by Dean Mayes
The documentary film ended and the lights came up in the amphitheater. Veldtman clapped her hands together to rouse a handful of “dozers,” then stepped out from behind her lectern to address the class.
“So!” her voice snapped. “The European Masters - Sor, Rodrigo, Giuliani - to name just a few. This introductory film is presented to give you a beginning point for the remainder of this semester. We shall be studying their history, their influence upon the modern discipline, and you will be required to learn and master some of the pieces.”
Veldtman paused to allow her students to absorb her words. She scanned the auditorium, noticing the new arrival at the back. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and then she nodded.
“That will be all for now.”
Immediately the auditorium became a buzz as students began filing out. Andy sat in his seat, unconsciously biting at his fingernails and tapping his foot studying Veldtman, trying to gauge her mood. Something snapped inside him suddenly. He lost his nerve and got to his feet, trying to lose himself in a group of students who filed past him.
“DeVries!”
Andy’s jaw locked like a vise and he knew the ceiling was going to fall. A few of his student colleagues regarded him with thinly veiled disgust as he turned around and shuffled past them, down the central aisle of stairs. One of them, a pretty young Japanese student named Michyko, seemed to look at him with pity, but he lowered his head before he could be sure. By the time he was three or four steps from the bottom, the auditorium was quiet again.
Veldtman was placing some notes in a folder before reaching for an oversized handbag.
“You missed my examination - again,” she hissed.
Andy froze where he stood as she pierced him with a malevolent stare.
“What’s your pitiful excuse this time?”
Andy opened his mouth to speak. The pre-rehearsed explanations circled around in his mind, but suddenly, they all seemed pathetic. He simply shook his head. His shoulders slumped.
“You were warned Mr. DeVries - formally - that if you missed another assessment task, the consequences would be dire for you.”
Andy opened his mouth to speak. But he couldn’t get the words out. The pre-rehearsed speech rang hollow in his ears to the point where to utter it would feel cheap, even to him. He simply nodded an acknowledgement. Defeat washed over him. He knew this was it. He was going to be dumped from the Conservatory.
Veldtman began pacing back and forth, arms folded.
“The decision rests with me now. I’ve discussed it with the faculty heads, and they have given me the final say - and I say I would dump you.”
As she had with the class moments before, Veldtman let the impact of her words hang in the air between them. Andy felt as if he might throw up.
Veldtman forced air to whistle through her teeth.
“I am aware, however, that you’ve been in hospital.”
Again, a theatrical pause. For the most fleeting of moments, Veldtman’s icy facade cracked, her shoulders relaxed and she seemed to offer some sympathy through her worldly eyes.
Andy prepared to stammer a reply, but Veldtman brushed him away brusquely.
“You have an hour,” she declared as she began gathering up her books. “You will be here ready to sit and you will take my exam. We shall see what you are capable of.”
Before he could say anything, Veldtman strode from the room, leaving Andy floundering where he stood, trying to prevent himself from descending into wholesale panic.
Outside the lecture theater, Veldtman stopped before a man - an aging hippie with wild silver hair, a coarse beard and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses whose bridge was held together with a bandage. He regarded her with suspicion.
“So?”
Veldtman sighed, annoyed and rubbed her brow.
“I... I couldn’t do it,” she said scratchily.
Grantley Casper was not surprised. His satisfied smile said it all, and he clucked as though he had won a wager.
Veldtman considered slapping him in the mouth.
“I have given him an hour. He will sit the theoretical component this afternoon and that will decide his fate.”
“I knew you wouldn’t cut him loose,” Casper taunted, with a self-indulgent expression that said: ‘I-told-you-so’. “The faculty are going to be pissed, Sorrel. They’re already fed up with your persistence about his suitability for the delegation to Australia. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You and I both know Andrew DeVries would be a nightmare for this Conservatory’s reputation.”
Casper could see Veldtman’s jaw stiffen.
“There still a long way to go before we have to consider the final makeup of the delegation,” Veldtman said. “I am more concerned right now with keeping Andrew in this school. The International Festival of the Guitar can wait.”
She fixed Casper with her eye.
“Look. Do you honestly think you could live with yourself, knowing that you had denied a talent as potent as his?”
Casper opened his mouth, trying to think of an answer. He knew he couldn’t. She had a point.
“Casper, I have not heard anyone elicit a more beautiful sound from the strings as I have from that young man. His technical ability borders on the sublime. He is a troubled soul, I’ll grant you. But he has a gift such as I have never witnessed.”
She paused, collecting herself as frustration threatened to well over.
“I know there is good in him. I am praying that the guitar will bring it out. I will not abandon that talent so long as it’s in him.”
Casper stood there, silently appraising the aged teacher.
“He’s a fuck-up, Sorrel,” he sighed, defeated. “You should’ve cut him and stopped denying the inevitable.”
Shaking his head, Casper turned and sauntered away, leaving Veldtman to her troubled thoughts.
***
Andy hung his backpack on the hook just inside the door of the apartment and leaned the guitar case against the wall.
