My story began when I was ten in the vast tomato fields of Extremadura. Where the poppies and bluebells composed an elegant canvas. The waterfalls gushed out liquid crystals that flowed to my papa’s and many other modest farms. You could forever roll down the silky plains, and when the sun slept, the sky would transform into a deep blue with stars that could keep you up the entire night.
But my life wasn’t like Extremadura; it was a black canvas. I would slave away hours for a farm I never wanted, all for my papa. In his eyes, I would grow to be a farmer, like our ancestors. I would live and die in Extremadura picking tomatoes, never to see the outside world. But I knew that wasn’t the life I had ahead of me. I knew I would be a pianist.
My routine was like dried cement. I would work on the farm in the morning. Pulling weeds, harvesting and planting tomatoes, and watching the sun slowly creep out of the mountains, all while my papa slept. Then, I would go to the market to open my papa’s unsuccessful tomato stand. I would watch the people intentionally avoid our stand like I was selling poison. Praying the next person will buy. I would sell a dozen tomatoes on a good day and get a beating from my papa on a bad one. We would nibble on tomatoes, stale breed, and whatever my papa caught in the rivers. He never told me why we had to live in a shack and had patched cotton covering us. But even a clueless ten-year-old like myself knew the rumors my papa was burdened with. “Don’t buy from that stand; the owner murdered his wife.”
“That monster is a wife killer. He shouldn’t be allowed children.” I never dared to ask my papa about my mother.
Ms. Camila was like my mother. She lived on the other side of the river, where the sweet aroma of peaches and nectarines permeated the air. Grape vineyards extended as far as the eye could see, and on the mellow hill sat Ms. Camila’s warm cabin. Ms. Camila wore an unwelcoming frown, her cloudy blue eyes never seeming to shut. Her prominent cheekbones and a mole on her pointy chin gave her an unsettling look. The other children were frightened by her appearance, always avoiding her small oak cabin—everyone but me.
Ms. Camila was kind, helpful, and always there for me. She was never bothered by my presence and welcomed me with a heartfelt hug every visit. Best of all, she had an oak wood piano.
I still remember the first time I heard the graceful tunes resonating from Ms. Camila’s piano when I was six. They pulled me towards the window of her house and provoked an array of emotions, sad in some parts, happy and hopeful in others. When the song ended, my torso was halfway through the window.
“If you want to come in, the door is a good option,” Ms. Camila called from the stool.
“Can you teach me that?” I said, pointing to the piano.
“The piano? You’re direct. What’s your name?”
“Pablo.”
“Well, what do you want to learn, Pablo?”
“Everything.”
“You can’t do that from the window then. Why don’t you take a seat?” She patted the chair next to her and tried to smile.
When I pressed my first cord, the elegant tune shimmied through each chamber of my heart like electricity. A feeling of delight I didn’t know was possible. The smooth ivory keys gripped my tiny finger and hauled me closer to the piano. My heart was pumping so quickly that Ms. Camila almost rushed me to the hospital. Every aspect of the piano was magnificent. Even touching it brought me joy. But playing it was something more spectacular. It made me forget my horrible life and enabled me to express myself. Even though I was utter rubbish, Ms. Camila was patient. She never rushed me when I had trouble playing something and encouraged me to work through my difficulties. She taught me my first scale. My youthful right hand danced on the five keys like an uncoordinated dance group. But my beaming smile never dulled.
But that evening, a few weeks after meeting Ms. Camila, changed my life forever. The temperature was getting cooler, preparing for a winter with short days and white plains. It was still dark at the fifth hour of the day when I began my farm duties. As I sealed the last bag of tomatoes, the sun peeked out of the mountains, and a ray of light brushed my shoulder, telling me to head to the lonely markets. With the family donkey that lived longer than I, we slowly made our way. Crossing the shimmering never-ending river and trekking through the brown dead grass, only thoughts of the piano entered my mind.
The markets were slow, like always. Visitors said that this was the most beautiful market they ever laid their eyes on. It was located in between two rows of colorful houses. The locals painted patterns on the back of the houses and hung strings of handmade toys from the windows. Most of the produce stands and carts were decorated with drawings of cute animals and the beautiful mountain range, created by the children. The ripe tomatoes, figs, and golden onions added to the vibrant template. The narrow, bustling streets, with vendors yelling and shoppers hopping around each stand, gave the markets a lively reputation. But that was the opposite of how I saw it. My stand was in the back of the markets, where no customer dared to go. There weren’t any colorful houses or decorations, and it was quiet. The only sounds I could hear were from the central area.
When I saw the sun dip into the tall mountains, I pulled on my old mule’s halter and dragged him to Ms. Camila’s cozy cabin. I pushed the wooden doors open. The warmth from Ms. Camila’s fireplace welcomed me. This was my sacred place. “Pablo!” My father charged at me and halted when I could feel his breath on my cheeks. “I saw you come in here yesterday. What are you doing here!” I could feel my newly built world under attack.
“Um-uh, I was just playing the piano,” I said, my eyes glued to the floor.
“No more piano. Only farming!”
“Yes, papa,” I muttered. The only thing that was good in my life was about to disappear. That thought ran through my head over and over again like a never-ending metronome. The piano that was three feet away was so far from me.
“Let the boy make his own decisions!” Ms. Camila shouted from across the room, initiating a staring contest with my papa.
