by Dean Mayes
Andy’s playing was passionate, intense and tender all at once. He moved with the piece, bowing his head into the lower registers then climbing up again on the back of the lyrical melody. There was nothing more beautiful than the sound of the guitar.
As quickly as it had begun, the piece ended with a flurry of complex finger movements and Andy finished with a theatrical swish of his hand. The crowd erupted with enthusiastic applause and cheers and whoops of appreciation.
They were ecstatic.
Both Samantha and Beck clapped furiously and Beck pointed directly at Andy, mouthing, “You’re the man!”
Gideon Allan, dumbfounded at what he had just witnessed, applauded, too - his previously slackened jaw breaking into a grin of appreciation. He raised his hands and nodded respectfully - approvingly - at Andy.
Andy sat in front of his audience, a polite smile creasing his lips as he said “Thank you,” a few times. He was as equally stunned by their reaction to him.
For the next sixty minutes Andy played for his audience, taking them on a rich journey through some of his favorite sonatas and fantasias. He performed a sprightly Caprice in A minor by Nicolo Paganini, and then attempted a somewhat more challenging variation on a theme from Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” that had been first performed by Fernando Sor. He included in this performance a work by one of his favorite artists, Mauro Giuliani, whose interpretation of Handel’s “Harmonious Blacksmith” Andy executed with a surprisingly artistic flourish that surprised even him. His audience responded enthusiastically. It was a performance unparalleled for this part of the city which was, perhaps, used to a much different musical sound. During his performance numerous patrons went to the stage and dropped coins and bills into an ashtray that sat at his foot, nodding at him appreciatively as they did so.
Andy stepped off the stage after a final ballad to which a group in the audience supplied respectable, if a little rusty, vocal accompaniment. He was exhausted but exhilarated. He made his way through the crowd, who congratulated him with sustained applause, a few back-slaps and handshakes until he slipped through into the front bar, encountering more of the same.
“That was awesome, man!” Beck enthused as Andy flopped down on a bar stool, handing the guitar over the bar to Samantha. “You killed in there. They were eating out of your hand.”
Andy blushed bright pink and grinned as Samantha passed over a couple of beers.
“You were fantastic,” she said.
Andy felt someone tapping his shoulder, and he spun around to face Gideon, who stood before him with a blank expression. Slowly he extended his hand and his poker face gave way to a smile of genuine warmth.
Andy took the older man’s hand.
“Andrew, that was unbelievable,” he said. “I had no idea.”
As Andy acknowledged Gideon, he thought he saw the older man’s eyes misting.
Gideon took out some folded bills and placed them in Andy’s palm.
It was $100.
Gideon stepped back and extended his finger.
“Your father would have been proud of you tonight.”
CHAPTER 10
Hands slide over a ruler, a pencil, an eraser on a page. The drawing board holds the paper steady as lines are drawn, faint at first until he is happy with his progress. Then he fills them in more heavily giving the drawing more definition, breathing life into the design. As he works he makes calculations both on the paper itself beside the developing floor plan and on a battered old calculator - the scientific kind, one he has owned since high school. The numbers are almost completely worn away from the buttons now, but it doesn’t matter. He knows the device intuitively. He sips coffee from a chipped cup with a fancy pattern. The coffee is good, fresh from the grinder. There is nothing in the world like a great coffee. He is sure it helps his creative impulse.
He has been at it for hours, working on the project - the assignment. It’s due in a couple of days and he knows he is way behind on it. He must get it done, so he sits in the front room of the house, having gotten away from the city so he can finish the project without distraction. He feels alone, however. No one else is here, not even his dog.
He can hear the ocean, the waves breaking gently on the shore outside. Music plays quietly in the background. It is the guitar: a selection of soft, languid tunes that help him work. He is lost in concentration.
He has failed to sense her presence. She slips into the house quietly, through the doors that open out onto the balcony. She wears a mischievous smile, a figure hugging long summer dress, flip-flops. She covertly slips out of those flip-flops now, places the basket she is carrying down in the old chair and tiptoes the last few feet to where he is working. Still he hasn’t sensed her; such is his concentration.
And then...
The scent of her hair, the freshness of its perfume is unmistakable: rosemary and mint. He feels her cheek against his as she leans in close to him. Her lips press his cheek tenderly. The kiss lights up his face and he leans back in his chair. She falls into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. She gazes at him, her eyes filled with love.
“I couldn’t stay away.”
He wants to scold her, but he can’t. They agreed he needed to get this assignment done without distraction. But he is so glad she’s here.
They kiss, long and tender, tongues meeting and embracing.
“I’m glad you came.”
***
Changes...
Andy became The Pub’s house musician. In addition to his duties behind the bar, once a week he would perform whatever he wanted for the evening crowd who were now frequenting The Pub in increasing numbers, just to hear him play. Word was quickly spreading about this young virtuoso that played pieces of rare beauty and they responded enthusiastically, tipping him generously. Gideon, surprisingly, began paying him extra for his expanded role. For a man who had previously regarded Andy with contempt, the gesture was significant. In fact, Andy noticed a tangible change in the old man’s behavior towards him. He sensed in Gideon, an appreciation for his playing, a deeper understanding of music than Andy might previously have given him credit for. It was as though Gideon had heard these beautiful pieces somewhere before. In this harsh, urban place, far from the soft inspiration for the kind of music he was performing, Andy had created a sort of musical sanctuary. A rather beautiful, unspoken conversation had been allowed to flourish between him and the patrons.
