I ran a hand through my hair. “To tell the truth, I’ve been too busy to worry about it much.”
Mario laughed at that. “Amazing how the Lord works these things out for us, isn’t it? He makes our way straight, just like He promised.”
Denny and Mario hit it off immediately, two technicians who easily lapsed into a language all their own. I left them at it, saying I was late for a date in the lions’ den.
Ricki greeted me in the studio’s front room. His normally friendly expression was drawn into somber lines. “Got some bad news for you, Maestro.”
I knew it instantly. “Coppa’s going with another guitarist.”
Ricki didn’t bother to deny it. “You know how important it is for us to feel like a family in here. Giorgio was really disturbed by your not wanting to join us except for the takes.”
I searched within myself, was immensely glad to find that my strongest response was relief. “So he’s dropping me right now? I don’t have to play at all?”
Ricki misunderstood my question. “We don’t want any trouble, you understand. We’ve already spoken to Antonio, told him we’d pay full rates.”
“He must have been really excited over the news.” I made a mental note to call him that night and apologize.
“Listen, Maestro, is everything all right?” His eyes showed concern. “You know, we all think a lot of you. If there’s anything you need—”
All of a sudden the only thing I wanted was to be away. “Everything’s fine, Ricki.” I picked up my guitar, offered my hand. “Tell everybody I wish them luck, will you?”
* * *
A red-eyed and grumpy crew pulled into Turin the next morning following an all-night fourteen-hour drive. Mario and I played the jolly hosts after the landlady took one look at Jake and fled to her room.
Once they were all in bed, Mario and I returned to ICM to meet the Italian musicians. Luca Genta played backup to Albino Montisci and was beginning to work on his own songs as well. Luca reminded me of paintings of Medieval martyrs. It was hard to imagine a more angelic face, a warmer voice.
Albino Montisci wore the mantle of his growing fame with humility. His face and eyes spoke of enduring difficult times, his voice of an understanding beyond worldly wisdom. He played for us cuts from his latest album, and from the first bars I knew that here was another person trained in classical music. His music was incredibly powerful. At times I had to grit my teeth to keep back the ache. To hear such adoration spoken in my mother tongue touched me very deeply.
Corro verso di te,
Che m’importa del pensiero
Della gente?
Restino a guardare
Mentre io corro da te
Lascerō mille cose
A Chiamarmi ivano![12]
I shall flee towards you,
What does it matter
What other people think?
Let them stand and witness
While I flee towards you,
A thousand different desires
Shall cry out to me in vain!
Albino accepted our praise as though it were being given to the wrong man. He asked me about myself, and I confessed that I too had studied classical. He was clearly pleased, and asked if I would like to play on a couple of songs with him.
Mario laughed at that. When we turned to question him, he shook his head, said for us not to mind him, he was just marveling at the power of divine chance.
We let the others sleep as long as possible. Albino’s group helped take our equipment over to the club and set up. It was a garish nightclub of immense proportions called Hiroshima-Mon Amour, and Denny warned us that many of the expected eight hundred people would not be Christians.
“A lot of the regulars come no matter what,” he told us. “We’ve done this a couple of times before, and it goes over okay. Soon as some of the hard cases hear it’s Christian they leave, but there are so many others waiting to get in that the place stays packed. The owners don’t mind long as the music is quality.”
“And the Word is spread where it might otherwise not be heard,” Albino added.
“There should be groups from a dozen or so churches here tonight, and some of the gung-ho types will be trying to minister during the breaks. Last time we ended up having a dawn prayer session out in the parking lot after the place closed, brought nineteen people to the Lord.”
Mario and I roused the band ninety minutes before the prayer session was to begin at one of the local churches. We had a great time force-feeding them coffee and rushing them through showers in the guesthouse’s single bathroom.
Jake declined Mario’s invitation to drive with an outstretched palm. “Gonna have to study the lay of the land a little more before I drive around here again,” he rumbled, and sleepily climbed into the passenger side. “Almost suffered a couple of major seizures just gettin’ us into town.”
Pipo was the only one who was cheerfully awake. “All I need is a little home-grown pasta and I’m ready to roll.”
Amy looked at him askance, said, “Your stomach must be teflon-coated. How you can think of solid food right now is beyond me.”
“Maybe the sister oughtta be thinkin’ a little more ’bout what she’s gonna be tellin’ all those people waitin’ to hear her speak,” Jake said.
“The Lord’s just gonna have to do this one on His own,” Amy told her husband. “The better part of me is still back there in bed.”
But by the time we made the introductions and completed the sound check and ate a quick bite at a local restaurant, smiles were back in place. We followed Denny’s car to the church, a happy crew.