“Was I talking to you, bitch? Pablo, we’re leaving. Now!” He dragged me by the ear, and I shrieked in pain. My world was in chaos.
“No!”
Ms.Camila stood before the door like my knight in shining armor. There was still hope. My world wasn’t over yet.
Thud… Ms.Camila’s head smacked the floorboards, blood gushing out of her lips. Her hand reached for me, but my father dragged me out before I could hold it. I kicked and screamed, but Ms. Camila’s hand was getting further away from me. Is this what a mother does? Try to protect their loved ones even though they’re in danger. I didn’t know why Ms. Camila cared for me this much. Why couldn’t I get that same love from my father? As he towed me by my coat, I could see his face, a face with no compassion or love, a face with nothing but malice and hatred. I wanted to go back to my mother.
After that day, I never returned to Ms. Camila’s cabin. I couldn’t let her get hurt again. Even if it meant giving up my piano. So there I was at the markets. All the vendors had left, and I hadn’t sold a single tomato. It was January, the sky was approaching nightfall, and my lips were purple. I could hear a few vendors in the central markets. They were trading their goods while enjoying some wine. It was then that a firefly landed on my nose. I had never seen a firefly in the markets, only in the marshes and wetlands. Its illuminating lantern was blinking in the night sky like a candle that hadn’t decided whether to die. It rested on my nose for quite some time, never hinting at a departure. He didn’t have any family to return to. He didn’t have a home in the marshes. The firefly’s yellow glimmer aligned with the moon, making it look like a giant beam of light. ‘I have to leave now,’ I said softly, brushing my little friend away. He flew into the night, leaving orbs of yellow glimmer along the way.
As I began packing my bags, I saw a slender woman roaming the empty markets. She wore a large hat that covered her eyes and looked like that lonely firefly. It was pitch black, so I couldn’t get a look at her features; she was walking towards my stand. I continued transferring my tomatoes to my barley bag, not minding the woman. But then she came closer to me and picked up the last two tomatoes from my cart. I looked up to see a face I thought I would never find again. It was Ms. Camila. She hid a faint purple eye underneath her oversized hat, and her lip was busted. I avoided her soft doe eyes and continued to pack. I wanted to say something, to return to her cozy cabin but stopped myself. I was the reason for her fading bruises and her bulging lip. I was also scared of the thought that she hated me and wouldn’t want me. I couldn’t blame her. So, I avoided her welcoming gaze and wished she would leave. “You must be cold,” Ms. Camila said, handing me two centimos in return for the tomatoes. “Why don’t you take work off tomorrow, Pablo, and meet me at El Rincón del Sol resteronte at two?”She handed me another four centimos and left without another word.
I knew I couldn’t go to the restaurant. I didn’t want Ms. Camila to be in harm’s way. But everything in my mind told me to go to the restaurant and return to Ms. Camila. I knew it was selfish and wasn’t what a man was supposed to do. I took the long way home, walking through the city streets. My only companion, a donkey. Was this how my life was going to end? Living like a clock? If I just went tomorrow, I could play the piano. Be a pianist and have a life of adventure. But I might also… I saw a picture with Ms. Camila on the floor; her head was lying in a puddle of blood. I shook the image out of my head. My hands wrapped around my neck. What should I do?! Suddenly, I was reminded of Ms. Camila on the day my father went berserk. How her hand reached for me when she was on the floor. Her soft, loving hand.
As I was gazing at the streets of Exteramada thinking about my life altering decision. I thought I knew what I was going to do yesterday. But now that it was time to make my decision a reality, my anxiety was higher than ever. My hand wouldn’t stop twitching, and my walk was so peculiar people gave me weird stares. I tried to fix it, but it got worse each time. In the end, I was walking like a constipated soldier. My hands swung wildly, but my back was arched from all the gas in my body. When I saw the El Rincón del Sol sign, I turned my body back and was about to walk the way I came when I heard a voice call for me. ‘Pablo! Pablo, come here.’
Ms. Camila took me to the back of the restaurant, past the kitchen and the boss’ office, to a small antique room. It was bare, with nothing but an old piano that hadn’t been used for a decade and a painting of an old man with white hair and blue siren eyes. “This was my husband’s piano, and this was his restaurant. Do you want to play?”
“I-I don’t know,” I said, my eyes cemented onto the tiled floor. ‘I don’t know if this is the right decision.’
“Pablo, You don’t have to feel guilty for what your father did,” Ms. Camila said emphatically.
“But I got you punched. I did that to you,”
“No, you didn’t.” She took a knee and softly put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me these past ten years, and a couple of bruises won’t change that, Pablo.” She wiped a tear from my face and brought me back to the piano. “Play, Pablo.” I sat on the stool and played the first song Ms. Camila taught me, “Garanda”. This was the song I heard Ms. Camila playing the first time I went to her house. The song that sparked my journey. It was about passion, nostalgia, and hope. I struck the first two cords, and the music permeated the room, bouncing off each wall like a football and ultimately vibrating my eardrums. The rest of the song flowed like a river. I missed this. My fingers pressed against the keys, the feeling of accomplishment when learning a song. The joy when playing a song you learned. It was all like before. I was back in Ms. Camila’s cabin. I was back in my world of melodies, and this time, I wouldn’t leave.
After that day, I continued to go to the restaurant. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became four years. I always got ten centimos after each visit, and my papa didn’t have the slightest idea.
