The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  “I’m just not ready yet,” I protested.

  “Tell me another one. What, you need a little more emptiness and futility in your life, is that it? Gotta walk a little farther down that dark path? Gianni, the Bible says that now is the day of salvation. Says you gotta take it when it’s offered, when the Lord is there for you to seek.”

  “You guys talk about the Bible like it was some kind of all-powerful answer for everything. I’ve looked at it a couple of times. All that blood and killing and stuff. It’s just a book.”

  “That’s right, it is. And it’ll stay just a book as long as you’re on the outside looking in. That’s how it is, Gianni. You can’t have it both ways. If you want to see the Lord’s wisdom in His work, you gotta ask Him to show it to you himself. God works from the inside out. The biggest changes that He brings to your life are the ones down deep, where only you and He can ever find them.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Mario leaning against the doorjamb, watching us in utter stillness. I asked in Italian, “You want to come over and take a couple of slugs at me too?”

  He pushed himself erect, walked over, said in English, “Sounds to me like Pipo’s doing just fine, Maestro.”

  Pipo slithered upright to make room for Mario. His eyes didn’t leave my face. “You think maybe you’d like to pray with us, Gianni?”

  “I don’t know what to say.” It sounded feeble even to me. “I don’t even know if God exists.”

  “Only way you’ll ever know is if you let God show you,” Mario said. “And you’ve got to let Him in for that to happen.”

  “Why don’t you just tell Him that?” Pipo suggested easily. “Just say what you did to me. If God’s there, He’ll let you know.”

  “ ‘Behold,’ ” Mario said quietly, “ ‘I stand at the door and knock: If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.’ ”

  “What do you say, Gianni?” Pipo’s eyes seemed alight with their own fire.

  I did not know what to say, so I just nodded. All right.

  Pipo slid his feet to the floor, bowed over, waited as Mario folded his hands and lowered his head. Pipo said, “I’ll just start; then you say whatever comes to your mind and heart.

  “Oh, Lord of all the universe, we thank you for this gift of your Son, Jesus Christ. We were lost and wandering in darkness, and you sent your Son to lead us home. It’s such a miracle, Father. Times like this, I can hardly believe how lucky I am to know your love. I’d just like to say thank you, God. Thank you for caring about somebody like me.

  “There’s another brother here with us today, Lord. He’s a good man, and he’s looking as hard as he knows how. We pray that your Spirit will fill him, Lord. Show him that you truly are the All in All, the one true light leading us home. Bless Gianni with your presence in his life. Call him by name, Father.”

  The old pressure returned, pushing with a strength that brought a lump to my throat. I opened my mouth, searched for words, found nothing. Then I heard it. I opened my eyes, saw Mario sitting there on the sofa, his head bowed, the scar over his eye a dark shadow, his black hair oiled and bound back tightly into the silver clasp, tears streaming down his face. I sat and fought down the surging power in my chest and watched him cry quietly.

  Reluctantly I bowed my head again, closed my eyes, clenched one hand with the other and fought for control. I squeezed my eyelids tightly shut, searched for words.

  “I don’t know if you exist,” I said, my voice shaking from the effort. “I don’t know who I’m praying to. But if you’re really there, then I want to know you. I know I’ve made mistakes, and a lot of the time I don’t even know what I want. So if you’re there, then I need to know you.”

  “In Christ’s holy name we pray,” Pipo whispered. “Amen.”

  Chapter 9

  That night the dream came. Vague forms whispered through the fog of my slumber. I awoke several hours later, bathed in sweat and breathing hard. I climbed out of bed, changed my damp T-shirt and shorts, tried to recall what the dream had been about. It scared me, that dream, yet a curtain had fallen inside my mind, and now I could not remember what I had seen.

  I walked through the quiet, sunlit apartment to the bathroom. On the way back to my bedroom I stopped outside Jake and Amy’s bedroom door. I stood there a moment, wondering what gave them such strength and sureness. I had prayed as they wanted, yet I felt nothing. Was I just fooling myself? Did they really have something given to them from a higher power? Or were they simply stronger than I, and had found within themselves the will to overcome their problems?

