; but then she’d smile deviously, hold him in her frail arms and kiss him. ‘No you won’t; you can’t live without me.’ And it was true, my grandfather couldn’t live without her, and the fear of losing her drove him to distraction.”

  Gloria paused. One of the civil servants examining the violin’s surface under a special light gestured timidly. Gloria approached. There was a tiny fracture, fairly recent—and by recent he meant at some point in the past sixty-two years—at the base of the neck. It was invisible to the naked eye and in no way affected the quality of sound or the violin’s ability to be played, but the technician would have to make a note of it in his report. Slowly he raised the instrument up to eye level, and his pupils shone in the reflection of the reddish wood’s fading light. For a moment, Gloria’s face, too, was captured in that light. Eduardo held his breath, afraid to break the spell by brushing against her.

  “It wasn’t long before the Nazis in the cafés of Budapest began to understand the lyrics to the songs Álek composed in their honor. Without intending to, she’d become something of a legend. In late 1943, one of her Jewish friends was arrested by the Hungarian security forces. It was only a matter of time before he betrayed her. They hardly even had to torture him, a couple of broken fingers and a chipped tooth were all it took before he told them where to find her. He even informed the agents, in writing, that Álek was a sworn Jew who systematically flouted the laws of racial segregation. His betrayal didn’t save him, though; the man was executed on the spot. They tossed him from a fifth-floor window and his body smashed into the hard cobblestones of a deserted street one random night without so much as a whimper.

  “A small unit of Hungarian guards arrived in the village, late one night. There was no time to put up resistance or attempt to flee. But despite the fact that no one resisted, Álek’s oldest uncle, a music teacher at the Hungarian Academy, was beaten to death with a shovel by the soldiers, who were clearly drunk. The uncle’s only crime had been to request that he be allowed to pack a bag of books before he was taken in. The entire family witnessed his murder, unable to lift a finger, paralyzed by the horror of its gratuitous violence. Álek’s father, by that time quite old, covered his eyes with his gnarled fingers, unable to watch his brother being beaten, but they forced him. The poor man watched until his eyes burned.

  “The squad was under the command of a German officer who seemed almost uninvolved, watching impassively from a convertible where he sat smoking and looking bored; he’d give an order in German to a subaltern, which the man then translated into Magyar for the guards, who then carried it out immediately. He was just a boy—a blond, square-jawed boy, with eyes as blue and cold as the lake.

  “They searched every shack in the village looking for Álek. When my grandfather heard the commotion he went to see what was going on, hoping she’d been able to run into the forest. He protested vehemently to the German officer, mentioning his father’s—my great-grandfather’s—rank and relationship with the Reich’s authorities. He put forth that theirs was a peaceful village that collaborated with authorities, and explained that dozens of German soldiers were in fact convalescing at his home. But the officer wouldn’t listen to reason, and they were prepared to massacre the entire family. He was convinced that torturing the weakest would loosen the men’s tongues. And for one never-ending hour, cries rang out all across the lakeshore.”

  Gloria was floating, drifting, suspended between the waters of nostalgia and sadness. She’d no doubt researched her father’s story, uncovered all the details. She knew it so well now that it had become part of her, like a second skin.

  “My grandfather watched it all, clenching his teeth, trying to escape the madness, recalling the walks he used to take, hand in hand with Álek along the Danube, the plans they made before the war, the house they’d planned to build near the lake’s resort. But the screaming went on and on. No one betrayed Álek, but they all looked to him—son of the traitorous Jew, son of the Nazi—imploring him with their eyes to put an end to it. And he did. ‘I’ll tell you where she is. I know the hiding place,’ he shouted. And then he collapsed onto the floor, sobbing like a little boy. At that point the German officer finally stepped out of the car and issued an order. The soldiers withdrew, as ferocious as dogs restrained before their prey. My grandfather led the soldiers to an old abandoned mine where he and Álek used to meet for their trysts. He begged them not to hurt her. The officer looked at him with a bemused smile, an evil glint in his blue eyes, and ordered the hunt to begin. It didn’t take long for them to find her, and although she put up no resistance, the guards leaped on her and beat her to the ground.”

  Gloria glided to the sofa to the right of the window and stroked the engraved silver frame with her great-grandfather’s portrait. But Eduardo got the feeling that really her fingers wanted to scratch it.

