The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

I closed the door to my closet-sized room, sat, tuned my guitar, and spent the few remaining minutes doing little études to keep myself warm. When it was time, I stood and opened the door.

  I felt a flutter of real fear as I edged back up to the stage corner in time to hear the applause for the second speaker die away. As the principal stood and began to introduce me, all of my doubts and insecurities flooded back in a wave. What if I made a mistake? What if I forgot the music? Was I going to make a fool of myself out there? Look at all those people.

  In a pang of anxiety, I missed the calm of my grandmother’s prayers with the pain of a broken heart. I regretted never having told her of the peace she had given me, the closeness I felt between us in those moments before my first performance. It was a mistake not to have told her about it, I realized with painful certainty, and realized at the same moment that I had said nothing because I wanted to share the credit for my success with no one.

  It was a terrifying realization, made worse because I caught a glimpse of another truth behind it. It was just a heartbeat of awareness, come and gone so quickly that I had no time to put it into words. There was simply an echo of emptiness, a vision of a greater need hidden behind this one. It shook me to my core, but passed so swiftly that I could easily deny it. I fastened my attention upon the principal.

  The principal was saying, “As most of you already know, Giovanni di Alta is a student under Herr Professor Doktor Schmitz at the Dusseldorf Musikakademie, the youngest student in the academy’s history. His professor speaks very highly of Giovanni’s progress.”

  Not to me, I thought. In the wash of anger that followed, all my fear vanished. It was a second revelation, one that lifted me away from the shock and isolation of the moment before. I had found another barrier, one called anger. I needed nothing else. If they refused to accept me for what I was, it was their problem. I was good. And I was going to show them.

  As I waited for the principal’s signal, I decided that I no longer needed the first warm-up piece. I was angry and I was ready. I wanted to walk out there and hit them as powerfully and quickly as I could.

  There was light applause from the audience as I walked out, adjusted the chair and footstool, and sat down. The principal walked to the side of the stage and sat beside the two speakers. As I waited for the talk and murmurs and rustling to die down I ran through the strings. The tuning was fine. I placed myself in position, fingers poised, left foot on the tiny stool, back straight, head angled toward the guitar’s neck, and I waited. The assembly grew still. I waited through the silence for a moment more, drawing it out. Then I began.

  I flamed through the first piece. It was a series of runs tied together by a very simple melody, and should have taken a bit over six minutes to play. I did it in less than four. I realized that most of these people did not know classical guitar music. I did as the Copland book suggested, and played to the audience. I did not make it precisely correct in timing and emphasis. I played to impress and excite. I played as fast and fiery as I could, running up the speed until my fingers were a blur, hitting the final chords with my whole body in motion, flinging my hand up and away to signal the end of the piece.

  The assembly erupted. I held up my right hand, the one I had flung out on the last chord, and if anything the applause grew louder. I could not help smiling. My whole body drank in the clamor. It was meant for me, Giovanni di Alta. For me. When the applause faded I could not begin the next piece because of the excited talk and laughter. There was a chorus of shushes and shouts for quiet. I went back into the preparatory position, and held it in perfect stillness. I felt in total control. There was no fear, just a tingling of nerves as though I were breathing champagne. When there was total silence, I started the second piece.

  This was a counterpoint between a bass melody played on the low string with the thumb, and a series of light trilling runs played by almost feathering the top strings. I wanted to emphasize how the bass notes acted like pillars to hold up the airy high notes, so each time I played the bass string I struck downward with my head and shoulders. Pam. Pam. Pam. Bobbing and striking the bass with more force than was called for, but drawing the audience’s attention to how both flowed together in a contrasting balance.

  My guitar trembled with the force of the applause. I sat and grinned and looked out over the sea of faces.

  The third and last piece started out slowly and mournfully. It built up both speed and force, and ended with a series of runs punctuated by sharp loud chords. These chords were strummed by flinging down all four fingers in cadence, then slamming the sound off with a hand-blade across the strings. I could hear the reverberation off the hall’s back wall as I began each new scale. The echo punctuated and blended in, becoming an unexpected part of the song, as I made each chord sharper and louder than the previous one. The climax was a furious chord strumming that I held through four full beats, then slapped off with my hand just behind the guitar’s mouth, so that the final force boomed and echoed over the audience.

  As I stood and bowed to the applause, I discovered that I was breathing hard and perspiring. I wiped my forehead, then held the hand up to the audience. For some reason that made them even more excited. The principal came over and shook my hand, and said something I could not understand over the applause. I turned back to the students, still grinning, wishing the moment would go on forever.

  ****

  As the recital date grew near, the distance between what I learned for Professor Schmitz and what I played for myself widened into a vast chasm. I wondered at this ability to hide what I considered my true work and my real intentions from my teacher. In his presence I played what he wanted to hear. He continued to work through the piece passage by passage. The recital drew steadily closer.

  The week before the recital I went to the Staatstheater. It was the first time I had been there since the preceding May. Posters announcing the recital adorned all the marquees. I let myself into the hall, walked down the steeply sloping steps, and climbed up on stage.

