Limperatrice Version2

De La Salle Santiago Zobel School University Ave, Ayala Alabang Village, Muntinlupa City

L’imperatrice

Submitted by: Katherine Ina Fuentes Freshman-I

Submitted to: Sir Robert Reyes

February 2008

This was harder than I thought. I never should have got it in the first place. Yes, I had it, for a very good price. But the price did not fit its beauty. I bought it for

$60,000. It should have been $800, 000. If I sell it, I could never see it again. If I don’t sell it, my precious antique shop will be bulldozed. I have always lived for antiques. From my grandmother’s vanity to my great-grandfather’s study table, I have cared for them ever since I was a little boy. I have always dreamed of having my own shop after the First World War. Now, it might be demolished if I don’t sell L’imperatrice. I have to let her go, never to touch her ever again…

An old man was sitting by the fireplace, its light casting dark shadows in his blue eyes. How time flew by. The nurses pass by like silent ghosts, occasionally asking him if he’s comfortable. ‘Im fine’, was always his reply. He wished to be left alone, and the nurses let him be. Somewhere by the fireplace was an old guitar. With creaky joints, he walked toward it, and took it gently into his arms. A chord was struck with his fingers gnarled from arthritis, and he closed his eyes. He could still smell the mahogany neck and narra body. He strummed it with great care to a tune his father used to play. As he played the guitar, he relived through his closed eyes, the price he had to pay for his love affair with L’imperatrice.

“Jacques Bartolomeo Diaz, my old, dear friend.” I greeted the man sitting in front of me. “Yes, it is I, Janiston Hughes. It has been a long time. It has well been over 4 year since we last shared a bunk after a long, hard day of warfare, no?” His green eyes smiled, his dark hair and fair complexion stood out against the sunlight. His French blood mixed well with his Spanish gypsy ancestry. “Ah, yes, indeed, Jacques. I still remember the time you used to charm all the nurses to have a dance.” We both laughed at the good part of the War. It had been extremely bloody. Although Jacques and I didn’t really go to the battlefield, we 2

helped the soldiers get immediate treatment, and the sight alone of all the bloody soldiers with crimson staining their bandages and screaming as they were amputated on the spot would never leave me. Only music kept me from being insane as I listened to the soldiers’ agony. “So, Jacques, why are you here?” I asked as I poured him a cup of tea. His smile was replaced with a grimace. “My dear friend, I see that your dream of having an antique shop came true. Unfortunately for me, I cannot continue my dream of becoming a world class guitarist. My family has had too many debts to pay. You, of all people, know how much our debts were even before the War. But now that I have returned, I find our debts doubled. The government didn’t even bother to pay me half of what I was supposed to earn.” A single tear rolled down his eye. He would always play his guitar to soothe the soldiers in pain. For a moment, as they listen to each strum and pluck of the guitar, it seemed to them that the music has temporarily removed the pain. It would always be quiet every time he played his guitar. A moment of bliss for us attendants and nurses. Sometimes, I would join him, and our guitars would sing a duet fit for the Gods. “I have decided to sell my guitar to you, my friend, for I know that it will be in safe hands. Maybe someday, I might even get it back.” A sad smile played on his face. “Of course! This will wait for your return, my friend.” With that said, he took a beaten leather case and opened the treasure within. Its beauty blinded me. Within the deceiving case was a treasure any guitarist would kill for. Its mahogany and narra wood smelled like an exotic forest filed with wood nymphs. “This isn’t the guitar I used to soothe the soldiers. I couldn’t show it to them, for it is too close and too precious to me. This is the L’imperatrice, a gypsy guitar my 3

ancestors made. It is rumored to

have serenaded all queens of France and Spain,

from the time of Isabeu of Bavaria to Joanna of Castille to Catherine of Medici to Josephine. Josephine found it so enchanting, that Napoleon got it and named it “L’imperatrice”. He never got to learn from my father, though. He was too busy fighting. But he did hire my father to play the “L’imperatrice” to Josephine.”

It was a fitting name. L’imperatrice. French for “The Empress.” Since Napoleon was the emperor of the Napoleonic Empire, he made Josephine his empress. Only music from Apollo’s lyre is worthy of Josephine, he claimed. And so, this enchanting guitar, the product of a hard search for the best instrument in France, was christened as L’imperatrice. For it was the Empress of all guitars. The most regal instrument, yet the melodies that rang from it was sweeter than honey. L’imperatrice, the embodiment of the flowing grace, royalty and beauty of all the queens and empresses of France and Spain.

“Well, my friend, that was truly a rich history. Thank you for your trust.” Minutes later, the guitar was mine. When Jacques left, I played it. It was Heaven’s Gift to anyone who heard the music. Deep down, I knew, Jacques would never get it back from me.

The old man remembered the first time he played the L’imperatrice. And the time he sold it. It was to the best guitar playing family in the whole county. The Castanedas.

