She nodded.
“Well relax. Badgering students is old school.” She turned the trumpet from side to side, checking it out. “Looks like a genuine Chinese knock-off.” She took the mouthpiece out, put her own in, and played a scale. “It will do.” She took out her mouthpiece and handed the trumpet to Callie. “You can put it away.”
Put it away? Did Pamela suspect something? She wouldn’t have called her “partner” if she had, would she? She unzipped her backpack, put the trumpet in, and then wiped her sweaty palms on her shirt.
“You won’t need this either,” Pamela said, holding up Callie’s mouthpiece. “Some teachers start with buzzing, but not me.”
She reached for the mouthpiece. What would Pamela start with?
“Just a minute.”
She sat on the edge of her chair, holding her breath, waiting.
Pamela poked around in her bag and then drew out a little leather pouch. “This will protect it.” She put the mouthpiece inside. “You’ll need a case for your trumpet, too, if you want to avoid dents.” She smiled. “I’ve got an extra one around here I can loan you.”
Callie nodded and tried to smile back. So Pamela must be planning to give her a lesson, after all.
“Well then, let’s get started.” Pamela leaned forward. “When I was studying in Paris, my teacher told me ‘Sound is a gift of the breath.’” She made a gentle swooping motion with her hand outward as if she were trailing the sound coming from her breath. “I like to think of playing that way, as offering gifts of the breath.”
Callie smiled, pictured ribboned packages floating from the bell of her trumpet.
“The musician receives the gift, too. That’s the best part. Once we learn to breathe, the sound comes along as effortlessly as if it were a gift. But like other gifts, the gift of sound is not always welcome. You may not like all the sounds you make.”
If she could make a sound on a trumpet at all.
“But don’t let that bother you.” Pamela waved her index finger from side to side. “Pleasing is not the point. Focus, instead, on playing with integrity, expressing your own vision, speaking with your authentic voice. Especially when playing jazz.”
Well, she didn’t think she would be playing jazz …
“It’s also useful to focus on being true to yourself, to your own musical expression, when playing classical music—though conductors may not agree.” Pamela laughed. “And to do that, to speak from your heart, or your gut, you’ve got to relax, open up, and breathe fully and deeply. If you hold your breath, as if expecting something terrible to happen …” Pamela held in a breath and opened her eyes wide as if terrified, “… it probably will, at least when playing the trumpet.”
Callie noticed that she, too, was holding her breath. Was she expecting something terrible to happen? She took in a deep breath. Pamela had seen the leash, but she had made a joke. She needn’t worry about being found out.
“Watch how I am sitting, back straight and relaxed, feet against the floor. Now close your eyes. Feel how the chair supports the weight of your body.”
Callie adjusted her weight. She felt heavy.
“Lift your heart when taking in a breath, and then relax your shoulders, letting your shoulder blades fall together.”
Her back felt stiff from ramming into Nacho, but her spine felt protected when she drew her shoulder blades together.
“On the next in-breath, feel the length of your spine, from your tailbone to the base of your skull.”
She found herself sitting taller.
“Rest your hands palms down on your knees. Feel the warmth of your knees against your palms.”
She noticed the nubby texture of her linen pants.
“Feel the support of the floor under your feet. Let your toes expand and relax.”
She wiggled her toes.
“Feel the surface of your feet. Feel how the soles and straps of your sandals feel against your feet.”
She noticed several sore places on the underside of her toes. They must be from careening down the callejón.
“Feel the air against your feet and the freedom of your feet.”
Too free—given her fall.
“Let out a slow breath. Tap your toe, one, two, three, four, as your breath goes out. When your breath is all the way out, let another breath enter slowly.”
She tapped to four. Was her breath all the way out? She could not tell.
“Tap your toe, one, two, three, four, as the breath goes in.”
This toe tapping was distracting.
“Let out the breath slowly. Let it out all the way. Then let it out more. Now let it out more. Push the last bit of air out with the muscles of your abdomen.”