  “The last thing my grandfather saw of Álek was her tiny, fragile birdlike body being dragged along the ground to the officer’s car. Her face was swollen and she was bleeding like a lifeless lump. But she managed to smile. A smile that infuriated the guards and made them beat her even more violently. Still, she forced herself to raise her head from the ground to give my grandfather another one of her mischievous smiles. They never saw each other again. My grandfather made it to Spain, where he met my grandmother—whom he never told about Álek—and they married. In 1948, they had their only child, my father. And when he was just twenty, he and my mother, a student at the Madrid Conservatory, who at the time was eighteen, had me.”

  “So what happene
d to your great-grandfather?”

  Gloria clucked her tongue and traced a question mark in the air with one finger.

  “You didn’t ask me how it was that the Gestapo managed to find the boy who betrayed Álek, or how they knew she was the one who’d written the songs offensive to the Reich, songs whose lyrics had been printed and were being circulated on the streets. It was him.” She pointed to the photo. “He denounced her, perhaps out of fear that my grandfather and his siblings might be involved in something that could jeopardize his plans for self-preservation, or maybe it was just out of his visceral hatred of Álek and her family. It didn’t take long for my grandfather to find out, and when he did there was a terrible, violent scene. My great-grandfather was at home, alone, playing a Schubert piece on El Español, which he sometimes did to exercise his fingers, and ensure the wood would not forget his touch.

  “My grandfather burst in—livid, out of control. He shouted, they hurled insults at one another and even came to blows. In a fit of rage, my grandfather tore the Stradivarius from his father’s hands and hurled it to the ground, breaking its neck. Then he left, and they never saw each other again. My great-grandfather died a few months later—a heart attack, while he was strolling along the edge of the lake. They say people saw it happen, saw him collapse and beg for help as he lay there struggling, but no one was willing to lend a hand. Now he’s buried in a plot in the village cemetery, far from Álek and my grandfather.”

  From behind the windows came the sounds of reporters murmuring, and a car approaching. The Secretary of Culture had arrived and the National Heritage conservators were finishing up their report. It was time for Gloria to go outside for the joint press conference.

  After everything she’d just told Eduardo it was hard to believe she could simply recover her poise, adopting the radiant smile she now wore.

  “What about the violin?” Eduardo asked, as she was already making her way to the door.

  Gloria stroked the case they’d carefully laid it in for the photo shoot.

  “My grandfather enjoyed playing it, but by the time I managed to recover it, his fingers were all gnarled, stiff as claws, unable to grasp so much as a spoon.”

  “But why get rid of it now? It’s the violin of your ancestors.” It was easy to think the instrument was somehow the embodiment of the Tagger soul.

  Gloria massaged a temple with one hand. How had she ended up talking about all of this?

  “Well, you see, a concert violin like this is quite long. It’s not easy for a novice to handle. Normally someone just learning to play would use a smaller violin, perhaps three-quarters the size. They make even smaller ones for children. But my son managed perfectly. We’d actually played together right here, in this room—a Strauss operetta that my father loved, Die Fledermaus. It almost always gave us trouble when we played it together, but that day was special. It was as if rather than fighting the notes he let himself glide over them, through the violin—it was magical. You’ve got to understand—a violin is like a horse, a living being, proud and rebellious, and it will refuse to be tamed by a stranger, only giving its best when it senses its master’s touch. And that’s exactly what happened when my son played my great-grandfather’s Stradivarius: the strings, the wood, the sound box all recognized in his fingers that he was one of us, a Tagger. It was as though the link that had been broken for decades was being soldered back together. But two hours after that miracle, Arthur Fernández killed him, ran him over on a Madrid street…And now the strings shriek, as if screaming in pain, and their shrieking is driving me mad…I didn’t tell you this before, but tomorrow is my farewell concert. I don’t ever want to play again.”

  * * *

  —

  The National Auditorium of Music symphony hall was packed, the rows for the chorus and those around the stage a tumult of people searching for their seats. The orchestra had yet to appear but the sheet music and instruments were all laid out and ready. Enormous twinkling chandeliers were gradually being dimmed over the auditorium. That night they were playing Mahler’s “Songs on the Death of Children.” performed by the National Orchestra of Spain. Guzmán took a seat. Before him was the stage, on which hung the spectacular windpipes of a colossal organ. To the right, a lone chair, placed apart from the cluster where the orchestra would sit. This was Gloria’s spot, and across from her was where the soloist would be. On a rack by her music stand sat the beautiful Stradivarius, giving off its own special light.

  “How can you claim you don’t like something when you’ve never even seen it live?” Someone—a woman—had asked him that question fifteen years earlier, as he helped her on with her bra, careful not to brush against the scratch marks he’d left on her back. Classical music, at the time, was something he found boring. He smiled, imagining what she’d say if she could see him now.

