Page 23 of Under His Sheets
I was too nervous and emotional to sing, and I didn’t trust myself, but then Cecilia signed to me to sing. I groaned a little and then gave in.
Mr. Segura smiled the whole time, as did Felip, with Cecilia in front of him on the couch clapping along. Tomás began to sing along and snap his fingers, and when June and Mateu cameback, she gasped and then spoke excitedly to him, as if she just realized that she knew my music.
Alonso stood behind the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, watching me intently, which might have thrown me, but performing was the one place I didn’t tend to doubt myself. Before I started? Absolutely. I’d had epic bouts with stage fright from time to time. Once I put fingers to strings, keys, or whatever I was playing, the world fell away and I knew that I was where I was supposed to be. I wasn’t a hugely demonstrative front man, though I knew how to work a crowd now that I’d been doing this a long time. But when I was off stage? Then doubts and wonderings crept in.
So when I finished the song, and the whole room erupted in cheers, my gaze lingered on Alonso, who didn’t clap.
But he smiled. A full smile. With teeth.
“I can’t believe it! I love that song. I never thought…I mean, you never think you’re going to meet someone in real life that sings one of your favorite songs, right?” Tomás shook his head. “That’s so cool.”
“And now you teach music to children?” asked Mr. Segura.
There it was. The big question.
“I do. When I was in high school, Cecilia encouraged me to become a teacher, so I went to Cal Berkeley for my music degree and teaching credential?—”
“Go Bears,” Felip said, but he covered his mouth and gestured for me to go on.
“I forgot. Cecilia told me you went to Berkeley. That’s cool. Anyway, yeah, I wanted to do the whole musician thing. It worked out…for a while. Until it didn’t. I loved it. And now I’m giving teaching a try.”
“But MoonCraft is great! Are you done performing?” Tomás asked.
I shrugged and ran my fingers lovingly over Mr. Segura’s guitar. I took one of the cloth napkins that Mrs. Segura had out on the table for the snacks she’d brought out and I rubbed down the neck, not wanting to leave any oils on what appeared to be a very old guitar. I handed it back to him and his smile was warm and genuine. I hated to let it go.
“The band is done. I’m not sure what’s in my future. I’m…regrouping.”
“Yeah, because his instruments and belongings were stolen in Barcelona,” Felip said, shaking his head. “It is terrible. Are things so bad in Barcelona?”
Mr. Segura muttered something in Catalan. “Perhaps if people were more concerned about safety and less about this foolhardy independence pursuit.” He shook his head.
Alonso turned sharply to look at his father. “Papa?—”
Mr. Segura spoke gruffly to him in Catalan, and Felip frowned.
“Papa Segura? Can you please explain?” Cecilia asked him. “Randall and I were talking about this earlier, and I don’t have a good understanding of the separatists’ stance.”
Alonso’s face seemed to go a little pale. He once more pleaded with his father in Catalan, which Mr. Segura ignored.
“Catalunya has an independent spirit. There is a lot of history going back hundreds of years of conflict with Madrid, but in recent times, both after the civil war in 1979 and in 2010, we have been given autonomy, only to have pieces of it be taken back before all of the aspects could be implemented. A lot of people are frustrated. Pero, splitting with Madrid will most likely be bad for our economy as it will threaten all of our agreements with the European Union. Brexit was a perfect example of how wrong things can go.”
“But Papa,” Felip interjected. “When they held the referendum in twenty-seventeen, didn’t it pass with a resounding majority?”
“It was a vote to have a vote, fill. And only forty-three percent of the eligible voters actually turned up, so that is not a mandate by any means.”
I almost raised my hand. I think Cecilia caught me too. “But, sir? What would be the reasons to become independent? Or not to?”
“People want to protect what is Catalunya, verdad?” Tomás said. “Our language and culture are unique, and there was a long part of history where the central government wanted to wipe out all that was Catalan. Children were not taught our language, it was forbidden to be spoken in public. With the nationalist movements going on in the world, who is to say they would not try again?”
“It all comes down to money,” Mr. Segura said. “We have it, Madrid wants to be able to use it.”
“It is the principle of the matter,” Mateu said. “The Spanish government says ‘no, you can’t vote,’ and the people, they don’t want to be told no.”
Felip sighed. “Of course we want to be respected and given our autonomy, but there are benefits to all of Spain for us to remain, to the European Union as well. I feel for Scotland. I know they did not want Brexit.”
Alonso remained quiet during the conversation, though his frown told me he might have strong feelings, one way or another.
“Enough of politics,” Mr. Segura said, grabbing his wine glass and refilling it before making his way around the room with the bottle, filling everyone’s glass despite protests. I was feeling incredibly warm and sleepy and happy to be surrounded by such wonderful, generous, intelligent people. My family would never have sat around discussing politics and history.
