The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  Jake returned to the van just as a young man in a starched green uniform and heavy black-framed glasses came walking over. He smiled at Danilo. “What’s up, Dago?”

  “Guys, this is Reverend Steve Hawkins,” Danilo said. “He’s the chaplain here and the on-base coordinator for the Navigators. Steve, I’d like you to meet the band Natural Light.”

  Amy was standing beside me; I asked her who they were, these Navigators. She replied, “They’re a group of Christians who minister mostly on military bases and college campuses.”

  Steve Hawkins cupped a hand over his eyes, leaned back and stared up at Jake. “They bring you along in case we’re invaded?”

  “This is Jake Templer, the band leader,” Danilo said. “He’ll be leading the prayer group today.”

  “How you doin’, Reverend?”

  Steve drew back in mock horror and grinned. “If I give you my hand, do you promise to give it back?”

  “This is Amy, the lead singer. And here’s the new kid I was telling you about, Giovanni di Alta. Call him Gianni.”

  “Or Maestro—did I say that right? Dago’s built you up to be another Segovia.”

  “Wait ’til you hear him.”

  “Yeah, well, I look forward to that.” He turned back to Jake. “We decided to hold the prayer meeting in the barracks. It looks like there’s gonna be quite a few guys there who don’t have much more than a nodding acquaintance with the Lord, if that. We thought it would help them relax if it wasn’t held in the church.”

  “Fine with us,” Jake said. “The room big enough for everybody?”

  “This barracks has a nice commons room, and we’ve reserved it for—” Steve lowered his head and glanced at his watch. I could see the skin under his short-cropped blond hair. “Five minutes ago. We better get a move on. Dago, you want to help me sign them in?”

  The buildings on the central street were three-story squat white cinderblock squares. Through the trees I spotted a couple of newer structures, bigger and set with larger windows. Enormous signs on the carefully trimmed lawns in front of each building were all printed in English. Some of the longer buildings had big signs hung over the front doors decorated with shields and initials that I did not understand.

  The mottled green uniforms—fatigues, Danilo called them—were everywhere. Even the trucks were painted in camouflage. We stopped at an intersection to let a squad of troops march by in front of us; many of the soldiers were women. Danilo pulled into a large parking lot that ran along the outer fence. As we headed for the front of the building, I asked Danilo about the nickname everyone was calling him.

  Danilo laughed. “Dago’s a bad name for a Latino in America. Only I didn’t know that when I first started working here. Some of the guys in the kitchen used to call me that, and I liked the sound of it. So I started introducing myself as Dago Angeletti. When I found out what it meant, it was too late.”

  We paused to let a group of loud-voiced men in fatigues and crew cuts enter the building before us. Most of them looked twice my size.

  Steve led us up the stairs and through the entrance. He stopped in front of a bored-looking man seated behind a battered desk just inside the double doors.

  “You remember Dago, Harry,” Steve said.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “We’re getting together with some of the guys in the back room. You oughtta come join us.”

  “Can’t.” The guy leaned back to reveal a massive belly. The chair creaked dangerously under his weight. “Captain’s put me on extra duty all weekend.”

  “Tough,” Danilo offered.

  “You ain’t lyin’.”

  “This is the group that’s playing for us tonight. Okay if we all go on through?”

  “Yeah, sure.” The bored eyes glanced over us. “Dago says you guys are pretty hot.”

  “They are,” Danilo said.

  “Yeah, well, if the captain don’t decide to hang me I’ll try and stop by tonight.”

  Steve bent over the clipboard. “Okay if I just say Dago and friends?”

  “Not on your life. Somebody put down Attila and Co. yesterday. That’s what got me in this mess. Captain gave me nineteen kinds of grief. Write out all their names.”

  Steve laboriously signed us in, then led us across the hall, through a set of swinging doors, and into a room lined on one side with windows and on the other with vending machines. Folding metal chairs were formed into a circle in the center of the room. About thirty people wearing everything from jeans and sweatsuits to full uniforms watched us come in.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Steve said briskly. “I’d like to introduce you to the band Natural Light.”

