by Dean Mayes
Simon?
Sonya tries to focus. There is someone up ahead. A man?
He stands at the water’s edge, hands on hips, out of focus, out of reach.
Who is he?
His presence is familiar, it is warm. Her heart skips a beat. Is it him? Is it Denny?
This presence is different somehow.
As she approaches him, his features gradually come into view a little more but they remain frustratingly indistinct, until she sees his eyes. The only feature she can discern clearly. They are beautiful, large and worldly.
And they are green: an intense, vivid green.
CHAPTER 16
Andy climbed the stairs to Gideon’s office and found him sitting at his desk working at his laptop. He knocked on the open door.
“Andy,” Gideon greeted, looking up at him through thick coke-bottle glasses that reflected the glow of the laptop’s screen. “Come on in. This new rostering system is great. I was just looking over the vacant spots I have in the performance calendar. There’s a few Friday nights here, if you want to play.”
Andy managed a smile as he sat down. Gideon was probably the biggest technophobe known to man, so it was amusing to see him trying to drag himself into the 21st century like this. The sight of his office, with its piles of folders stuffed with years’ worth of paperwork, was enough to give an environmentalist a stroke.
“Gideon, I need to talk to you about something,” Andy said.
“Oh?” Gideon said, removing his glasses and folding them up. “That sounds serious.”
Andy took a folded letter out of his pocket and handed it over to Gideon.
“I, uhh - need to ask you for some time off.”
Gideon’s eyes went wide as he read the letter.
“Sweet Jesus,” he mused. “The Melbourne International Festival of the Guitar.”
“I’ve been selected to play in a competition, a concert series for emerging artists. There’s a pretty big prize. My travel expenses are paid for, but I’ll be away for a while. I don't expect you to keep my place open here.”
Gideon didn’t react immediately. He glanced between the letter and Andy then he handed it back. Andy suddenly felt unsure of what to expect.
After several moments, a broad smile melted Gideon’s features and he held out his hand towards Andy.
“Well, bloody hell if this isn’t going to punch a hole in my operation,” he said with a hearty laugh. “My god, this is awesome. Have you told your father yet?”
Andy shook the offered hand.
“No. I haven’t had the chance,” he replied, turning the letter over in his hand. “This was just delivered to me earlier this afternoon. I haven’t even started making any plans. I thought I had better to tell you first, since you’ll need to find a replacement.”
Gideon nodded appreciatively and stood up, went over to a corner cabinet and fetched out a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses.
“This calls for a drink,” he proclaimed.
Andy felt a wave of relief. “You’re OK about this?”
“Are you kidding? Gideon glanced sarcastically at Andy. “You’re not that indispensable.”
He paused for effect before chuckling, pouring scotch into the two glasses and gesturing for Andy to take one.
“Andy, this is an opportunity of a lifetime. Not many of these come along - you’d be bonkers to pass it up.”
“No, they don’t.” Andy said. “I can’t believe I was selected.”
“You have such a low expectation of yourself?” Gideon observed. “These past few months, Andy, you’ve completely turned your life around. You’ve proven you have a considerable talent. Seems a perfectly natural progression to me.”
Andy’s nose wrinkled up and he spluttered, as the uncharacteristically strong scotch slid down the back of his throat, burning all the way.
“Jesus, Gideon. What is this? Rocket fuel?”
Gideon grinned and knocked back his own as though it were water.
“Tell your father, Andy,” he said seriously. “He’ll want to know.”
“Perhaps,” Andy nodded, standing up from his chair and putting the unfinished glass down. “The ice is beginning to thaw a little - I think.”
Andy turned away. He paused just before the doorway.
“There is one thing, though,” Andy ventured. “I’ll need a greater cut of the tips. I don’t want to sleep on the street down in Australia.
Gideon smiled again and shook his finger at Andy theatrically.
“Don’t push your luck, sunshine!”
***
Andy prepared to play a set for the packed house in the bar. He’d restrung the borrowed guitar and, even though it still fell short of his standards, it had a much better sound.
As he adjusted the microphone stand and turned towards the audience, Gideon appeared beside him and unclipped the microphone, coughing into it to get everyone’s attention.
“Excuse me, folks!” he announced as the level of chatter slowly died away. “Andy DeVries here has been our house musician at The Pub for several months now and, I have to say, he has almost single handedly brought a vibrant music culture to our little corner of the city.”
Gideon paused for a round of applause while Samantha, who was serving at the bar, stopped and turned her attention towards the stage. Andy saw her and he smiled wanly, but her expression remained blank.
“Well, Andy has just found out today that he has been selected to perform in a competition at an international festival for classical guitarists - in Melbourne, Australia!”
Another, more enthusiastic round of applause erupted, causing Andy to blush. Gideon looked over his shoulder at him with a “See that?” gleam in his eyes. Andy glanced over at the bar area again. Samantha had gone.
“Now, Andy has informed me that most of the expenses for this journey have been covered. However, we at The Public House feel that he should have the opportunity to travel in style, so I’d like to encourage you all - if you think he’s good enough - to consider helping him gain worldwide recognition as a virtuoso performer. To kick off the fund, I’m going to put in $500.”
