Any dialogue or behavior ascribed to the characters in this book—those who are real people as well as the characters who are imagined—is entirely fictitious. This is a work of fiction.
Copyright © 2011 by Richard Morris Usatinsky
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Heartfelt thanks to Abbott Chrisman and Wendy Smeets,who revised this text and offered their generous comments and suggestions.
For my children …my Heart, Soul & Solace
“Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honor.”
—ERNEST HEMINGWAY
SOONER OR LATER LIFE CATCHES UP WITH US. Sometimes with the splendor of a life lived with immense passion—living every second as if it were the last—and other times lived with disappointment and resentment, time robbing us of our faith and hope, turning our lives into irreversible and unbearable misery.
I first met Juan in the autumn of 1916 in Barcelona. I went to Catalonia in search of an authentic autumn, a place where the leaves change color and fall from their branches. Where the crisp morning air arouses the spirit and the vespertine breezes of the Mediterranean can make a man’s imagination whirl, tossing his hat airborne landing it in the bushes that line La Rambla. On the contrary, autumn in Valencia, the city of my birth, is a rare occurrence; the summers are eternal in that land and the hours I would spend painting in my small studio were unbearably infernal at least until after Epiphany.
In Barcelona, I moved into a small apartment in the Barrio Gótico that belonged to a great-uncle of mine and spent my mornings painting and afternoons giving private lessons to a few aspiring artists who lived in the neighborhood.
One day a student mine, Roser Climent, came by my apartment to introduce to me a classmate of hers who was hoping to study with me. Though it sounds cliché to say it now after all these years, it was love at first sight. It was also the first time I had ever felt such strong emotions towards another human being, as I wasn’t known precisely for being the warmest, gentlest of men. But when first laying eyes upon this young man—a boy of only sixteen summers—with his full, succulent lips, creamy complexion, long eyelashes and broad shoulders, I could barely contain my zeal. In fact, my hand was trembling as I reached out to meet his there in the foyer of my apartment as we were being introduced.
Juan came by religiously every afternoon, and while he was a dedicated student, a bright boy with a good eye for detail, he was simply awful at drawing—and even worse with watercolors—and would easily become offended were I to criticize in any way his creativity. In fact, of all my students, it was Juan who showed the least promise. In contrast, however, he was the most determined to learn, often spending hours contemplating drawing a single line or rendering a simple silhouette. In the end, he quickly learned to accept my critical nature.
My feelings for Juan grew stronger as time carried on, but we lived in a time where it would have been unthinkable for me to even consider seducing this lad, tempting as it was. I was able to enjoy his company while taking my pleasures with young men I would encounter at the bathhouses off the Passeig de Gràcia, in the bar at the Hotel Astoria or during late night strolls in the Parc Güell.
