Esteban seemed unruffled. Gaspar kicked off his sneakers and ran barefoot across the living room to his bedroom. He sat on his bed. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep. He didn’t know what to do. Esteban appeared in the doorway of his room: he’d followed him.
“You have a lot of albums,” he said.
“I bought a record player for Christmas. Some of the records are mine, but most are my mom’s.”
“You want to listen to some music?”
Gaspar tried to stay offended, but Esteban seemed uncomfortable too, and he was trying to be nice. This isn’t his fault, thought Gaspar. It’s because of Dad and his craziness.
“I haven’t been able to try out the speakers yet because the music bothers Dad, he doesn’t like it or something. Was he always like that?”
Esteban sat on the floor, picked up half of the pile of albums, and set them on his crossed legs. He’s much younger than he looks, thought Gaspar.
“When we were younger, your mother and I used to listen to a lot of music. She was the one who bought records and went to concerts. He always preferred silence, and since she’s been gone, well, music reminds him of her, I guess. You know which songs were your mom’s favorites?”
“She marked some of them. Dad doesn’t tell me anything.”
Esteban looked through the pile of records and put a few chosen ones beside him, on the floor. Gaspar pointed to one: The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.
“I love that album. She marked it up a lot.”
“This musician was a friend of your mom’s. Friends, well, as much as we could be in those years, but they knew each other. Then he got famous and they didn’t see each other anymore.”
“I don’t think he’s very well known here.”
Esteban put on a Led Zeppelin album.
“When your mom liked a song a lot, like this one, she’d play it over and over until it drove us crazy.”
Gaspar looked at the marks beside the title. There were about ten exclamation points, in red.
“I don’t do that,” said Gaspar. “I don’t know if I like music that much. Is that weird? I like movies better. Or books. You?”
“Music? Not so much.”
“What do you like?”
Esteban thought for a moment.
“Houses,” he said. “Architecture.”
“Like my uncle.”
“Wow, look at this one. I sent this to your mom from Barcelona when it came out. You must have been less than a year old. I don’t know how it made it safe and sound.”
“You sent it through the mail?”
“With some other things.”
“My friend Vicky’s mom likes Serrat a lot.”
“And you don’t.”
“It’s a little boring.”
“Very boring. This album has a really pretty song, though, one of your mom’s favorites. If you get bored we’ll put on another one.”
Esteban lingered over several covers, but he seemed surprised when he got to Space Oddity.
“Mom marked everything on that one. See, she made notes beside every song title.”
“Can you read English yet?”
“Yeah, but those words are hard to read.”
Esteban translated the title for him. “El Chico de ojos salvajes de Freecloud. Let’s listen to it.”
Gaspar tried to understand the story, but even with Esteban’s help it was hard. A young man was hanged, and he went smiling to the gallows. “And the day will end for some As the night begins for one . . . Oh, ‘It’s the madness in his eyes’ . . . ” He saw Esteban shake his head and flip the record to play another song. “Letter To Hermione.”
“Is that for his girlfriend?”
“That’s right, and a real girlfriend, too. A beautiful girl. Do you have a girlfriend yet, Gaspar?”
“I had one, but I didn’t fall in love or anything.”
“How’s that?”
“When I think about her, I don’t get sad like that, like in the song. The song is nice but I don’t really like the instruments.”
“It hasn’t aged well. There are a lot of musicians who should rerecord their entire catalogues. Anyway, it’s always sad to fall in love.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t have anyone, no.”
“Do you want to?”
“No, it’s too complicated.”
“Is it complicated because of the stuff people say and all that? Do they treat you bad? Dad says it’s all prejudice and people are stupid.”
“I don’t care about what people say, but falling in love is just awful, Gaspar. You’re right about that.”
“Aren’t you in love with my dad?”
Esteban smiled. He didn’t seem surprised. It had been hard for Gaspar to ask the question, so hard he’d had to squeeze his fists and look out the window.
“What do you mean? No.”
“But there’s something there. I’d like it if he, I don’t know, I don’t like that he’s alone.”
Esteban looked at him directly, but said nothing.
“Did my mom like this song a lot?”
“She also liked happier things. Let’s see what we have here.”
They listened for two hours. The Rolling Stones, the Beatles—which seemed to Gaspar like kids’ music, and he said so to Esteban, who nodded and said then let’s move on to more serious things—Donovan, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, more Led Zeppelin, Caetano Veloso, Maria Beth?nia. Gaspar lay down still dressed while Esteban played songs, and at some point he asked him to turn it down because he’d started to yawn. Gaspar closed his eyes listening to a woman singing in Portuguese: Para além dos bra?os de Iemanjá / Adeus, adeus . . .
The days passed as they usually did when his dad was in the hospital; Gaspar felt free and worried, feelings that, he intuited, should not go together. The short visits, Juan half-upright and drowsy, the moans of other patients around him, washing his hands before entering, and listening to the doctor, before and after, saying the same thing as always: the first twenty-four hours are the most crucial, we’re trying a new medication. After the first visit, Esteban dropped him off at Vicky’s house. What’s going to happen when they go on vacation? he asked. They’re leaving in ten days, more or less. Adela and Betty are going with them. What happens if Dad hasn’t gotten out of the hospital? He will, Esteban said. Gaspar didn’t argue. He spent the day with Vicky and her little sister Virginia, who had received a simple Christmas gift, a plastic toy shaped like a magnifying glass but without a lens, which, along with a little bucket of soapy water, was used to make bubbles. Now she spent all her time blowing bubbles in the yard, under the dogs’ curious gazes.
Gaspar went to the hospital every day: sometimes Esteban came to pick him up, sometimes Vicky’s mom took him, sometimes his dad’s driver came. He wanted to go alone, but they wouldn’t let him, at least not until his dad was better. Esteban was quite clear: you’re my responsibility and I’m not going to let you out in the streets alone. I don’t care if you’re a bicycle king.