The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

Fraulein Rohr stood along with them, ignored their demands for her to sit back down, and said to me, “Tell them if I have to sit here another minute I’m going to strangle this man for being such an imbecile.”

  “She said she wants to stretch her legs,” I told my grandmother.

  “No she didn’t,” Mario sang out, and translated.

  My grandmother filled her arms with dishes and followed Mario’s mother into the kitchen. When Fraulein Rohr joined them, I could hear the three of them in there laughing. No greater compliment could be given to an Italian mother’s cooking than to have a guest ask for seconds, no greater insult than to leave the first serving unfinished. They had spotted a great eater in Herr Scherer and had taken full advantage of his lack of control without the slightest qualm. His overstuffed condition would remain their favorite topic of conversation for weeks to come.

  Mario’s mother returned carrying a bottle and one tiny glass. The bottle was full of clear liquid and stuffed with a tied bunch of plant stems, roots, and leaves.

  “Grappa di erba,” Signora Angeletti said, then in German, “Homemade. Please excuse, my German very bad. For your stomach.” She smiled, exposing a mouthful of crooked teeth. She picked up the remaining dishes and returned to the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” Danilo said. “Grappa di erba’s good stuff.”

  That brought a look of surprise to Mario’s face. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “I don’t,” Danilo said easily. “Not anymore, anyway. But that’s just between me and my Lord.”

  He turned to Herr Scherer, went on, “I was pretty much on the way to becoming a full-time alcoholic. Hard thing to come to grips with—impossible so long as I tried to do it alone. But a guy down on the army base introduced me to faith, and with that gift of strength I decided drink was one of the things I was going to do without.”

  “Gift of strength?” Herr Scherer looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “I was saved,” Danilo said, his manner still easy, but a new light in his eyes. I listened carefully. This was a side to Danilo that Mario never mentioned. “I never had much to do with the church before—”

  “Here comes Mama,” Mario said quietly.

  A sudden silence fell upon the table. Danilo looked down and began playing with a spoon. I glanced a question at Mario, but he avoided my eyes.

  “Has he tried it?” Signora Angeletti asked.

  Herr Scherer understood from the direction of her eyes. He picked up the glass, sniffed, raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Smells like a meadow.”

  Signora Angeletti smiled her pleasure when Mario translated, then said through her son, “Every mother in northern Italy has her own secret recipe for what herbs to use and how long the grappa has to sit. Usually three or four years.” She looked at me. “Gianni’s grandmother has more patience than most. This has rested in her cellar for almost a decade.”

  Herr Scherer tossed back the glass, made his eyes even larger, and breathed out a great “hah.” He shook his head. “It’s like drinking liquid silk.”

  “The coffee will be ready in just a few minutes,” my grandmother said as she reappeared. “Giovanni, ask the gentleman how he is feeling.”

  “Better,” Herr Scherer said, pouring another small glass. “This is exceptional.”

  Fraulein Rohr picked up his glass and sniffed it. “Mmmm, that smells lovely.”

  My grandmother obviously caught her meaning, for she went back into the kitchen and swiftly returned with another small glass. As she poured out a half-measure she said, “Giovanni, tell the signorina that it is very strong.”

  Fraulein Rohr took a small sip and smiled at my grandmother. “That’s lovely. It’s homemade, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Please tell your grandmother that it is like drinking a bouquet of wildflowers.”

  I did so, and watched the look that passed between them. I was glad they liked each other. Very glad.

  Fraulein Rohr sipped again, and as she raised her head her eyes were caught by the cross hanging in the hallway. She stared at it as she breathed the grappa’s heavy perfume, then said quietly, “I was raised a Catholic.”

  When I had translated, my grandmother said, “Tell her I would be honored if she would join me for Mass one day.”

  “I haven’t been to church in, oh—” Fraulein Rohr gave a wistful smile. “Much too long.”

  “Our Lord is ever patient,” my grandmother said, her gentle words carrying a ringing strength in the quiet room. “Ever patient and ever hopeful His children will one day return to Him.”