Her throat constricted from the effort.
“Now relax, all at once. Notice how your lungs fill effortlessly.”
Her throat still felt a little tight, but air did flow into her lungs.
“Let the air out slowly.”
Was she supposed to tap her toe again?
“Now breathe naturally.”
She no longer knew what that was. At least she could stop tapping her toe.
“And feel the breath as it goes in and out of your nostrils.”
That she could do. It tickled.
“Feel your tongue relax. Feel your throat open.”
Oh, that did feel better.
“Now imagine a beautiful pitcher.”
She recalled the crystal pitcher on Joyce’s desk.
“Imagine that it’s a warm day, and you are sitting in the dappled light of an oak tree by a small rapid in a brook. You are relaxed and happy.”
She heard the water rippling. Happy? Yes. She imaged Gwendolyn there beside her, wearing her yoga clothes.
“You are holding the pitcher, and it feels light in your hand.”
Crystal can be heavy … But Gwendolyn reached over to hold it with her, and then the pitcher felt weightless.
“When you tip the pitcher to the right, the waterfall fills it— effortlessly.”
She watched the water splash into the bottom of the pitcher.
“When you tip the pitcher to the left, the water spills effortlessly back into the stream.”
Yes, it did, and looked lovely, too, reflecting the dappled sunlight. She smiled, and so did Gwendolyn.
“Let out your breath completely. Imagine the pitcher tipped all the way, and the last drip of water falling into the stream.”
She and Gwendolyn tipped the pitcher together. She let out her breath fully. It felt easier that time.
“Now take in your next breath. Feel how your breath goes to the bottom of your lungs, the way the water goes to the bottom of the pitcher.”
Her breath had come in on its own. She and Gwendolyn looked at each other, breathing out and then in together, freely and naturally.
“You can open your eyes now.”
Open her eyes? Then what would happen to Gwendolyn? She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, but Gwendolyn disappeared anyway.
“Callie?”
She opened her eyes and saw Pamela leaning toward her.
“Oh, sorry … Is the breathing over?”
“The exercise, yes, but do keep breathing.”
Callie laughed. “We … I liked pouring from the pitcher. That made it easier to let out the air, and then air just flowed back in all on its own.”
“You have to learn to let go. That’s the secret.”
PAMELA’S cell rang. “Excuse me. I’ve got to take this. I have a feeling it’s my house guests.”
Left on her own, Callie took in the furnishings of the living room. Built along the opposite end was a wooden bench, lined with rolled sleeping bags. Above it were small-paned windows to the side garden. On the wall to the left hung a row of framed photos. One drew her attention. It had a building in the background that looked familiar. Her heartbeat picked up. Was it possible? She looked back toward Pamela, who was still giving directions complete with hand motions indicating steps and corners.
> Pamela put her hand over the phone. “This may take a while. Stretch your legs.”
Callie rose and walked as casually as she could to the photo. She took in a breath. A girl, dressed in a graduation robe, stood with an older couple in front of a tall blue sign: Wendell Phillips Academy High School. Written on a banner: “Congratulations Class of ’81.” She gasped, and then looked to see if Pamela noticed. No problem. She was concentrating on her directions. She turned back to the photo. Gwendolyn’s high school. A predominantly African-American high school where Callie had volunteered. She had never seen her daughter there. She was sure of that when she saw her daughter’s photo. She would have remembered that face. But perhaps she had seen Pamela. Maybe that’s why she looked familiar. She leaned closer to the photo. But the girl in the photo didn’t look like Pamela. Or did she? She studied the photo again and then looked back over to Pamela. Same eyes, same mouth and nose. Just different hair. She looked back toward the photo. The girl there had a short, trim afro. But, yes, she was Pamela. And the couple with her must be her parents.
