For the first part of this story, I couldn't put the book down. Feliu's early years had all the grittiness of a good autobiography - that "actually there" quality, of his awkward introduction to life and his determination to learn the cello against a Barcelona backdrop.
Then, for me, the middle became drier and lacking in atmosphere. One minute Feliu is living in poverty, the next he bumps into his old friend again and becomes a famous, successful cellist. Feliu's personality seems to disappear in a list of "we played here, then we played there," and "we met Elgar, then we met Falla". The violinist Aviva is introduced to the story, an unlikeable character that I could never fathom out. I found myself wishing there were some gratuitous sex to liven things up a bit.
I found the name-dropping to be as annoying as that in any interview. It felt contrived and the meeting with Picasso seemed totally unconvincing.
However, in this middle section, there are a few gems where the author's descriptions return to their earlier quality, such as the scene in the Alhambra Gardens, and the authenticity of Feliu's grief at not playing his cello.
The latter part of the book is about Feliu and Al-Cerraz trying to escape from war-torn France. Without giving anything away, the story gathers pace quickly and once again, the more rounded character of Feliu returns, and I couldn't put the book down until I'd finished it.
The story of Feliu, the author tells us, is loosely based on Pablo Casals. I think it would have been better to have explained this before the story, rather than after the end, because I think it explains some of the discrepancy in writing style which I couldn't put my finger on while reading it, until I'd read the author's note, ie. that some aspects seem so natural and others contrived.
Overall, I really enjoyed this book and I'm glad I ploughed on through the middle section.