The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  That night my fears took on vague forms and whispered to me in half-heard voices. I woke up cold and sweaty, and walked down the hallway to the bathroom. On the way back I stopped and looked at my grandmother’s empty bed. I had folded down the covers so they would be ready for her when she came home. In the lonely dark hours I stood in the doorway and felt the sick fear and allowed myself to wonder if she was ever coming back.

  The next morning I took the tram to the hospital. I walked along the high iron fence until I came to the guardhouse and the barred entrance. No one asked who I was or why I was there. I simply joined the rush of people and walked onto the hospital grounds.

  The buildings were separated by thin strips of grass and shrubs where patients in bathrobes and pajamas walked slowly back and forth. I entered the middle building, the oldest one, built of gray granite and mortar. The mortar had darkened with time and ran like thick black veins all over the building. Inside, the walls were high and bright yellow. The entrance hall, tiled in flagstone and lined with soft chairs, was filled with people in quiet conversation. It was well-lit and warm and rich with the smells of coffee from the corner restaurant and of flowers from the tiny florist.

  Upstairs in my grandmother’s hall the building’s age was more visible. The walls reached up very high. The lighting was distant and not so strong. The windows at the hall’s ends were set in granite almost two feet thick. Noises echoed up and down the hallway, as though the voices of patients long since gone were trapped and held there forever. The corridors were lined with empty beds and metal stands and bulletin boards and long wooden benches where Turkish women in bright head-kerchiefs fed crying babies from greasy paper bags.

  I stopped at the room number Signora Angeletti had written down for me. Gently I knocked on the door and entered. There were four beds in the room, separated by thin metal cupboards and night tables. All of the beds were occupied by old women locked in their own silent struggles. My grandmother’s was the one nearest the far wall, set beneath a grimy window.

  Her eyes watched me walk toward her, but her head did not rise from the pillow. She looked very tired. I sat in the metal-backed chair and grasped her hand. I did not know what to say.

  She eyed the book in my jacket pocket, asked, “What are you reading?”

  I lifted the book and showed her the cover. I was rereading Copland’s What To Listen For In Music.

  “Is that English? Yes?” She looked pleased. “What is it about?”

  I told her.

  “Music. Of course.” She gave her slight smile. “It is good that you are keeping up with your English, figlio mio.”

  She turned her head back toward the ceiling. The skin on her chin and neck settled into wrinkled folds. “It would be good to hear your music again.” She closed her eyes. “Perhaps someday you could bring your guitar and play for me here.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said.

  The faint smile returned. “Be sure and speak with the sister first. Now read your book, Giovanni. I think I will rest a moment.”

  The hall nurse looked at me curiously when I asked her, but she said it would be all right if I came with my guitar, provided I did not play for too long. Yes, tomorrow would be fine, she said, the curious expression still on her face.

  The following day was Sunday. The halls were more crowded with visitors on Sunday mornings than on any other day of the week. The hospital was very strict about visiting hours, especially in the public wards—one and a half hours before lunch and another hour in the late afternoon on Saturdays and Sundays. I tried not to think about the other people as I carried my guitar through the hospital corridors, but I could feel their eyes on me, and I felt my face grow hot.

  When my grandmother smiled her approval at my arrival, I knew I had done the right thing. “What a nice Sunday gift. I hope you asked the sister.”

  “I did.” Her voice sounded very dry and hoarse, and I knew her rest had been disturbed by all the visitors. There were people crowded around all the other beds in her room. “What do you want me to play?”

  “Something nice.” She turned her head and coughed, a deep racking wheeze that brought perspiration out on her forehead. When the coughing stopped she dropped her head back to the pillow and breathed hoarsely.

  “Are you all right?” The sound of that cough left me cold. My chest hurt for her. “Should I call a nurse?”

  Weakly she waved a hand in dismissal. “The doctor has given me something to make me cough. He says I must begin to clear my lungs.”

  “It sounds terrible.”

  “He says it is necessary. Now, sit down and play me something nice.” She settled back on her pillow. “I will close my eyes and rest for a moment.”

  I opened my case, took out the guitar, and sat with my back to the window. I faced the room and the people. The group of visitors slowly turned my way. I would have preferred to sit so I could not see them, but I wanted my grandmother to be able to open her eyes and look my way and feel that we were alone. I fought down my nervousness, quickly tuned the guitar, and began to play.

  My movements were awkward, almost forced. I stayed with simple melodies and played slowly, carefully. Play something nice, my grandmother had said. I played my guitar and tried to draw light into this room with my music, tried to build a shield of light around my grandmother’s bed, a shield that would hold and protect and heal her until it was time for her to come home.

  After I had played several melodies I looked up and saw that my grandmother had turned her head slightly and was watching me. “That was very nice, Giovanni,” she whispered.

  “Bravo,” said a louder voice from beside one of the other beds. “Do you speak German?”

  Reluctantly I raised my eyes. Most of the people were looking at me and smiling. A doctor and one of the nurses stood in the doorway.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen? You play like that at fifteen? Where did you learn?”