This day wasn’t different; I sneaked into the tiny room in the restaurant after my farm duties. “Good morning, Ms. Camila,” I said, sitting on the piano stool, warming up with a G major scale. Ms. Camila gave me a tense greeting, and it looked like she had something to get off her chest.
“I have something I want to talk to you about, Pablo.” The mood changed instantly, and I turned to see her holding an envelope.
“Of course, what is it?”
“You’ve grown so much these past four years, and I think you’ve outgrown me.” She said with an awkward smile.
“Ok. What are you saying, Ms. Camila?” I asked, confused.
“I’m saying I have nothing more to teach you. You’re a better pianist than I am.”
“That’s nonsense. I still have much to learn from you.”
“Let me finish, Pablo.” I was standing now. “There is a school in Madrid that teaches music to special boys like you, and I think you should consider auditioning for the school.” My mind exploded.
“What? This has to be a joke. I’m not going to Madrid!”
“I have family there, Pablo. They’ll take care of you,” She said, holding my sweaty hand.
“What if I don’t get in? Then what would I do? I can’t just walk back home. An- And if my father found out, I would be dead!” I said, pacing up and down the room.
“Relax, Pablo,” She said soothingly. “I know this is a lot to take in. But you will get in. There isn’t a doubt in my mind,” She paused to get me a glass of water. “There isn’t anything here for you in Extremadura. If you don’t leave now, you’ll pick tomatoes for the rest of your life.”
“B-But I’m only ten!” I said on the verge of tears.
“Take this.” She handed me a yellow envelope. “This has the address of my family in Madrid and more than enough money for the trip.” She tucked the envelope in my pocket.
“I don’t want it!” Water drops smacked the old floorboards. Ms.Camila embraced me one last time, and I could feel the back of my shirt getting wet. Is this really it? The last time I was going to see Ms. Camila? The last time I was going to be in the restaurant? The last time playing her piano? The last time she would be proud of me for completing a song? The last time she was going to teach me a song? Is this relationship going to end? I was more bewildered than I was scared of leaving. I can’t let go.
“Don’t come back, Pablo.” She gave me one last squeeze and let go. But I couldn’t; I wanted to stay in the safety of Ms. Camila’s arms. “Let go, Pablo.” I couldn’t. My emotions were scattered like my heart had shattered and divided into pieces. I was shocked, sad, scared, excited, curious to see a place outside of Extremadura, and nostalgic for the times I shared with Ms. Camila. But one thing was for sure, I didn’t want to leave.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Let go!” She said, pushing me away.
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. Let go. You’re a big boy, Pablo; you can do it! Let go! And never look back!”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” I stood up, wiped the sadness from my face, and walked out of the room, never looking back. Trying to contain all the sadness that had boiled inside of me. I had just lost my mother and was uncertain if I was going to see her again.
I walked around the streets of Exteramda, the sky a light red. I saw children my age playing football, laughing with each other, and adults talking about politics and sports. I peered into a shop window and saw myself through the reflection with nobody around me. There was no reason to stay in Extremadura. Ms. Camila was right. I had to leave.
I went home, took the money and address, and left the envelope on my kitchen counter. My Papa left for the bar, so it was a perfect chance to leave this hellish place. I headed for the door, my burlap sack packed with the essentials, but I couldn’t pull the handle. What was I doing? Could I really survive in the world? I took one last lap around my house to gather my thoughts. The room where I slept and the dining room where I ate. I didn’t have one good memory here; if I didn’t leave now, I may never get another chance. I must go! I returned to the door and touched the handle but stopped when I heard someone outside. It was my Papa! I snatched my sack and bolted to my room.
“Shit, I can’t believe I forgot my wallet. Pablo! Where’s the money!”
“It’s in the cupboard, Papa,” I said, praying he would leave. I was wrapped around my thin, worn-out blanket, gittering like a boy in firefight. Please leave. Please leave. Please leave. If he came into my room, I was dead. But how would he know I was leaving? I tucked my bag underneath my bed. I’m safe. I didn’t hear another word for a minute or two, and my pulse relaxed slightly. I was safe. BANG! A massive smacking sound echoed through the house. What the hell is happening? BANG! Another one. My breathing became faster and heavier like I was seventy and having a stroke. I clutched onto the blanket; my grip was almost tearing the fabric. Heavy footsteps shook the entire house. PLEASE NO! They were getting closer and closer, rocking the house like an earthquake. BOOM. BOOM. How did this happen?! I’m dead. My face was ash, and streaks of sweat ran down my chin. I felt my father’s rabid presence on the other side of the door. The room got hotter as if Earth had switched places with Mercury.
“PABLO!” He ripped my bedroom door open, his face a burning red, and saliva flying everywhere as he screamed my name with hatred. “I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING! AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME! BY LEAVING TO MADRID!” He screamed, waving around a paper. NO! NO! NO! NO! How did he know!? My dream was right there; I could touch it! NO! NO! NO!
“NO! PAPA! N-”
“-SHUT UP BOY! YOU CAN’T PLAY PIANO WITHOUT YOUR FINGERS, RIGHT!?” He grabbed the back of my neck with his thick fingers and threw me onto the bed, bending the frame.
