My piano in Havana

My grandmother Mercedes wanted me to play Chopin’s Polonaise or at least Mama Inés on the piano. She was sorely disappointed because I couldn’t even play a simple tune. When I attempted London Bridge, it did sound like a bridge falling down.

It wasn’t my teachers’ fault, as both of them were excellent.

My first teacher was Lydia Rayneri, my grandma’s cousin and an amazing concert pianist. She didn’t suffer me for long, likely tired of a child who couldn’t tell a G from an A.

Next was Nena Carbonell. Nena and her sister Lolita were two charming spinsters, Catholic and patient as they come, who put up with me without complaint for several years. Still, I didn’t learn anything, but when I went to their apartment, once a week, they offered me tasty snacks. I still remember Lolita’s tocinillo del cielo. Such a treat.

I just didn’t have a musical ear, nor was I interested in having one. When I sat on the piano bench, I imagined myself in front of a typewriter, releasing the stories that swirled constantly in my mind. But my grandmother, who ruled the family with an iron fist, wouldn’t hear of it.

“Proper young ladies must learn to play the piano,” she would say.

Perhaps she remembered her own motherless childhood, when she, along with her four siblings, were often shipped to relatives’ homes. Their young cousins took music lessons, but she wasn’t allowed to be part of them.

Intergenerational trauma, I suppose.

What put an end to my lessons was the fact that my grandfather Gabrielito, who knew I had no musical talent, brought home a musician friend to evaluate my performance of a simple tune. The poor man’s face when he heard me play said it all. I don’t know what he told my parents and grandma, but the next time I refused to go to class, no one tried to convince me.

I missed the Carbonells’ snacks. A lot.

The piano was sold when I started college.

Hugh’s Piano, from San Diego to Albuquerque

My first husband, Hugh Page, played the piano. He had a cute electric piano, and I experimented with some easy songs. Hugh never complained, but he didn’t exactly encourage me to play either. He encouraged me to write, though. I published my first novel in English, in 2004, thanks to my husband’s support.

His piano traveled with us from San Diego to Albuquerque. After Hugh passed away, I gave it to a neighbor who was studying music.

The Piano in Hobbs

When Gary and I moved from Taos to Hobbs, there was a huge space in the living room that we didn’t know how to fill. Then it occurred to me to put a piano there. It was just the right size for it.

I never play, but somehow the piano and its music have found their way into several of my novels.

And yet sometimes, when I walk by, I get a glimpse of a skinny girl trying to play London Bridge while she dreams of sitting in front of a typewriter and releasing the stories that swirl in her imagination.