Andy nearly choked on his beer. Gideon held up a wad of bills and turned to Andy, clutched his shoulder gently and gave it a squeeze, while another round of cheering drowned out any other noise in the bar.
Andy launched into a set that he decided to skew towards a more modern repertoire. With the help from some audience members, who were quite competent musicians and vocalists, the set became a gutsy blues and roots session that had the entire bar singing along and cheering for more. Despite the limitations of his borrowed instrument, Andy derived much pleasure and satisfaction from this raw musical performance, recognizing that the crowd in here tonight had fed into his positive vibe. It was like a drug - a far more satisfying one than any he had known before. The buzz in the room was energizing. It him happy, and it made him feel fulfilled.
Andy stepped off the stage near the end of the evening to discover that a little over $2000 had been raised towards his trip to Australia. He was speechless and humbled. As he went through into the front room, Andy found his father sitting at the bar.
Bruce stood, seeing his son approach. Andy hesitated fleetingly, then joined his father at the bar.
“That was a good performance,” Bruce said. “I didn’t know you could play the blues so well.”
Andy smiled.
“It’s not my preferred genre, but I have to admit it sounds great in a venue like this.”
“That it does,” Bruce agreed. He leaned down beside him and lifted a large form - a worn-looking guitar bag - onto the bar and slid it towards Andy.
“I, uhh, found this at the house. I don’t know how much use it would be for you, but - I guess - if you can do something with it, then it deserves to be used again.”
Andy sensed he knew what it was before he opened the zipper, but that did not lessen his reaction when he pulled out the battered but recognizable instrument.
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“Oh my god,” he whispered, gazing between it and his father. “Dad. This is it, isn’t it?”
Bruce nodded wistfully.
Andy turned the familiar guitar over and over in his hands: the very guitar he had first played when he was young, the tragic memento brought back from the deserts of Iraq by his father.
It was Spanish-made, a grand concert model fashioned from a combination of German spruce, Madagascan and Indian rosewood. Andy recognized from the faded label inside the body that it was a Vincente Carillo guitar, a renowned manufacturer who had a 173-year history in handcrafting these rare and beautiful instruments. Its surface was scuffed in places and there was a splintered hole near where the fretboard passed over the neck. Andy guessed at what that might be as he ran his fingers over it: a reminder of a tragedy from another time.
“I know it won’t replace your Taylor,” Bruce said. “But I think it’ll still play a decent tune.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Andy said, very softly.
“Don’t say anything,” Bruce responded gruffly, shifting awkwardly on his stool. “Just clean it up as best you can. Get some decent strings for it.”
Andy couldn’t take his eyes off the guitar, examining it as one might examine a piece of art. He noticed a small card sticking out from inside its body. Carefully taking it out, Andy realized it was a photograph - a photograph of his father and Gideon in their battle fatigues and helmets, posing with a slight, young Iraqi man holding a guitar. This guitar. He wore a bright, proud smile; all of them smiled. There was a particular poetic warmth to the image.
“This is him?”
Bruce gazed down on the image in Andy’s hand. His breath seemed to catch in his throat. Evidently he had been unaware of its presence there.
“That’s him,” he mused sadly. “The only other guitarist whose music has moved me as much as yours.”
Andy gazed at it for a long moment, then he carefully placed it back inside the instrument.
“So, this festival overseas. It’s a pretty big deal, huh?” Bruce ventured.
“Yeah, it is. It’s kind of the big deal.”
Bruce looked at his son and placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
“I want the best for you. I always wanted the best for you. I know that - I failed you. In the past. It’s good to see you doing something that you love.”
Bruce finished his drink and was preparing to stand when Andy looked up at him.
“Stay for a while, Dad.”
Bruce hesitated, checking his watch. He nodded and smiled.
“I can stay for a while.”
Andy smiled, then reappraised the guitar, shaking his head in awe. He determined that it was indeed still serviceable and began making mental notes of what it would require.
Bruce spied Samantha lurking nearby and summoned her over.
“That looks as though it has seen better days,” she remarked hesitantly, as Bruce indicated with two fingers. She began pouring them a pair of half-pints.
Andy looked up from the guitar to find Samantha standing there. He turned his head slightly towards Bruce.
“Uh, Dad? Could you give me a minute here?” he whispered.
Bruce frowned at him quizzically before the penny dropped.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” he said.
Once they were alone, Andy set the guitar down beside him.
“It has,” he admitted tapping the headstock. “But it’ll do for now. I think I can give it a new life.”
Samantha hesitated.
“You’re really doing this, then, aren’t you?”
Andy nodded. “I am, Sam.” He gazed directly at her.
“Don’t look at me like that, Andy. You know the effect it has on me.”
She punched him lightly on the arm, and looked down at the bar with a sad half-smile.
“Sorry,” Andy said. He reached out for her hand, taking it gently and squeezing it. “You deserve better, so much better than me. I have to do this. I have to...”
“No. Don’t say anything more,” she said, cutting him off. Though their words barely scratched the surface, both of them knew what they were really saying. She turned her hand over in his and squeezed his fingers. “This is an incredible opportunity for you, Andy. I just hope that whatever you’re looking for turns out to be - you know. It.”