Andy’s performances had attracted another observer, but he remained carefully out of sight so as not to alert Andy to his presence. Bruce DeVries spoke to no one while he watched his son play. He simply observed in silence, then left before anyone noticed. Not even Gideon knew he was there. Once Andy’s performance was over, Bruce disappeared into the night as silently as a ghost.
Sometimes Andy would play as the opener to another act, or sometimes he would play impromptu duets with whomever happened to be in The Pub at the time. If they were halfway decent, then they were welcomed up onto the stage. It might be a vocalist or someone with a guitar of their own. Gideon had a few authentic Irish instruments scattered about the walls as ornamental pieces, and even these were recruited into service: a dusty old Irish drum, a battered but still usable mandolin, even an old fiddle. It was wild and raw and a little crazy, but somehow it worked.
Within it all - the music and the people, the euphoria of the music and the smiles on people’s faces as they made music together - Andy began to feel peace. His confidence grew. He adapted his style to embrace a broader palate of music. He was enjoying his new role so much that his enthusiasm spilled over into his bar work. He derived greater satisfaction from it. He even began experiencing a feeling he wasn’t used to in anything he had ever done: pride.
He no longer missed any classes at the Conservatory, which didn’t escape the notice of Veldtman or Casper or any of the faculty heads. They watched with quiet astonishment at the turnaround in this troubled virtuoso. He seemed to be driven by something very powerful: a desire not only to excel b
ut to attain something that had been missing. Veldtman had never seen anything quite like it. She worked with him in the group tutorials and in one-on-one sessions, marveling at his technical brilliance. It was a quality that had previously lacked an emotional core. When he had played before, Andy was single-minded in his approach. He played the music flawlessly, but he did not move with it. He didn’t feel the emotion that the music was supposed to evoke. Suddenly, from out of the shadows, Andy had begun to display an unprecedented soulfulness in his playing. It was as though a door had been unlocked to an expressiveness that had long lain dormant. It had become a central dimension now, that was even more staggering in its artistry than even Andy had ever thought possible.
In their sessions, the teacher and the student found a dialogue that had been, for too long, suppressed by his self-destructiveness and her inability to reach him. They shared a renewed energy towards fostering more of his ability - that investment in his music that was truthful, that laid bare his regrets, his frustrations and his hopes. Andy was drawn to the events in the trauma room as a beginning point for his change. Increasingly, he sensed that there was another cause for it. The sense of the presence was becoming stronger. The visions, the dreams were becoming more vivid. As though they were not so much dreams now as they were memories. Memories that were not his own.
Yet they were.
Andy became less of a loner at the Conservatory, and had even begun to strike up tentative friendships with some of his classmates, some of whom he’d never talked to before, though he’d been in class with them since the beginning. They practiced together, discussed assignment work on the campus lawns and sometimes gathered at lunchtime.
He changed his diet, taking advantage of a nearby grocer that stocked fresh fruit and vegetables daily and he began cooking. He found he was actually quite a decent chef, turning out meals that both he and Beck enjoyed immensely.
His appearance began to change. He put on a little weight, filling out rather than fattening up. His gaunt face became a healthy, clear and surprisingly handsome one with vibrant eyes, a squarish jaw and a healthy head of hair that he had allowed to grow out just a little.
He ran every morning, rising at the same time each day and taking the same circuit around the local neighborhood. Somewhere along the way he had managed to bring a training partner with him: a mongrel pooch belonging to the old Italian lady who lived in the apartment across the hall. She was too frail to handle the dog outdoors anymore and so she offered him payment for helping her out. Andy wouldn’t take money, so instead, a steady stream of delicious Mediterranean cuisine began making its way across the hall.
His relationship with Cassie ended. There had been no contact between them for some weeks. Her calls to his cell trailed off and, though he tried several times, he didn’t get through to her either. He felt disgusted with himself for having let it go in that fashion, but she represented a link to Vasq and the life he wanted to leave behind.
His father remained painfully aloof. Bruce visited The Pub as he usually did but he ignored Andy. A couple of times Andy attempted to talk to his father, even offered him a drink, but Bruce dismissed his approaches. Samantha witnessed these exchanges and felt awful. It was clear Andy was trying to reach out to his father but he was slapped down each time.
***
Andy arrived at The Pub late, having had to stay back at the Conservatory to finish an extended tutorial. Gideon hadn’t booked anyone so, once again, Andy was going to perform for the Friday night crowd.
Stepping into the front bar a little after five, Samantha was relieved to see him. She had been staffing the bar all by herself.
“Where have you been?” she asked, clearly harassed.
“Sorry, I missed the train,” Andy said hurriedly as he slipped in behind the bar.
“There’s a good crowd in tonight. Bigger than usual,” Samantha remarked. “Gideon is already rubbing his hands together. You’ve become his little cash cow, I think.”