I screamed so loud that birds flew away. He leaped on top of me, his knees crushing my ribcage like snapping a chicken bone in half. I squealed like a helpless baby pig. I tried to fight back by kicking him. But he overpowered me with a blow to the face. I coughed more blood, and a string of mucus was hanging from my chin. He kneed me in the liver. I screamed for help but to no avail. He wrathfully punched me in the face again, making his blue shirt a red mural. When I thought I had lost consciousness, I saw my Papa’s ugly snarl as he took his knife and chopped the mattress near my fingers.
“Papa, please, please, I beg you s-stop. Please!” I beg, crying with blood and snot all over my face.
“TOO LATE PABLO!” He chopped off half my fingers on the left hand. I howled in pain, my blood spewing at the walls.
“Papa…” I blacked out.
“Pablo! Pablo!” I see Ms. Camila calling for me on the piano stool. “You have to fight back, Pablo! Fight Back!”
I returned to reality to see my right thumb and index finger still intact. I pushed my papa away with both feet. He lets go of the butcher knife, falling on his back. I grabbed hold of the weapon with my two fingers, and just as he got up, I slashed him in the eye, blinding him. He shrieked as blood gushed from his eye socket, dropping to the floor. Showing no mercy, I stabbed him in the stomach.
“PABLO!” My papa yelled, attempting to get on his feet.
I bolted out of the room and ran out of our farm to the forest. I heard my papa shouting my name. I kept on running. I ran and ran until my body gave up on me and left me stranded in the forest, surely to be food for a hungry wolf.
I woke up in a cozy house. Next to me was a fire approaching death, and the smell of tomato soup entered my nostrils. Was this heaven? I thought it would be more grand than this place. “Get some more rest, boy.” A husky voice said to me.
“Where am-ow.” My body ached when I spoke. My ribs were in horrible condition, and I could feel bandages wrapped around both of my hands like a mummy.
“Don’t speak, boy. I found you when I was coming back from my fishing trip. I was quite shocked when I saw a boy in this bad condition. But you’re fine now. You’re in my cabin.” I couldn’t keep my conscience much longer and went into hibernation again.
I was extremely dehydrated the second time I woke up and asked for a glass of water. “What’s your name, boy?” A burly old man asked me.
“Pablo.”
“Well, at least you remember your name.” He said, chuckling to himself.
The old man called himself Mario. Mr. Mario was around seventy and had fair white hair. He had hazelnut eyes that probably attracted a lot of girls in his youth. They were almost covered by his thick, bushy brows. Mr.Mario had a large, pointy nose that looked like the head of a torpedo, and when I saw him, he was a rather jolly man, almost always wearing a semi-smile. He wore a butcher’s outfit with tight overalls covering it, and his biceps bulged out of his shirt, revealing his hefty build.
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“About two and a half weeks. But you’ll need to rest for another week or so.”
“What! Ow.” My body was still in pain. “But I need to go to Madrid,” I said, getting up.
“Not with that body you’re not. You can barely speak.”
“You don’t get it, Mr. I need to go to Madrid.”
“What does a boy like you need to go to Madrid for?” He asked.
“I have a Piano audition.” Mr.Mario’s facial expression changed.
“I’m sorry, Pablo.” He looked down at my hands.
I screamed in pain. I could never play the piano again. I could never feel the sensation of pushing down on those keys and exploring new songs, getting away from my farm and into the world of music. I wanted to believe it was a dream, but after an hour of waiting, I didn’t wake up. I cried for the rest of that miserable day.
“Wake up, Pablo. You have to eat, or else you won’t get better.” Mr.Mario pulled my blanket from my head and handed me a piece of bread that looked like it had been torn by his hands. My eye bags felt like sandbags and ached like the skin around my eyes shrunk. I looked down at my bandaged hands again and closed my eyes.
“I’m sure your family is worried sick about you. After you get better, you should leave as quickly as possible. How did you end up like this, Pablo?”. I didn’t respond.
“I’m going fishing, so I’ll be out for the next couple of hours. Try to eat and get some rest while I’m gone.” Mr.Mario said, changing the conversation. I kicked the bread away, and the melody of Granada was engraved in my mind, playing endlessly until I drifted into a labored sleep.
Ms. Camila was sitting beside me, teaching me the keys to “Granada”. I was young, with a smile that looked like it would never fade. Ms. Camila and I were outside, playing in the tomato fields. The sky was blood red without a cloud to cover it. I watched everything from afar. My papa was standing near Ms. Camila’s oakwood piano. His colossal body overshadowed the instrument. I stood up from my piano and stood before my papa, enveloped in blood. My papa inched closer to me. Each time his giant-like foot smacked the floor, everything around me shook like an earthquake. He lifted both of his hands and began to crush me over and over again like a helpless bug. My blood splattered everywhere, making Ms. Camila’s skin burgundy. My mouth was glued shut, preventing me from screaming. My papa grabbed a knife that was twice his size from behind him. He swung it with all his might. My mouth opened, and my lungs burst, “STOP!” But it was too late. He had stabbed Ms. Camila in the artery.
“Ahh!” I gasped for air. I was covered in cold sweat, my heart beating like a metronome’s fastest tempo. I rose from my drenched bedsheets for a glass of water. I turned the sink knob all the way and drank the gushing water like a dehydrated dog. Only taking breaks for air.