  At practice the next day, I was relieved that no one made a fuss about my having prayed. Amy gave me a very long hug. Jake laid a heavy hand on my shoulder and said, be sure and keep the flame alive.

  There were three concerts over the next seven days. Two were at military bases near Mainz and Nurnberg, and before each there was a prayer meeting—one led by Jake, the other by Amy. Natural Light had performed at both bases before, and the crowds were very large, very noisy. Jake began each performance with an outstretched forefinger and the words, Praise the Lord.

  The third concert was in Hagen, a city to the north of Dusseldorf, where we would be the lead-in band for several visiting Christian acts from America. It had the others very excited, as the extra publicity would be useful. Much time was spent in carefully selecting songs that would fit the following acts in tone and power, yet not originate from the artists with whom we would perform.

  Each night I had the dream again. Each time I awoke to the sound of my hammering heart, my bedclothes damp and clammy. I could not remember the dream. I returned to sleep with the nagging thought that there was something I was neglecting to do.

  I watched those performances from a very great distance, observing the others, wondering if they truly had something to offer me, asking myself over and over if I really belonged.

  Amy noticed my silence, and after our part of the Hagen concert, approached me in the hall’s parking lot and asked if everything was all right. I hesitated for a moment, drawn by her concern to share how troubled I was by my doubts. But something held me back, something that I was unable to put my finger on. The answer was tied to my dreams, and the prospect of confronting those vague shadows terrified me.

  I searched for something else to say, came up with, “You’re a lot more talented than some of these others here tonight.”

  She did not deny it. “But it’s their music, Gianni, their songs. That’s what separates the men from the boys. Jake’s been writing some lyrics, but he needs to have somebody else help him with the songs themselves.”

  “That’s what you are hoping I’ll do, isn’t it?” It seemed so simple now, almost as though this was what I had been expecting to hear.

  “Only if you feel the Lord leading you in that direction,” she replied.

  “It’s incredible how you people could be so patient,” I said. “You make it sound like you could wait a thousand years.”

  “As long as we need to,” she said. “As long as it takes.”

  “My grandmother could do that,” I said, remembering. “There always was this part of her that nothing could touch. Not bad news or sickness or problems—nothing.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful woman, Gianni.”

  “She was,” I said. “She would have liked you.”

  “What a nice thing to say.” She graced me with a smile. “Yes, we hoped you would help us compose our own songs. We all knew you had the talent for it that very first practice. Jake and I were sure of it after we first heard you in Como. Mario has been telling us that all along, but Jake was right when he said that it can’t happen until you accept the Lord Jesus into your life.”

  I started walking across the darkened lot. “I’ve prayed.”

  “Yes, you have, and it is a wonderful start,” she agreed. “Truly a great beginning, Gianni.”

  Amy walked up close beside me,
grasped my arm, led me over to the lone streetlight marking the parking lot entrance. “I have something here that might help you.”

  She reached into her purse, brought out a pocket Bible, searched the pages, handed it over. “This is from the Book of Hebrews, Gianni. Read here, chapter eleven, verse six.”

  I looked where her finger was pointed, though it still made me uncomfortable to pick up the Book. I read, “ ‘And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.’ ”

  “It’s not enough to just say the words,” she told me. “It’s not enough just to sit around and wait for Him to give you the gift of salvation. You’ve got to believe.”

  I liked her too much to put her off with lies. “I don’t see how I’m supposed to believe in something I can’t see. Or should I just believe because if I don’t I’m doomed?”

  Amy shook her head. “No, Gianni. If you make a decision based on fear, you’re moving away from God.”

  “Then how?”

