Translation of "Clarinete"

Here is the English translation of my short story shared in the previous post in its original Spanish.

Rigoberto, my four year old son and oldest child, runs to sit by my side for supper. In his excitement he almost falls as he lifts himself onto the bench. We wait for the food.  I wait with patience that only comes from fatigue, and he waits with a complete lack of patience as his feet kick at the table legs.  My father-in-law is seated on the sofa behind us, having already eaten because of his diabetes. I don't know what commentary I'll have to endure from him during my meal. As I contemplate the judgments of my wife's family about me I lay my chin on fisted hands and watch my wife putting the meal together. Today we are having beans and rice covered with spicy salsa and a soup made with yesterday's left-over chicken. Today there is no bread.

Early in the morning I got up, and without eating, rode the bus into town seeking a spot in the new band that plays nightly in the big clubs. I thought few people played the clarinet, but except for the trumpets, we were the largest group. I thought I played well, but as I bought my return ticket with the last of our money, I knew that was not the case.

As my wife places food on the table I feel Rigoberto's stare. I want to look at him and give him a smile, but I’m out of smiles to give.

“Papi, before we eat can you play your clarinet for us,” he says this with a desire I have never heard.

“I’m tired son, not now.”

“But Papi, people you don’t even know get to hear you play, and I never do.

I don’t know what to say in response. I place my hand over my clarinet. I pause to think

“Play for your son, dear,” my wife says as she places a full plate of food in front of me.

I lift the instrument; I lick my lips and then pass them over the mouth piece. With a deep breath I begin to play. The first sounds are weak, but soon augment to such strength that it feels like the bell of the clarinet may break. With quickness gained by much practice I let my frustrations fly in violent noise. As notes ascend and descend I see the surprise in Rigoberto’s eyes. The music soon looses its violence and takes on animated runs up and down musical scales. With a change of tone, the feeling turns to my sadness as flowing notes cause tears to build up in my wife’s eyes. Quickly, I change direction and play something to give all the responses I can never say to my father-in-law. With ugly notes I play out his commentaries, and then give him the responses from within my soul.

I stop suddenly as I notice the look on my wife’s face. I smile and wink at her, then return to play music familiar to Rigoberto. I invite him to sing along. Our daughter Clarín adds her voice to her brother’s, and I play rhythms that counter what they sing. As we finish the song I play a variation on a favorite family hymn, and with my last notes my family falls quiet.

The first to speak is my wife, “Dad,” speaking to my father-in-law, “could you say a blessing over the food?”

We all bow our heads and close our eyes. I open one eye and look at Rigoberto who has not stopped looking at me, even with his head partially bowed. I grin at him and he closes his eyes.

I’ll talk with the construction foreman tomorrow. I hear he needs workers. Maybe one day I’ll find an audience that can pay me with more than smiles, hugs and kisses when I play my clarinet.