After a week of laying in my misery without eating, my body surrendered, and I exited my pitiful bed to get some food. I strolled around the spacious cabin, taking breaks for my aching body. It looked more like a mansion than a cabin. With tall ceilings, more than one bathroom, and art pieces hanging from the walls. Bull horns, red deer antlers, and oxheads were above the hand-carved limestone fireplace. The markings of an avid hunter. If you explored further, you could find a marble tile kitchen, and all the furniture was made from walnut or leather. How did Mr.Mario become this wealthy?
I peered at the landscape and spotted a well-structured red shed. In it was a large object encased in a white tarp. I revealed it to see a rosewood grand piano, the most beautiful piano I’ve ever laid eyes on. I went closer to inspect it but began to feel lightheaded. There was a ringing in my left ear, and I saw faint pictures of my papa from afar. He was coming closer to me, holding something in his hands. As the ringing crescendoed, the foreign item became clearer. It was a menacing butcher’s knife. His walk became a jog, and the jog became a sprint. Soon, he was charging like a bull with the knife in hand. “NO PAPA! NO! STOP! PLEASE” My hands were painted in blood, and the large knife was in my hands.
“Pablo! Pablo!” Mr.Mario said to me with a concerned face. “Drink this.” He handed me a half-filled glass of water. He picked me up with his shaking hands and brought me back to the safety of the cabin. “What happened?” He asked me.
“I-I don’t know, I was just looking at your piano and then…”
“What happened to you, Pablo?” Mr.Mario asked again.
“I told you-“
“-No, not that I mean. What happened to you?” He looked me in the eyes.
“I don’t remember,” I said, avoiding his gaze.
“Pablo.” He touched my arm with the same compassion and warmth Ms.Camila had once shown me. He asked the daunting question again. I contemplated running, but my body disagreed with the idea. A decade of silence followed, Mr.Mario not seeming to move a muscle. The baby blue sky turned to an ominous black, and Mr.Mario finally opened his mouth.
“Do you know why the meals I prepare for you look like they were made by a toddler? Why the bread has tear marks, and the meat we eat comes from a fish? Why I can never give you a full glass of water?” I shook my head. Mr.Mario lifted his twitching hand. “I have a disease that prevents me from keeping my hand still.”He brought his hand closer to me. They were shaking uncontrollably like a cold baby.
“Why are you telling me all this?” I wondered.
“Because I’ve learned it’s easier to keep things to yourself rather than share them. But it’s not the wisest thing to do. I’ve lost a lot by hiding my condition from people that I care about, and I don’t want you to suffer the same fate as me.” He put his hand back on my shoulder, just like Ms.Camila.
After another decade-long silence, I began to talk about my childhood and what it was like to live in Extremadura. How I started playing the piano and the pleasant memories with Ms.Camila and not-so-pleasant ones with my father. Mr.Mario didn’t say a word when I spoke. I moved on to the opportunity Ms.Camila had given me with the audition and how I felt then. Then, in Mr.Mario’s arms, I spoke about what had happened that night. Walking through Extremadura, I felt alone when I looked at the people around me, all laughing with family or friends. Mr. Mario continued nodding as if he had been through the same experience. I spoke about how I hesitated to leave my house; if I had just left when I had the chance, I might have been in Madrid right now. My heart was consumed by regret and anger. I couldn’t tell Mr. Mario how my father almost killed me. I didn’t have it in me. I could only say, “Then he somehow found out, and uh, did this.” He almost killed me, and the best I could say was that. I didn’t shed a tear throughout my speech. I only cried once after that day. I was broken, like if you chucked a Wedgwood on a stone floor. No matter how much glue you use, it can’t be fixed.
Mr. Mario hugged me tightly. He didn’t bother saying a word. He knew it wouldn’t do anything, fix anything. But after thirty minutes of sitting by the fire, he turned to me and said, “Do you want to go back to Ms. Camila’s cabin tomorrow?” I did. I wanted to go back to her. I didn’t know what I would do once I saw her. But I wanted to hear her voice again. I wanted things to go back to how they were before. “Yes.” I wanted to know that she was safe.
It was an arduous journey to Ms. Camila’s cabin. The first half of the trek was nothing but tall trees. I had to confirm we were going the right way three times. Even though my wounds had healed, my bones rattled with every step, and my muscles throbbed. I had to rest on Mr. Mario’s back five times before we got to Ms. Camila’s house. I couldn’t contain my excitement when I saw the hill where Ms. Camila’s cabin sat. “It’s on that hill! On the top of the hill is Ms. Camila’s cabin!” I would’ve run to her cabin if I wasn’t in pain. I was glad to be home. To get a heartfelt hug. To be reunited with Ms. Camila. At that moment, I almost forgot that I had no hands. “Ms. Camila! Ms. Camila!” I yelled from outside the door. Mr. Mario was beside me, commenting on how nice the cabin was. I yelled Ms. Camila’s name again. There wasn’t a response. She must be in town. I opened the door with my two fingers and a beaming smile. I’m home.
”GRAAAH!” Mr. Mario screamed so loudly that it almost ended my musical career. I covered my ears with my bandaged hands. Why is Mr. Mario yelling? I looked at Mr. Mario’s white face; he looked like a ghost. He was staring at the ground, shell-shocked. I looked down; my face turned to chalk. I didn’t know how to react. What to say? What to do? I collapsed to my knees.
