Just wait. I’ll give you something to clap about.
I was surprised to find my fingers trembling as I set up my footstool. It took me forever to get comfortable on the wooden piano bench set smack at center stage. Somebody thought I needed a music stand, which almost crashed over when I pushed it aside.
Focus, Indio!
I finally looked up at the audience. I easily spotted my family in the front row. Sofi pumped both fists. Mom blew me a kiss. Uncle Faustus raised his hands in a victory salute. Dad was chatting up some bigwig beside him and pointing at me like a proud coach.
Another wave a few rows back. My guitar teacher. Magno had a pen and notepad balanced on his knee. Behind him I noticed a girl about my age, wearing an orange and black Mayan headband. She was staring at the Wonder Boy, a star-struck look on her face.
I felt perfectly prepared for this moment. Hundreds of hours of practicing had drilled each note deep into my fingers. All I had to do was get them moving.
My hands calmed down as I brought them into position. The hall fell silent. Everyone held their breath. Even Dad shut up.
I struck a low E, the opening note of my souped-up version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” The string slapped against the fretboard and I took off.
Next up was “Greensleeves,” another Christmas crowd-pleaser I could play in my sleep. I followed this with “Capricho Arabe,” a minor piece full of acrobatic slides and juicy harmonics.
My fingers behaved. I got lost in the music. I ate up the applause. I could have gone on like this for hours, until the stage manager raised a hand showing five fingers.
Five minutes. Okay. Plenty of time for my finale—if this applause would ever stop.
I let my hands fall away from the guitar and gave them a shake. This hushed the crowd. I let the silence sink in until I could hardly stand it. The notes inside of me screamed for release.
I dove into “Flight of the Bumblebee,” this time at its textbook speed of 170 beats per minute. I looked up after the last frantic note to see Magno nodding slowly, his notebook closed on his lap. Sofi rocked in her seat as she clapped. Everybody was all smiles.
Meanwhile, Dad had a video camera glued to his eye, its red light blinking at me. My stomach clenched. He’d never filmed any of my other concerts.
What’s he up to now?
I glanced at the stage manager, who held up one finger.
I winked at him. Don’t worry, amigo, this won’t take long.
I pulled my metronome from my tuxedo jacket, clicked it to silent mode, and cranked the BPM control to 1400. I was on a roll. The crowd loved me. Why not go for a world record? I reached in my back pocket where I always kept my picks … and froze.
No pick.
I checked all my other pockets, trying to hide a rising panic.
Nothing but a paper clip, candy wrapper, and 50-centavo coin.
Suddenly the spotlight felt like a flamethrower. Beads of sweat splashed onto my guitar strings.
I glanced at the audience and my eyes fell on Dad. Without lowering the camera, he drew another big “S” in the air.
I looked down at my right hand. What the hell. I’ll use my nails. Stand back, Segovia!
In Spanish, I said, “It looks like I’ve run out of time so I’ll make this quick. I will now play for you the same song, ‘Flight of the Bumblebee,’ at 1400 beats per minute, more than eight times faster than what you just heard.”
A wave of gasps and nervous laughter swept through the audience.
“By the way, if I pull this off, it will break the world speed record on classical guitar.”
Applause and cheers. From the back of the hall someone shouted, “Arriba Indio! Higher! Higher!”
I took one last look at my flashing metronome and set fire to the strings.
It was all over in seconds but the notes were there! I heard them all, clean as ever.
I dropped my hands from the guitar as the song’s final notes echoed through the hall. My heart hammered against my ribs.
Silence.
Then … a few claps from three balconies above me. The applause spread like a wave. It spilled over the railing, flooded the ground floor, and crashed onto the stage.
They love me.
A thousand people jumped to their feet. The whole theater shook to their applause and cheers.
All except Magno, who scribbled madly in his notebook, and Dad, whose face was still hidden behind the blinking camera.
I stood and bowed low, noticing for the first time that my nails were in shreds. It would take weeks to get them back in playing shape.
