Whenever
I hear Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez, my first thought is ‘frost’.
I
remember well that morning, when the bedroom window was icy on the inside,
patterned like frozen lace curtains. We huddled so close, our exhalations formed
one cloud.
He was
a guitarist, Spanish, a part-time announcer on student radio, with regular
Tuesday and Thursday evening shows spinning classical, folk, flamenco,
bluegrass – any music, as long as it was guitar. I was 18. I met him in a bar.
He was playing, I was drinking. I took him home a few times. He wasn’t a
come-and-meet-mother kind of boy, but he was fun. And beautiful.
That
Sunday morning he woke when it was still-dark early to cover an extra shift. He
stretched, the movement of his arms lifting the duvet enough to admit a stream
of cold air. I protested and moved closer.
“Uh-uh,
time to go, Chiquita.”
I
heard gasps as he dressed quickly, finally pulling on an Aztec-style jacket, shades
of pink and terracotta like the colour of his hometown rooftops.
“Put
your radio on, and listen – promise? I’ll take you somewhere warm.”
And
with that he was gone. Or was he? His heat was still in the bed, the pillow
carrying a head-shaped hollow when he spoke again, as close as a lover yet radio-remote.
“It’s
lethal outside, so stay in bed. Here’s a gentle start for you, Amorcito.”
Then
it began. The guitar concerto’s second movement – you will know it, I guarantee.
Except then, I didn’t. Languorous guitar strums and the gentle plaintive
melody warmed the ice in my bones. The air became magnolia-perfumed and the
frost on the window melted. I cried, without knowing why.
Whenever
I hear Rodrigo, my lasting feeling is joy.
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