by Dean Mayes
Andy felt as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs.
There on the screen in front of him was an image of Denny Banister. His profile had become a memorial filled with hundreds upon hundreds of Wall posts from family, friends, colleagues and acquaintances.
“Dennis Banister. Student, Guitarist, Lover, Friend. Passed away October 18th after a short battle with cancer.”
“Denny - you were a diamond. God bless you brotha!!” “RIP Denny - We will never forget you”; “Denny - you were the worst slips fielder ever, but the finest cover drive in a generation - love the game, love you!”; “Denny - your music made us love more”; “Denny - Stevie Ray saved a spot for ya.”
Andy scrolled through myriad profile pictures attached to the posts, his eyes welling with tears as he recognized the faces. Denny’s kid sister Jocelyn, whom he’d nicknamed Joss since they were toddlers; his mother Lucy, a recent convert to the social networking phenomenon; his best friend Anthony Llewellyn, Sonya’s brother. There were friends he had studied with, friends he’d played guitar with, friends with whom he’d grown up who were now living abroad.
He remembered all of them. Andy felt overwhelming waves of grief twist inside of him. All of these people, so much a fixture in Denny’s life, had expressed their love for him and expressed their own grief at his passing. For this wonderful young man had been lost from them. The tears came quickly and fell down over his cheeks. Andy’s heart ached for these friends who had enriched Denny’s life, this place so far away that Denny had called home, this life that was so full of promise - that was so good. He struggled to comprehend the strength of the emotions he was feeling.
Although Sonya didn’t have a page of her own, she was well represented in Denny’s image gallery. There were photos of them together posing for a romantic couple’s shot, photos of them camping with friends from university, lazing on the beach, swimming in the water, hamming it up at a theme park.
Andy had lost track of time. Suddenly a pair of fingers tapped his shoulder, and he jumped in his seat. He spun around quickly to find a young woman standing behind him.
“Excuse me. Your time’s up,” she said, a little awkwardly.
Andy blinked furiously and hurriedly wiped his eyes with his hands, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry.”
Andy quickly gathered up his things while the woman waited patiently. He gazed at the screen one last time, at Sonya and Denny together, then closed the window as if it had never been.
***
Andy stumbled from the library trying to collect himself as he stuffed the print-outs into his backpack. It was Denny who had reacted in there, not himself - he knew that - but still, he was confused and frightened by the power of those dormant emotions, his powerlessness to separate them. His heart was racing.
He crossed an expansive lawn, fastening the zipper of his backpack and taking some deep breaths. By the time he reached the faculty building he felt a little calmer. His mouth was dry, and he decided to get a can of soda. Entering the faculty building and the student lounge, Andy spied a vending machine and approached it. Some students from his classes were milling about near the large notice board and they regarded him curiously as he passed by them. He hoped he didn’t look as strange as he felt.
Lifting the can from the machine, Andy opened it and downed a generous gulp of liquid, relieved to soothe his parched throat. He turned from the machine and saw the notice board once more. The poster in the bottom right-hand corner was still there.
Melbourne International Festival
of the Guitar,
Victoria, Australia
15th - 21st February
The yellow rectangle of paper that was there previously had been replaced by a white strip of paper upon which an inscription was scrawled in red marker.
“Last days for applications. Closing Friday!”
Melbourne.
“Still weighing it up?”
Andy flinched at the sound of Veldtman’s voice. She was standing right beside him.
“What?” he stammered before composing himself. “Oh. No. God, no. I was just daydreaming, I guess.”
Veldtman looked Andy up and down and shook her head, tsk-tsking at his bruises and bandages.
“What have you gone and gotten yourself into this time, Andrew?” she questioned in the way a disapproving aunt might interrogate a naughty child.
“Nothing,” Andy replied weakly. “Well ... it's what happens when you try to walk away.”
Veldtman was caught off guard by his frank response. He had returned to studying the poster.
“You’ve heard this all before, Andrew, I know, but may I remind you of just how prestigious this event is?” she said. “One of the finest music gatherings in the world.”
Andy nodded without looking away from the poster.
“Why, then, are you still procrastinating?”
Andy became flustered. He tried to speak, but could not find the words. He met her with a pathetic smile.
“There’s no way I could possibly go to an event like that,” he said weakly. “It’s gotta be, like, 12,000 miles away from here. It would cost a fortune just to get there.”
“There are means of addressing issues of cost, Andrew DeVries.”
Andy turned to face her.
“Nobody wants me on this, Ms. Veldtman. You know it and I know it. Decisions have already been made; I’m sure of that.”
Veldtman folded her arms over her chest. Her eyes pierced through him as though she could see his innermost thoughts.
“What makes you so sure? I think you underestimate those who are more qualified than you to assess a person’s ability. Especially when they have seen the effort that person has undertaken to better themselves both in the classroom and ... on a certain stage, in a certain part of town.”
She leaned in close to him and lowered her voice.
“For god’s sake! Submit an application and do it quickly. There are only four places available and there is not a lot of time left.”
Andy blinked at her, bewildered. In his mind Denny’s voice spoke to him.