He felt sick to his stomach - and not just because of the fast-food lunch he had subjected himself to. The familiar pangs of withdrawal had begun to tease at the edges of his stomach again. He needed a hit. He had tried to resist it, but the urge was too much. It was always too much. As soon as he got home, he knew he would have to assuage it.
He knew he had blown the exam badly - he knew it. In the fallout from the weekend he had completely forgotten to study - which wasn’t anything new - but he usually made at least some sort of half-assed effort to cram before an exam. Though Veldtman had thrown him a fairly significant bone, he doubted it was enough to get him over the line.
The apartment was empty and Andy was relieved to have the place to himself. He checked the answering machine. There were two messages from Cassie. He considered calling her but he hesitated, deciding that he didn’t want to talk to her right now. Instead, he went straight to his bedroom and stripped off his jacket, pullover and shirt in one effort and tossed them in the laundry basket in the corner. He lit a joint and smoked it absently for a few minutes, feeling the cannabis taking the edge off his withdrawal. But then, he took it out and considered the joint in his hand before butting it out on the leg of his bed. Suddenly, he found it tasted awful, even though it was the same stuff he’d always enjoyed. He felt uncomfortable smoking it.
Andy dropped to his knees and felt under the bed until his fingers brushed across the top of a hard metal object. He pulled out the small locked box and fished a key out of his pocket. Opening the box, Andy looked down at a thick wad of folded bills inside, his earnings. Though he hadn’t counted it lately, Andy estimated that there was about two thousand dollars there, a considerable amount. He shouldn’t have this money here. Despite his loyalty to Vasq, Andy didn’t trust him. Andy was regarded with a certain amount of jealousy by the crew - even Vasq himself - and he knew that jealousy could be a dangerous weapon should any of them decide to act on it. He also found a couple of foil-wrapped pills in the box. He
considered them.
But again, that feeling of disgust turned him off from taking one.
Andy shook his head as he considered his ill-gotten gains. Unable to look at it anymore, he locked the box again and shoved it back underneath the bed.
He remained crouched on the floor for several minutes, staring into the darkness before eventually deciding to shower - his odor was appalling.
Andy knew that, where the guitar was concerned, Veldtman considered him some sort of wunderkind. The grades he had achieved until now had given him the potential to top his class. But as with his other noble pursuits, he was arrogant, undisciplined and lazy. In his efforts to balance his two lives, Andy had come to rely far too heavily upon his raw performance talent to get him through the course work. Today, the earth-shattering realization dawned upon him that he could no longer charm his way through it.
Then there was the issue of the delegation. The International Festival of the Guitar in Melbourne, Australia, was an opportunity for students of considerable talent to perform among some of the finest practitioners in the world. The festival’s highlight was the emerging talent concert series. This series, a competition, offered a prize that included a $10,000 cheque and a chance to record an album for worldwide release. Andy had considered applying for a place on the delegation but he knew the odds were stacked against him. The Conservatory’s assessment panel was populated by the very people who wanted to expel him.
It was probably all for nothing now. The exam had been a disaster and he knew that - more likely than not - he was screwed. The thought of losing his place at The Conservatory, in itself, was a prospect too much to bear. It really was the only thing of true value.
“Jesus,” he whispered despondently.
It was good to be clean again, Andy thought, as he stepped out of the shower and took the towel from the rail. He dried his hair off first, then his body. As he stood up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Andy recoiled at what he saw there, and was gripped by a surge of revulsion that rolled through him like a wave. He felt sick, dizzy, and he was afraid to look back in the mirror. Andy tried to calm himself. He inched closer to the mirror. Slowly, he gazed upon his reflection.
A gaunt individual stared back at him. His cheeks were hollow, highlighting his prominent cheekbones, making him look emaciated. His skin - pocked with acne - was pale and pasty. His hair was stringy and ridiculously long in the front. His try-hard attempt at facial hair appeared mangy rather than cool and he shook his head, realizing that his whole appearance was appalling.
In his mind - a voice, foreign in accent and tone, spoke to Andy, echoing in his consciousness, causing him to flinch.
This isn’t what I’m supposed to look like.
Andy felt his knees give way. He looked around him, searching for the source of the voice. Where had it come from? Who was speaking to him?
He turned back to the mirror, back to his reflection. Something in the reflection hooked him and he could not look away. It was as though he was looking at a stranger - a drug addicted stranger who was self-destructing. Andy blinked, shook his head, disoriented and at that moment he was overcome by a wave of self-loathing so potent, he almost wanted to smash the mirror.
Is this where I’m supposed to be now?
Again that foreign voice sounded. Though he didn’t know who it was, Andy felt a strange familiarity about it.
Who was that?
But the voice didn’t answer. Andy steadied himself, trying to calm his frayed nerves until, finally, he backed out of the bathroom. Ensuring that the apartment door was locked, Andy retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. The room still stank of stale air, of perspiration and smoke. Andy screwed his nose up at it. It wasn’t something that would usually have bothered him, but now he couldn’t stand it. Despite the cold outside, he unlocked the window and opened it to let the crummy air escape.