  We sat down and shook hands with the people nearest us, bowed our heads and let Steve lead us in an opening prayer. When we finished Jake cleared his throat, opened his Bible, and leaned over it for another moment of silence.

  There was a special quality to the waiting, a sense of awe over Jake’s size. I saw glances exchanged as he hunkered over his Bible, unconsciously flexing shoulders that seemed acres across. I studied the faces in the little circle.

  I saw cropped hair and coiled strength and erect posture and watchful eyes. About half the group were women, and they too showed a toughness, an edge of hard-won confidence. I looked back at Jake and realized he was one of them. He could talk to them because he had been there, seen it, lived through it, survived.

  “Always had a good feelin’ about Paul,” Jake rumbled. “Man was a soldier. We don’t know how many Christians he murdered, or helped to imprison and torture, but we know he was after all he could find. Thought he was followin’ the Law, living right ’cause he was fightin’ the good fight.”

  Jake set one massive hand on his knee. “Known guys all my life who lost themselves in that lie. Yeah, figured all they had to do was follow orders. Men so blind with anger all they can do is hold it in ’til somebody tells ’em which way to point and shoot.”

  His eyes took on a look of ancient exhaustion. “We got all kinda ways to justify rage. We make it up all formal, with orders and books and officers who gotta take the responsibility for what we’re gonna do. Paul did that, too. He was a Pharisee, a Roman citizen, man from the tribe of Benjamin. Had all the rank and all the right moves. Had every right reason to hate and hunt and kill.

  “The Bible don’t tell us what the man thought before he was saved. Don’t have to, far as I’m concerned. Don’t have to tell me what I’ve seen for myself.” He leaned forward and raked the circle with his gaze. “I’ll tell you one thing for sure, right now, right here. One thing Paul didn’t have was hope.

  “Rage and hope can’t live in the same heart. You got rage, you’ve burned up every hope you ever had. Man’s got a thousand reasons to hate. I’ll give you just one for why you gotta get rid of it, only reason that’s ever meant anything to me. Hope, found through faith in Christ. Man who’s lived without it knows how much it means, how empty life is without it.”

  I glanced at the others in the room. A few sat with arms crossed, faces totally blank, masks of stone reflecting hearts that were not moved. Some held open Bibles and nodded their heads, recognizing something they’d already found out for themselves. A few others, hard faces touched by aching vulnerability, were locked in introspection. Their eyes cried out with unspoken pain.

  “Paul was walkin’ down the Damascus Road. It was hot, real hot. Hot and dry and dusty. Man was sweatin’ hard and the dust was caked all over him. Probably dressed in battle fatigues, sandals and some kinda belt to hold his gear and keep things from swingin’ around when he was fightin’. Shield maybe slung over one shoulder, maybe had a knife strapped to his shin. Lotta guys still do that, keep it around for the hand-to-hand. Big sword. I’ve always seen Paul as a big man. Strong. Carried a lotta steel. Liked the feel of that handle. Yeah. Probably walked with his sword hand wrapped around the hilt. Man’s worn that sword so long it’s a part of him. Keeps it oiled with a little leather cloth he’s got stowed in his kit.
Probably gotta a coupla dark stains on it, though. Awful hard to get old bloodstains off that steel.

  “Then he sees this light in front of him. Light so strong it blinds the man. Light powerful enough to outshine a desert sun. I spent a lotta time thinkin’ about that light. Wondered what it musta been like, strong enough to turn that old soldier’s knees to jelly.”

  Jake looked over the group, asked, “Anybody know what Jesus said to the soldier?”

  A voice replied from the circle, “ ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ ”

  “Not persecute my men,” Jake said. “Not kill my believers. No, the Lord says, persecute me. This was personal. The Lord lived in the hearts of His believers, and when one of them was hurt, so was the King.”

  He started turning pages, said, “How ’bout somebody readin’ from Colossians, chapter one, verses twenty-five through twenty-seven.”

