The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  I heard Mario whisper the words, “In Christ’s holy name we pray.” I repeated the words, and felt the presence of love—calm and brilliant and peaceful. Help was here.

  After a long while I raised my head, found Mario watching me with joy-filled eyes. He dropped his hand from my shoulder, said simply, “Praise the Lord.”

  Chapter 11

  I carried feelings of both shame and defiance into the practice room upon my return to Dusseldorf. They wouldn’t say anything outright, I imagined, but it would be clear in their eyes. They had been forced to cancel a performance because of my disappearance, Mario told me. They would wonder if I could be trusted; they would be thinking of finding someone else. I braced myself for the sideways looks and veiled hostility, especially from Pipo. He would take it all very personally, I was sure. I followed Mario into the warehouse and wondered where I would go when they no longer wanted me in the band.

  Instead, Jake started us right off on a new song, Margaret Becker’s “Stay Close to Me.” We began on a ragged note, everyone a little slow at getting back into the music. But try as I might, I could find no hostility in their greetings. Even Lothar and Hans came over to welcome me back.

  The song was a good one, a simple melody that moved back and forth between us as Amy pleaded for the Lord to stay close to her. The beat was slow and solid, matching the thunder that rumbled in the distance. The longer we played, the closer the thunderstorm came to our shelter.

  Jake called a break, and we stopped and sprawled on the sofas and chairs and carpeted floor. The storm arrived with thunder rolling overhead in a deep rumbling basso. Rain began to drum softly on the metal roof. Little tinkling cymbals sounded outside the small windows as drops fell on the panes. We shared a contented silence and listened to the storm, and I felt a sense of tranquility I had never before known.

  Without a word, Hans walked over, picked up his trumpet, and started to play; it was straight improvisation. The shy young man who almost never spoke had found enough safety in that moment to play for us. The notes fell in bell-like purity from his instrument, a softly chanted song of praise.

  Jake carried one of the metal-backed chairs over to the stand of instruments. He sat down again, plugged in his bass, bent over, and began to play. There was no hesitation, no question, no misplaced notes. He knew exactly what Hans wanted to say.

  Pipo was next, then Sameh, then Lothar, then me. Karl and Amy sat for a long time on the sofa, laughing softly. Then they got up and joined in the song of praise, Karl on alto sax and Amy drifting through a hummed melody with eyes closed and hands lifted over her head.

  When it was over we all stood around and laughed. No need for words. We knew.

  Amy walked over, draped her arms around my neck. “Welcome back, brother.”

  * * *

  The feeling was still with us when we packed our gear the next afternoon. I had seldom seen so many smiles, heard so much laughter—even from Jake.

  We were going to a mountain village between Cologne and the former East German border, a place called Gummersbach. A group of evangelical organizations spread throughout the region had rented a Schutzhalle, a public hall owned by the local hunt club. Karl told us on the way up that in medieval times these hunt clubs were the civil defense leagues of the small city-states. Unless the city-state became incorporated within a principality or kingdom large enough to afford its own army, the hunt clubs were their only source of protection. There were no police.

  The autobahn took us through forested valleys before the exit for Gummersbach. The city was built upon a series of hills that dominated the surrounding valleys. Near the top of the highest peak stood the Schutzhalle. The hall was eighty meters long and thirty meters wide with a hand-laid floor of polished wood. The ceiling was open-raftered, its massive timbers streaked with dark smoky stains from centuries of oil-burning lamps. The stage was one of the biggest we had ever used, with theater lights hung among the rafters.

  The manager was there to greet us, along with the head of the largest local evangelical Gemeinde. “Six hundred people coming tonight, from as far away as Cologne and Olpe. You folks really pack them in.”

  Jake nodded, shook hands and made introductions, then pulled us off to one side. To Hans he said, “What say we start with your song tonight?”

  Hans took on the look of a hunted animal. He set down the mike stands he was carrying. “I don’t know.”

  Amy was there beside him. “Nobody’s pushing you, remember that.”

