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The Soloist (Movie Tie-In)

Page 23

by Steve Lopez


  Casey Horan is here now, too. The Lamp director is taking pictures, and Mr. Ayers thanks her for building the studio.

  “Thank you for inspiring it,” she says.

  Mr. Hong had brought one more gift for Mr. Ayers that day— an invitation to see him at Disney Hall in a performance of Schubert’s Piano Trio in B-flat Major, with pianist Yefim Bronfman and violinist Bing Wang. Mr. Ayers is standing outside his apartment building when I arrive. For a man who doesn’t wear a watch and has no clock in his room, he is reliably prompt, and our little pickup and shuttle routine is now a smooth operation. I pull up to the curb, he tosses his sheet music and a violin into the trunk, and we cruise over to First Street and up the hill to Disney Hall. Alison meets us in the lobby, along with Anna McGuirk, and Adam Crane leads us on the familiar path to our seats. Mr. Ayers tosses out a “bravo” when Ben Hong is introduced.

  I sit through the concert, thinking back on two years that have been more exhausting and fulfilling than I could have imagined the day I first set eyes on Mr. Ayers. Maybe I’m now at a point of letting go, of recognizing the limitations imposed by so severe a disorder as schizophrenia. I have fought it from the beginning, wanting to believe things would be different in the case of Mr. Ayers, and even now I hold on to the hope that he might one day get past his fears, past the cyclical descents into paranoia and rage, and give a try to medication that could vastly improve his life. But I know it’s not that simple, that there are no magic pills, and that thousands before him have gotten better only to chuck the meds and sink back again into the grips of incurable disease. I’ve learned to accept him as he is, to expect constant backsliding, to prepare for the possibility that he could be homeless again or worse, and to see hope in small steps.

  I’ve never had a friend who lives in so spiritual a realm as Mr. Ayers, and I know that through his courage and humility and faith in the power of art—through his very ability to find happiness and purpose—he has awakened something in me. He is one of the reasons I thought seriously about leaving an industry in the throes of revolution, and he is the reason I’ve decided I’ll never be happy doing anything other than telling stories. He has wiped away my professional malaise and shown me the dignity in being loyal to something you believe in, and it’s not a stretch to say that this man I hoped to save has done as much for me as I have for him. I must confess that in the end, I gave up on both the violin and the cello, but returned to the guitar after an absence of twenty years, with Mr. Ayers encouraging me to get good fast so we could play a song or two together someday.

  Mr. Ayers is received, after the concert, by his friend Mr. Hong, who confesses he was nervous onstage, knowing a fellow musician was up there in the audience, listening intently and watching his every move.

  “It was amazing,” Mr. Ayers assures Hong. “It must feel great to play so beautifully.”

  It’s late, the concert behind us and another workday just hours away for me. But when I park in front of Mr. Ayers’s apartment to drop him off, he makes no move for the door.

  “Wait,” he says as I begin to step out of the car. “Listen to this. This takes me back.”

  The piece begins as a beating, hopeful heart set to music.

  “What is it?”

  “Sibelius Number Two.”

  “Do you know it well?”

  “Oh, my God, I love this piece. We played it over and over at Juilliard in orchestra practice.”

  “I don’t hear the bass. Is there a full complement?”

  “Right there,” he says, pointing through the windshield as if an orchestra has assembled on the street. “Do you hear it? Bum-bum-bum -bum. Do you know how many times I played this?”

  The Finnish composer’s Second Symphony, more than a hundred years old, has swept up Mr. Ayers and carried him back to his youth. The music soars and plunges, whispers and roars. We’re draped in moonlit shadows and for blocks around, people sleep on pavement, Sibelius rising over a murmur of troubled dreams.

  “Do you know what Sibelius is saying here?” Mr. Ayers asks. “He’s saying, ‘I love this music.’ Do you hear it? ‘I love this music. I love this music.’”

  He narrates the entire forty-minute symphony, fingering an imaginary bass at the start of the fourth movement, a suspenseful rhythm-driven march that creeps along hauntingly and then breaks into a full run, the entire orchestra joining the parade.

