the slits of the Venetian mask Bécquer had just adjusted for me. The room was big, bigger than I had thought when I spied it from the front door, and it was crowded.
Under the wheel-shaped chandelier hanging from a central beam, men dressed in suits of bygone eras and women in long evening gowns stood in small groups, gathered around the central island getting their drinks, or sat on the sofas that hugged the walls. But for the raised platform at the back of the room that supported the piano, there was no empty space on the whole floor.
My guess was that close to one hundred people were there. More than enough to send me into a frenzy any other day. But not today. For the first time ever I didn’t feel like fleeing because I could sense their minds — I sensed their hopes, their uncertainties and their fears — as if I stood at the edge of their awareness. And thus, I knew that the crowd was not, as I had often imagined, an all-powerful beast ready to devour me, but made of individual human beings as flawed as I was. As I used to be. Because right then, high on Bécquer’s immortal blood, I felt invincible.
I could take them, as Bécquer had put it. Even more, I was eager to meet them, to learn their stories and even discuss with them the ones I carried, still unfinished, in my mind.
An unbidden smile came to my lips. “Yes,” I said.
Bécquer bent his head toward me. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?” he whispered and, when I said I wasn’t, he took my arm again. “Let’s go, then.”
We were halfway down the wide staircase when I spotted Beatriz. I recognized her by the blue shawl that barely covered her naked shoulders. She was talking to a man with a trimmed mustache and a goatee that looked too out of style to be real. As I watched her, Beatriz raised her head and her eyes met mine. I felt the ice of her stare, almost a physical touch that halted my step.
Bécquer groaned and stopped by my side. “Sorry, Carla. I was hoping to blend in unnoticed. Too late now.”
As he spoke, Beatriz detached herself from the gentleman and brazenly pushed her way toward the stairs, the brouhaha of conversation ebbed in her wake, and heads turned to follow her, until everybody in the room was staring at us in expectant silence.
Basking in his guests’ recognition and with the ease of a medieval king certain of his subjects’ loyalty, Bécquer addressed the room.
“Dear friends, please help me welcome my new author, Carla Esteban.”
He waited for the applause to subside then led me downstairs.
I felt the soothing comfort that emanated from his mind, spreading like a wave over the crowd, urging them to mingle, so that by the time we reached the floor the party had resumed in earnest. But Beatriz did not move.
“Where have you been?” she asked of Bécquer, her sharp voice belying the smile that curled her lips. “The guests were getting impatient.”
“You honor me, Beatriz, to suggest anybody would notice my absence.”
Ignoring Bécquer’s beguiling smile, Beatriz looked up to the staircase behind us. “Where is Federico?” she asked. “He’s scheduled to play in five minutes.”
“Oh, yes! Federico. Right,” Bécquer said lightly. “I’m afraid he won’t be playing tonight.”
“Really, Gustavo,” Beatriz said, and by addressing him by his given name she suggested a familiarity that excluded me. “Couldn’t you have waited to antagonize Federico until the party was over?”
She produced a cell phone as she spoke and started punching numbers.
In a flash, Bécquer’s arm shot forward and the phone was in his hand.
“You can’t ask Matt to cover for him. He’s practicing now for his performance.”
There was such finality in his voice that Beatriz didn’t argue.
Still holding her phone out of her reach, Bécquer scanned the crowd. Soon a playful smile lit his face. “Ask Sheryl to play for us,” he told Beatriz. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”
I followed his stare and
Under the wheel-shaped chandelier hanging from a central beam, men dressed in suits of bygone eras and women in long evening gowns stood in small groups, gathered around the central island getting their drinks, or sat on the sofas that hugged the walls. But for the raised platform at the back of the room that supported the piano, there was no empty space on the whole floor.
My guess was that close to one hundred people were there. More than enough to send me into a frenzy any other day. But not today. For the first time ever I didn’t feel like fleeing because I could sense their minds — I sensed their hopes, their uncertainties and their fears — as if I stood at the edge of their awareness. And thus, I knew that the crowd was not, as I had often imagined, an all-powerful beast ready to devour me, but made of individual human beings as flawed as I was. As I used to be. Because right then, high on Bécquer’s immortal blood, I felt invincible.
I could take them, as Bécquer had put it. Even more, I was eager to meet them, to learn their stories and even discuss with them the ones I carried, still unfinished, in my mind.
An unbidden smile came to my lips. “Yes,” I said.
Bécquer bent his head toward me. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?” he whispered and, when I said I wasn’t, he took my arm again. “Let’s go, then.”
We were halfway down the wide staircase when I spotted Beatriz. I recognized her by the blue shawl that barely covered her naked shoulders. She was talking to a man with a trimmed mustache and a goatee that looked too out of style to be real. As I watched her, Beatriz raised her head and her eyes met mine. I felt the ice of her stare, almost a physical touch that halted my step.
Bécquer groaned and stopped by my side. “Sorry, Carla. I was hoping to blend in unnoticed. Too late now.”
As he spoke, Beatriz detached herself from the gentleman and brazenly pushed her way toward the stairs, the brouhaha of conversation ebbed in her wake, and heads turned to follow her, until everybody in the room was staring at us in expectant silence.
Basking in his guests’ recognition and with the ease of a medieval king certain of his subjects’ loyalty, Bécquer addressed the room.
“Dear friends, please help me welcome my new author, Carla Esteban.”
He waited for the applause to subside then led me downstairs.
I felt the soothing comfort that emanated from his mind, spreading like a wave over the crowd, urging them to mingle, so that by the time we reached the floor the party had resumed in earnest. But Beatriz did not move.
“Where have you been?” she asked of Bécquer, her sharp voice belying the smile that curled her lips. “The guests were getting impatient.”
“You honor me, Beatriz, to suggest anybody would notice my absence.”
Ignoring Bécquer’s beguiling smile, Beatriz looked up to the staircase behind us. “Where is Federico?” she asked. “He’s scheduled to play in five minutes.”
“Oh, yes! Federico. Right,” Bécquer said lightly. “I’m afraid he won’t be playing tonight.”
“Really, Gustavo,” Beatriz said, and by addressing him by his given name she suggested a familiarity that excluded me. “Couldn’t you have waited to antagonize Federico until the party was over?”
She produced a cell phone as she spoke and started punching numbers.
In a flash, Bécquer’s arm shot forward and the phone was in his hand.
“You can’t ask Matt to cover for him. He’s practicing now for his performance.”
There was such finality in his voice that Beatriz didn’t argue.
Still holding her phone out of her reach, Bécquer scanned the crowd. Soon a playful smile lit his face. “Ask Sheryl to play for us,” he told Beatriz. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”
I followed his stare and
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