The Spanish Bow by Andromeda Romano-Lax

indicating the stairs. "He doesn't get many visitors."
    The marble steps leading up the cool, unlit stairs hinted at elegance, but each slippery step had been rounded by the passage of countless feet, and unswept dirt and debris darkened the corners of the landings.
    In response to several uncertain bouts of knocking, Mendizábal opened his own door, wearing a baggy cardigan so loosely woven I could make out his grayish white shirt between the gaping holes. He was unshaven, the silver stubble at his jaw a shade lighter than his close-cropped gray hair. Below his eyes sagged pillows of yellow-speckled skin. When he smiled, his heavily lidded eyes closed entirely.
    "Call me Alberto," he said, neglecting to take my offered hand. "I have no use for titles."
    Alberto listened to our story about visiting the conservatory and squinted at Al-Cerraz's introductory letter. "You think this city should welcome you just because of your name?"
    I stared at him blankly. By now I knew the story of my birth and misnaming, but I couldn't see what it had to do with my present circumstance.
    "Aníbal," said the tutor emphatically. "The great man who led his army of elephants against the Romans. His father was Hamilcar Barca, the founder of Barcelona. Doesn't anyone read history anymore?"
    I summoned my confidence and said, "I don't know about conquering, but I know that with a bow in my hand, I don't fear anything."
    "A fighter—good. In this town, an artist has to fight, just to be heard above the explosions."
    Noticing my raised eyebrows, he added, "City of Bombs—you know that's what they call Barcelona? At least once a year the Ramblas is filled with smoke. Between that and church burnings, the city is reborn. It isn't a bad thing, necessarily. There are some nice public plazas where cathedrals once stood."
    Mamá lifted her chin and let her eyes sweep around the apartment in a studied display of unconcern.
    "If city life frightens you, turn right back around," Alberto said. "Get on the train, while the tracks are still there."
    Alberto rocked back on his heels, considering us. Then, with a sigh, he relented. "Oh, it's not bad. Too quiet, actually. Come in; sit down. We have much to discuss."
    That afternoon, Alberto invited me to become his student. His wife had passed away some years before, and his daughter had married and moved to Valencia, so he offered to rent a room to us as well, the first payment deferred until Mamá found local employment. In bed that night, Mamá whispered, "He is an intellectual and an anarchist. But he is harmless enough. At least he is cheap."

    The next morning, Mamá and I woke early. We ate some rolls left from the previous day's train trip, and drank some stale water from our wicker-wrapped jug. My eyes flitted to the kettle, but Mamá said, "Wait until it's offered." Alberto was nowhere to be seen.
    We proceeded to the main parlor to wait for him. Several heavy, leather-upholstered armchairs lined one wall, but they were filled with books and clothes. Mamá's eyes lit up when she spotted missing buttons on two wadded shirts. She went to fetch her sewing bag, grateful for something to do, and a reason to move the shirts off the chair so she could sit. I, meanwhile, perused the titles on the bookshelves—Pío Baroja, Unamuno, the ubiquitous Cervantes, and many names I didn't recognize at all. Finally, I lifted the lid on the grand piano and pressed down on one of the white keys. To my astonishment, there was no sound. I tried a few more keys and then banged out a chord: nothing.
    "Broken," Alberto said as he entered the room, coughing. "And scavenged for parts. But for dinner parties, it seats six or more—with the lid closed, of course."
    He wore the same shirt and cardigan sweater as the day before, over baggy pajama bottoms that Mamá took pains not to notice.
    "This bow of yours, let me see it." I expected him to marvel at the fine wood, puzzle over the bow's origins, ask me more about my