She nodded toward the living room. “Even Carlos…I see changes in him. He’s always been enchanted with books and stories-you’ve seen that. And now, with his older brother composing these…these soundtracks to go with them, it’s as if Carlos has become a permanent fixture on the end of the piano bench.” She paused, surprised at the gush of words she’d released. “All of that is wonderful, but I don’t know where it’s going, and I don’t know what to do about it, if anything.” She raised an eyebrow at her aunt. “So you see, querida, what you think is important to me.”
“Ah,” Sofía said, and she drew it out thoughtfully. “Let me just say it, then. I talked to Francisco’s piano teacher today.” She folded her hands, as if passively waiting for an explosion. “We spoke on the phone earlier, and she invited me to stop by. I did so, early this afternoon.”
“Mrs. Gracie is an interesting lady,” Estelle said.
“Yes, she is,” Sofía said slowly. “I was surprised when she agreed with me.”
“Agreed? About what?”
“Francisco is a prodigious talent, you know.”
“Yes.”
“But listen. I don’t mean simply gifted. He is so much more than that. The problem arises…,” and she paused. “The problem arises because in just a short time, there will be nothing for him here.”
“Nothing for him here? What does that mean?”
“Mrs. Gracie agrees that within the year, perhaps two at most, Francisco will grow beyond anything that she might be able to do for him. Maybe even sooner than that.”
“She’s such a wonderful musician,” Estelle said.
“Sofía tilted her head in agreement. “Yes, she is, querida. She plays beautifully. And you know,” and Estelle’s aunt leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes that Estelle saw was tinged with something akin to regret, “so do I, when this arthritis allows it.” She thumped swollen knuckles gently on the tabletop. “But we are not Francisco.”
“That’s hard to believe, tía.”
“You must believe it, querida.”
“Perhaps she can recommend someone else, then,” Estelle said.
“Oh, perhaps she can, perhaps she can. And so can I. But the truth we must face is a simple one: Posadas, dear little village that it is, is not the sort of place that will-” she paused, searching for the right words “-that will nurture the musical world of this remarkable little boy. His mind is so filled with it, you see. He thinks in musical terms, Estelle.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Music to Francisco is simply a private language that he speaks far more fluently than English, or Spanish, or whatever you choose.”
She spread her hands in front of her and waggled her fingers. “With all of that, he is also blessed with the magical coordination that allows him to speak this language of his.”
Estelle sat back, the tea forgotten.
“This is a serious question,” Sofía said. “And I will put it in the simplest terms. You have a son with an extraordinary gift…. It is beyond anything I have ever seen-and I have seen many gifted young musicians come and go.”
“He’s only six, tía.”
“I don’t care if he’s but three,” Sofía said with surprising vehemence. “What faces you now is deciding how that gift should be bestowed on the world.”
She leaned forward again, again placing a hand on Estelle’s. “The twelve years between this moment and when we start thinking of him as a young man…those are vital to his growth as a creative genius. I’m sure you know that.”
The twelve years, Estelle thought, and found herself unable to imagine little Francisco as an eighteen-year-old. Worse yet, various faces of eighteen-year-olds that she’d had contact with through work paraded unbidden through her mind, like Macbeth’s ghosts.
“He is so…so dócil at this point, don’t you think?” Sofía asked.
“I know that he seems consumed,” Estelle said carefully. “It’s as if the piano is a window for him, somehow.”
Sofía nodded. “It is a rare thing, this combination. The gift up here”-she touched her own temple-“and the gift here.” she extended her hands palms up, the fingers playing silent arpeggios in the air. “And I see…” Once more she hesitated, searching for just the right words in English. “I see a kind of concentration, a kind of ambition with no concern for time, that is most unusual in a mere child.” She shrugged expressively. “But he is no mere child. Do you agree?”
Estelle laughed quietly. “He has no sense of the time of day, that’s for sure. If he wasn’t interrupted, I don’t know how long he would sit at the piano.”
“Just so. And every moment he spends there, it is as if another door opens for him. I hope you see that. The challenge is that he must work with someone who recognizes those doorways, those opportunities, and directs Francisco on this path he has discovered.”
“He’s only six,” Estelle said again, and surprised herself with the defensive edge in her voice.
“Only six,” Sofía replied. “You keep saying that. To him, it is an eternity since his fifth birthday. He does more in a single hour than the average child who is forced to plod through piano lessons does in a year. Let me tell you what we did this evening.” She leaned forward with relish, both hands clasped tightly, pressed between table and bosom. “I played for him a small piece, a trifle, by Debussy. Maybe you know it.” She hummed a lilting series of notes. “It is his ‘Reverie,’ and everyone who takes lessons on the piano plays it sooner or later. I had played no more than ten measures when Francisco dissolved in giggles…pure six-year-old, you know. He leans against my arm and says, ‘He has his feet in the water.’ And he swings his legs back and forth under the bench, like so.” Sofía paddled her hands.
“His feet in the water?”
“That’s what happens, you see,” Sofía said. “When Francisco hears music, it instantly paints a picture in his little head. And then he uses the piano to extend that picture, to paint the whole image…the whole gallery, if you like. That”-Sofía leaned back in satisfaction-“that is his genius. And for him, I see no limitations.”
Estelle sat silently for a long time. “My husband needs to invent a potion to keep hijo six years old forever.”
“Ah, that would be a tragedy for Francisco,” Sofía said, unamused. “He must grow into himself, and we must help him do that.”
“What are you suggesting?” Estelle asked, feeling as if she’d drunk a bag of cement rather than a quarter-cup of tea.
“There is so much to discuss, querida, but Mrs. Gracie and I agreed, and maybe we are out of place. But I must say it. Posadas is a wonderful little village, and you and Doctor Francis have done wonderful things here…commendable things. But it is not the place for Francisco. Not now.”
Chapter Seven
“Did you two solve all the world’s problems?” Even though her husband’s voice was no more than a breathy whisper, it startled Estelle. So lost was she in her own thoughts that she had never felt him shift his position in bed, never sensed his waking. Her eyes ached from staring into the dark void overhead, the inky depths broken only by the single red eye of the smoke alarm on the opposite bedroom wall.
“Not even close,” she murmured. She and Sofía had talked for another hour, and afterward, when she’d made her way into bed, she had fallen instantly asleep…for an hour. She turned now and squinted at the clock on the dresser. In another few minutes, the boys would be awake, excited about whatever might await them out under the Christmas tree.