The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  Eventually I fell into a restless sleep and awoke to a blade of sunshine that had worked its way through the curtains and fallen across my face. The instant my feet touched the floor, I knew what it was I had to do.

  I did not even wait until after my morning coffee to call Alessandro. I feared that if I hesitated I would not have the strength to go through with it. As I dialed his number, pinpricks of fear laced through me. What if I was losing something that I would truly value only once it was gone? Twice I put the phone down, then picked it up and dialed again. By the time the line clicked and hummed and began to ring, perspiration was beading on my forehead.

  His reaction was surprisingly calm. “Bad news comes in storms, Maestro. It’s the way of the world.”

  “I’ll be back when you open,” I pleaded, panic-stricken with the risk I was taking.

  “Doesn’t matter how long it’s for,” he replied. “If you’re leaving, it’s going to be a blow.”

  “Bruno and Claudio will stay on. As popular as the place is now, you could get anybody you like.”

  “Anybody but you, right, Maestro?”

  The hand that held the phone was shaking. “I just feel like it’s time to make a move.”

  Alessandro sighed long and deep. “You’re going to stay up in Germany and play with Mario’s band?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t they some kind of religious group or something?”

  “Christian, yes, that’s right.”

  “So what can I say? It’s not money. How can I argue against this religious stuff?” Alessandro moaned a curse.

  A thought struck me with the power of a lightning flash. “How would you like us to come down and play your club for a week or so?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone, then, “Your whole group? With that singer you had here back before the sky fell?”

  “Amy, yes. The group’s called Natural Light.”

  “The crowd really loved her,” Alessandro mused out loud. “How about three weeks, six nights a week, a reopening special?”

  “I don’t know, that’s a long time. The band’s on a break right now, but I’m not sure what’s already planned on the other side.”

  “Three weeks, Maestro.” A touch of the old strength returned. “It’s the least you can do for me.”

  “I’ll ask. I don’t handle the bookings, you understand. But I’ll try.”

  “Do more than try,” he said. “Gotta go, Maestro. We’ve been friends too long for me to tell you what I’m thinking right now. See you and your group in eight days. Ciao.”

  Less than half an hour later Amy called. “How’s the world treating you, my Giovanezzo?”

  “Hard,” I said. I wished for some way to tell her what a comfort it was to hear her voice just then.

  “Would it help any if Mario and I were to come down?”

  I was tempted, but decided, “No, you stay and enjoy your vacation.”

  “Some vacation. Daddy Jake left on one of his mystery tours this morning, said he had a man in Holland who might hold the key. You have any idea what he’s talking about?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. He left a message for you, though. Said if you had time, go meet the people at ICM there in Turin. Italian Christian Media. You got a pen handy?”

  “Right here.”

  She gave me the address. “He didn’t say what it was about. He was in too much of an all-fired hurry to say more than that we should pray for him. As if I’ve been doing anything else. He must have thought it was important that you call these people, though. Spent more time on it than he did on telling me goodbye.”

  I told her of the request from Alessandro. Amy was doubtful. “Three weeks is a long time for us to be booked anywhere right now, Gianni. Especially on such short notice.”

  “I know. But he really put the pressure on me. I feel like if the band can’t do it, maybe I’ll have to stay down that long by myself. He’s been a good friend, and I need to help him get started back again.”

  She thought it over. “Jake’s got our calendar with him. Why don’t you just leave it with me and let’s see what he says. No need to worry until we’re sure there’s a problem.”

  Armed with a genuine need to be elsewhere, I called the studio and told Ricki, the band manager, that I would not be coming in until it was time for me to record. The news did not go over well. Didn’t I understand how much Coppa wanted me there throughout the recording? Yes, I said, please give him my apologies but I have other things that need seeing to. Ricki was not sympathetic. What else could be more important than making this album a success? I didn’t say it was more important, I replied, I just have to do it.

  Ricki’s lack of response left me sensing that my days on the project were numbered. I was somewhat surprised at how little I seemed to mind. There was already a distance opening up between me and the flames I had felt the night before.

  The ICM address was for a street near the Porta Suza train station, an area of town best known for high-rise tenements, neighborhoods structured like imported Sicilian and Calebresi villages, and crime. The taxi driver circled the block twice before dropping me off with a shrug at an angular building with an unmarked doorway. Just inside the entrance was a small sign pointing toward the basement. I walked down concrete stairs and stopped before what appeared to be an open jail-cell door. Beyond this was yet another door of solid steel, this one closed. I hesitated, then rang the buzzer.

  Inside everything was white and clean and fresh-smelling and intensely friendly. The three women staffing the reception and back office, two Italians and one American, all looked calmly busy. All had time to listen attentively as they moved about, their hands filled with other work.

  The American introduced herself as Bea Custer and seemed not at all disturbed that I did not know why I was there. “You’re with a gospel group, is that right?”

