An unforgettable evening (Part 2)

Here comes the continuation of Giselle’s story: Tidal Lock.

Thank you for the constructive comments from several of you

Tidal lock:

        a. The story of Giselle, Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3,

        b. The dark side of the sun, Part 1, Conclusion

        c. There is no such thing as everlasting love

        d. Back where we belong

        e. Catharsis, Part 1 , Conclusion

        f. The performance

       g. An unforgettable evening, Part 1 ,

Playing in the streets – Photo by F. Marincola, French Quarters, New Orleans, April 10, 2022

In the beginning, Paul looked with suspicion at the piano, wondering how one could carry that mastodont into parks and streets. Soon, however, the instrument roused his curiosity. Teasing the keys, he discovered that it was out of tune. This observation rather than displeasing, intrigued him. He was fascinated by the consonance implied by the ordered succession of intervals, chords and scales and the dissonance resulting from the plentitude of wavelengths that lived in between; sounds discarded by the harmonic system that still thrived in the realm of nature. Paul envisioned the keys of the piano as rigid integers opposed to the analog flexibility of the violin’s nodes.

When the technician came to tune the piano, he followed each movement like a kitten tracking a moth across a window, pricking up the ears to the tuning fork. Since that mystic experience, Paul spent whatever time he was allowed listening to himself playing in turn the piano or the violin, circling analog vibrations around integers to better represent the continuum of nature’s voices. This did not result in sloppiness but rather honed Paul’s appreciation for tonal music with its melodies and harmonies, cognitive, at the same time, of deviations that belonged to the singing of birds, the whisper of the wind, the rumble of thunder and seas: experiences that could not be controlled but only imitated by scripts.

The piano became his battle ground; ten fingers created infinite harmonies around a violin’s melody turning him into the improvised conductor of an imaginary orchestra. When the teacher came equipped with books written in a foreign language consisting of symbols rather than letters, Paul, who till then had played by ear, was introduced to the logic of music. He soon realized that music was the pleasurable interpretation of mathematical concepts, and compositions could be crafted through the exercise of the mind without need for instruments; this was Paul’s encounter with the obsession of composing. From then on, there was no more need for Naomi to motivate Paul; his ambition had taken off like a chick that has learned to fly.

Then, serendipity brought the final touch. It came from the basketball courts in the Bronx, where Black and Latino children hung out rain or shine. Like most tramps growing up in the Bronx, Paul boasted an athletic built and a confident attitude that prepared him for any competitive challenge. In the courts, he was good enough to be tolerated and even accepted by the street gangs, to the point that his Caucasian friends cheered him as “El mestizo blanco”.

There, Paul was introduced to hip hop music, and culture. Though he did not think much of the stylized repetitiveness of rap, the environment attracted him, the mixture of physical and mental activity and the communion between a simple script and creative alliterations, discursive singing, and sportive dancing under the absolute governance of rhythm.

Among members of a gang, an older black boy maintained a special affection for Paul. Paul observed the boy staring at him much too often. When eye contact occurred, a smile erupted showing a bright row of white teeth that stood out of the dark skin. In the beginning Paul was unnerved and avoided interactions but one day he confronted the older guy:

“Why do you stare at me all the time?”

The boy seemed embarrassed but, after recovering, he rebutted:

“I like you man! I have seen you play in the park. I think you play good the violin! The fingers know the hell where to go; but the rhythm; the rhythm is what you need. You worry too much about the melody …but what gives life to music is rhythm. It looks, when you play, that you are walking on scorching charcoals rather swinging on a dance floor! What are you afraid of?

Two gang members circled around them, while the boy continued:

“You should play with us.” And turning to the newcomers: “That’s the chico in the park! The violin player. He plays good the violin and that could go well with my steel pans! We never tried that. Worth giving it a try. We can make it good.”

Since Paul seemed hesitant, the boy stretched the arm with the open hand to encourage a handshake:

“Hi, my name is Wayne, moved here a year ago from Jamaica. Nice to meet you.”

It was a bond that lasted a lifetime; perhaps the only friend Paul ever had.

***

Dinner was served: grilled sea bass dressed with fresh basil, a touch of virgin olive oil, roasted slices of garlic and arugula.