  After a moment another voice read,

  I have become its servant by the commission God gave me to present to you the word of God in its fullness—the mystery that has been kept hidden for ages and generations, but now is disclosed to the saints. To them God has chosen to make known among the gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.

  “You gotta remember, now,” Jake went on. “This was written by the old soldier himself. Cleansed by the light that blinded him back there on the Damascus Road. It came into that empty place deep inside him. Behind the veil of his hate. And it gave his soul an anchor of hope.”

  Jake leaned back in his chair, went on, “I was your basic angry young man. Born on a mean little farm in North Carolina, didn’t hardly raise nothin’ but a lotta dust. Learned to stay mad all the time. I was angry at who I was, how trapped the system kept me, what they’d done to my family, what they were gonna do to me if they could. Hated ’most everybody.”

  From her seat beside him, Amy slid a hand down his arm, let it rest on his thigh. The look she gave him brimmed with the bonding of shared pain.

  “Older I got, the more I learned to control it, let it out when I needed it most. Found I could get what I wanted just holdin’ all that hate inside, lookin’ at somebody and lettin’ them see they were playin’ with fire, messin’ with the man. Wouldn’t listen to nobody, nossir. Too much chance they was just out to play with my head.

  “Only reason I could stay in school was ’cause I was the football team’s shinin’ star; yeah, couldn’t let no color or no hate get in the way of all those touchdowns. Coach took care of my teachers. That man had his hands full, I tell you. They either wanted to patronize me or dominate me, and I wasn’t havin’ none of that stuff. Naw. They’d start off with their little games, sayin’ one thing with their mouths and another with their eyes, and I’d just let the hate show through. Stand up real close to those ofays, yeah, right up so’s they gotta lift up their chins to see me, and bombard ’em with all the hate I had inside.

  “Busted my knee that last year, fightin’ after a ball game someplace in the middle of nowhere. That was the excuse they all been waitin’ for. Didn’t even give me time to clear out my locker. Came and told me in the hospital.” Jake twisted his head over to one side, rounded out the words. “We don’t see as how we can let you come back, Mr. Templer. ’Fraid you’re just not a positive influence on the other students.”

  I searched his face for a trace of the anger he spoke of, found only the same focused power that was always in his eyes. It felt as though the room itself were holding its breath, listening with an intensity that went far beyond any desire to hear just the words.

  “Joined up just as soon as my leg was straightened out. Looked like the only way left for me to escape bein’ broken by the farm. Spent eleven years in our man’s army. Made my sergeant’s stripes the beginnin’ of year two. Spent another year hearin’ ‘nigger’ every time a white man said ‘sergeant.’ Then I met a man who showed me how to turn the burden over to Jesus. Big white boy, thirty-year man, master sergeant from the Bronx. Taught me it wasn’t the strong man who held out on his own. Greatest sign of courage a man could have was to give it up, turn it over, trust in the Lord Jesus. Hard lesson, man, I fought it like a tiger. Hard to fight the truth, though. Means shuttin’ your ears to the voice of your heart.

  “It’s like . . .” Jake raised two strong black hands in front of his face, molded the air with a force that bunched the muscles in his arms. “Man, it’s like my whole life was just clay, didn’t make no sense at all long as I was tryin’ to put it together myself. Then I turned it over to the Lord, and what happens? He takes the whole mess and makes it into something beautiful. Gives it meanin’. Turns it from somethin’ ugly and angry and full of hate, and makes it a glory to His name. And the more I learn to turn it over to Him, the more beautiful it becomes.

  “All the trouble in this world, all the sorrow, seems to me a Christian’s the only person on earth who’s got a reason to sing. When Jesus saves you, man, He puts a song in your heart. You don’t need drugs or sex or anger to push you to sing. You’re not scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel anymore. Naw, the barrel’s so full now you’ve got to sing. Sing praises to the name of the One who saved us, taught us what hope and joy and peace really mean.”

