The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  Once again I allowed my hands to be grasped by these strangers, bowed my head, and listened to words spoken to a being whose existence I did not believe in. Afterward, as Jake climbed the stairs beside me, he said, “Heard you talking to the lady back there. You know what Christ said about tryin’ to live alone? ‘Without me you can do nothing.’ ”

  My shoulders bounced in a humorless laugh. “I’ve been playing music all my life without your God.”

  Jake shook his head. “Wasn’t talkin’ about your music.”

  “So what are we talking about?”

  “Your life,” Jake replied. “Won’t ever know the ultimate ’til you know Jesus Christ. Won’t ever understand what it means to live with a purpose.”

  I entered the stage behind him. The applause was faint and scattered. Jake walked to the front of the stage, raised a mallet-sized fist and outstretched finger into the spotlight, called, “Praise the Lord!”

  There was an awkward silence in reply. I felt thoroughly embarrassed for the man. Jake walked back to his position, as stone-faced as ever. He nodded to us. “Hit it hard.”

  Sameh clicked us off and we swung into our first song, a hard-rock form of White Heart’s “He Is Returning.” I looked around at the others, saw six bodies moving in time to the punching sound, spotted the makings of a grin on Jake’s hard features, watched a heavy-lidded satisfaction show on Sameh’s bobbing head, saw Pipo dance behind his congas. They appeared oblivious to the almost-empty hall.

  Finishing the first song, we swung immediately into the second, “Long Ago” by Jon Gibson. It was a reggae funk, a strong beat that gave Pipo the chance to run wild. Karl sang lead, we all swung in behind him on the chorus. I spotted people gathering at the hall’s two back entrances. Others appeared behind them, and began pushing the first ones forward. Steve Hawkins went over to shake hands and gesture them toward chairs. Those down front were dancing in their seats, smiling up at us. I found myself smiling back.

  “Inside Out,” a song by Bryan Duncan, was next. It was my turn to shine, drawing a tension of sound between Sameh, Pipo and me. Karl’s voice reached out over our rolling funk, but could not dominate. He was a good singer, but not a drawing card. He lacked the magic a lead singer required. I thought I could sing better than he did, but I did not offer. I was not ready to sing the words that Karl was belting out.

  The cheers were loud and long, especially considering the size of the crowd. As more people spilled through the open doors, Jake waved a hand in thanks, kept it up high, turned around and pulled the fist down for Sameh to count us out.

  The next song was a surprise favorite of mine, “The Lord Came Through” by Russ Taff. It had a fifties rock-and-roll swing, and set the crowd moving. Hans was all over the stage with his horn, the quiet little man transformed to a bouncing bundle of energy. There had been no hint of this change in our practice sessions, yet there he was, spinning and dancing and bending backward on the high notes so far that his head nearly reached the floor. I looked toward Sameh. The placid mask was gone, replaced by an enormous grin. The sphinx played like one possessed.

  “Fallen World” by David Mullen,[8] the final song before Amy’s entry, required my shifting to the steel-string hollow-body Ibanez. When I was strapped on and plugged in, I turned to Sameh. He counted with silent lips, then began hitting a fluid tattoo on the side of his snare. I replied with rapid licks to fit his timing. His eyes burned like black diamonds.

  I felt myself caught up in something totally new, a magnetic force that drew me toward the others on the stage. I returned Sameh’s grin, found myself laughing in reply to Pipo’s whooping shout. The power was electric. Karl sang the words, help me live and help me love in a fallen world; they took on a meaning that was never there in the practice sessions. It was a truth, a cry, a plea that tugged at my heart. Something was happening up here. The open doors, the milling bodies, the sounds reverberating back toward us from the almost-empty hall; it all drew away into the distance. A joining was taking place, touching all of us. Help me live and help me love in a fallen world, Karl cried, and I wanted to cry too.