  It seemed very strange to have our music labeled gospel, but I agreed. “In Germany.”

  “But you’re Italian; isn’t that an Italian accent I’m hearing? Is all your group Italian?”

  “Just me and the sound engineer. The rest are German, Swiss, and American.”

  Bea was a gray-haired matron of indeterminate years with a calm, take-charge attitude. She met my gaze with firm directness and drew me out with patient strength. I decided that I liked this Bea Custer very much.

  “I was called by one of the band members this morning who said I should stop by and introduce myself.”

  “Well, all bookings for non-Italian groups are managed by Denny Hurst.” She turned and walked to a door leading off the back of the reception area and said to someone I could not see, “There’s a gentleman here with a German gospel group.” She turned back to me. “What was it called again, young man?”

  “Natural Light.”

  “Hey, that was fast.” A young man in a T-shirt and jeans popped through the doorway and walked toward me with a smile and outstretched hand. “I just heard about you guys last week. I’m Denny Hurst.”

  “Giovanni di Alta.”

  “That’s right, they told me there was an Italian with the group.” He was American to the bone, this young man, judging from his voice and his friendly openness and the relaxed way he slouched on the wall. “You play guitar, right? Yeah, they say you’re pretty hot.”

  Bea leaned against the reception desk and listened with frank curiosity. “Did you come all the way down here just to speak with us, young man?”

  I shook my head. “I’m working on an album right now. We’re using a studio here in Turin.”

  Denny asked, “Anybody I know?”

  “Giorgio Coppa.”

  The two Italian ladies looked up from their work. Bea and Denny exchanged glances. Denny said, “Sure, I’ve heard of him. He’s really big around here. Seems strange he’d be using a Christian artist, you know, with the kind of music he makes.”

  I did not want to try to explain my own background, so I kept s
ilent.

  Bea answered for me. “This young man must have what it takes.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Denny eyed me speculatively. “We’re putting together a group of concerts here in Turin for two Italian Christian artists, Albino Montisci and Luca Genta. Ever heard of them?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Albino’s getting very well known, he’s done a couple of pretty successful albums. He tours Germany, Holland, Switzerland, even did a concert and television gig in Los Angeles last year. Anyway, we were looking for one other band to play with them, and I heard about you guys at a conference I went to last week in Munich. It was a gathering of the Christian booking agents in Europe, you know, to talk about our problems. And this guy who books a lot of the military bases told me about you. Said you guys were hot.”

  “Maybe we could play on the fact that he’s working with some of the major artists like Coppa,” Bea suggested.

  “Absolutely.” Denny asked me, “You played with anybody else we might have heard about?”

  I named a few of the other albums I had worked on and watched their astonishment grow.

  “This is great.” Denny was clearly picking up speed. “Maybe we could book you guys in as a solo act too. You got a sample cassette on you?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know I was going to be coming by. To tell the truth, I’m still not even sure what ICM is.”

  They laughed at that, the easy laughter of people with nothing to hide. “Sometimes we’re not so sure either,” Bea told me.

  “Hang on a second,” Denny said, moving around the desk. “Let me see if Domenico is free.”

  “We only began in 1987,” Bea told me. “And we suffered through a couple of false starts after that. Domenico Manolio is our president. He wanted it to be a nonprofit trust, but the Italians put every barrier you could think of and then some in his way, so he turned it into a private corporation and tried again. They didn’t have any problem with that. There’s never been this separation between business and church in Italy. Look at Banco San Paulo. Basically all it does is handle the finances of the Catholic church.”

  I nodded as though I understood. “So you’re a booking agency?”

  A voice from behind me said, “Among other things.”

  I turned to face the speaker, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a smooth unlined face. From behind spectacles his tired eyes wore an expression of perpetual surprise. He extended his hand, introduced himself as Domenico. Just that. For an Italian to be so nonchalant, especially the president of a commercial concern, was unheard of. He was dressed in an open-necked shirt, dark pants void of their once sharp creases, and scuffed loafers. Despite the man’s casual air, he gave off a sense of barely suppressed power. It was like standing next to a quietly humming dynamo.

  “I was just telling him what we did,” Bea said.

  “Too much to give us time to sleep,” he said in English, then switched to Italian. “It’s the same story with any new company. Too much to do and not enough of anything. Where are you from?”

  “Lago di Como.”

  “But you work with a German gospel band?”

  “It has German members, but all of our songs are in English, and the lead singer is American.”

  “And you’ve worked on all the albums Denny just told me about? So how did you get involved with this Christian band?”

  I hesitated, decided on, “It’s a long story.”

  He nodded as though satisfied, and said to Denny, “You’re right, there’s a lot we can work on here.”

  Domenico extended his hand to me. “When can you get Denny a tape of your music?”

  “Tomorrow, I hope.”

  He gave the room a brief smile and returned to his office. The atmosphere remained charged with his presence.

  “That’s the reason why we’re here,” Bea said.