  The lights went out and the auditorium plunged into darkness. Gloria appeared, together with the conductor and soloist, holding hands. They waved, and the rest of the orchestra emerged. Gloria wore an elegant black strapless dress that served to heighten the contrast with her white skin. A light dab of earth-tone lipstick and a bit of eye shadow was the only makeup she wore. Her hair, up in a high bun, accentuated her bare neck and the tiny pearl studs she wore in her ears. From the stage, she shot a quick glance out over the audience, obscured in the same darkness as the rest of the auditorium.

  The woman—almost a girl—was named Candela, Guzmán recalled, rubbing his singed hand. That must have been the mid-80s, he thought. Candela was Basque, a music teacher at an ikastola, a school where children were taught primarily in the Basque language. A music teacher, and an ETA militant who had traveled to Chile to purchase machine guns on the black market. She could tell stories about the lives of Chopin, Mozart and Tchaikovsky as easily as she could pull apart and then reassemble a FARA 83 Argentine assault rife.

  The soloist, an alto tenor in a dark suit and bowtie, came in on the orchestra’s first notes:

  Now the sun will rise as brightly

  as if no misfortune had occurred in the night…

  You must not keep the night inside you;

  you must immerse it in eternal light

  Guzmán was focused solely on Gloria. He didn’t care about what was going on around her—the orchestra’s music, the soloist’s voice. Just her face, so concentrated, almost frozen, as her body moved gently. She swayed to the sound of the notes she produced, as if ushering them from the violin, into the air, and then gathering them back up, over and over again.

  The Basque woman, too, had worn that expression, navigating the waters of melancholy. Perhaps that was why he had fallen in love with her. She had no fears, no hopes. Just her music and her own determination. It was a beautiful thing, to watch all that energy squandered on a single object, a single aim, as if nothing were more important than that very instant—and in truth, nothing was. She once confessed to him that playing music was the only way she could escape her demons. It created an invisible shield that nothing but the music itself could permeate. Not the clamps applied to her nipples, not the wet towels used to lash her stomach, not any number of threats. Absolute concentration closed the doors to all other emotion.

  During the intermission, Guzmán went outside for a smoke. Calle Príncipe de Vergara was glimmering in the lights of the auditorium and the streetlamps. On the opposite side of the street, a long line of taxis waited patiently for the concert to finish. Guzmán would have liked to leave; Mahler was too much for him. Though he might admire Gloria’s mastery, the soloist’s voice, the orchestra’s clarity, and the skilled conductor, the truth was that the music simply didn’t evoke in him any deep emotions. That’s because you need to train your ear. True pleasures are not to be scarfed down like hamburgers, Candela would have said, her fingers toying with his curls.

  There were no stars in the Madrid sky. Where was Capricorn?

  Which one is Capricor
n? Candela had asked him the afternoon of the ambush—they would arrest her in the planetarium; that was the plan—and Guzmán, who was to be the bait, had scratched his unshaven cheek. After hesitating slightly, he pointed to a cluster of stars in one corner of the sky that was painted onto the domed ceiling. “There you have it,” he’d said, as if he himself had discovered the constellation and were now presenting it to her, magnanimously. Candela smelled like the twenty-something she was, ready to tackle the world. Guzmán felt her chest resting against his elbow. Having her that close, in the darkness of the planetarium, pained him in a way that was difficult to explain. She picked up on it, sensed his remorse at the downward spiral that was about to become something monstrous, wicked. And she accepted it benevolently, not knowing what awaited her. She made no move to shrink from his contact, to remove her body from his, and Guzmán was grateful for that. If she’d pulled away, it would have hurled him into a deep, depraved abyss. Sometimes people turn something natural into something dirty simply by reacting disproportionately. She seemed to sense this, and simply passed him the popcorn, allowing their bodies to remain touching.

  It was beautiful to imagine not having been born, living in a far-off jumble of stars, waiting for all eternity. To think that he existed in some part of the universe, somewhere in outer space—the great beyond—before his mother and father brought him into the world, was somehow mysterious, almost magical. Guzmán would have stayed there like that forever, sitting beside her, his elbow resting against the edge of her nipple, beneath the mythical light of Jupiter; but then that transgression would have eventually become routine, would have lost all significance. For guys like him, it was better to want than to have. With no expectations, there can be no disappointment. So he removed his elbow, regretfully, and put his Star pistol to her back. “National Intelligence Directorate. You’re under arrest, young lady.”