  I stood there a long time, looking out over the empty seats. I felt a little apprehensive, a little nervous, a little scared—but not much. A chasm had grown up between me and everything that had to do with Professor Schmitz. As I walked around the empty stage I remembered cowering in my seat the year before, watching Professor Schmitz stand where I was now. Yes, I was scared. But I was ready. I knew what I was going to do. I could not see beyond the recital, but that did not matter so much at the moment. I had decided. I would remain true to my music.

  The night of the recital my grandmother came into my alcove as I was dressing. She stood beside the opened curtains watching me struggle with the little black studs that were used instead of buttons on my dress shirt. She came over, brushed away my hands, and began doing up the studs with quick little motions.

  “Your grandfather used to wear shirts with studs every Sunday,” she told me. Up close her breathing sounded hoarse and strained to my ears. “He never was able to do them himself.”

  When the shirt front and both sleeves were done she fastened my bow tie in place. By then a sheen of moisture had gathered on her forehead. “I’ve always enjoyed men’s dress clothes. They are so classic. Every little piece just so.”

  I watched her face with growing concern. “Is your fever back again?”

  “It is nothing for you to concern yourself with tonight, figlio mio.” Though scratchy, her voice carried a note of calm serenity. “I had a bad night, that’s all. I have rested this afternoon and will go straight to bed after the performance. Tomorrow I will be fine.”

  She helped me on with the dark jacket with its satin stripe on the lapel, matching the ones running down both pant legs. She showed me how to adjust the shirt’s cuffs, then stepped back. Her eyes were shining brightly.

  “My boy has become a man,” she said softly. “Come. I want you to see yourself.”

  My alcove did not have a mirror. I followed my grandmother down the hall to her bedroom. When we were
inside she closed the door in order to expose the full-length mirror on the back.

  “Che bell’ ometto,” my grandmother murmured. “What a handsome young man. I’m so proud of you.”

  My dark curls entirely covered my ears, but the sloppy distracted air was gone. The formal clothes were so severe and conservative that my hair could have been done like this intentionally to offset them. I was a study in black. Black tuxedo, black bow tie, curly black hair tumbling onto the shoulders of my coat, black eyes. The darkness of my clothes made my eyes look huge. I had never thought of myself as attractive; I had never given much thought to my appearance at all. I could not believe what I was seeing in the mirror.

  “So proud,” my grandmother repeated. “I wish your mother and grandfather—”

  She turned away. I saw her shoulders tremble before her iron control returned. Her back straightened. She turned to me, asked, “Would you please do something for me, figlio mio?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice was very soft as she said, “I would like for you to pray with me before we leave for your concert.” Her eyes took on an aching appeal. “Please, Giovanni. This is very important to me.”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  She led me to her bedside, smiled with a shy joy. “I cannot tell you how often I have thought and dreamed of this, figlio mio. So many nights, speaking to the blessed Father before I lay down my head, hoping that someday you would be here beside me in prayer.”

  Stiffly I knelt beside her. On the wall opposite her bed was an ancient painting of Jesus’ face. To have something to focus on, I concentrated on it, seeing the fatigue and the pain as the blood flowed down from His crown of thorns. Draped around the painting was the rosary of my grandmother’s mother, the little wooden cross dangling like a solitary beacon. The painting and the rosary had been on the wall above my grandparents’ bed for as long as I could remember.

  I copied her movements as she folded her hands before her face and bowed her head, feeling enormously uncomfortable, wondering why I had agreed.

  “Our blessed Father,” she said, and stopped. I heard my grandmother swallow heavily, take a ragged breath, and begin once more. “Beloved Lord of all, we kneel before you and give our deepest praise. It is you who granted my Giovanni his talent, and we thank you for this gift. I ask you please to bless him with your guidance and your protection. May you always be with him.”

  Guidance and protection. I felt the power of truth in her words, recalled the rage and the frustration of that past winter, saw in an instant of clarity how much of it had come because I had felt so utterly, totally alone.

  “Help my Giovanni to find you. Show him what it means to walk in faith all his days. Teach him to love you. Give him that special meaning to his life that is found only in you.”

  My grandmother became silent. I felt my body trembling, but it was not from fear. Half of me wanted to speak; the other half fought and struggled and cried that there was no one to hear me. I yearned and I felt the fool. I opened my mouth, but before the first word came I felt a tide of emotion so strong that I choked back the sobs. Why did I want to cry? Why had I allowed myself to be forced into doing this? Why must I be pushed into this turmoil time after time? I buried my face in the bedcover. I had nothing to say.

  After a moment’s stillness, I heard my grandmother’s gentle amen. She laid a hand upon my shoulder, and for some reason the gesture made the burning in my chest become stronger. I gritted my teeth and pressed hard with my forehead on the bed. I was embarrassed to have her see this reaction.

  I felt the mattress press down as she leaned upon it and rose stiffly to her feet. She patted my shoulder, said gently, “I will go and make myself ready, figlio mio. Thank you for this gift.”

  My grandmother and I arrived at the Staatstheater an hour before the program was to begin. While she waited by the stage door, I entered the watchman’s office and left my guitar. I heard loud, nervous voices farther along the hallway, but I had no desire to join them.