  “Just an idea,” Jake said. “Start off with you alone on stage, single spotlight, play your piece awhile. We come out one by one, have them keep the light just on you ’til everybody’s out and playing. We all swing through it one time together, then stop, four clicks from Sameh, and hit it with ‘Part Of Me.’ ”

  Hans kept scanning the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but Jake’s face. Amy said to him, “This is totally up to you, Hans. But if you want my advice, I think it sounds like a great idea.”

  Karl stepped around in front of them. “So do I.”

  Hans nodded once. “Okay.”

  “Nobody’s pushing you,” Amy said again.

  “I’ll do it,” Hans said, louder this time.

  “You change your mind,” Jake said, “just let me know and we’ll drop it. Right up to the last minute. No problem, you hear?”

  * * *

  The trumpet caught a glint of light in the darkened hall as Hans lifted it to his mouth. The whistles and cheers that had greeted the dimming of the lights became louder. From backstage I could see Hans hesitate and pull the trumpet back from his mouth.

  We had decided to let him start in total darkness, then raise the single spotlight very, very slowly. The noise continued and still Hans hesitated. Then a single note sounded from the loudspeakers, a long tremulous call that lifted a step, swayed back down, fled around the scale like a frightened child seeking his way. I willed myself outward, desperately wanting him to succeed.

  The notes took on a greater strength, the faltering steps became steadier, the crowd began to quiet down. By the time the spotlight’s first glow picked him out, Hans’s playing was strong, his eyes closed, his body swaying slightly. His music was crisp and soaring. I felt a lump grow in my throat, and looked at Amy. She was biting her lip and watching him with shining eyes.

  After a few moments we slipped out onto the stage, careful to stay away from the spotlight. The crowd had no chance to catch its breath at the song’s end. A moment of silence, and we jumped headfirst into “Part Of Me” from Donna McElroy. When we finished, Jake raised the solitary forefinger and shouted his “Praise the Lord!” The crowd roared back at us with a force I felt in my chest.

  * * *

  When we were packing to leave, Jake walked over and handed me a crumpled sheet of paper. I opened it along creases softened from repeated folding. Across the top of the page was written, “Love Enough to Share.” I looked at Jake. He refused to meet my eyes.

  “Been carryin’ this around for over a month,” he told the side wall. “Finished workin’ on it a couple of days before you arrived. Think maybe you’d like to put some music to it?”

  “I’ve never written a song,” I replied.

  “Don’t matter. How many albums you worked on, Gianni?”

  “I don’t know, twenty-five, maybe thirty. I can’t remember.”

  He nodded, his face somber. “How many songs you figure you reworked to fit that little group down there in Como?”

  “Hundreds. More.”

  “So you know what makes a good song work, right? You know how to work in a solid beat to fit the lyrics. You know how to play the hook line, build up that simple catchy refrain or bridge that’ll drill a hole in their hearts and come poppin’ back up hours after they’ve heard the tune.”

  “Why don’t you do the music? It’s your song.”

  “Tried to, but it didn’t work. Man’s gotta know where his limitations are. Spent all my life workin’ the beat. Ain’
t got no problems fittin’ words around a solid rhythm. But I can’t get the music. No way. That’s gotta be somebody else’s job.”

  I looked down at the words. It was a simple lyric, almost a chant. Over and over came the message, through knowing Christ the heart was refilled. Knowing His love, we have too much love for us alone. We can give from all that He gave us. They were good lyrics. I decided a funk would probably fit well.

  “Think maybe you can make it work?”

  “I don’t know, Jake. I’ll try,” I said, not looking up from the sheet. Perhaps a slight touch of rock for the bridge.

  “Well, see what you can do with it,” he said gruffly, and walked away.

  That week I went to work on it in earnest, carrying the song with me to gigs, curling up in the backseat of whichever car I traveled in, hearing various beats in my head, trying to fit them to the lyrics. Nothing seemed to work. I began to doubt my ability, and questioned whether Jake had made a mistake in pinning his hopes on someone who could not produce.