  “Here and in Italy.” I looked back to my grandmother, willing the man to leave us alone.

  My grandmother asked, “They like your music, no?”

  I nodded.

  “Bene, I am glad.” Her gaze became piercing. “There are others here who perhaps need the music as much as I do, no?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling vaguely ashamed.

  “Good, figlio mio. I am glad you understand. A gift from God should be given to all who are in need.” She turned back toward the ceiling and the strength seemed to drain from her face, leaving it empty and fragile. “Play us a little more then, Giovanni. I will close my eyes a moment. Suddenly I feel very tired.”

  I played a few more pieces, and when I finished she was asleep. I packed up my guitar and walked past the other beds, returning the smiles and nods and goodbyes and trying not to feel embarrassed. I walked down the stairs and through the flagstone entrance hall and out into the warm spring air.

  That night I lay in my windowless alcove with the drapes closed to give me an illusion of privacy. I looked up into darkness and recalled how fragile and vulnerable she had appeared. When the fear rose up like a specter I sought frantically for something that would keep it at bay, and once again heard her voice. A gift from God. It was as though I had never heard the idea before. The words seemed to illuminate my room.

  The next morning I arrived at the hospital a few minutes late. I hurried up the stairs and down the long corridors, said hello to the head nurse, opened the door to my grandmother’s room, and came to a halt.

  Seated at the table beneath the window were my father and my grandmother. They both looked toward me. I felt glued to the spot.

  “Come and sit down, Giovanni,” my grandmother said.

  A coldness started to well up inside me. “I’ll just be outside,” I said. I backed out and shut the door.

  I was trembling as I walked over and sat down on one of the hard wooden benches. The door to my grandmother’s room
opened. My father came out. His face looked white and drawn.

  “She wants you to come back inside.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll wait here,” I said.

  My father stood there a moment, looking at me, saying nothing. Eventually he turned and went back into the room.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. I remained in my place at one end of the hard wooden bench, watching the world of the hospital swirl around me, surrounded by my own inner coldness.

  Finally my father came out. He looked very grim as he shrugged on his jacket and walked away. He did not look my way.

  I hesitated, then stood and walked into my grandmother’s room. The air was still charged with my father’s presence. My grandmother sat at the table and stared unblinkingly out the window. The light from outside seemed to magnify her fragility, her fatigue. I walked over to her.

  “You should be lying down,” I said.

  She turned around. It seemed to take a moment before she was able to focus on me. “The doctor said I should get out of bed for a few moments every day.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Tired.” She held out an arm. “Help me back to bed, figlio mio.”

  I supported most of her weight as she shuffled the brief distance, sat, and eased herself gingerly under the covers. I adjusted things as best I could.

  With a limp hand she pointed toward her nightstand. “Take the Bible from the drawer, Giovanni.”

  Metal grated upon metal as I pulled the drawer open. Awkwardly I lifted out the big Book, its cover limp and softened by use. I held it out to her.

  “Sit, sit, I do not wish to look up to you.” When I had drawn up a chair, she said, “Why did you not come in and sit with your father, Giovanni?”

  I shook my head, feeling the coldness well up again.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Again I shook my head. I was afraid of what I might say.

  My grandmother looked at me a long time before saying, “Perhaps I should have sent you to your uncles in South America after all.”

  “No!” I shouted the word, pushing at her in alarm.

  “What a tone to use!” she said, her eyes sparking.

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  She turned her face to the ceiling. “Being close to death makes one see such things more clearly.”

  “You’re not going to die,” I said, fighting down panic. “Why are you talking like this? I hate you talking this nonsense.”

  Her eyes remained directed upward. “The day of my passing is for the Lord to decide. Whether it comes today or tomorrow or in twenty years is not for us to say. But I have passed close to death with this illness. I lie here and feel it watching me. And I know that sometime, as the Lord wills, it shall come for me again.”

  Weakly she waved my unspoken protests aside. “That is unimportant. What is important—listen carefully to me, Giovanni. What is important is that you do not let yourself be consumed by this hatred of yours.”

  I sat in silence. Was that what this coldness was, this feeling of almost everything inside me being asleep? I did not understand.

  She turned and searched my face. Her eyes were luminous. “To be consumed by hatred is worse than to be consumed by grief, figlio mio. Do you hear what I am saying? Tell me if you understand.”

  “Yes,” I answered, my voice very small. I was filled with coldness, a cold like death. Was that what hatred was—a little death?

  “I am not sure you fully understand.” She paused a moment, then said, “Open the Book to Ephesians, and read to me the last part of chapter four. No, Giovanni, turn farther toward the back. After Corinthians comes Galatians and then Ephesians.”

  Awkwardly I turned the pages, trying to recall the last time I had read from the Bible. Not since my school days in Como, I decided. I read:

  “And grieve not the holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto the day of redemption. Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice. And be ye kind one to another, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.”

  “God knows that it is hard for us to forgive,” my grandmother said. “But in His Son we find the strength to forgive all who wrong us, all who hurt us, all who do not answer our needs as we would wish.”