This is your chance.
He considered the poster again, then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and took out the folded application form. Veldtman almost snatched it from him and examined it.
Andy had completed it.
***
Jochen Zinski rushed through an expansive hallway in the Melba Memorial Conservatorium of Music - a quaint group of buildings situated in the leafy Melbourne suburb of Richmond. He juggled several books and folders in his arms, while desperately keeping his left arm cocked in an effort not to lose the strap of his laptop bag. Various colleagues and students greeted him as he passed by; he managed to acknowledge every one, even though it was a rather harried greeting at best.
It had been an incredibly busy morning for Zinski. He had attended four meetings in five hours, and not all of them had been in one place. Having to contend with Melbourne’s perpetual peak-hour traffic was enough to fray anyone’s nerves, and Zinski, who was renowned for his quiet way and exquisite patience, was close to wanting to strangle somebody.
As was often the case with Zinski, a Hamburg native and artistic director of the Melbourne International Festival of the Guitar, he steadfastly refused to acknowledge any suggestion that he couldn’t manage. At times like these, when the demands were seemingly insurmountable, he reminded himself of the prestige his appointment carried. The festival was steadily gaining renown as one of the finest gatherings of international artists on the calendar, and the significance of this was not lost on him.
He would kill for a coffee right now, however.
Zinski was praying his secretary had been able to clear his schedule for this afternoon; otherwise there simply would not be any time for him to digest any of the information from the morning’s meetings. There were numerous venue and scheduling conflicts to contend with, city council logistics and politics to wade through, g
uest performance line-ups for the week-long festival to finalize and a multitude of applications from candidates hoping to perform in the emerging talent concert series to consider. He dreaded the prospect of having to take home yet another pile of unfinished work tonight. His wife would surely kill him.
Though he had finally submitted to the enthusiastic sales pitch of his eleven year-old daughter and purchased a BlackBerry, he had no idea how to use the blasted device. He was thankful that he hadn’t pitched his notebook into the rubbish bin. Though it was fairly bursting at the seams with additional sticky notes, scraps of A4 paper that had been stapled inside and business cards, Zinski would be utterly lost without it.
Zinski rounded a corner and arrived at his office. Passing by his secretary he issued a comical expulsion of air up over his face as he sprinted the last few steps into his office, where he literally tossed the contents of his arms across his desk.
His relief at having unloaded his burden was brief, however, because almost immediately, the phone on his desk began ringing.
Zinski found the inside of his bottom lip with his teeth and bit hard. It was all he could do to prevent himself from cursing out loud.
The ringing stopped as his secretary, Grace, picked up the call from her desk, giving him the desired moment to collect himself. He flopped down in his chair just as Grace came into the office with a coffee cup in one hand and her other hand perched at her ear, balancing a headset there. She took a quick mouthful from the coffee then handed it across to Zinski, who mouthed an appreciative ‘Thank you’ as he took the cup.
He sipped away while his secretary nodded in response to the caller on the other end of the line. At first he was absorbed in catching himself up, until he noticed the expression on Grace’s face change subtly from her usual, professional demeanor to one of concern.
Finally, putting her hand over the microphone, she looked at Zinski.
“I think you’ll want to take this,” she said quietly, pointing at his own telephone, which was buried under papers.
Sitting forward, Zinski placed the cup down beside him and dug out the telephone, clutching at the receiver.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted in his suave German accent as Grace transferred the call and stepped away. “Jochen Zinski; can I help you?”
“Hello, Mr. Zinski,” a woman’s voice replied at the other end of the line. “My name is Sonya Llewellyn. I’m calling on behalf of Dennis Banister.”
Sonya sat in her office, holding the letter from Zinski and staring at it as she spoke.
Zinski immediately recognized the name. He had taught Denny years ago when Denny was still in high school, and they had become good friends. He had been instantly transported by the young man’s talent with the guitar and though Denny had chosen a university degree in architecture over the instrument, Zinski regarded him as one of the finest virtuosos he had ever heard.
“Yes, of course, Ms. Llewellyn,” he responded cheerily. “I trust that he received my invitation, then.”
Sonya nodded absently, adjusting her grip on the handset.
“He - I mean, I did, thank you, Mr. Zinski. However, I am afraid that I am calling you with some rather sad news,” she paused, her words threatened to catch in her throat as she prepared to deliver the sad little speech yet again. “Denny passed away last year after a short illness. He was ... diagnosed with cancer, but it was untreatable.”
All the maelstrom of thought that had accompanied Zinski’s busy morning suddenly dissipated as the import of Sonya’s news struck him. He sat forward in his chair and rubbed his brow with his free hand.
“Oh, my dear. I am - so very sorry to hear this. Please accept my sincerest condolences.”
“Thank you, Mr. Zinski. The invitation you extended to Denny was lovely. He would have been so thrilled to attend the festival. I know he loved it very much. I - I just wanted you to know.”
Zinski was unsure of what to say next.
“I - it was my pleasure. He was a beautiful exponent of the guitar. I know he will be sadly missed by us here. I will be sure to pass on this news to the Conservatorium.”