  “I pray that God will show himself to you in a way that will leave no doubt in your mind or heart of His existence.” Her eyes were luminous in the half-light, her face serious, her voice soft. “But you must be ready to listen to His voice, Gianni, in whatever way He chooses to speak to you. You have to want to hear Him. The Bible is full of criticism for people who refuse to heed God’s call. Don’t let that happen to you, please. Study the Bible whenever you can. Pray that God will speak to you, and pray that you will be able to hear His voice. And I will pray for you with all my heart.”

  * * *

  Two days later we had a return performance in Darmstadt. I traveled down in the car with Sameh, Hans, and Karl. They remained perpetually silent, at peace with their own lack of words. In the midst of my own internal struggles I found their presence comforting. Being around the others would have required making conversation. There was nothing for me to say at the moment, nothing that I knew how to put into words.

  I had continued trying to pray, standing in the circles before each practice and performance, listening to the peaceful fervor in their voices, yearning for their strength, feeling defeated by my own doubts. Amy’s words echoed in my mind and heart, have faith. I longed for the peace their faith brought, hungered for something to fill the emptiness, yet did not know where or how to search. My prayers echoed the emptiness of my heart. And the dreams returned every night. I awoke each morning feeling unrested and disturbed, haunted by half-seen forms that frightened me too much to seek out and identify.

  That trip, sharing the peaceful silence with those three, was welcome relief. I knew them only through what Mario had told me, for they rarely spoke about themselves. Sameh was a Coptic Christian from Alexandria, Egypt. His father and mother had emigrated to Dusseldorf when Sameh was still a baby. He had come to the realization at the ripe old age of sixteen that his family’s faith was all show and no substance, and went looking for his own answers. He found them in an evangelical organization in the heart of Dusseldorf known as Das Jesus Haus. When music was shown to be his calling, he played for several years in the house’s gospel band, and eventually did several albums and television shows with them. That was where Jake found him.

  Karl worked with severely handicapped children when not busy with the band. Mario said he had visited the home once and could not bring himself to go again. The children were all orphans, all suffering from physical or mental handicaps, all unable to look after themselves, all abandoned by their families. And Karl loved them. Mario told me that he really believed Karl did not see their twisted little bodies and mishapen heads at all. His love was too great. It blinded him to all but their need for affection, and he gave with a fullness that shone from his eyes like the sun.

  Hans was the quietest of them all, a silent ghost who rarely raised his eyes to mine except to smile in greeting. He was a divinity student in his final year at the Protestant seminary near Cologne. Once that week I asked him why he was studying to be a minister when he clearly didn’t like to talk. Hans raised the flute he had been polishing, said, this and my horn are all the voice I need.

  There were a lot of smiles this time in Darmstadt, as well as a warm greeting from the Reverend Steve Hawkins and a prayer group so large a second circle formed around the room’s perimeter. Danilo, Mario’s brother, was there. Three of his friends who worked with the Navigators at other bases were up with vans full of people. They were expecting a capacity crowd, we were told over and over during the sound check. They were clearly excited to have us back.

  We made a McDonald’s run after the sound check. As we entered, Pipo spotted an American magazine on an empty table and brightened visibly. He spread his food out in a semicircle around the magazine—two quarter-pounders, two orders of french fries, a large Coke, and a large coffee—then proceeded to peel off the extra bread and squeeze the two hamburgers together, letting the juice run down over his fries.

  “That is just about the sickest thing I have ever seen,” Mario declared.

  “What you’ve got here are a musician’s two essential food groups,” Pipo said, not looking up from his magazine. “Grease and caffeine.”

  Amy was sitting beside him. She was not eating. She lifted the magazine to reveal the Cosmopolitan logo, gave a humorless laugh. “That ol’ Cosmo mentality,” Amy said. “It doesn’t matter what you do, just so long as you look good doing it.”

  “This is about the silliest stuff I’ve ever seen,” Pipo agreed.

  “And money,” Amy said. “That’s one thing a Cosmo girl can’t ever get enough of. You can never be too thin or too rich.”