“I was unsure about how to fix a ballerina’s diet. I assumed that you prefer light food during the performance season. I hope that you like it.”

But Giselle was speechless. Every word originating from Laura’s mouth resonated in her heart as if she was raised in the Bronx and had lived each moment of Paul’s life.

Laura, recognizing Paul’s intensity in Giselle’s, smiled and, cutting the small talk, continued:

“… but Wayne lived in his own world split from reality. Percussions of any kind or shape were the sole heartbeat of his planet; other facets of life did not exist. He could not keep the fingers still for a moment, or the hands and arms. He would beat on the subway rails, take plastic bins to the park, and juggle self-made drumsticks while grocery shopping. “Crazy Wayne”, that’s what they called him in the neighborhood. He was a legend, and everyone loved him, because of his talent and sweet demeanor.

In the wake of Wayne’s popularity, the two formed a band: “The Oriundos” that played at parties, bars, and later clubs. The eleven-year-old Paul gave up the violin to take on the electric guitar and the keyboards to become the band’s mascot. He never became a virtuoso like Wayne and other band members but compensated with creativity and compendiousness. He composed in support of Wayne’s mastery till compositions took a life of their own and the Oriundos became recognized not only for technical talent but also originality. The band became popular in adjacent neighborhoods, in most part, colored communities.

Paul success made him popular and established him as a weekend child prodigy …but in Naomi’s eyes “he remained just a big fish …in a very small pond”.

Therefore, toward the end of 8^th grade, Naomi, reacting to the feedback of teachers and friends, and acknowledging Paul’s potential, addressed the boy in front of Arturo:

“Paul, you told me years ago that you aspired to become a musician and you proved that you have the potential. Now is the time to fulfill your dream. I talked to Arturo, and he agrees with me.

There is a magnet high school in New York called Fiorello LaGuardia. It is for children gifted in math and music. Auditions will come soon. …But …there is a but …you need to be resident of New York City. …I talked to your aunt, your mother’s sister. She lives in Manhattan. It is a very wealthy, upper-class family. They would be happy to take you back into the family where you belong. …It is complicated Paul, but you have never been formally adopted. Arturo never thought about it before or after your mother died. Neither did I. We took it for granted that you were our son. Technically, you are an orphan, and you are up for adoption. Here is a wealthy family related to your mother willing to take you. You can live with them during the week and return home on weekends. Nothing will change; this is the chance of your life.”

“But what about you? Who is going to help in the shop?”

“Do not worry about us, we will be here as usual, happy to know that you have a better home. We will be here waiting for you. And the business is doing well. We can support your studies.”

This is how an until then unknown cousin became my stepbrother. I was four years old then, about ten years younger than Paul, yet I remember the day when I met him as if it was yesterday.

He came with Arturo and Naomi; it was an awkward spectacle. They came dressed for a wedding: dark suit and tie for both Arturo and Paul, dark silk blouse and high heel shoes for Naomi, who held a tight grip on a purse with hand-gloved hands demoting her looks to those of a grandma.

Paul sat still at the far corner of the living room couch, stiff like a marionette. He was pale and the face was rigid. The neck did not turn but he rolled the eyes to explore the surroundings. Then, when he noticed me, he relaxed, turned toward me, and smiled. I fell in love with him on the spot, if it is appropriate to use such term for a four-year-old. I will never forget the contrast between his weary expression before and his smile piercing from the soul like a sunray in an overcast day.

Words of support were offered by my parents, who tried to make comfortable the humble couple.

According to my mom, Naomi, being the practical lady, insisted to cover the costs of schooling and boarding. She proudly explained that the family business was going very well, and they saved plenty of money to be used for Paul’s education. They were just thankful for the hospitality at a suitable location.

My mom recollected that my dad was about to decline any support; they could have easily taken care of Paul’s needs, but she squeezed his shoulder. She did not want to humiliate the foster parents. They had earned the right to take care of the boy as much as they could afford. If needed of course, they could always help. When Arturo’s eyes watered and became too red to hide, my mom smiled and said:

“Your Paul will always be your Paul; we are just happy to help.”