The man, who resembled Nelson Mandela, wore a gray suit, and the woman a tailored black dress and a wide-brimmed hat with a white band. The man had his arm around Pamela, and the woman stood slightly apart. They were both turned toward Pamela, looking at her with warmth and love. Pamela, however, looked straight ahead and appeared uncomfortable. To the right of the graduation photo was another photo of Pamela, this time smiling broadly, and with her present hairstyle. She wore a tux and stood arm and arm with a woman dressed in a pearly-white kimono and wearing a headpiece that reminded Callie of the starched caps nurses once wore.
To the left of the graduation photo was a photo of Dizzy Gillespie wearing a fez and looking pensively at his trumpet with the tipped-up bell.
Callie glanced at Pamela, still on the phone, and then she looked again at the middle photo. Too bad it wasn’t a group photo. There wasn’t even anyone in the background. But someone had to take the photo. Who was that? She leaned closer, checking out the school windows to see if there was a reflection, but she couldn’t make out anything. Well, the photographer could be Gwendolyn. And if so, she and Pamela had been friends, best friends even. Maybe they’d been friends from the time they were children. She imagined them sitting on the sidewalk, skinny legs splayed, playing jacks.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful, taking a trumpet lesson from Gwendolyn’s life-long friend? She took in the size of the school. Maybe she was going too far. Gwendolyn would have been a year ahead, and they would have only overlapped a year, since Gwendolyn had moved after her first two years. Still, it would be wonderful if she were in the living room of someone who knew her daughter. If only moments before she was learning to breathe from someone who knew her daughter. If sometime soon, her next lesson maybe—why not take another?—she would learn more about her daughter.
WELL, that wasn’t so bad, Callie thought as she shut Pamela’s gate behind her. She felt lighter as she walked along the callejón, the trumpet now in a case bumping against her leg like an old friend. She had wanted to ask Pamela if she knew Gwendolyn, but she could not think of a discreet way to mention her. She had not wanted to sound too much like the mother of a lost child. But it wouldn’t have to be obvious. After all, she had volunteered at Wendell Phillips. That cover had worked before. No reason to think it would not work now. She could ask about students Pamela knew to see if they knew any in common. She would practice saying the words to make them sound natural. She would remember to breathe first. She wouldn’t mention Gwendolyn’s name, though. Still, if Pamela was Gwendolyn’s friend, she would be sure to bring her up.
She stopped to savor the fragrance of orange blossoms hanging over a wall and took in a slow breath, tapping her toe. She would have another chance to ask, and soon. Pamela had asked her to take a walk on Sunday. Only a few days away, but time enough to think. Even with her weekend chores. Armando would be away. Oh, Armando. She slumped a little. How would he feel if he knew about the walk? Betrayed, that’s how. She squared her shoulders and started again. He was like that husband with the two heads. Jealous when there was no reason to be. That must be why he had said Pamela was dangerous. He resented the attention Maestro Chávez gave her.
When she rounded the corner, she noticed the loosened cobblestone and placed it to the side. She shook her head. What had gotten into her? Nervous about taking a trumpet lesson. She didn’t even have to blow into it. All she had to do was breathe. Nothing to it. She continued up the callejón. She would practice every day, imagining the brook and the pitcher. Perhaps Gwendolyn would be there, too.
The sun felt good on her shoulders. She was happy. Gay. Wasn’t that how her aunt had described her mother? Gay. Not a word she would have expected. Her mother’s voice always gentle, always kind, had carried a hint of sadness since her father died. But, now that she thought of it, there had been a lightness in her mother’s voice these last few months. She recalled how happy her mother had once been. How she would protest, “with my apron on and the dinner getting cold,” when Callie’s father beckoned her to dance, something they were expressly not to do, given their religion. How her father would respond, “Oh, don’t bother about dinner. Callie doesn’t mind, do you girl?” And, of course, she had not minded. Her parents would waltz around the kitchen table with her father whistling to the tune of “The Blue Danube.” She had loved her mother’s smile when she danced. It reminded her of a photo of her mother as a girl wearing the first dress she made herself. A shy, sweet smile. That smile of her mother waltzing in the kitchen. The same shy, sweet smile of the girl with the braids across her head wearing her newly made polka-dot dress.