  Pipo picked up bell and drumstick, raised them up over his head, and came dancing out from behind his congas. I switched over to the guitar’s second pick-up and powered into my solo. Pipo weaved his way around Jake, stopped in front of me, dropped the stick and bell down to either side of his body, then swooped them up and over his head to beat the time in thunderclaps. On the chorus, we faced each other and sang into the same mike. Help me live and help me love in a fallen world. I swung back to Jake and Sameh, clipped the heavy rock beat as Karl sang out the final line, and finished.

  I didn’t know so few people could make so much noise.

  Pipo flung a sweaty arm across my shoulders and yelled over the applause, “Think maybe we’re gonna have to keep you.”

  “Gianni di Alta on lead guitar,” Jake called, waited for the applause and the whistles to die down, then finished, “Gianni’s playin’ his first gig with us tonight. Nice to see the Lord do His work through such a talented man.”

  When the break arrived—we were only doing two sets that night—I was too charged up to stop. The hall had continued to fill throughout the set; at least a hundred people milled about. I had never seen so many easy smiles at a concert, so much laughter, so little cigarette smoke.

  I walked over to where Jake was chatting softly with Amy and toweling his arms and face. “Would it be all right if I did a classical piece?”

  A look passed between them; then Amy moved over and slid an arm around my waist. “Is my Giovanezzo still caught up in the Spirit?”

  I disengaged. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Giovanezzo? Why, did I say it wrong?”

  “You said it perfect. I just haven’t heard it in a long time, is all.” Ten years, to be exact.

  “Mario told me your grandmother used to call you that sometimes.” Her look was soft, very concerned. “Did I say something wrong, Gianni?”

  “No, it’s fine. It just startled me.”

  “I won’t use it again if you don’t like it.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I guess.” It amazed me how natural it had sounded in her mouth. “You have a very nice Italian accent.”

  She preened. “Think maybe I should try out for the opera?”

  “Seems to me the lady’s right where she’s meant to be,” Jake murmured.

  “I think so too,” I said. Giovanezzo. Little Giovanni.

  “You want to do a solo, go ahead,” Jake told me. “Like me to give you an intro?”

  “No, that’s all right.” I smiled at Amy, said again, “It was nice what you said. Really.”

  She smiled back. “Knock ’em dead, Maestro.”

  I went over and asked Mario if he’d mind putting me through the PA. He gave me one of his knowing looks. All he said was, “You want a spot?”

  “No, I’d rather play out in the open.”

  Mario nodded as though expecting nothing less. “It really makes a difference when the Spirit is there, doesn’t it, Maestro?”

  I shrugged. “I just want to play a little on the hollow-body.”

  “Sure, Maestro,” Mario said, his gaze steady. “That’s all it is.”

  I walked up on stage, picked up the Chet Atkins, plugged it in, raised it to the crowd as they greeted me with scattered applause. The conversation and laughter faltered, but picked up again when the lights remained on. I didn’t mind at all. I brought Lothar’s stool out from behind the keyboards, set it where I could use one of the playback speakers as a footstool, sat down, did a quick tuning, adjusted the volume, and began.

  I decided to play a Spanish piece I had learned several years ago during one of my brief forays back into classical. It was a piece full of fire and fury, one that captured the wild spirit of flamenco. I did not even try to tame it. I allowed the music to run free, and played to an audience that was probably hearing classical guitar for the first time.

  I caress
ed the strings as the piece moved through a passage of lost love and heavy hearts, then struck with all my might as the explosive Latino passion screamed out the frustration and hunger of unquenched desire. The power of those hotly strummed sequences roared from the PA and leaped back at me from the rear wall. I felt myself being carried away as the crescendo approached, playing faster and faster as the last runs shattered the air, striking the chords with a flurry of blows, smashing out their glorious sound like a madman.

  The last note seemed to ring out into infinity. When the final breath of sound whispered away, I looked up and drank it in.

  The hall was bedlam. People shouted, whistled, clapped, stamped their feet. Behind the mixing board Mario was waving two fists over his head and shouting something that I could not hear.

  Jake appeared from the side entrance, walked up, shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. He bent toward the nearest mike. “Giovanni di Alta, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The audience roared its approval. I smiled and waved, then turned to accept a hug from Amy. Jake strapped on his bass, returned to the mike, asked the crowd, “Y’all mind if we try a little jam?”

