I once had a boyfriend violinist. Rodrigo actually not a violinist but violin student, but he liked to say that was a musician and let go those who asked him what he did. "I'm a violinist," he said, and remained perfectly calm. It was awful. Unfortunately he will, much, and I say unfortunately because he dedicated all his spare time to study and test, as it was sciatica worse than the result was hours and hours of squeaking more like a cat that was subjected to a slow and painful peeling that anything remotely like the music. The first time I met the neighbor on the landing I looked closely and changed its color when she saw carrying a large bag slung over his shoulder. "You too have you been making music? Do you play something? " asked anxiety lurks through the letters of the phrase. "No, ma'am, I am a dancer, just play chopsticks. But do not worry I do not think shoes or make any noise, I come and rehearsed. "The woman sighed with relief, he muttered something like" Thank God "and took refuge in his house after offering a complimentary coffee I also rejected all the courtesy I could muster. And I'm capable of much, really. At first I thought he had hit the neighboring dumb but an hour later, fully nerves on end, what I thought was strange was that neighbors had not lynched right in the "violinist." The next day I bought a few boxes of earplugs, the kind that are little balls of wax, and lay down on all mailboxes in the portal with a note reading "Do not know how I feel." Since that day every time I bumped into a neighbor's face smiled with me "poor girl, which unfortunately have to endure something so terrible, so young it is." I was a bit like because I came home and, if he heard the violin Niki-Niki, I planted the ball of wax in the ears, and so fresh. I think everyone in the building wore caps with the exception of Rodrigo and Kimba, the dog. Kimber does not put caps for spite because he was a Pekingese with a horrible character, but a damn because he was deaf. That was deaf I learned a few days, when I came out one afternoon in the park and lost it. I threw it entirely hour called out, I came home hoarse lost, and he did not fucking case. Vale, Rodrigo and I had said no release occurred to me but I could have completed the sentence and have added "... because he is deaf and not going to hear you call." Anyway, that was deaf and did not care a bit more sympathetic and deserved to hold the violin practices Rodrigo, who was unavailable to discouragement and persevered in the studio day after day. The worst thing was that I was not aware of their limited expertise and are excited every time we heard a piece on violin. And we heard often because every Saturday we went to the Teatro Real. One night they played "I Musici". It was magical. The program was made up entirely of works by Boccherini, and interpretation of La Musica Notturna Delle Strade Di Madrid was worthy of Stendhal syndrome. Between that I am unable to mourn watching a movie or reading a book and stuff like that but to listen to music and loosen mucus at all, (what they want, each one suffers Stendhal syndrome as it comes in wins) and the music notturna I have always found a beauty, I left the concert completely transported, quieter than in mass. And Rodrigo took my silence to say that the violin was good but not very vibrant, and certainly he was much better. I had hitherto maintained silence about his virtuosity something funky or rather on their lack of it, but that night I could not help laughing and the operators listened to Radio Moscow. Rodrigo did not ask or say anything, just looked at me, making a change of pace worthy of a Sunday in San Isidro in Sales, I asked if he preferred to dine at an Italian or an Indian.
During these years I thought of Rodrigo on several occasions, especially early clarinet in Kenya, when we sent to practice at the most remote corner of the garden and the neighbors called us asking you to please angry we had pity and rematáramos to that elephant that should be dying slowly in our garden. With Madagascar was worse because toooooodos tested instruments was in the band, from the piccolo to the tube, through the flute, fife, trumpet (oh, how horrible season trumpet) and a euphonium. The tube seemed to like until they rolled it myself (literally) with her sister, and decided it was better as an instrument less aggressive. There was no way, soon discovered that in the hands of Madagascar could all become in lethal weapon. At the end the girl who put an end to his career by the simple expedient of opening the car window one evening when he returned from class and music theory to throw the book at the road, where he was killed by several trucks. Since then, given that Kenya is now principal clarinet and plays divinely, I spent some years without remembering Rodrigo, but by Christmas, took several days remembering him at all times. And last week we decided to make Christmas ornaments. Well, I decided I and sent to Madagascar to the attic to look for boxes with balls, pastors, and all that. And the girl climbed into the attic and it was like when Ali Baba entered first time in the cave of robbers: Madagascar was reunited with toys when they were girls, and books, and my stuff once upon a time there was, and what happened had to happen, who threw a very long time giving little cries of surprise, and ended up down the Christmas decorations and guitars that I had kept. And there is, giving all day to cuerdecita nonstop, with the same determination that Rodrigo but fortunately much more sense and musical ear. I am about to plead temporary insanity to excuse criminal acts that I'm making these days, like stealing niñosjesuses of Carrefour (and will not tell). Same school, right?
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