Callie unlocked her door and entered her terrace. She leaned over. Ah, a postcard. A reminder from the philosopher of the yearly silent retreat. She flipped it over and studied the view of the lake surrounded by high, forested hills. Maybe she would go this year—a thought she had had the previous five years but never acted on. On the other hand, she had never had a trumpet around before. Some quiet time might come in handy.
She looked at the lake again and then slipped the postcard into her pocket. Had the postman slid any other mail under her door? A letter from her mother, perhaps? She looked around the terrace floor, but didn’t see anything. She tried to remember when the last letter from her mother had come. At least a couple of weeks ago.
But, now that she thought of it, her mother seemed to be tending less to her usual occupations. She had commented recently that she couldn’t find the beans in her garden through all the weeds. When Callie asked if she had been ill, she laughed. “Oh, no. Just busy …” She hadn’t specified further. What was she doing? Surely nothing to worry about. Not with that lilt in her mother’s voice. Maybe her mother had taken out her father’s trumpet. Found a teacher. Learned how to breathe.
Twelve
SMILING AT THE IMAGE OF HER MOTHER PUFFING out her cheeks, Callie picked up the phone to call her. When it started ringing, she placed it between her ear and shoulder and opened the trumpet case. She lifted the trumpet and placed it on the dining table, its bell down. Would it fall? She turned it on its side and looked closer. It was covered with fingerprints. Her mother’s phone continued ringing. Strange. She was usually at home at that hour. Perhaps she was at Aunt Ida’s. Well, no need to interrupt their visit. She should call Armando anyway. And get busy wiping off those fingerprints.
“DIGA,” Armando answered, as was his custom. Still it threw her off. “Speak” sounded so abrupt. She paused, and before she could say anything, Armando said, “What took you so long, Chou? You should have been back from Pamela’s hours ago. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, lifted the trumpet, and began rubbing its bell with a fold of flannel.
“She wouldn’t give him to you?”
“She didn’t have him. Anyway, I didn’t see him.”
“Well, no wonder,” he said. “She had plenty of time to
hide him. You should have arranged the lesson earlier in the week, Chou. Oh, well. I’ll think of something else. At least you don’t have to bother with the trumpet. I’ll get rid of it for you when I come back.”
She cradled the trumpet against her chest.
“Can’t think about it right now. I’m trying to figure out what to pack. How many guayaberas do you think I’ll need? I was thinking of the linen ones with the narrow pleats, but maybe I should take some embroidered ones, too.”
He sounded anxious, but no more anxious than on any other trip.
“Should I just use my black shoes or take my white ones, also? The men there usually wear white, but I’ll be wearing black pants on the plane. By the way, I’m thinking of buying Claude and me matching Panama hats. Or would we look too much like the American couple? The one who dressed like they were after big game.”
Callie smiled, recalling a middle-aged tourist couple they once saw wandering Guanajuato’s plazas in matching safari shirts, pants, and hats. “I don’t think you need to worry about that …”
“Right. I should save my worrying for Pamela. I overheard her badmouthing Maestro Chávez again today. What if she tries to get him fired?”
It would be better for everyone if the maestro would retire, sweet as he was. But she couldn’t say so. He would think she was siding with Pamela.
“Maybe I should stay.”
And stand up Claude? She cleared her throat, but paused before saying anything. He would never do that. “And waste all the time you’ve spent packing guayaberas?”
He laughed.
“Have you called your driver Jorge about taking you to the airport?”
“I’d better do that now. How was the lesson, by the way?”
She looked into the bell of the trumpet. What was she to say? He would not want to hear anything good about Pamela, and she could not mention Gwendolyn.
“Did she teach you anything or just talk about herself?”
If only she had talked more about herself—and her friends.
“I suppose she took most of the time showing you her house, the way Americans typically do.”
The Trumpet Lesson Page 7