  “Amen,” Danilo said, surprising us all.

  The look that passed between Danilo and my grandmother was interrupted by Signora Angeletti saying, “The signora was speaking of Mass.”

  “She was speaking of faith,” Danilo replied, his eyes never moving from my grandmother’s face. “The Lord Jesus knows no boundaries, no denominations, only the hearts that are filled with His light.”

  “What a beautiful thought,” my grandmother said.

  “Maybe so,” Signora Angeletti said, her voice brassy with tension. “But I’m glad his father isn’t around to hear it.”

  I turned to find Fraulein Rohr’s eyes upon me. I was saved the embarrassment of trying to translate by her saying, “You are certainly fortunate to have such a guardian, Gianni.”

  A guardian. I had never thought of her in those terms. But it was true. My grandmother was a guardian over my life. She was all that stood between me and the horrors of the outside world.

  Fraulein Rohr turned back to my grandmother and pointed to the case. “Perhaps Gianni would like to play us something on his new guitar?”

  My grandmother looked at me. “Are you ready, figlio mio?”

  I swallowed and nodded, eager and afraid at the same time.

  “Go and play, then,” she said in her quiet, matter-of-fact way. “Make me proud.”

  Nervously I walked over, picked up the guitar, then went into the alcove for my stool. I was excited about playing, but at the same time very scared. I had never played in front of a group before. I sat down at the room’s far end, placed the guitar on my knee, took a shaky breath, and hit the bass string.

  It seemed as though an answering note was plucked deep inside me. Everything seemed to vibrate—myself, the guitar, the room, everyone watching me. Swiftly I ran up the strings. They needed only the slightest tuning. I did not know what to play. My fingers ached to touch the strings, but my mind was blank.

  Play, a voice inside me commanded. Play anything. Play the first thing that comes to your mind. The words were the same as those spoken by Professor Schmitz, but here in the warmth of this room there was a sense of joy in the voice. A sense of giving. See, this still small voice was saying to me, you turn to me and I am here to guide you, to give to you, to share with you what is yours. Play with the joy of what has always been here waiting for you. I did not understand the voice, but I felt its presence deep within me. For the moment the presence was enough.

  So I started with the same melody I had used in Professor Schmitz’s office, the simple tune my grandfather had loved. I felt surrounded, protected, safe enough to melt and float away with the singing of this beautiful, beautiful guitar.

  Without pausing I moved from that into the difficult piece I had prepared for my audition. My fingers flew over the strings as though released from shackles they never knew existed. I played the first two movements, and as I played I became two people, one who played and one who listened, and the player watched the listener flow with the music and pour out with the melody.

  The guitar was a golden basin filled to the brim with sound, so full that at the slightest touch the music came cascading out like a waterfall. Never in my wildest fantasy had I ever dreamed of playing such an instrument. I could not believe it was mine.

  At the end of the second movement I went immediately into another melody by Albenez, a light piece with short staccato notes that had
to be timed precisely. It allowed my feelings to dance, to play joyfully as my fingers plucked the golden sounds from this sweet spring that would never run dry.

  When the melody was finished and the last whisper of sound had faded, I reluctantly turned my attention from the guitar and back to the group. There was a lingering moment of silence; then everyone was clapping and shouting, “Bravo!” I felt my cheeks grow red.

  “Heavens above us,” Herr Scherer said. “To think that came from a fourteen-year-old boy. Outstanding.”

  As I walked back over and sat down, Mario grinned and punched my shoulder. He looked very pleased. “That was great, Maestro.”

  “Yeah,” Danilo said. “That was amazing, Gianni. Mario was right. I don’t know much about classical music, but I’ve never heard anyone play like that before.”

  Fraulein Rohr put her arm across my shoulders. “That was magnificent, Gianni. Do you think you could play for our class someday?”

  I shook my head. The prospect was terrifying. Fraulein Rohr looked disappointed.