***

Paul flew through the audition, his theoretical skills were fine, and the music talent way above expectations. He could play several instruments with proficiency, understand, and discuss different styles of music, interpret, and perform unfamiliar pieces after taking a perfunctory glance at a script, and the compositions crafted for the Oriundos denoted a gift for creativity that could benefit from formal teachings. It was obvious that the boy bore a natural talent.

So, Paul lived a parallel life as a model highschooler during the week and a street player during the weekends.”

***

“…Are you OK?”

Laura hesitated and interrupted the narrative; she saw tears in Giselle’s eyes.

“Is everything OK?”

Giselle dried her eyes with the paper napkin and nodded with a subliminal smile.

“Yes, I am fine. It just feels strange. I feel that I lived each moment as if you were recounting my rather than Paul’s life. I am an orphan too. Federico and Maria adopted me. I lived all my life as a guest. My adoptive parents are wonderful to me, but …it is difficult to explain; it is difficult to explain how it feels to have never known your own parents; one always longs for acceptance, like an immigrant feels in a foreign country. I remember looking into Paul’s eyes on the day we met. It may be my imagination, but in those brief moments, we read into each other eyes, just in a glance, our untold story.

But please, don’t mind me; go ahead.”

“The high school years were the best in Paul’s life …and mine. I had the big brother I had never hoped for. Perhaps because of his experience with Turo, Paul treated me as a peer rather than a little sister. Whenever he could, he would take me with him. During the weekends, I frequented his modest place in the Bronx, had quasi-Kosher dinners mixed with linguini, salami, and prosciutto. Naomi made Matza ball soup, which was my favorite and introduced me to gefilte fish. I was the only one, who shared enthusiasm for it, while both Turo and Paul developed undiagnosable abdominal irritations on such occasions that prevented them from eating. And I followed the band to the performances in parks and clubs, Turo and Naomi accompanying me. Once, Turo told me:

“Figure, we thought that we were going to lose a son, instead we gained a daughter.”

The Oriundos elected me as their mascot and taught me to sing. I sang in the streets or square concerts, just one song to warm up the audience, while Wayne smiled at me and winked at the pace of the rhythm. He would nod his head before each measure to prime me. He then taught me how to play the drums, or at least he tried with the patience of an angel.

Those were magic years. Then, Paul’s graduation day came, and my parents organized a party at the Empire State Building. Paul was very emotional in the days that preceded the party.

I remember that I was sitting on his lap in Central Park, and I asked:

“Why are you sad? Aren’t you happy that school is over?”

“You know Lauretta, I must tell you a secret: I am not a good person. My mom died because of me. One day, long time ago, I threw a big temper tantrum, making her very upset. In the end she said:  – if you continue to be such a brat, I will leave you. – This is what she did. The next day she disappeared for good, and sometime later they found her dead. Now I wonder if she would be proud of me, but I will never know.”  

I was only eight years old then. I did not know how to react, and I just cried:

“No Paul, you are not bad, you are my big brother. You are the best brother that a sister could have!”

I felt embarrassed for crying:

“Come on, come on Lauretta, don’t cry.” Said Paul. And I resented being treated like a little girl. So, I rebutted:

“Why don’t you cry if you really miss your mom?”

To which Paul replied with a rare smile:

“Because, as Turo says, real men are not supposed to cry even when they chop onions!”

You cannot imagine how many times I reflected over that moment; how many child psychologists I consulted. None of them believes that Paul recollection is accurate. It is only a subconscious reflection of guilt. I talked to Paul about it so many times to console him. But he is stubborn, and he swears that this is in truth what happened, and that he is the cause of his mother’s death. A burden that he has been carrying for life and has shared only with me.

…But going back to that fateful day in Central Park,

…Paul continued:

“You know, I am also selfish: I never recognized Naomi for what she did for me. I never thanked her for taking me under her wing as her own son and for standing by me day after day. Instead, I only resented her for bossing me and Turo around. I have been so self-centered. But I am looking forward to recognizing her and everyone else for the help that turned me into what I am. I prepared a speech for the party. Do you want me to read it to you?”

***

…But that party never happened…

Continued in: An unforgettable dinner, Conclusion