  Together we walked around the front to the wide semicircular band of colonnaded doors. The usher, an old man with stooped shoulders and a receding hairline, took my grandmother’s ticket and reached for mine.

  “I’m performing tonight.”

  He looked me over. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Giovanni di Alta.”

  He pulled a program from his coat pocket, opened it with shaky hands. “Alta, Alta, yeah, here you are.” Rheumy eyes turned to inspect me once more. “How old are you, kid?”

  “Old enough,” I said, and led my grandmother inside.

  The central foyer was split by a sweeping staircase that rose in graceful curves to the second floor balcony. I walked with her up the stairs, pausing halfway for her to admire the vast crystal chandelier and to catch her breath. We took one of the tables at the balcony’s edge so she could watch the people parade around below her in all their finery. I asked her if she wanted something to drink.

  “I believe I will have one of those little bottles of champagne tonight. What do they call them?”

  “A split.”

  “Yes. I have not drunk champagne in years. On such a night I should indulge myself a little, don’t you think?”

  I went to the bar at the back wall, and brought back a split of champagne for her and a soda for me.

  She poured a small glass for herself and watched the bubbles fade. She lifted the glass toward me, said, “To your success tonight, figlio mio.”

  I smiled and drank my soda.

  “Look at how calm you are. Don’t you feel the least bit nervous?”

  “A little,” I admitted. I spotted a program resting on an empty table. I walked over and picked it up. “They forgot to give you one,” I said, holding it out.

  She motioned for me to keep it. “Tell me what it says.”

  It was printed on heavy white paper with embossed edges. The heading was in large Gothic print, and read: Fifteenth Annual Evening of Classical Guitar. Underneath in smaller type it said: Recital by Professor Doktor Wolfgang Schmitz and Selected Students of the Dusseldorf Musikakademie.

  I opened the program and felt the world lurch slightly. My name was at the top of the page. My grandmother noticed and asked me what was the matter.

  “I play first,” I said faintly.

  “I do not understand,” my grandmother said.

  “The first and final slots are reserved for his star pupils.” I had simply assumed I would be somewhere near the middle.

  Her face shone. “This is truly a wonderful thing, Giovanni. He must have great confidence in you, your professor.”

  I looked out over the filling hall. Women wore elegantly piled coiffures and long dresses and many jewels. The men looked straight and stiff and proud in their evening clothes. I did not want to tell my grandmother how shocked I was by this. First performer for the recital. Professor Schmitz had not even mentioned it. After announcing that I was to play, he had not spoken of the recital at all.

  “Gianni!”

  I stood as Fraulein Rohr reached the top of the stairs. Her face was alive with excitement. I thought she looked vaguely alien in the dark velvet gown, with her hair all pinned into place.

  “Let me stop and catch my breath. Goodness, you look very handsome tonight. Yes, thank you, I’d love to sit down. Herr Scherer is still looking for a parking space. I saw Mario with his mother downstairs somewhere; they said that they would be up soon. My, look at all the people. Are you nervous?”

  I nodded. “I’m playing first tonight.”

  Her eyes became very round behind her glasses. “Gianni! That’s wonderful! What an honor. Wait until Herr Scherer hears of this.”

  She looked at my grandmother. “Please say to her that she must be very proud of her grandson.”

  I translated, and my grandmother nodded and said quietly, “It all comes from the simple kindness that she and the gentleman showed to you. Please tell her how very grateful I am, how indebted.�
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  When I translated, Fraulein Rohr became much more like her normal self, slightly flustered and reaching for the wayward strands of hair that tonight were not there. She looked at me with an expression of awe. “A student of mine is to be first performer in the great professor’s recital. I’m so excited I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  My grandmother said, “Ask the signorina if she would care for a taste of my champagne. I would find the moment so much nicer if I could share this.”

  I did so, then said to my grandmother, “I have to go.”

  “I know.” She reached over, grasped my hand with surprising strength. “You will go up on the stage and you will play beautifully. Of that I am perfectly sure.”

  I looked into her eyes, saw the utter serenity that not even two winters of ill health could remove. For a moment I wanted to stop and sit and tell her everything, how I had been forced to do what I was going to do.

  “I am so happy for you,” she said, basking me in the glow from her eyes. “There is only one thing in this entire world which could make me happier, figlio mio.”

  She paused and gave my hand another squeeze. “But this is not the time to speak of such things. Now go and make me proud.”

  A chill damp wind reached inside my clothes as I left the lighted foyer and entered the darkness. I hunched my shoulders and hustled around the building to the stage entrance. I retrieved my guitar from the watchman, signed his entry book, and walked down the hall. I turned a corner and climbed a flight of narrow stairs. Ceiling lights were set in metal mesh baskets. The walls were painted pale yellow. Everywhere there was ordered clutter—bunches of music stands, boxes with scribbled labels, folding chairs, stacks of printed notices for upcoming events. Voices from the audience echoed down the hallway like the murmur of a distant sea.

  I turned a corner and faced a group of young people in evening dress. They were all at least four or five years older than I. The taller boy, a blond-haired giant of twenty-two or twenty-three with aristocratic features, looked down his nose at me. “What do you want?”