Andy lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket up around him, feeling afraid.
Where had that voice come from?
He lay there feeling disjointed, unable to sleep. And though he was sure he was alone, Andy felt a presence in the room with him. It did not move or speak, but he was sure it was there. Suddenly he felt as though he did not belong in this city, in this life or in this wretched body.
CHAPTER 6
His sleep was restless, plagued by bizarre nightmares. The people in his life - Cassie, Emilio Vasq, Samantha, Gideon, Beck and Veldtman - were all standing over him like a jury in a courtroom, passing judgment.
He dreamed of being back in the trauma room surrounded by the doctors and nurses, all of whom were laughing at him. Andy tried to move but he was shackled to the gurney, his wrists bound by thick leather straps that cut into him. Doctors and nurses grabbed his skin, pulling at it so hard they tore bloodied chunks of it away from his chest, exposing his ribs, his lungs and his blackened heart, covered in maggots. He tried to scream but he was unable to puncture the silence or pull himself from the depths of this horrible nightmare. He was trapped, taunted, mocked, ridiculed.
His father appeared out of the gloominess, standing alone on a dusty, gray highway, beside his Kenworth 18 wheeler, staring at him through black, emotionless eyes. Dust from a barren, inaccessible desert whipped up behind him. Shaking his head disapprovingly, Andy’s father turned and walked off the road into the parched landscape, disappearing from view.
Then, somewhere in the deepest hours of the night, the disturbing imagery gave way to a nascent peace and suddenly Andy found himself immersed in a comforting warmth.
There was an ocean. Waves breaking on a sandy shore.
A grassy hillside.
He knew where it was, but he couldn’t place it.
A dog was galloping across the grass, yelping enthusiastically. A cattle dog? A sheep dog? He couldn’t tell. But he knew the dog. It was familiar. He felt a sense of companionship with this dog.
A woman’s laughter, light and breezy, became audible in his ears and he felt his heart skip a beat as he tried to look towards where he thought she was. He couldn’t manipulate his field of view, but he knew she was there, at the very corners of his vision.
Her presence was warm and pure. Her love was vital. And then she spoke. She called to him:
“Get the ball, honey! Before it goes into the sea!”
What was that accent?
He was sure he’d heard it somewhere, but its origin remained tantalizingly out of reach. The dog passed in front of him, and in that instant he recognized the black-and-white markings, the pointed ears, the sleek body of a cross-breed cattle dog. He tried to go to the dog but he was stuck fast where he stood, as though his feet were trapped in pools of cement.
He reached out with his hand...
But there was no hand.
He panicked, unable to breathe. As the image of the peaceful shore began to fade he tried desperately to focus on her.
Then, inexplicably, she was in his arms. Her touch sent electricity through him that was at once familiar and foreign.
Yet he knew it.
He could feel her skin upon his cheek; he could smell her hair. It was freshly washed and carried with it the scent of mint and something else. He searched his mind trying to determine what it was. A herb perhaps. An oven door opens. Roasted meat - lamb.
Damn, what is that?
It came to him suddenly, finally as an image of a herb with slender green shoots sporting pink flowers coalesced within his consciousness.
It was rosemary.
Rosemary and mint.
He felt her lips upon his and they kissed long and deeply. He tried to look into her face but could only see her lips as she drew back.
“I love you.”
Andy awoke in the darkness of his room, her voice a fading echo in his consciousness. The warmth of the dream, and the bitterness of his nightmares conflicted until he sat up in his bed and shook them away. He stared into the darkness, the imprint of her voice fixed in his memory.
“Sonya.”
***
Beck stumbled into the apartment early the next morning and collapsed down onto the sofa in the living room. He had pulled another all-nighter on the building site and was so tired he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his work gear before he came home.
He felt blindly for the remote on the side table and flicked on the TV. In the light from the set, Beck suddenly noticed that the living room was absolutely spotless. The week-old pizza boxes were gone; the empty beer cans that had been piling up in the corner underneath the miniature Chicago Bulls basketball ring were also gone. The carpet had been vacuumed; there was no trace of crumbs or food of any sort on the floor. The battered wall unit that housed both Beck’s and Andy’s collection of books, DVDs, magazines and glassware was tidy, perhaps for the first time. The books were neatly arranged, as were the DVDs. Magazines - mainly copies of Maxim and FHM - were lined up chronologically by month of issue. All at once Beck was bemused, impressed and disturbed. He suddenly felt guilty about having his dirty work boots on.
He got up and went into the kitchen, where he found a similar scene. It was spotless. The oven and stovetop were pristine. A pair of saucepans - one large, one small - sat on the hot plates, both of them sparkling. The benches had been wiped down, along with the small round table and chairs in the corner. The kitchen even smelled fresh.
It was then Beck heard the sound of scrubbing coming from the bathroom.
Poking his head around the door frame, Beck saw Andy down on his hands and knees, wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, scrubbing the toilet - evidently the only remaining task in the bathroom.
“Umm - good morning, there,” he said hesitantly, squinting in the half-light.