  “You know what?” Pipo tossed the magazine aside. “I think I could live without wasting time on this stuff ever again.”

  “Don’t forget the Cosmo Bedside Astrologer,” Amy went on. “It’s the only way on earth a girl is gonna know her sexual compatibility with all those men she’s picking up. Girl needs all the help she can get.”

  There was a bitter cast to Amy’s face, a sharp edge to her voice that I had never heard before. I looked around the table and saw that the others had stopped eating and were watching her closely.

  “Half the pop-psychology articles are on how to find Mister Right, and the other half are how to get rid of Mister Wrong.” Her eyes focused on no one at the table; her voice was metallic. “A lot about beauty, a lot about cheating on your man. And every other issue, they give you this Cosmo make-over. The poor little girl is called a ‘mouseburger’ before they start on her, and a ‘vixen’ when they finish. Lots of cosmetics, dangly earrings, over-fluffed hair. Gives all those girls who didn’t get blessed with an all-star face and body a ray of hope.”

  “Seems to me like maybe I’ve met a couple of those Cosmo girls somewhere along the way,” Pipo said quietly.

  “Me too,” Mario agreed.

  “Shallow, shallow, shallow,” Amy said. She was clearly angry and talking loud enough to attract attention from other tables. “Feeding on a lot of girls’ weakest point, their insecurity. Teaching them that it’s okay to be loose, to be immoral, to have nothing to live for except a nice dress and pretty make-up and lots of money and a good-looking man in their bed.”

  There was an awkward pause; then Pipo asked if she was all right.

  “Not at all.” She slid from her seat, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “I’ll see you back at the van.”

  Jake watched her go, did not make any move to follow. “That reverend fellow who met us at the gate mentioned that he’d met Amy’s dad the other night,” he said, his eyes on the doors. “Thought it right and proper to invite the man to join us for the show. Gonna need a special prayer tonight for Amy; she’s got a special challenge in front of her.”

  * * *

  Amy was shy during the first couple of songs, her voice very quiet. She stood front and center on the stage, a white double-breasted jacket buttoned up over her dress, her fingers laced together in front o
f her jacket. The only time she touched the mike was to adjust it.

  After the second song Pipo started to say something to her, but Jake frowned and shook his head. Jake looked at Amy, said, “Doin’ just fine, sister.”

  “Could I have something to drink?” She refused to look at anyone directly, raised her head only to shift the hair from her face. It was the only time I had seen her not respond to the audience’s applause with a smile.

  Jake was all concern. “Sure you can. What you want?”

  She looked at him, her eyes wide as saucers. “Am I gonna mess it up, Jake?”

  “Naw, naw, baby, everything’s gonna be just fine.” Jake almost crooned the words. “Gotta give yourself time to get used to it, that’s all.”

  “We’re all praying for you,” Pipo called.

  “That’s right,” Hans said, his voice so soft I barely heard it.

  “Just let the Holy Spirit fill you,” Jake said. “Now what you wanna drink?”

  “I don’t know. Coke, I guess.”

  Pipo was out from behind the congas before Jake could turn his way. In an instant he was back up the backstage stairs, cup in hand. “Here you go, Amy.”

  “Thanks.” She avoided his eyes.

  “You’re doing just great. No, really. I think this soft start-up really has class.”

  She gave Jake a doubtful glance; he nodded his agreement. “Time to be movin’ on. The people are waitin’.”

  I don’t know what the audience thought of our interlude. The seats stretched back into the shadows caused by our stage lights; all four hundred tickets had sold out a week ago. I searched as far back into the well-behaved, smiling, chatting crowd as the lights permitted. There were numerous black faces, but none which struck me as Amy’s father.

  The third song was “The Wonder of Your World” by Rich Mullins. I played the Ibanez hollow-body for it, strumming with a feather-light pick. I thought I heard some of the old Amy showing through. Jake heard it too. He watched her with a look of pure relief. A few of the fans in the front-row began to clap along in time to the beat.