  One evening at home I voiced my frustrations. Jake was not the least bit sympathetic. “Man wants to build an album in a day,” he said to Amy.

  “It’s not that at all. I just can’t get anywhere. The song is a good one, I can feel it. But nothing I come up with seems to fit.”

  Jake gave me his stony-eyed look. “Maybe that’s your problem.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sounds to me like you’re tryin’ to do this on your own. Gotta learn to take it to the Lord, Gianni. Ask the Man himself to guide your work.”

  “You really think God is going to take some kind of personal interest in a song?”

  “He takes an interest in everything,” Jake replied flatly. “No exceptions, no ways around it. Do it yourself, and you’re not doin’ His will.”

  “The moment you rely totally on faith, it all becomes clear,” Amy said. “Sometimes it’s a giant step, and sometimes there’s a tremendous amount of fear over the move. But so long as you hold back and try to keep control for yourself, you’ll never know the Lord’s direction.”

  “Study the Bible and pray,” Jake added. “You gotta pray about it loud and long and every day. Keep the line open ’til He puts the missin’ pieces in place.”

  * * *

  Once they were in bed, I sat at the dining room table leafing through the Bible. I didn’t even know what I was looking for until I found it. The words came from the thirty-seventh psalm, and their simple majesty rang in me as if I were a bell and they a hammer.

  Delight yourself in the Lord

  And he will give you the desires of your heart.

  Commit your way to the Lord;

  Trust in him and he will do this:

  He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn,

  The justice of your cause like the noonday sun.

  I would write this for Him, I realized. It would be a dance of joy, of gratitude. Delight in the Lord. Such a simple idea. How long had I seen it as a burden, something to avoid at all cost? And He had replied with gentle guidance and an offer of total forgiveness. Yes. Delight in the Lord. It fit perfectly.

  Dawn was lighting the street outside the kitchen window by the time I had worked out the song. Almost all of it came from the thoughts and ideas I had run through in the previous week. But now there was a difference. Now there was an emotional theme with which I could bind the musical score together. Now there was both direction and purpose. A purpose. That was what Jake had said I would find.

  Too full of creative energy to go to bed, I flipped through the albums, selected one from White Heart, searched out the cut entitled “GTO.” It fit my mood perfectly. I turned on the stereo, fitted the headphones on snugly, swung the volume control up a long way, and let the needle drop. I danced around the room as far as the headphone cord would allow, fingered the chords and reared back so far I could see an upside-down Jake stumble owl-eyed out of his bedroom.

  I straightened up, slid off the headphones, was shocked and embarrassed to hear the music pouring full blast from the speakers. I fumbled for the switch and plunged the room into silence.

  “I thought I had the speakers off. Sorry.”

  “For a minute there I thought maybe I was back in basic training.” Jake rubbed a sleep-creased cheek. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

  My face flushed, I replied, “I think I’ve just worked out the song.”

  “Mm-hmmm.” Jake walked back into the bedroom, saying as he closed the door, “You ever do that again, we’re gonna be talkin’ serious trouble.”

  I returned to the dining room table to gather my papers, heard Amy’s sleepy murmur and Jake’s answering rumble through the bedroom door. Then there was laughter, high and chiming from Amy, a deep-throated chuckle from Jake, and I smiled in return. It was time for bed.

  ****

  “Gianni wrote us a song” were the first words Jake said as we entered the practice room.

  Pipo did a trill on his conga. “Got some fancy footwork in there for me, I hope.”

  I pulled out the papers and spread them on the top of the mixing board. Mario reached across, thumped my shoulder, gave me a grin. I replied with a nervous smile. It was suddenly very important that they like the song.

  I handed out sheets to Karl, Hans, and Amy. Pipo came around and craned over Hans’s shoulder. “Are those scores?”

  “They sure are,” Karl said, examining his page.

  Pipo gave me a round-eyed look and asked, “You did scores for everybody?”