Andy grinned and took orders for drinks from a group of city workers, who had stepped into the bar behind him.
“The old bastard’s created a monster with these live gigs, I think. I should consider asking for a raise.”
“Ppffft!” Samantha retorted. “Do you honestly think anyone could release a sphincter as tight as his?”
Andy smiled warmly as he served up the beers for the group before him. His smile caught Samantha’s attention, so much so that she stopped what she was doing and looked at him quizzically.
“What is going on with you, Andy DeVries?”
He met her gaze and held it for a moment before shrugging his shoulders.
“Nothing. Nothing’s going on. I just - I dunno - I’m feeling different. Everybody’s entitled to an epiphany every now and then, aren’t they?”
“That’s some epiphany.”
“Maybe. But when you come that close...,” he raised his hand, bringing his thumb and forefinger together, indicating just how close he had been.
Samantha nodded her understanding.
Beck appeared in the entrance to the bar, and Andy smiled in greeting. His smile quickly faded, however, when he noted that Beck’s expression was tense.
Beck sat down at the bar and took off his cap. Samantha and Andy exchanged concerned glances.
“Are you OK, man? You look like somebody stole your car.”
Beck tried to offer a smile at Andy’s words, but failed miserably. Samantha poured him a beer and set it down in front of him.
“If I owned a car ... then, yeah,” Beck replied. “Nah. It’s nothing. Just had a hard shift on the site, is all.”
His explanation was lame. Andy frowned suspiciously.
“C’mon, Beck. You are the worst at bullshitting. What’s really up?”
Beck looked away. He was clearly struggling with whatever was burdening him. Eventually, he scratched the back of his scalp and looked up at Andy solemnly.
“I had a couple of visitors to the site today,” he said. “They were, uh, interested in knowing where you were at.”
Andy’s stomach dropped, and he felt as though he was going to be sick.
“What did they want?” he asked.
“Well, they weren’t really specific on the details, but they did take the opportunity to subtly threaten me. Told me that they knew my cell number, where I like to hang - shit like that.”
Beck rubbed his hands together then took a large mouthful of beer from his glass.
“We moved them on pretty quickly,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “But I would consider watching your back, Dev - just in case.”
Andy exhaled and stared off into the distance. He should have known Vasq was going to make things difficult. Not only for him, but for his friends as well. Andy shook his head, then turned towards Samantha and Beck.
“Well, are you gonna do something?” Samantha asked with concern.
“I don’t know,” Andy replied hesitantly. “I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do. He’ll back off eventually. Vasq won’t risk exposing himself, for fear that he’ll draw attention. He can’t afford that.”
“I hope you’re right, Andy,” Samantha said. “He sounds like a persistent SOB.”
They were both quiet.
It was time for Andy to begin his set. The moment he appeared on the small stage, there was a round of applause from the audience, which caused him to blush. He hadn’t gotten used to this kind of reception, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. He had yet to fully understand how a guy playing classical guitar in an inner city pub in Chicago could so appeal to an audience he wouldn’t have picked as having such eloquent tastes.
Gideon patted his shoulder on the way through and handed him a jug of beer to take up to the small stage. He smiled approvingly, the way Andy wished his own father would smile at him.
He played an hour-long set, mixing it up a little by playing pieces that he was most familiar with. He performed several guitar concertos by composers such as Gabriel Faure,
Sor, Paganini and Spanish composer Joaquin Rodrigo. The audience was as appreciative as always. The music was an elixir, taking them out of their day-to-day lives and delivering them to a place of sanctuary.
During this first set, a lone figure slipped into the front bar from the chilly outside and sat as far back as he could. He looked across cautiously to where Andy was performing, but couldn’t quite see him over the heads of people who were standing in the entrance. Samantha approached Bruce DeVries with a barely contained look of disdain and poured him a beer. She said nothing to him.
Andy took a break and retreated to the front bar where Samantha had a beer waiting for him. He wiped his face with a towel as he sat down on the stool. Beck and Samantha were looking at each other awkwardly. The men’s room door had just closed behind Bruce.
“What’s wrong?” Andy asked, lighting up a cigarette. “Do I sound bad or something?”
“No. Not at all,” Samantha answered hastily. Her reflexive response didn’t convince him. Andy turned to Beck, who shrugged and hid in his beer.
“You’re sounding great out there,” Samantha said, changing the subject. “You’re definitely growing in confidence.”
Andy smiled bashfully and examined the crowd in the main bar.
“They are a good audience,” he said.
Samantha kept one eye on the door to the men’s room, hoping Andy’s father wouldn’t suddenly appear. Andy butted his cigarette and stood, much to her relief. He returned to the stage and settled onto his stool just as Bruce emerged gingerly. He scanned the room, then stepped forward.
“OK,” Andy began, plucking the strings of his guitar to check it was still tuned. “At around this time, I like to invite people from the audience to come and join me if they think they can perform.”
There was little response from the bar as the murmur of conversation continued.
“Hmmm. I usually like to have at least one person come up here. A vocalist, perhaps? C’mon - anyone is welcome. Except for you karaoke wannabes. I don’t do karaoke.”