“AHHHHHHHHH!” I cried, touching Ms. Camila’s blood-soaked face. It was flat, almost like it was pounded with a hammer repeatedly. Next to her was a puddle of blood. “Ms. Camila! Ms. Camila!” Streams of tears ran down my face. I nudged her repeatedly. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! “NOOOO!” Another scream bursted out. NO! I can’t lose you! I can’t lose you! Please! Why! I latched onto Ms. Camila’s body. I love you. Don’t leave me. Please! Ms. Camila! Mr. Mario dragged me away.
“She’s gone.”
”NO!” I kicked him in the face. “LET GO!” My arm reached out to Ms. Camila.
“I’m sorry, Pablo. But I can’t do that.”
“Put me down! I just want to see her!” Mr. Mario cautiously put me on the floor. I crawled to Ms. Camila and put my hand on hers. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was going to live with Ms. Camila. She was my mother! My vision was blurred, and snot covered the bottom of my face. I laid next to Ms. Camila, holding her hand. I couldn’t process this. I knew she was gone. But I couldn’t let her go. I needed to stay with her. I needed to be by her side. “Nooo!” I loved her. It was like a chunk of my heart broke off. I squeezed her hand one more time and kissed her head before I began to feel dizzy. I could only ignore my body for so long…
Ms. Camila sat by the piano in her cabin. She was calling my name. “Pablo. Pablo.”
”Ms. Camila.” I ran to her, spreading my hands around her back.
“I made you tea,” Ms. Camila said, sharing a gentle smile. The tea warmed my hands. I began playing La Palmona on the piano. Ms. Camila rocked her head to the melody. It was like old times.
After the song ended, I said, “I love you. ” Ms. Camila continued to smile.
“You killed me.” Her smile faded. I looked at her chest. A knife was pierced through it, and her elegant dress was stained with blood.
“W-wah,” My hands were dampened with sweat, and my heartbeat was irregular.
”You killed me. You killed me! YOU KILLED ME!” Ms. Camila yelled. Her sunflower dress was now maroon. She fell to the ground, and a puddle of blood surrounded her body.
”NO!”
I woke up. Mr. Mario rushed to my side. “Are you ok, Pablo?”
“Ms. Camila!” I bolted upwards.
“Where is she? Where is she!” I said frantically, my heart pounding two times its usual speed.
“She’s gone.” Mr. Mario looked down.
”NOOOOO!” I fell to the floor for a second time. It wasn’t a dream. I killed her. If I had stayed away from her, she wouldn’t be… It was all my fault. “It’s all my fault.” The one person who cared about me is gone. Sadness isn’t a word to describe how I felt. Pain and regret were the ones kicking me. If I had left her alone…
“It’s not your fault, Pablo.”
“Yes, it is!” My lungs started to close, and I gasped for air. It felt like they were tied with an unbreakable rope. “Huh! Huh!” My body was shaking like a naked man in the Antarctic, and my heart was beating even faster. I couldn’t breathe. I can’t breathe!
“Pablo!” Mr. Mario padded my back. But it didn’t work. The knot in my throat grew, and I felt my face burning up.
“Huh! Huh!”
“Shit!” Mr. Mario desperately took a paper from his pocket and sat it on the ground for me to read. It was a note in the top left corner. It read from Ms. Camila. The lump in my throat shrunk, and a small quantity of air entered my lungs.
“Huuu.” As I continued reading the letter, the rope loomed, and I inhaled more oxygen. My eyes switched to a bright red, and my hand covered my trembling lips. I read the letter again. My jaw was locked in place, and my arched body was shaking. I read the letter again. Why didn’t you tell me this, Ms. Camila? She was protecting me till the end. Like a mother is supposed to do. But she didn’t have to. She should have ignored me at the markets that day. If Ms. Camila didn’t approach me, she would still be here. Why? Why is the world cruel to good people? She would still have been here if I hadn’t gone to the restaurant that day. If I wasn’t so selfish, she would still be here. I read the letter again. Streaks of snot trickled down my face. Why? If I wasn’t so goddam selfish. I read the letter a fourth time.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t sleep the entire week. All I thought about was Ms. Camila. Her face, her ugly laugh and smile. How I killed her smile. When I slept an hour, I saw Ms. Camila in my dream. It ended with me killing Ms. Camila. I still have that dream to this day. I still know I was the reason for her passing. I still live with regret, which eats up my happiness. I felt like a murderer. I held on to the letter wherever I went. It was my last memory of Ms. Camila. In the letter, Ms. Camila told me to never quit the piano, no matter how hard things get. I wonder if she would say the same thing then. I knew I had to play for Ms. Camila. But it was hard to even think about the piano without the ugly thought of me killing Ms. Camila entering my mind.
Two days later, Mr.Mario brought me back to the red shed. I could see the elegant rosewood piano through the window. I was hesitant about going in. “Let’s go inside.” Ms. Mario said, slightly pushing me through the door. He sat me on the stool. It reminded me of the room where Ms.Camila and I would play. “Touch the keys.” Mr.Mario pointed at G sharp. I went to press it. My hand’s trembling through the thick cast.
I could see my papa’s enraged face through the window with a knife that penetrated Ms. Camila’s chest. They were stationary, never moving from their patch of grass. I looked the other way and shut my eyelids. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Ms. Camila’s voice vibrated in my ears. I pressed the key with my index finger, and the music danced through my body. Mr.Mario cracked a smile when he saw the expression on my healing face. “That feels good?” He asked me. “Yeah. It does.” I opened my eyes.