Vale la pena. Worth all the pain.
WONDER BOY
“That was amazing,” Mom said as our cook, Katrina, put a plate of scrambled eggs and fresh tortillas in front of me.
“It’s not my first standing ovation,” I said.
“And definitely not your last,” Dad said as he walked in and sat down at the breakfast table, surprising us all.
I couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a meal with us.
Sofi squirmed in her seat. “Indio! Did you see the…?” Her words trailed off as she looked sideways at Dad.
“The what?” I asked.
“The video!” she exclaimed. “Dad let me watch it. You were still in bed.”
It all came back to me. Dad glued to a camera for most of my act. That red blinking light.
I looked at Dad. “What did you do?”
“Not me,” he said, holding up both hands. “What did you do? Just broke a little world speed record. That was certainly a nice Christmas present for me.”
“With your video, I mean. What did you do with it?”
“Our video? I posted it, of course. It went viral overnight, for Christ’s sake.”
I looked at Sofi for some sign.
“It’s cool, Indio,” she said. “Can I have your autograph?”
“It’ll cost you.”
I looked at Mom. “Don’t worry, Indio. The only danger is I’ll lose my son to show biz.”
The worry in her eyes told me she was serious.
Dad chuckled. “A good possibility at this rate. Especially after we beef up our practice schedule.”
“Our practice schedule? I just finished a monster gig and you’re already sending me back in there? To practice? More?”
Dad wiped a glob of salsa off his lips with the back of his hand. “That performance was peanuts compared to all the gigs this video will generate.” He studied his Blackberry. “In just … nine and a half hours, we got over fifty thousand hits.” He leaned across the table and squished my hand under his. “Indio, listen to me, son. You now have fans from as far away as New Zealand, China, Vietnam! Who knows where you’ll be performing next?”
“Yeah, but my fingernails are all—”
“Don’t worry. You can still bang out the notes. They’ll grow back before your next gig.”
“Where, Dad?”
Dad leaned back with a big grin on his face. “Hollywood!”
“You mean—”
“Yes, son. Hollywood, California. A big recording company wants to sign you on. Imagine that, Indio!”
I glanced out the kitchen window at a jungle of potted plants Mom put there to hide the wall around our house. Hollywood. Music gods. Fame. Freedom.
I looked at Dad. “You could make this happen?”
He closed his eyes, bowing his head to me. “I’m at your service … Señor Segovia.” He straightened up. “That is, if you keep practicing.”
Mom came behind my chair and squeezed my shoulders. “Edgar, please. At least let the boy watch the video.”
“Yeah, Dad. You said it was our video.”
Dad pushed away from the table and stood over us, jangling coins in his pocket. “Okay, but make it quick.”
He led us upstairs to his study where he locked away our family’s only computer. I hadn’t set foot in there since being held hostage for Dad’s mining buddies. My whole body tightened whe
n I entered the room.
We all squeezed around his desk, cluttered with maps and fat reports about his gold mine. He grabbed one open report, slammed it shut, and shoved it into a filing cabinet. As the drawer closed, I leaned over to catch the title: Security Tactics for Depopulating Mine Site. He shot flaming arrows at me. “Sorry—that’s classified information.”
He hunched over the keyboard as he punched in a long password. A freeze-frame of me on stage popped on the screen. At first I didn’t recognize myself. This little man dressed in a tuxedo and frilly shirt, hugging a classical guitar.
“Hit play, Dad,” I said.
Up jumped the title: Guatemala’s Wonder Boy—World’s fastest classical guitar player.
“Just in English?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “That’s where the money is.”
Magno sometimes filmed me playing to help correct my posture or finger technique. Or he’d make audio recordings so I could check my tone and dynamics. But I’d never watched myself perform.
The sound wasn’t great through Dad’s little camera. And when it got to the flaming finish of “Bumblebee,” my whole arm blurred. But like I thought onstage, all the notes were there. The feeling was there. And God, the speed.
It actually sounded pretty amazing.