Andrea Castaneda walked in my shop 4 years after I had L’imperatrice. I remember wondering to my self, Why am I selling the only treasure in my life? Then 4

I remembered that it was for the shop. One for all. One precious instrument for all the antiques. I tried to hide L’imperatrice, but not as fast as Andrea’s knack for selecting my best antique instruments. “Ah, Jacques, you try hide it, ah!” He looked at the guitar I was holding. My hands were shaking as I handed it to him. “Such a marvelous guitar, and you try hide it from Papa Andrea? Ah, Jans’ton! How did you theenk you can hide dis treay-syur from Papa Andrea? You funny leetle Eenglishman!” he laughed with his booming Spanish laugh. I merely smiled. My treasure would be gone. Jacques would never get L’imperatrice back. Andrea gave me $30, 000 for it. I could not argue. Andrea was known for his guitar playing skills, not for his generosity. Well, $30, 000 was a great deal of money back then. It could have let me pay the rent of my shop for 5 years, while having a lot of extra for other luxuries.

Every day, and every night, I thought of her. Never has a moment passed without her in my mind. Day in and day out, I thought of how would my life be if I didn’t sell her. Maybe my life would be less empty. The sun would stop mocking me like it is doing right now. It is saying, everyone is happy right now, for all their treasure is with them. What about yours, Janiston? What about yours? While I dusted the stringed instruments for display, I thought, would Andrea have wiped her as lovingly and as gently as I could? Would Andrea place this treasure in a bed of silk as I would? He had better take care of it. He had better, for one day, it might just disappear from his hands.

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Later on, 4 years after Jacques sold the guitar to me and 2 years after Andrea bought the guitar from me, I have heard strange things happen to the Castanedas. First, it was Andrea. He had a heart attack, wheezing his last alone in his bedroom. He tried to crawl to the door, but his wife, Consuelo, just found him face down on the floor. He was fit, I knew. He did not eat heavy food, and did not have any declared rival who could induce one to him. He was given the burial of a musical genius, with a eulogy that claimed that he was taken too early. Later on, I heard that he passed the guitar on to his eldest, Joaquin. Joaquin was arguably the best among his four brothers and two sisters. On the last night for the nine-day novena for Andrea, Joaquin played it once on a wobbly stool. I must mention that he had a weak back. He was never really fond of drinking milk, contrary to the Castaneda tradition. The stool cracked, and his back and neck broke. The only thing I had to thank for was that the guitar was in excellent condition. A strict rule in the Castaneda family was to pass on the guitar to anyone in the immediate family who carried the last name of Castaneda. Since Joaquin had no son, the guitar was passed on to his brother, Antonio. On the day that Andrea was buried, Antonio wept wildly beside his father’s fresh grave. Blinded by grief or enchanted by some spell, whatever it was, town gossips told me, he grabbed a knife and stabbed himself in a field that his father bought. But the official story was that Antonio went to the field of his father, where he was attacked by some hooligans, and was stabbed to death. One by one, the line of Andrea Castaneda followed him to the grave. Constanza slipped while she fetched the wine for the funeral feast of her brothers. Her glossy head ,stained with blood darker than the red rose on her ear, was laid to rest beside her ancestors. Miguel was shot by a stray bullet when the drunk relatives shot their guns in remembrance of Andrea, Joaquin, Antonio, and Constanza. Barely was 6

Constanza laid to rest when Miguel joined her. Efrain was to check on Constanza and Belen, as was the duty left behind by his brothers, when he stumbled on a root going to the outdoor kitchen where Belen slaved away for the guest’s food. Belen checked out who gave that earth-rattling shout when she saw Miguel’s lifeless body on the grass, and Constanza’s blood staining the grass near her brothers’ graves. She fell into a dead faint, never waking up. Many relatives whose last names were not Castaneda clamored for the magical guitar. There were disagreements, for almost all the Castanedas died in the same week. But the widow, Consuelo, asked the guitar to be returned to me. “My husband would have wanted it this way.” She whispered to me in her Spanish accent. By the end of that year, it returned to me. What joy I felt when I had it in my arms once again! I would never part with my mistress! Never again!

The old man gently closed his door, and double locked it. He will now look at the instruments that gave him L’imperatrice. He opened his cabinet, and took an old box. He blew the dust, and took out the key from his chest. With a silent click, the box opened. Inside were dolls in the likeness of Jacques, Andrea, Joaquin, Antonio, Constanza, Efrain, and Belen. Jaqcues’ doll was inside a jar of alcohol. Andrea’s doll had a needle driven deep into his heart. Joaquin’s was twisted somewhere near the neck. It seemed as if the dolls represented the way that the Castanedas died, for they seemed very similar, almost as if the dolls themselves killed the whole family.

The old man gave a soft chuckle, closed the box, and returned it to the cabinet. Such happy, happy memories making those dolls. He took out a bottle of wine and a wine glass.

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A toast to the L’imperatrice! A toast to its beauty and splendor! Last, but not the least, a toast to the people who so graciously returned it to the rightful owner, me, Janiston Hughes!

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