“Let’s go back inside. I have some food waiting for us,” Mr. Mario said, smiling.
“Wait. I want to play some more.”
“I don’t think that is a good idea, Pablo.”
“Mr.Mario, please.” I had to play for Ms. Camila. She told me to never give up, and I had to honor her.
“Pablo, you must let go of the piano. Give up.” I couldn’t.
“Like you did?” I said, standing my ground. “I can’t give up, Ms. Camila told me, and I’m going to play until I can make Ms. Camila proud.
You don’t get it,“ Mr. Mario said, trying to knock some sense into me.
“I saw the pictures you have in your closet. You used to be a pianist.” Mr. Mario looked down.
“I don’t want to give up. I want to play,” I looked at the piano. I looked at Ms. Camila standing outside.
“How will you play? I’m sorry, Pablo, but it isn’t possible,” He said, like consoling a relative who suffered a loss.
“I could play with my feet,” Mr.Mario chuckled.
“I’m not joking,” I said.
“Relax, Pablo. But that’s impossible. There isn’t a single pianist that plays with his feet.”
“I could be the first then,” I said passionately. I can’t let Ms. Camila down. I won’t.
“Don’t think of this as quitting. I was as devastated as you when I was told I couldn’t play anymore. But with time, I understood it and was okay with it. You have to do the same.” Mr.Mario touched my shoulder.
“No, I won’t.” I swatted his hand away and took my shoes off.
“Ok. There’s food on the table when you want it,” Mr.Mario left the little room and returned to the house, disappointed with my decision.
I dismantled the piano’s legs so it would lay on the floor. I played G sharp again, this time with my left big toe. I attempted to perform a C major scale using all of my right foot toes, but it sounded more like a dying whale. I practiced until the sun went into slumber, playing the C major scale to the point my toes had blisters the size of balloons. I tried and tried but couldn’t get a clean scale. Having failed, I limped back into the cabin. “I won’t give up. I promise,” I said to the silent Ms. Camila. My cold meal was on the kitchen counter, and Mr.Mario had already gone to bed. I ate it like a dog and got ready for the next day.
The following two weeks were more of the same. I would wake up, eat, practice the piano, and go to bed for a laborious three hours of sleep. I missed Ms. Camila. My feet hurt like hell, but the blisters became calluses over time, and my passion and promise triumphed over the pain. Mr.Mario clearly thought I was wasting my time and didn’t hide his disdain. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to give up. I mastered my C major scale and moved on to my left foot when I saw Mr. Mario outside of the shed listening to my music. “It sounds horrible, Pablo,” Mr. Mario laughed.
“Did you just come here to make fun of me? If so, leave.” I went back to playing.
“No. I came to apologize.” I turned away from my piano and faced Mr. Mario. “I quit when I learned of my condition. I wasn’t youthful and didn’t think I could ever play again. But it was wrong of me to think the same of you. You aren’t me. You are better these past few weeks, which have shown me that.” He smiled at me.
“Thank you, Mr. Mario.”
“Also, if you need help with anything, please ask.”
“Ok.” I matched his jolly expression. “Do you hear that, Ms. Camila? Mr. Mario believes in me, too. I think you two would be great friends.”
I was eleven years old. The frosty winter season had ended, and we had entered a rain-filled spring. I had improved on the piano and learned my first song. Even though I could play it when I was seven, it was a significant achievement. Mr. Mario surprised me with a cake he made himself. The shape was odd, and the frosting didn’t look like my name, but I had gotten the message that he, too, was trying new things and had not given up. Mr. Mario would sit outside and listen to me play while holding a half-filled glass of tea. I would practice for hours and hours each day. We would continue this routine for another season and another; a year became two, two became three, and three became five. Soon enough, I was sixteen, living in the cabin and playing the piano, when Mr. Mario sat me down for a conversation. “You are an outstanding pianist, Pablo,” Mr. Mario said, giving the same kind and genuine smile he always had.
“Thank you.”
“You are better than any boy your age.”
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Mario.’ I said, my cheeks getting a little red.
“Well, you are better than me when I was your age; I can tell you that.” I saw him fidgeting with his hands, and I started to feel a bit uneasy.
“I want to be direct here, Pablo.”
“Ok.” Now, I was really uneasy.
“I called the music school in Madrid, a different school from the one you wanted to audition for before. This one is for older students, and I told them about you.”
“Ok,” I said, trying to calm myself.
“They want you to come in for an audition. I think you should go, Pablo.” I got a flashback to the day when Ms.Camila presented me with the same offer. That was six years ago. I was young and confused. Now, I’m not. I know the right choice, but I don’t know if this was the right time. In my memory, Ms. Camila nagged me to go. She cared about me. Every memory I had of Ms. Camila warmed my heart. Six years ago… Long time.
“Ok.”
“I need you to say a little more than ok.” Mr.Mario looked at me with serious eyes. “This is your chance. This might be your only chance.”
“I understand that,” I said in a louder voice than I anticipated.
“I’m old, Pablo. I’m damn near seventy-six. I can’t give you anything more except my love and hope. This is your dream. You must go.”
“B-but, how can I live in this world without y-you?” I said, my voice cracking.
“What did you say to me when you first wanted to play the piano again?”