“Thank you, Mr. Zinski,” Sonya said finally, her voice flat. “Goodbye for now.”
Sonya hung up the phone and sat there numb, the familiar sadness of loss creeping through her once more. She laid the letter down before her, the two tickets paper-clipped to its top border, and glanced over at the photograph of her and Denny together. As she gazed into the joyous eyes of her lost love, Sonya felt her emotions threaten to crumble around her. His warmth, his voice, his conversation, the way he held her, the way he kissed her. How Sonya missed his gentle touch. Before she could allow herself to break apart, however, Sonya pulled herself back from the precipice of her grief; she stifled her tears and closed down her heart.
Zinski re-cradled the receiver of his own telephone and swiveled in his seat to gaze out through the window across the lush green lawn outside. He considered the sad news that had just been delivered.
Grace gingerly poked her head around the door.
“Everything OK?” she ventured warily.
Zinski nodded but did not speak.
“I managed to clear your schedule for the afternoon,” she said, sensing he was more affected than he was willing to admit. “Grant has offered to take your tutorials, so you have a clear run until the end of the day.”
Zinski smiled wanly. He regarded his coffee for a moment but suddenly found himself not wanting it anymore.
“Thank you, Grace,” he said distantly, returning to his thoughtful gaze out through the window.
CHAPTER 14
There was a tension between Andy and Samantha, but he tried to ignore it. She had barely said a word to him from the moment he’d arrived at The Pub, apart from offering him some of her foundation so he could cover up some of the nastier cuts and scratches that were still visible on his forehead. Andy had ditched the gauze bandages entirely and replaced the Band-Aid over his cheek. In the subdued lighting of the front bar, he was mostly able to conceal the fact that he looked like shit. Gideon had tried to send him home, but Andy insisted on staying. He needed the money and desperately. For the first time in a long time, he found himself worrying about money.
Gideon allowed Andy to borrow the guitar they used for the random guest performers Andy had been encouraging up onto the stage. But it wasn’t the same. The guitar was like wearing a left-handed glove on a right hand. It was unwieldy and difficult to tune. It just didn’t fit.
After a couple of hours, things hadn’t improved. Samantha was frustrated that Andy apparently hadn’t noticed she was pissed with him. He seemed distracted, as though he had something on his mind. She didn’t know what to say to break the ice. Andy sat at the corner of the bar during his evening break, eating his meal quietly and reading some documents. It piqued her interest and she made a rather ham-fisted effort of trying to see what it was that he was reading, but it remained tantalizingly out of reach.
An opportunity opened up when Andy stood up from the bar and went to the men’s room. She quickly stepped over to the unattended documents on the bar and surveyed them, keeping one eye on the door to the men’s room. There were dozens of computer printouts of web pages, reams and reams of abstract, scribbled notes and photographs of buildings, a strip of coastline and faces of unfamiliar people. None of it seemed to make any sense at all. The door opened a couple of times, causing her to flinch, but it wasn’t Andy.
“What the hell is he up to?” she wondered.
He’d circled passages of descriptions of a town, as well as pictures of an old house sitting on a rise. In the soft light of the bar Samantha shifted a couple of pages around, hoping to see more of the handwritten scribble Andy had produced. Then she recognized one of the names on the page: Sonya, the name he had spoken in the hospital.
Samantha felt a twinge of jealousy seeing the name on the page. Just under that sheet of paper was another printout. It was an image of a young couple posing togeth
er. She fingered the edge of the paper, hoping to see it better, while her eyes darted between it and the men’s room door. The couple stood in front of a hedge that was full of pretty pink flowers and appeared very much in love. Samantha looked deep into the eyes of the young man. She saw something there that was familiar, but she couldn’t work out what it was.
The door opened again and Samantha skittered back down towards the other end of the bar as Andy stepped into view.
***
Towards the end of the evening, when the bar was nearly empty, Andy decided he could no longer avoid Samantha. As she unloaded a tray of beer glasses from the washer, he saw an opportunity and took it.
“So what’s going on, Sam?”
Samantha shrugged her shoulders brusquely as she carefully plucked out individual glasses and began to wipe them down.
“Nothing is going on,” she said tersely. “You haven’t exactly been all fluff and bubble tonight. I could ask the same thing of you.”
Andy looked tired.
“C’mon, Sam, let’s cut the shit. You’ve been pissed at me since the hospital. I just want to know what it is I’m supposed to have done.”
Sam pursed her lips, clearly uncomfortable. She couldn’t look at him.
“You haven’t done anything,” she answered feebly, to which she added under her breath. “That’s the problem.”
Andy stared at her, having caught that last jibe.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he pressed.
Samantha stopped what she was doing and put her towel down on the bar. She fidgeted on the spot for a moment then let the tension in her shoulders dissipate.
“It’s nothing, Dev,” she said, her voice resigned. “It’s my problem, not yours.”
“I don’t buy that, Sam,” he challenged her, shaking his head. “You don’t lie very well.”
Samantha fixed Andy with an almost pleading gaze.