  “Giovanni,” my grandmother said. I looked at her. “Tell me what she asked you.”

  “She wants me to play for her class.”

  “Tell her yes,” my grandmother commanded.

  I grew very alarmed. “I can’t—”

  “This is the signorina who helped you, yes? We are all here because she took an interest in you, do I have that right? Tell her yes. Tell her next week would be fine. Finish.” My grandmother stood. “Who wants dessert?”

  Glumly I did as I was told. Fraulein Rohr was delighted. “Someday when you’re famous all over the world, I will be able to say that your first public performance was in my classroom.”

  Herr Scherer noted my distress and said, “Look at me, Gianni. You want to make a profession of your music, yes?”

  I said I hadn’t much thought about it.

  “Well, think about it now,” he said. “If you want to play professionally, you have to get over this fear of yours. You can’t hide your talent away in a box.”

  “But what if they don’t like it?” My voice was very shrill.

  “Then they don’t like it.” Herr Scherer shrugged. “Not everybody will appreciate your music, Gianni. You just have to be strong enough to take it in stride, you understand? Keep it in perspective of what you know about your talent, and keep on playing.”

  My grandmother came back in and began serving dessert. Fraulein Rohr said to me, “Gianni, perhaps you can help me eat Herr Scherer’s dessert since he’s so full.”

  Herr Scherer spooned up a bite and rolled his eyes toward heaven. “Why wasn’t I born an Italian?”

  Mario’s brother translated for his mother, who preened. In her faulty German she said, “Old family recipe. I make special for tonight. Takes whole day.”

  Danilo said to me, “I’ve made a lot of friends down on the base, Gianni. We’ve got a great bunch who get together for fellowship—” He shot his mother a wary glance. “Anyway, you ought to come down and play for us sometime.”

  Mario complained, “I thought you told me nobody but personnel could get on the base, and that’s why I couldn’t go.”

  “Yeah,” Danilo agreed. “They’re pretty tough with non-Americans. I had to be vetted, that’s what they call it, vetted, before I could start work. But maybe I could get one of the pastors to run interference for Gianni. I dunno; it’s worth a try.”

  “Somebody came by to see where he lived,” Signora Angeletti confirmed. “They spoke only German and English so Mario had to translate. They asked all sorts of questions.”

  My grandmother said quietly, “Giovanni will not have trouble getting on the base.”

  Danilo asked, “How’s that?”

  Her eyes calm and proud on me, she said, “Giovanni is American.”

  The whole room held its breath. I felt my face grow red again. Mario’s brother said, “Huh?”

  “Giovanni’s mother was American, and he was born in the United States. In Michigan.” My grandmother had trouble pronouncing the name. “He has a United States passport, a blue one from when he was five years old and I brought him back to Italy after his mother died.”

  “An American? Wow, they’ll flip,” Danilo said. “Hey, Gianni, you speak any English?”

  I shook my head, no.

  “Yes he does,” my grandmother said. “He spoke only English until he was five years old.” A faint smile flickered across her features. “When I came to America, my Giovanni was afraid of me because he couldn’t understand what I was saying. Do you remember that, figlio mio?”

  A lump grew in my throat. Keeping my eyes on my lap, I nodded my head. I remembered.

  “It will be good for Giovanni to go down and meet other Americans,” my grandmother said. “And he must begin to remember his English. I cannot speak with him, but I can see to it that he reads.”

  “But I never learned to read English,” I said.

  “Then you will learn now,” my grandmother ordered. “Tonight is a good time to ask the signorina if you can take English at your school.”

  “She teaches music, not English,” I said. I was not sure I liked the idea of learning to read English. It sounded like a lot of work.

  “Nonetheless, you will ask, and you will do it now. And you will tell her why. Finish.” She turned back to Danilo. “Talk to your friends, young man. When they want, Giovanni will be happy to visit them.”

  I looked at Fraulein Rohr. She and Herr Scherer were watching the exchange with blank faces. I dropped my eyes back to the table and said, “MygrandmothersaysIgottatakeEnglishandIgottatellyouI’mAmerican.”