  “The man never stops,” Denny agreed.

  “ICM is his baby,” Bea told me. “It imports American Christian music to Italy, and has its own distribution system throughout the country.”

  “And record club,” Denny added. “And monthly magazine.”

  “The only one of its kind in Italy,” Bea said.

  “Did you mention the radio station?” Denny asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Eighteen thousand watts, FM-stereo,” Denny said. “And thirteen feeder stations across northern Italy. Strictly Christian programming.”

  “All in four years,” Bea said once more. “All because of that one man and the Lord he serves.”

  * * *

  I called Mario upon my return to the guesthouse and told him of my visit. He excitedly agreed to send the cassette down by courier. “It’s a day for good news,” he told me over the phone. “Amy talked to Jake, and the man sounded happy.” I was not sure I had heard him right. “Happy,” Mario repeated. “Said he would be back in a couple of days, hopefully with some good news.”

  “What news?”

  “I’m afraid to guess,” Mario said, “but if it’s enough to make Jake sound happy, it’s gotta be something big.”

  * * *

  It surprised me, the way Denny listened to our music. There was none of the cynical superiority that characterized the secular recording and booking industries. So many of the people with whom I had worked tried constantly to impress everyone around them with just how indispensable they were. Power was an elusive prey to be trapped and held with exclusivity. Denny could not have been more different.

  He took me into a radio sound room that was not in use, then waited patiently for Bea and the two Italian women and three men I did not know to jam their way in and around the open door. The six songs—four of our own and two renditions—were greeted with smiles and praise. His own attitude was one of having already made up his mind and being pleased to have it confirmed by reality.

  “A couple of those harder numbers won’t get by some of the local ministers,” Denny warned. “Think maybe you could structure a couple of sets around mostly pop and slow tunes?”

  He was asking me to fit my playing to the audience. I had been doing that all my life. “I’ll have to ask the others, but I think it’ll be okay.”

  “There are fifty-four evangelical churches in the area surrounding Turin,” Bea said from her place by the console. “If we want this to be successful, we’re going to need some of the larger ones to help spread the word. Some won’t do it if they know you’ll be playing hard rock. We’re having a tough time showing them that it’s the message that counts, mostly because gospel rock is an American phenomenon, and most of them don’t speak any English.”

  “Chameleon music, Ray Bevan calls it,” Denny said. “He’s a Welsh singer who’s built up a big following around here. He waits and plays all his harder tunes once the reverends are tucked away in bed.”

  “The church leaders will want to meet you,” Bea added. “They believe personal contact is the best way to make sure the group is really going to preach the Word of God with their music.”

  “Probably want you to lead a prayer group too,” Denny predicted.

  “And we’ll want to tape an interview,” Bea said.

  I waited for the group to disperse before cornering Denny and telling him I couldn’t lead the prayer meetings or do the interviews. He studied me carefully before asking why not.

  I felt thoroughly ashamed, as though caught in a lie. “I’ve only been, well, praying for a little while.”

  The outrage I expected did not arrive. “How long have you been saved?”

  “A couple of weeks,” I said, my eyes on the floor.

  He shocked me with a hard slap on the shoulder. “Praise God and welcome to the fold, brother. Bea and I were wondering how a born-again Christian was working in the lions’ den.”

  “I signed the recording contract before I met the Lord.”

  He laughed at that, a joyous sound. “Have you ever heard of Chris Rodriguez?”

  “I don’t think so.”<
br />
  “He’s been a guitarist with Michael W. Smith’s band. He wasn’t a Christian when he started playing with the group. Smith took him on because he was a great guitarist. But they got to talking on the road, he and the rest of the band. After one of their performances, when they were all back on the bus, he asked Jesus into his life.”

  Denny gave me an understanding smile and another pat on the back. “How about if you translated for one of your other band members. Would that be all right?”

  “No problem. The sound engineer’s Italian, too.”

  He thought it over. “That’ll be okay for the ministers, the two of you with him doing all the talking. But for the interviews we’ll need to use musicians.”

  Denny pulled out a leather-bound pocket calendar and leafed the pages. “We’ve got two possibilities. Albino’s playing a couple of dates here in July, we could put you in as a guest attraction. He’s also playing around Turin for about a week, starting the day after tomorrow. But I guess that’s too soon to get everything together, right?”

  I shrugged. “The band’s on a break right now. I could see.”

  His eyes lit at the news. “We’ll have to really move if it’s gonna work. You’ll need to meet with the ministers today, tomorrow at the latest. Think you can get your sound engineer down here that fast?”

  Jake’s reply was relayed to me by Mario, who arrived on the next morning’s flight. “He said to tell them yes.”

  “That’s it? Yes what?”

  Mario shrugged, grinned. “Yes to whatever they want, I guess.”

  “But what about Como?” I had difficulty believing it was all that easy.

  “Yes to that, too.” Mario eyed me. “How you been holding out, Maestro?”