  I thought Mario was going to leap over his boards.

  Jake turned to me. “Wanna try a Judgment Day Blues?”

  Amy laughed. “Perfect.”

  “Soft and slow,” Jake said, strapping on his bass. “Just take it and play it any way you want, Gianni. We’ll work around your lead.”

  I nodded and bent over my guitar. “Judgment Day Blues” was a song by Mark Farner,[9] straight R&B. I thought it over. “Let’s keep to the original timing.”

  Jake nodded, asked, “Want me to start?”

  “You and Amy,” I said. “I’ll work in around her voice.”

  He turned to her, asked, “That sound all right to you?”

  Her eyes remained on me. “Whatever Giovanezzo wants is fine by me.”

  Jake began to hit a simple three-note melody, hammering the sound with his thumb, chopping off the sound with the side of his palm. It added a sharp beat to the music, both drumbeat and deep-throated melody. He repeated the notes, adding little runs, filling in the spaces. Amy pulled her mike free, flipped the cord out, did a little swaying dance in front of Jake, began to hum softly to his solo.

  I played the opening chord, then slid my third finger up and ran through the singer’s opening line, Well, there’s a great day a’comin’, then drifted down a minor run to blend in with Jake and hit the chord again.

  “Sweet, Giovanezzo, oooh, sweet,” Amy murmured, her mike at her side.

  Lord gave me a message, have you heard the news, my guitar sang, and ran off into the distance for a moment, then drifted back for the chords. Amy began humming again. The crowd was totally silent.

  Amy lilted through the first verse, singing light and clean, holding back on the strength, pouring honey over the words. Lord gave me a message, have you heard the news.

  With the chorus she rose up to her full height, turned to the audience, lifted her chin and the mike together, and let it rip. Some folks don’t even know they’ve got it, she cried. Naw, they don’t even know. But they’ll be cryin’ when they find out they’ve got the Judgment Day Blues.

  Jake pumped his upper body in time to the thumping bass. He was the anchor for both of us, holding us to earth and binding us together. His whole world was set around those simple chords. They told a story which Amy’s words brought out and explained. The deep-throated music did not reach my mind; it went deeper, beyond the realm of words.

  I hit a note once, twice, a third time, bouncing in time to the steady rhythm. Then I halved the time between notes for the space of one bar. A third halving. And on the fourth, when my notes were a rapid-fire staccato and my fingers a blur, I danced a tiny circle, up a half octave, back, down the same distance, holding the strings and plucking that first note. Another rapid reaching, and I soared a full two octaves in the space of a heartbeat. I slowed and climbed at a steady pace, starting from the low point of the first string, up and up, hovering around a point in harmony to Amy’s voice, changing direction without conscious thought, riding the music like an eagle on unseen gusts of wind. Higher and higher I moved, trilling a song to the empty spaces between Jake’s beat.

  Pipo bounced up the side stairs to the stage, said as he passed me, “You think I’m gonna miss this, you’re whacko.”

  “Count me in too,” Sameh said, and climbed in behind his drums.

  As the two of them powered in, I unstrapped the hollow-body and changed to the Stratocaster. I listened as Amy started lashing out the second verse. I held back, played the chords, heard her cry to the audience. It’s a vast epidemic, she sang. People all over the world been tryin’ to work it out. Pipo played the wooden block a while, then picked up the second stick and offered Sameh an alternate rhythm on the open snare—dancing all the while, grinning like an idiot. Sameh and Jake remained fixed in their expressions, their eyes reflecting an inner light.

  At the end of the second chorus Amy pointed at me. “Raise it up, Gianni!”

  I powered my way up a steep incline, pausing now and then to chord a reminder of just where we were. She raised her mike and soared alongside me. The solo verse ended, and there was no longer any need for either of us to touch earth. She went back to singing the words, but the tune was something of her own creation, something pulled from the very deepest part of her. I listened and followed—a run here, a swoop and dive there, playing to the path her spirit traveled.