The comments were even more amazing. Dad let me scroll down the first of many pages:
OMG Indio! I cried during your Capricho piece. I’m not ashamed of it. I actually cried.
Too amazing for words! Now I want to go to Guatemala, just to learn from you. Do you mind that I am five times your age?
one word of advice: keep a fire extinguisher handy when you play that bumblebee thing. that was SO HOT!!! :D
How I wish I could see you perform live. Please come to Zambia soon. You can stay at my house. Love Kakanda.
God bless you, Indio. It’s hard to believe you are so young and have so much more music ahead of you. Please take care of yourself. You are a world treasure.
I looked at Mom. She gave me a little hug around the waist. I had to wipe my eyes to see the screen clearly. For the first time I could remember, maybe ever, I had this feeling that life is good. That besides my dog and my guitar, I could make some real friends, even if they might only be online. A new door had opened for me. A door to freedom.
I clicked on the show more button, a small act I may regret for the rest of my life.
My only question: how did such an amazing musical prodigy end up with such a sick name?
Indio.
What was Mimita thinking when she gave me that name? Nacido del suelo, she told me before she died. Born of the soil. Niño salvaje. Wild child. Or just plain, “Indian,” whatever that was.
But Mimita, when you named me, did you know its other meanings?
Dirty savage. A fool.
And then this comment.
Sensational! The spirit of Segovia lives on in you!
I shook my head. Jesus. They just had to mention Segovia.
Dad broke into a crazy smile. He pointed a fat finger at the screen. “What did I tell you, Indio? Segovia! The next Segovia! Anyone can see it!”
I tried to grab the mouse, but he flicked my hand away and put the computer to sleep.
“Hey!”
“That’s enough for now,” he said. “You don’t want this to go to your head.”
“Yeah, but I just want to see the rest of the—”
“You’d be on the computer all day. I’ve got important work to do.”
I stared at Dad’s locked filing cabinet. “So, uh … what does de … depopulating mean?”
Dad scowled. “I told you it’s none of your business.” He pushed me away from his desk so hard I almost fell over Sofi.
Mom reached for my arm before I hit the floor. “Jesucristo, Edgar! What are you doing?”
Dad glared at the mess on his desk. “Uh … sorry, Gabby. I didn’t mean to—”
Sofi stepped in front of me like a human shield. “You did so!”
I loved how Sofi stood up to him. Better than I ever could.
Dad turned to me with his coach face back on. “Now, Señor Segovia, shouldn’t we be practicing? It’s going to take a lot more work to keep all your new fans happy.”
THE Source
A week later, Dad had me working on two new pieces for the Hollywood gig, Beethoven’s “Pathétique” sonata and Tárrega’s “Lagrima.” Pathetic tears. Right up my alley.
After two solid hours of practicing, I got up to have a pee, eat a couple of Katrina’s brownies, and bury my nose in Loba’s furry neck.
Instead of opening a door, Dad’s viral video of my Christmas gig had slammed it shut and locked it. Seriously. Locked it. The door to my practice room.
Mom had pleaded with Dad to drop his crazy lockdown plan to get me to practice more—“to help squeeze the Segovia out of you,” he’d said. His solution? Hire someone to build a little bathroom inside the practice room and install a bar fridge for snacks. So I wouldn’t shit myself or starve to death while practicing.
“And what if there’s a fire or something when he’s locked in there?” Mom asked him.
Dad said I could jump out the window into the swimming pool.
Very thoughtful, Dad.
I returned to my stool and set my guitar vertically on my lap. I wrapped my arms around her waist and breathed in her woodsy scent. I drooped my chin against her curved shoulder and pressed my cheek against her neck. I’d been doing this since I was little, hugging my guitar. Sometimes, if I closed my eyes, I got the feeling she was hugging back.
I heard the security gate rattle open. A car thumped over our cobblestone driveway. Muffled conversation in the kitchen. Footsteps echoed up the marble stairs. The thump of Loba’s tail. A knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said, “if you’ve got a sledge hammer.”
