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singing lullabies to her sleepy children.
    When the cellist reached a crescendo on one of the lower strings, I felt a strange sensation, both pleasurable and disturbing. It reminded me of holding a cat, feeling its purrs resonate with me. Listening, I felt the sensation strengthen, as if the cello's quivering vibrato were actually boring into me, opening a small hole in my chest, creating a physical pain as real as any wound. I was afraid of what might fall out of that hole, and yet I didn't want it to close, either.
    As Duarte climbed to higher notes, I followed him. I watched the way he bent over his instrument to reach the most precarious pitches, like a seated potter wrapping his arms around unshaped clay, stripping away its first layers, revealing rather than creating. El Nene had seemed like an actor, a showman—and a talented one at that, able to accept a role and play to his audience's expectations. But Duarte seemed like a craftsman—the kind of craftsman I had been raised to respect.
    As I listened, my nose began to itch, a warning sign that tears were imminent. Horrified that Enrique would see me cry, I blinked hard, without luck. I wrapped my fingers around the edge of my chair's wooden seat, hoping to inflict myself with splinters that would require sudden, pained attention. When that didn't work, I played a mental game, trying to taste Duarte's strings as he played them. The lowest and fattest string, C: bitter chocolate. The G, next to it: something animal. Warm goat cheese. The D: ripe tomato. The high, thin A: tart lemon, to be handled with care. The highest notes, played near the bridge, could sting, but Duarte tempered that sting with a sweet vibrato.
    The cello contained everything I knew—a natural world of tastes and sensations—and much more that I did not. After watching El Nene, I wanted to see him play again. But after watching Duarte, I wanted to
be
him.
    When the trio had finished, my mother sent my brothers and sisters outside and guided me backstage, where I treaded for an eternity in a sea of wide-legged trousers and puffy skirt flounces. While I waited, I mentally replayed the cello parts I had heard, desperately trying to commit them to memory. I felt ill and giddy—drunk, just like the time my brothers had dared me to sip from one of Papá's cellared bottles of liqueur.
    My mother's hand pushed from behind me, willing me forward with the crowd. Finally, the autograph seekers and civic well-wishers parted, I inhaled fresh air, and I heard Señor Rivera introduce me to El Nene, Emil Duarte, and their French violinist, Julien Trudeau. They stood just feet from where they had played, gods transformed back into men. There was the black piano bench and El Nene standing next to it, with a cigar in his mouth and a glass in his hand. There was Duarte's glossy cello, recovering from its amazing performance—and looking for all the world like a curvaceous woman reclining on the beach, one arm flung over her head, trim waist and wide hips accentuated.
    Señor Rivera was still talking—I saw his lips moving, and heard the rumble of the three musicians chuckling politely in response. I heard my mother's higher, strained voice behind me. Someone pushed a violin into my left hand, where it hung, lifeless and unforgiving. My mother handed me my bow. More hands pushed me forward. Waves crashed in my ears.
    I walked forward three steps and half-collapsed into the nearest chair.
    "Feliu?" I heard my mother say. "Feliu?"
    I started playing, in a daze. First slowly, then with gusto. Yes: It was easier this way. I could even wiggle my left fingers a little, to bring out that honeyed vibrato. My body swayed slightly as I played. All that longing I had felt during the concert was propelling my bowing hand, helping it flow expertly across the strings.
    But the men were laughing again—uncontrollable bellows, instead of the polite chuckles of a moment earlier. Out of the corner of my eye I saw El Nene's head tip