  When we stopped, we all stopped together. There was no need for words or signals. The song finished and rose into the breathless silence of the room. I stood there for the space of a heartbeat, marveling at what we had just done; then we all broke out laughing.

  Amy wrapped her arms around me, drew me over so she could hold Jake and me both. Pipo raced around, pounded us on the back, laughed into my ear.

  “We did it, baby!” he shouted. “We just broke loose and flew away.”

  Chapter 8

  The sound of soft laughter drew me from bed the next morning. I slipped on a pair of trousers, stopped by the bathroom to wash my face, and entered the kitchen to find Amy wearing a simple cream-colored dress and Jake a coat and tie.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Amy said. “You’ve got just enough time for a cup of coffee before we head out for church.”

  “Can’t keep the Lord waitin’,” Jake said. “Not on His day.”

  Although the morning still held a springtime chill, sunlight poured from a cloudless sky. We traveled through silent tree-lined streets, the other cars moving at a lazy Sunday-morning pace. Amy sat in the front seat beside Jake, stroking languid fingers along the back of his neck and humming brief snatches of songs.

  There was no church anywhere in sight when we pulled into a crowded parking lot and stopped. Families moving toward a set of open glass doors turned, smiled, and waved in the van’s direction.

  “Where are we?”

  “International School of Dusseldorf,” Jake replied. “Leastways, that’s what it is during the week. Sundays it belongs to the Lord.”

  “It’s for children from first grade right up through high school,” Amy said. “Almost all the classes are in English.”

  “Big hit with the expense-account crowd,” Jake said. “They’re ’bout the only ones who can afford it.”

  “Tuition is over fifteen thousand dollars a year,” Amy said. “Executives with big multinational companies send their children here.”

  “Congregation’s been looking for a permanent home,” Jake said. “But ’til we find what we need, this’ll do all right.”

  “A prayer group used to meet near here eight or nine years ago,” Amy said. “They wrote the Southern Baptist Foreign Mission Board and asked them to send a missionary-preacher. A year or so later they sent over Reverend Bill DeLay from Atlanta, Georgia. Since he arrived, the church has grown from a dozen couples to over four hundred people.”

  We entered a
noisy, unprepossessing hall, its walls constructed of unadorned concrete, the balcony railings and ceiling of steel siding. Light filtered in through a filthy skylight, augmented by rows of naked bulbs with metal shades. Creaky folding chairs were being scraped across the floor and set into place. I allowed Amy and Jake to lead me toward the front, then slid into the indicated seat, enormously embarrassed to be there. I could not help but compare this to the church in Como, or even the one in my little village. I felt embarrassed for them all, to be forced to endure such conditions and call it a church.

  The altar was a small rickety table covered by a simple white cloth; it held an open Bible, an old wooden cross, and two unlit candles in wooden holders. The minister’s podium was a battered music stand with a matchbook jammed under one leg to keep it level. Behind the minister’s place rose a makeshift stage; the stage-curtains were strips of old sheets sewn together with multicolored thread, drawn back and held open with masking tape. The backdrop was a crude painting, obviously done by very young children, of a man on a horse.

  It was a poor excuse for a church. Yet as I looked around the room, I was struck by the simple joy on most people’s faces. They did not seem to notice the surroundings at all.

  The congregation was a rainbow of races. Directly in front of me sat three blacks in African garb. Amy stood and greeted an incoming family with a bow and a few words in Japanese; their joy at her words was a pleasure to behold. I rose at Jake’s gesture to shake hands with a diminutive group of young people from the Philippines. I caught words in German and several languages I had never heard before. And all around me floated the drawling laughter of Americans.

  The minister appeared, a distinguished bearded man dressed in a conservative suit and gold-rimmed glasses. I watched him stop to shake hands and nod; he seemed to know everyone by first name.

  In his opening remarks the minister took time to greet many people specifically—a woman back after a long illness; a family returned from three months in America; a man whose wife had just given birth to their second child; a visitor back for a third time.