  With visible effort she raised herself up on one arm. She leaned toward me, saying with great intensity, “But before you can have His help to forgive, Giovanni, you must ask Him into your life. Do you see? If you fail to ask God’s assistance, how can He give you the strength? How can He keep you from walking ever further into the darkness of anger? I do not say that you have no reason to feel this way. I say that no reason is reason enough. No reason, figlio mio. Nothing is so great as to be worth the walk in darkness that results from not forgiving.”

  She eased herself back to her pillow, keeping her eyes on me all the time. I sat still, held by that dark burning gaze, but I looked inward as well as outward. Her coal-black eyes were a mirror, showing me what I did not wish to see within myself. I saw the pain and the hurt and the anger I had so carefully hidden away. I saw the memories of a father who was not there, who never called, who did not care. And I felt what the coldness had kept hidden from me. Oh yes, I hated him. The strength of that icy hatred frightened me, and my music was balanced with this hatred. Whichever won would destroy the other. And I was scared of losing either.

  My grandmother’s voice brought me back. “You must find for yourself the strength of Christ. When you are weak, He will be strong for you. Always, always remember that.” She turned away and shut her eyes.

  ****

  When I arrived on Tuesday the head nurse came out from behind her glassed-in desk and gave me a brisk hello. “Your grandmother had a bad night last night,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to go in right now.”

  I felt fear gripping my gut. “Is she all right?”

  The sister’s voice became clipped. “A bad night means a bad night, nothing more. She did not sleep well, and finally she is resting. She is suffering from severe congestion in both lungs. Do you understand those words?”

  “Yes.”

  “She has a pulmonary disorder; the doctors are not sure how serious it is. Nights like these are to be expected.” She paused, and brought out the professional smile. “I suppose it is all right for you to go in as long as you sit quietly and do not disturb her.”

  I showed her my book. “I will just sit and read.”

  “Fine. And what is your book, may I see?” She bent closer and read the title. She looked back at me. “You read English?”

  “Yes. It’s hard, though.”

  “And you speak German and Italian, I’ve heard both of those. Your German is quite good, by the way. Can you read in those languages, too?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me a moment longer, then said, “Not too long today, young man. And be as quiet as you can.”

  I thanked her and walked to my grandmother’s room. Crossing to her bed I felt the same empty dread rising that I lived with through the dark lonely nights. She lay motionless on her back, a grayish pallor to her skin. I nodded a greeting to the woman in the next bed, silently set the chair down beside my grandmother, and pretended to read. I could not concentrate on the words, but I kept the book open on my lap as I sat and looked at my grandmother, and willed her to get well.

  Two tubes connected her left arm to plastic globes hung from a thin metal stand. Colored wires passed from her chest back to a machine that lit up and beeped softly in time to her pulse. Another set of tubes projected from her nostrils. A clear plastic tube was connected to the side of her mouth.

  She did not open her eyes the entire time I was there. She only moved twice, to lean away from me and cough those deep, racking wheezes that left her face covered with a sheen of perspiration. Then she would lie back and breathe hoarsely.

  When I reentered the corridor the
head nurse came out to greet me. “Would you like a cup of tea, young man?”

  “No, thank you.” The thought of swallowing anything made me ill.

  She studied my face, then became very stern. “Now you listen to me, young man. I will not have any such nonsense from you. I get enough from my patients. Your grandmother is an old woman, and she is very ill, but she is strong. She needs your strength, not your worries. Do you understand?”

  I could barely manage a nod.

  “For a woman of her age such things are to be expected. The doctors are doing everything possible for her. You must be patient and hope that she will improve.”

  * * *

  I wandered the streets in a blind, unseeing panic for hours before finally making my way home. I walked into the Angelettis’ little store, and was vastly relieved to find the signora there alone. Before I had finished my story she was moving, swiftly lifting the apron over her head, dialing the phone and ordering her husband downstairs, patting her hair into place, rubbing work-grimed hands on a little cloth, reaching into the register for money. I stood and allowed the storm to swirl around me, and gave in to the emptiness.

  She led me outside and into a waiting taxi. She had me repeat my story on the way to the hospital, made me eat bits of an orange that she peeled as I talked. When I faltered she barked at me sharply. Hold on, she said again and again. Be strong. Your grandmother needs your strength.

  When we arrived at the hospital, Signora Angeletti insisted on stopping by the florist before going upstairs, and then rushed into the bathroom to wash her hands and pin back her hair. We walked up the stairs in silence. I felt my legs were made of lead.

  My grandmother’s hall was very still. Visiting hours were long since over. A breathless hush followed us down the corridor. Soft tatters of conversation behind closed doors and the squeaking of nurses’ shoes down side-corridors only intensified the quiet.

  When the head nurse saw us she started to come out from her cubicle, hesitated, then reached for the phone. She cupped a hand to the mouthpiece, hiding her lips from view as she said a few brief words and then set the receiver down. Her eyes stayed steady on us.