  “Naw, man didn’t have time to get down all those little jitters for the drums,” Jake replied. “Had to make do with just Karl, Amy, and Hans.”

  “Can you read a score and hear the music in your head?” Pipo asked.

  I nodded and turned to Lothar. “I didn’t make one up for you. I thought we could just go through the chord changes together, is that all right?”

  “What are you gonna do for your next act?” Pipo demanded. “Sprout wings and fly away?”

  “Naw, naw, man’s got a ways to go yet before he takes off for his mansion in the sky,” Jake said. “C’mon, let’s try this tune on for size.”

  Amy was to begin the melody with a strong, clear, simple tone; this was natural for her as she tended to start all songs very simply and save her soaring for the end. Hans was to play a slightly more intricate line on the trumpet. Karl would then jazz it up even more on the sax while Hans lingered as long as he could on his final note. Then Karl would hold his final high note while Amy started back with the next melody line. Until the solo, Lothar and I would play a simple chording backup. I hoped that Hans and Karl would add a complexity that complemented the purity of Amy’s opening words, and show a promise of what was yet to come. But I wasn’t sure of anything. It had sounded good in my head. Now I was very afraid of how it would sound when we all played it together.

  It was rough going at first. Amy couldn’t find a comfortable range, and we had to switch the key twice. This meant Karl and Hans had to transpose what was written for them, which was very difficult while playing music they had never heard before. Jake was all gentle patience, and steadied us mightily.

  For three hours we worked with each instrument in turn, playing it over and over, watching each person take the song and work it until the sounds came naturally. Then without warning it all came together; Amy picked up the melody and sang it with crystal clarity, Hans fitted to her in smooth precision, Karl followed, Pipo and Jake and Sameh molded perfectly into the beat. But before we were halfway through Amy was waving us to a halt with the microphone down at her side.

  Jake walked up to her, shifted his bass out of the way. “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t sing this,” she muffled, not looking at anyone. “It’s too good. I’ve got a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit.”

  Jake rubbed a soft circle on her back. “Just take a couple of deep breaths, everything’s gonna be fine.”

  “How would you l
ike it if I got up there on stage and burst into tears? Would I look like a fool or what?”

  Jake worked to keep the smile off his face, kept the hand busy on her back, looked at me and nodded. He had felt it too.

  The song was going to work. The melody started out simply, built up as it passed from hand to hand, and burst upward, first with a duet between me and Lothar and then with Amy’s leaping finale. Yes. It was really going to work.

  Pipo shook his head and looked at me. “Man, what took you so long?”

  Karl walked over, gave me his gentle smile, said he liked it very much. From his place by the side wall, Hans looked over and nodded agreement. Mario gave me a double thumbs-up. Amy wrapped her arms around Jake, told us she was going to have to find some kind of anti-cry pill before she ever did that one on the stage.

  The lack of sleep came down heavy on me. I was drained, yet very happy. I had taken Jake’s words and given them the emotional power of a melody that made the idea live. I accepted the congratulations, grinned in reply to Jake’s nod, knew the song had come from somewhere far beyond me. I felt lifted beyond myself, granted a gift of creativity that was more than I could have ever known by myself. For the first time I wanted to be alone, wanted to pray, wanted to thank the Creator who had worked His wonder through me.

  * * *

  We had a concert in Liege, Belgium, the next night. The audience was enlarged by two church groups that had driven over from Aachen, the nearest major German city. People came up, told us proudly how they had been to all of our concerts in the area, how far they had driven, how much they enjoyed hearing the songs, asked us to play a particular favorite. Jake and Amy played official ambassadors and treated them all as very special guests.

  Before we went on, Amy said she would sing “Love Enough to Share” if we could fit it in between a couple of old standards and not tell the audience a thing. Just swing into it and out of it, moving from song to song without giving her time to think that she was performing an original. Jake nodded as though it was the most reasonable request in the world, and put it into the first set. She refused to meet our eyes after the number was finished, but I could tell from the smiles on everyone else’s face and the audience’s reaction that they shared my opinion. The song was a good one.