Andy leaned over the bar and kissed Samantha gently on her cheek.
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his skin upon hers, and when he drew back, she gazed into his eyes once again. Then she finally knew what it was about them that was different.
Remembering the photo from his backpack she’d seen days ago, Samantha recognized the same vivid green eyes here and now as those of the stranger in the photograph. She held his gaze for a long moment, allowing herself a few moments to study the striations of his pupil that told her so much about a person. A question began to form in her mind.
But she brushed it away.
CHAPTER 17
The Toyota four-by-four wound its way along the highway, heading north. Jochen Zinski watched the majestic New South Wales coastline pass by as he cruised along, marveling at its unspoiled beauty and wondering why on Earth he had not taken the opportunity to explore this part of the world before now. The flight up from Melbourne had been surprisingly quick and it had allowed him some solitude, an escape from the frenzy of the Festival preparations. Grace had quickly and reliably arranged the vehicle hire in Merimbula, where Zinski had landed, as well as the taxi from the airfield to the vehicle itself. In the space of just a few hours Zinski had found himself a world away from the bustling metropolis and in a quiet coastal country side. Anja, his wife, would surely love it here.
The organizing committee had been perplexed at his sudden decision to cancel an entire day of meetings to pursue this seemingly bizarre quest but, fortunately for Zinski, his reputation had convinced most of them this was a cause worth pursuing. That he found himself now on this winding road was due in no small part to the esteem in which they held him.
A characteristic green sign loomed large up ahead and Zinski saw the name “Hambledown.” Slowing to allow a large milk tanker to pass, Zinski signaled his intention, turned off the highway and continued on towards the beach.
Zinski knew he was taking a risk by turning up unannounced. But he hoped that if he came to visit Sonya Llewellyn personally, she might be more receptive towards the idea he was going to put to her. Zinski had thought much about Denny in the weeks since Sonya had delivered the sad news of his death. He had been totally unprepared for the news, guilt-ridden for not knowing that his former student, his friend, was even ill.
But he wasn’t totally surprised. Zinski and Denny hadn’t parted under the best of circumstances. Denny’s desire to pursue architecture over music - because he needed a solid profession that would give him the kind of income he thought music couldn’t guarantee - had seen them argue bitterly. Zinski believed Denny was a brilliant virtuoso, with the potential to make an indelible mark on the world stage. He never forgot Denny’s unique talent. He had lamented it. But that was all so long ago now. Zinski didn’t want to prolong anyone’s grief by putting forward the idea he had now. Rather, he hoped it would be an opportunity to do something special in the memory of a wonderful musician and friend.
As he passed through the outskirts, he marveled at the seaside village on the shore of a curved bay that protected it from the vast Pacific Ocean beyond. He noted a pair of fishing trawlers, slowly making their way out from a small port. The beach was occupied by a gaggle of people - sunbathers, children, families; an idyllic summer scene. The road curved around to the right, and before long Zinski found himself in the main street. As he passed shops and houses he searched for a particular business: a practice. It didn’t appear to jump out at him right away. He didn’t see a sign or a plaque denoting a law firm, so he pulled up outside of a general store and killed the engine.
Checking a folded-up piece of paper that s
at on the passenger seat, Zinski scanned the directions Grace had cobbled together for him. If they were correct - and he had no reason to think they weren’t - then the practice should be right here in the main street.
Zinski decided that if anyone knew how to find somebody in a small town like this, it would surely be the proprietor of a general store. Fetching a leather satchel from the rear, he climbed out of the vehicle and stepped up onto the curb.
Inside the store, Lionel looked up to see a well-dressed stranger enter. The jacket he wore looked well tailored and expensive, and the man himself was immaculately groomed.
“Good morning,” Lionel greeted. He checked his watch, noting it had just gone midday. “Actually - beg my pardon - good afternoon.”
Zinski nodded his head respectfully and smiled.
“Good afternoon,” the stranger said in a heavily accented voice. “I am in need of some assistance. I am searching for a Miss Sonya Llewellyn. I believe she has a legal practice here.”
“She does,” Lionel replied guardedly. “Are you are in a need of a lawyer?”
“Well no, not specifically.” Zinski smiled. “But I am hoping to speak to her directly. “My name is Jochen Zinski. I have traveled up here from Melbourne to see her.”
“That is a long way to come,” Lionel said as he stepped around Zinski to pick up a crate of fresh apples and place them onto a display stand.
He was going to have to offer up more information to this man, Zinski mused. It was clear he knew Miss Llewellyn. Zinski fished a business card out of his leather satchel and held it out.
“I apologize, sir. I am the director of the upcoming International Festival of the Guitar, to be held in Melbourne. I am a friend of her late partner Dennis Banister. He was a student of mine years ago.”
Lionel stopped what he was doing and looked up at Zinski apologetically.
“Oh, I see,” he responded, pointing through the front window at the stone cottage across the street. “Well, then ... you did, in fact, pass by her office just down the street a little. I believe she is replacing the sign out the front today, so it’s easy to miss right now. You should find her there.”