The Violinist

The tragedy of Violeta’s grandfather was that he was never able to come out of the closet. Violeta figured it out when her Aunt Berta started sharing stories about the family. She told her, after overemphasizing how much her grandfather loved her grandmother, about how, after the death of his best friend—the person with whom he would go everywhere and with whom he was joined at the hip—he became an alcoholic and there was no way to help him. How he was filled with sorrow, and the sadness overwhelmed him. How, because of his alcoholism, her grandmother decided to leave him, get divorced. How that left him on the streets. Violeta knew that her grandfather had lost everything, that he had asked for his inheritance in cash and drank it away in alcohol. There were never any rumors about other women, but there was a rumor that her grandmother had at least a couple of lovers, like Uncle Andrés, whom Violeta had met. Violeta preferred the stories her grandmother told her. That her grandfather was a great dancer, that they had met at the dances hosted by the casino. That he was a talented musician and would serenade her with a piano on top of a pickup truck. Her grandfather on the violin, his inseparable friend on the cello. That he was very romantic. That the best part was when she was pregnant, he was so happy, he worshipped her, catered to her every whim. He would bring her flowers every day. Her grandfather and his friend cooked her everything she was craving. They took such good care of her.

Translation: Sandra Kingery