  He flipped the pages of his Bible, asked, “Somebody want to read Colossians for us again? Chapter one, verses twenty-five through twenty-seven.”

  Fingers searched the pages, then a voice read:

  “I have become its servant by the commission God gave me to present to you the word of God in its fullness—the mystery that has been kept hidden for ages and generations, but is now disclosed to the saints. To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.”

  Jake let the silence hold long enough to look around the circle of faces. “The old soldier sure did change, didn’t he? So full of hope he’s got to share it with the world. Spends his life talkin’ about love and light and the gift of hope. The riches of this mystery, how a man so bitter and full of hate can be cleansed. Totally cleansed, totally free. And then filled with the hope of glory.”

  He bowed his head, said, “Let us pray.”

  ****

  It bothered me that there was no backstage room for the musicians. It bothered me even more that the hall was almost empty.

  Our own lights were set up to either side of a stage clearly designed for theatrical performances. Heavy velvet curtains were bound out of the way of our PA stack. The stage floor was polished wood. Up front were cueing boxes that we used as backdrops for our playback speakers. Mario had balanced the sound as best he could, considering the hall’s high ceiling and stark concrete walls and wood floor. He would handle both lights and music mixing that night, since the military chapel’s budget was too tight to afford a professional lighting job. Pipo predicted that Mario would be busier than a monkey trying to hold three bananas and a tree limb during a hurricane.

  We were standing in the cramped hallway behind the stage, trying not to get in each other’s way, waiting for the cue from Reverend Steve Hawkins to go onstage. There was no need to check the crowd. Scattered voices rang through the hall’s empty spaces. The place sounded cavernous.

  Amy came over. “It’s not exactly what you’re used to, is it, Gianni?”

  “Not exactly,” I agreed glumly.

  “And it doesn’t help for me to tell you that the numbers don’t matter, so long as we’re doing the Lord’s work.”

  “Not a lot,” I agreed.

  “Leaving a beautiful club in a beautiful city to come and play with people you don’t know. And then what happens? You get yourself stuck in this big drafty hall with only about thirty people out there wanting to hear your music.”

  I nodded and studied the floor at my feet. I did not want to tell Amy that this was only the latest in a series of problems I had faced since my return to Germany. The entire week had been full of painful solitude. Between practice sessions w
ith Jake I had walked streets crowded with memories I had sought for years to bury. Returning to this cold, bleak land had only resurrected my loneliness and pain. I struggled with a constant desire to flee, yet a return to Como held the same emptiness that had driven me north. I stood in the back hallway and listened to snatches of conversation echo through the empty auditorium, and wondered if I would ever find answers. Or peace.

  Amy asked, “Have you ever heard the story of Gideon, Gianni?”

  The name was familiar, but I could not remember the story. I shook my head.

  “He was called by the Lord to free his land from oppressors. He gathered this enormous army, and do you know what the Lord told him to do? Send all but a handful home, God said. I want to make sure that when victory comes, all the people of this nation will know that it comes through me, and not from some effort of their own.”

  Amy settled a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Maybe that’s what he’s doing here for you, Gianni. Maybe He has something special He wants to show you, and He doesn’t want you to think afterward that it came because there was a great crowd or a beautiful hall. I can’t tell you why it’s like this. All I can say is that everything works to the good for those who love the Lord and seek to do His will.”

  I gazed into dark eyes full of loving concern. “I feel deep in my being that you are here for a special purpose,” she said softly. “Trust in Him.”

  “I don’t even know who He is,” I replied.

  She nodded, understanding. “Just give Him time, Gianni. Seek Him with all your heart and mind. He will answer you.”

  “You people sound so sure,” I said. “We’ve got an empty hall out there and all you can do is praise God like He’s done you some enormous favor.”

  “He has,” Amy replied softly.

  Reverend Hawkins appeared on the stairs leading up to the stage and gave Jake the high sign.

  “Okay,” Jake signaled to the band. “Gather ’round, everybody. Let’s have a prayer and get to it.”