Dad had programmed the electronic lock to open on Sundays at exactly 3:00 PM. Along with an amazing ear, my guitar teacher had a perfect sense of timing. The moment I saw the doorknob begin to turn, there was a soft click as the lock automatically disarmed.
“Buenas tardes,” my teacher said. Good afternoon.
“Hey, Magno.”
That’s the only Spanish I’d hear from Magno all day. He liked to teach in English. No surprise, since the guy trained at the Royal School of Music in London, England. He took off his New York Yankees ball cap, revealing the shiny top of his mango-shaped head. Not a stitch of hair except for a soul patch below his lower lip.
“Brownie?” I asked.
He opened his case and lifted out his two-hundred-year-old rosewood guitar. “What, and soil my darling? Let me earn it first.”
He pulled up his chair, so close our knees almost touched. He looked at me, reading my mood. “I know you’re under a bit of pressure these days.”
“A bit? This Segovia thing is going to kill me.”
Magno leaned back and closed his eyes. “Between you and me,” he said slowly, “keep it the Indio thing.”
“Hah. Tell that to Dad.”
“Segovia didn’t hit the stage until he was sixteen. Look at all you’ve done. Only thirteen.”
“Yeah, no pressure. Dad’s lined up gigs for me in Peru and Panama next month. A recording session in Hollywood the next.”
Magno raised his eyebrows. “You see? Segovia’s got nothing on you.”
I used to love listening to Segovia’s recordings, playing his music. Now, just the sound of his name made me sick. “Segovia got me into this mess. I hate him.”
“Look, Indio, whoever you’re trying to be, you won’t go anywhere carrying all this tension. It’s infecting your playing.”
“What do you mean?”
Magno leaned forward, ready to dissect every note with his razor ears. I so knew that look. It didn’t matter if it was Bach or the blues, Magno had a way of “deep listening,” as he called it, like he heard past the guitar, past my fingers, past even the composers, to that place inside where they first f
ound the music.
Magno called it “The Source.”
I could tell it was going to be an intense afternoon.
“Play me the Capricho,” he whispered.
I took a couple of deep yoga breaths, like Magno had taught me. I wanted to play notes that were perfect in every way. The right volume, clarity, timing, and tone. Just like he could.
Forget Segovia. I wanted to play like Magno.
I got the beat going in my head. One-two-three, one-two-three. I lightly plucked the first harmonic at the seventh fret. I was ten bars into the piece, just about to jump into the main theme, when Magno pinched the top of his nose and pointed a finger at my guitar.
“Stop. Right there. That’s what I mean.”
“What?”
“That tension. Look. You’re white-knuckling the guitar, clutching it like it’s trying to escape. You’re breathing funny. Tension screws up everything.”
He made me stand up, touch my toes, walk several times around the practice room. Loba got up and followed me, wagging her tail like we were going for a walk.
“Now, start again.”
He was right. This time, all I was aware of was the tension, in my shoulders, my arms, my hands. A vice squeezed my brain.
I stopped halfway through. “Now every note sounds crappy.”
“Your notes are there,” Magno said. “Your technique is there. You just have to lighten up. Free the music.”
“In this prison?”
Magno tapped his perfectly sculpted fingernails on the side of his guitar. “Don’t think of this room as a cage, Indio. Think of it as a … a refuge, a musician’s dream, sheltered from the craziness of the world. You should thank your father for that fancy lock.”
As much as Dad paid him, Magno couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice. I knew he was talking bullshit. “Yeah, really.”
Magno stroked his soul patch. He carefully pulled on each finger, one by one, then shook them out. “Come on. Play Capricho again for me. This time together. Keep an eye on my fingers, not yours.”
He played quietly, the sound of his instrument teasing the notes out of mine. As I watched his fingers, I imagined he was in control of both guitars. I’d played this piece hundreds of times. That day, I felt Magno leading me somewhere I’d never been before. Somewhere too scary to go alone.
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