  When they didn’t reply I glanced up. The pair of them stared back in shock. Fraulein Rohr managed, “I’m not sure I understood you, Gianni.”

  My grandmother and Mario’s mother stood and began gathering plates. Mario and his brother watched me. Glumly I explained.

  There was a silence when I had finished, broken finally by Fraulein Rohr’s quiet voice. “Your mother was American and you were born in America? I thought you came from Italy.”

  My head bowed, I explained how my parents met and went to America and how I went back to Italy. I hated talking about it. Why had my grandmother made me do it? I felt as if I was tearing out something from deep inside myself and exposing it to the world.

  Fraulein Rohr surprised me by running her hand down the back of my head. “I think we can put you in an English class, Gianni.” I looked up to find her smiling that special way for me. “You will be the youngest student in the class, but you’re used to that, aren’t you? And don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone your secret.” She looked at Herr Scherer. “Will we?”

  “Not a blessed soul,” Herr Scherer said, and poured himself another grappa. He looked at me over his glass and shook his head. “American.” He drained the glass in one swallow.

  The room was silent as everyone drank coffee. Afterward there were many goodbyes and thanks and promises to do it again very soon. Herr Scherer patted me on the head, told me gruffly to enjoy the guitar, and said he would try to be there when I played for the class. Fraulein Rohr wished me a happy birthday and kissed me on the cheek. There was something special in her look, a depth I had not seen before.

  Then she was standing in front of my grandmother, the wispy blond German and the stern Italian matron, the two of them silent and staring into each other’s eyes. Then they hugged each other very tightly.

  I pulled Mario over to one side, asked him what his brother had been talking about earlier, this business of God and everything. Mario became uneasy.

  “I dunno, Gianni. Well, maybe I do, but I’m not sure. I tell you one thing, though. All Danilo’s gotta do is open his mouth about that stuff and my parents go crazy.” He shook his head, looked immensely unhappy. “It’s scary how mad they get, all about how he’s destroying the church and talking sacrilege. I feel like running away every time it happens.”

  “Why do they get so mad?”

  “Tha
t’s just it, I don’t know.” Mario’s pinched features nodded in the direction of my grandmother. “I heard Mama talking to her this afternoon about Danilo. Know what your grandmother said? She told Mama that maybe Danilo had a lesson there for all of us to learn. I think that’s why Papa didn’t come down tonight. Mama told him, and he got so mad he decided to stay in bed.”

  Danilo chose that moment to come over. He clapped me on the shoulder, said, “Anytime you want to come to the base, Gianni, I’ll take care of everything. You’re an incredible musician. My buddies’ll love hearing you play.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, knowing it was something I was going to avoid as long as humanly possible.

  The goodbyes with the Angelettis were quickly finished. When we were alone my grandmother led me back into the living room and told me to sit. I did. She started to join me at the table, but changed her mind and remained standing, folding and unfolding a soiled napkin with nervous gestures.

  “They are very nice people, your teachers. I am sorry I cannot talk directly with them, but it is clear that they are nice and that they care very much for you.”

  I nodded my head, wondering what was to come.

  My grandmother sighed, sat, and clenched both hands together on the tabletop as though to keep them still. She sighed again, and gave me a sad look.

  “I am very upset that my son chose not to join us tonight. No, not upset, that is not true. I expected nothing more.” She sighed a third time, and turned away, her face looking very tired. “I wish I knew what I should do,” she murmured. “I wish your grandfather—”

  She turned back to me. “I cannot ask you to stay in that house any longer, figlio mio. It is not right to force you to stay if things will not improve.”

  She took a deep breath and began playing with the napkin again. I sat silent and still and wished there was some way I could help her with whatever it was she was trying to decide.

  She thumped her hands down on the table and declared, “I will not return with you to Como. I cannot. We must stay here, in case . . . We must stay here. Do you understand?”

  I nodded my head, feeling the band of emotions tightening around my chest.