  “I want to play,” Mr. Ayers says. “I don’t know if I could ever get back to the way it was, but I want to play. Do you think I could ever get back into an orchestra? I cannot believe how gorgeous that concert was at Disney Hall tonight. Did you see how perfect Mr. Hong was? It was absolutely flawless. How could he do that?”

  Sibelius is drawing to a triumphant and dramatic close, much to the regret of Mr. Ayers.

  “I don’t want the concert to ever end.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My sincere thanks to the many people who made this book possible, beginning with Mr. Ayers’s sister, Jennifer Ayers-Moore. Jennifer’s help with biographical information was invaluable, and her love and support of her brother have been an anchor in his life, particularly since the passing of their beloved mother, Floria Boone. Jennifer is as proud of her brother today as she has been at any time in his life, and knows better than anyone his humanity. Thanks as well to sister Del Lee and the Dicksons—Uncle Howard and Aunt Willa—for their help and hospitality in Cleveland.

  I thank Harry Barnoff for both his insights and his undying support of Mr. Ayers. Thanks also to Gary Karr, another esteemed musician and former teacher of Mr. Ayers. I’d like to single out Joseph Russo, Mr. Ayers’s former classmate at Juilliard, for his assistance with research, and for his continued efforts to reach out to his longtime friend and fellow musician.

  Two members of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, cellists Peter Snyder and Ben Hong, have helped me understand and appreciate Nathaniel’s gifts, but more important, they brought Mr. Ayers back into the brotherhood of musicians, beginning with Mr. Snyder’s offer to become his teacher. No one from the Philharmonic has been more generous with his time or more interested in Mr. Ayers’s welfare than publicist Adam Crane, who became one of Mr. Ayers’s most trusted friends. My thanks to the L.A. Phil administration, as well, for being so accommodating.

  I’m indebted to the entire staff at Lamp Community, which educated and inspired me. In particular, I’d like to thank Casey Horan, Stuart Robinson, Shannon Murray and Patricia Lopez. They expertly handled the task of allowing me access while doing their best to protect the privacy of their clients. Countless other Lamp employees also made me feel welcome, and so did the dozens of Lamp members who shared their time and thoughts. With every visit, I was more moved by their courage, dignity and strength.

  Thanks also to Dr. Mark Ragins, who served as my on-call adviser, and whose book A Road to Recovery was an invaluable part of my ongoing education. And I can’t thank Dr. Ragins without thanking the man who referred me to him—Richard Van Horn of the National Mental Health Association of Greater Los Angeles. Special thanks, as well, to the indomitable Stella March, StigmaBuster supreme, whose encouragement has been a constant from my very first column on Mr. Ayers. As March knows all too well, Mr. Ayers and millions of others have been defined by labels and socially ostracized because of them, making it all the more difficult to confront their condition and celebrate their lives.

  My thanks to Dan Conaway for his belief in the story, and to my editor Peternelle Van Arsdale for her smart take on how to best tell it. I thank agent David Black for being David Black, a bolt of lightning and a good friend to boot. At the Los Angeles Times, I’m in the debt of editor Sue Horton, who helped craft the columns that led to the book, but who did much more than that. She was an active participant in the ongoing discussion on how to best help Mr. Ayers, sharing in my frustrations and my triumphs.

  As she has done with my prior books, my wife, Alison, made great sacrifices to allow me the time, and she was, as usual, my best editor and m
ost enthusiastic advocate. She supported this book, in part, out of love for Nathaniel, and shared my hope that the story could raise public awareness and help destigmatize mental illness.

  I won’t ever be able to adequately thank Mr. Ayers, who lives in his own world and was kind enough to let me in.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Steve Lopez is the author of three novels: Third and Indiana, The Sunday Macaroni Club and In the Clear. He is also the author of Land of Giants, a collection of columns from his days at The Philadelphia Inquirer. A journalist for more than three decades, Lopez has won numerous national awards for his work at several publications, including Time magazine and the Los Angeles Times, where he is currently a columnist. Lopez has two adult sons and lives with his wife and their daughter in Los Angeles.

 

 

 


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