“That I w-wont ever give up.”
“Exactly.” I could hear the sadness in Mr. Mario’s voice. “You’re going to be challenged wherever you go. Probably more than anyone else. But you won’t give up. Sleep the night, I’ll pack your bag for tomorrow.” Before I could get another word out, Mr. Mario fled the room.
I had a lot to think about that night. I knew I had to audition for that school but didn’t want to leave Mr. Mario. “Help me out here, Ms. Camila.” She was standing in the corner of the room like always, never opening her mouth. I thought about the first time I met Mr.Mario. I wasn’t in the best condition then, and all the great times I had with him. I reflected on how horrible I was the first time I played piano with my feet and then how I grew in age and as a pianist. I thought about the future. People would look at me with different eyes than everyone else, and I’d get treated differently. Some might not see me as a pianist, but I must overcome that. I can’t be scared to face the world for everyone who helped me get to where I am now. I’m going to make Ms.Camila and Mr.Mario proud.
We stood on the porch for five minutes before leaving, neither wanting to part. Mr. Mario finally faced me and said, “Ready to go, Pablo?” He handed me a backpack. In it was all the money I needed for the trip and more, a change of clothing, and all the other essentials. “Write to me often, and come back home on break. I love Pablo.” Mr.Mario gave me a stern handshake and began to cry.
“I love you too, Mr.Mario.” I went in for a hug and didn’t want to let go. I walked off the stoop, waving my hand, swimming in an ocean of emotions. After walking for a while, I couldn’t see the brown cabin; only tall trees surrounded me.
I had never been to a train station before. There were so many people, all going to separate destinations. So many kinds of people, too. There were boys close to my age wearing overgrown clothing, trying to be a success, old women wearing large coats, and men visiting family. Even though there were many people, I could sense everyone’s eyes following me.
“Second class ticket to Madrid, please,” I asked, nudging my wallet toward the old ticket clerk.
“Of course, sir, that will be s-seven pesetas.” She didn’t hide her disbelief, nor did the other ticket clerks. I pointed to my wallet with my index finger, and the old lady took out seven pesetas but was unsure where to put my ticket.
“Please put it on the counter. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
“No problem, sir.”
I walked to my platform, feeling all sorts of emotions. I was nervous because I had never experienced life without a protector, but I was excited to see a new world. I was finally leaving Extremadura.
“We’re going to Madrid, Ms. Camila.” I smiled at her.
”Yes, we are, dear,” She suddenly replied, something she had never done before. She matched my expression, and I held onto her hand.
Madrid wasn’t at all like Extremadura. There wasn’t any farmland, only tall buildings, so many of them you could get lost in a heartbeat. I had to ask three people for directions to get to the school. The horizon was covered so much that I could barely see the shining sun. I could feel that my dreams were rooted in these crowded streets. I thought anyone who spent enough time here could achieve their dreams, and I was just one of those lucky people.
I had to pass the time before I could enter the school grounds. I walked around the streets with a thin pamphlet. On the cover was the title in large bold letters, best sightseeing spots in Madrid. My first destination was Puerta Del Sol, the city’s most prominent and vibrant square. Everything there was fast-paced and hectic. Politicians with phoney smiles and a promise that they could make Madrid a better place gave speeches and sought the citizens’ votes to pass. Men of all ages rushed to get to work, some wearing expensive and classy silk suits and others dressed in old hand-me-downs. Women with different colored dresses gossiped. They wore wide-brimmed hats with flowers and ribbons, giving the square a posh personality. It was madness, and I loved it. If I were in the Extremadura square, I would get strange looks. Even though I lived there my entire life, people would treat me like an outsider. This was a fresh start; everyone in this hub was too busy worrying about themselves. They didn’t know I was there. I wasn’t the kid that had a lousy father here. I was a person like everyone else, trying to catch their dream. “This is the place for me, Ms. Camila.” She was trying on a hat from one of the vendors. This was the beginning of my new life. I checked my watch, 11:13. Oh crap, I needed to go to the school.
The large gates towered over me; I was like a bee in a flower field. The friendly security man let me in. He was a large fellow, so large he could intimidate an army platoon. He was the only guard on duty, signifying his dominance. But underneath the mean man facade, he was kind. Wishing me good luck and giving me a needed pep talk. With that, I marched into the school, my chin up high and my nerves buried fifty meters into the ground. I wasn’t nervous but excited. I could share my music with other people who wouldn’t judge me. I will get into the school.
The concert hall was unlike anything I had ever seen. The ceiling was so high you could mistake it for the sky. There were millions of rows of red seats. This is where I was going to play. The teachers sat in the fifth row, clipboards in hand, their eyes beaming at me. They set the piano on the ground so I could play my music. Ms. Camila and Mr. Mario were sitting next to the teachers. Ms. Camila was sipping tea and looking into my eyes with an effervescent smile. They believed in me for the longest time. They took care of me. Trusted me. Loved me. Now, it was time to make them proud. To make myself proud. The pilgrimage I completed and the hardships I overcame all led to this moment. I wasn’t worse than any other pianist because I didn’t have some of my fingers. I was better because I worked three times as hard. It was time to show that. I set the letter Ms. Camila gave me next to the piano. “This is for you.” I took one last breath and felt the keys with my toes, then fled to my world of melodies.
The end.
Ikeda Story 