Il Centro Cristiano del Pieno Vangelo, the Full Gospel Christian Center, was one of Turin’s larger evangelical churches. When it proved impossible to find affordable space above ground for their growing numbers, they purchased an old underground parking garage and converted it.
Amy was gracious in her greetings, and even while working through me as her translator her effect on the gathering was clear. Jake was content to stand in the background and accept awed glances in stone-faced silence. When the introductions were completed and we were all seated, one of the local ministers led us in prayer, then handed it over to Amy. She smiled at me; I nodded my readiness.
“I carried a lot of questions around with me before coming to the Lord,” Amy said. “A lot of pain, too. But even when I wasn’t hurting, I kept wondering about these things. I hated these questions, I really did. They disturbed me so much. I’d look around at all the other people I knew and they seemed so cool, so cynical. Did they ever have these doubts racking their brains? Probably not. I really admired them for this. They seemed so much more comfortable than I was.”
She paused to brush a strand of hair from her forehead as I translated, then went on. “One of the big changes that has happened to me since becoming a Christian is how I really look at these questions of mine. Now they seem like lifelines to me. They were the only things that kept me halfheartedly searching for something more.”
“Say it, sister,” Jake murmured.
“A big question for me was, who am I? What purpose does life have? Am I just going to keep on as I am until I get old and sick and then just die? Why am I here?”
Amy opened her Bible, said, “I was wondering if somebody would please read for us Psalm eight, verse four right through to the end.”
There was the sound of pages turning, then a soft-spoken voice read in Italian:
What is man that you are mindful of him,
The son of man that you care for him?
You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings
And crowned him with glory and honor.
You made him ruler over the works of your hands;
You put everything under his feet:
All flocks and herds,
And beasts of the field,
The birds of the air,
And the fish of the sea,
All that swim the paths of the seas.
O Lord, our Lord,
How majestic is your name in all the earth!”
“We wear His holy crown,” Amy went on. “Genesis one, verse twenty-eight, says we were created in His own image. What does that say to you?”
“That we’re important,” a young man answered shyly, and I translated for Amy.
“We know who we are,” Amy said, nodding to him. “I think even in my darkest moments I knew that there was something greater than myself that kept urging me to look in another direction. We know what we need, but the only real answer scares us to death. Why is that? Can someone tell us?”
Albino answered in halting English, “Because we want to be gods.”
“We want to run our own lives,” Amy agreed. “We want to run wild and free just like all our friends. We want to party. Like the song says, we just want to have fun. Why not? What is there that’s stopping us?”
“His word,” someone replied.
Amy nodded. “Can someone please tell us where?”
There was a scrambling through pages, then, “Romans twelve, verse two, says, ‘Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.’ ”
I finished translating back into English for the band, then waited while Amy swept the gathering with her deep gaze. Then she said quietly, “Let us bow our heads in prayer.”
****
We played three more concerts over the next five days, all to capacity crowds. The outdoor concert at the Parco Rignon attracted almost two thousand people. Following that was the Teatro Massaua and then the Big Club. Many in the audience were not Christians; there was only scattered applause when Albino or Amy, with me translating, spoke of faith. But the distinctly faith-oriented lyrics of Albino’s and Luca’s songs did not seem to bother the crowds at all, and the music itself was greeted with tremendous applause. Clearly they were able to stomach the message so long as it was wrapped in a music with which they could identify.
The day before we were to begin our gig at the Como club we said goodbye to new friends and drove directly up to my cottage. It was much too small for all of us to stay there, but I wanted the band to share in the joy of my homecoming and to know that it was open to them all. The winding road that rose from Como and made its way along the steep-sided lake enchanted Amy with its breathtaking beauty. When we arrived at the cottage she did a skipping dance across the garden, stopped before the wall, looked out over the lake, and hugged herself.
She spun around, raced back to give Jake an excited embrace. “This is what I’ve been looking for all my life and didn’t know it.”
Jake turned an immobile face to search me out. From behind wrap-around shades he asked, “Think maybe you got room for a couple of guests?”
I could not help grinning. “Do I have any choice?”
Amy ran over, hugged me as well. “Can we pack this up and take it back with us?”
After making sure the others were comfortable in rooms at the town’s only guesthouse, I took them all to a restaurant just over the Swiss border. Il Grotto Antico was a four-hundred-year-old water mill converted into a lantern-lit inn, and the trip took us along Lake Como, over some steep Alpine foothills, and down the length of the Lago di Lugano.
Amy banished Jake to the van’s fold-down backseat. She craned and pointed out the window with childlike wonder. Snow-capped peaks reflected in crystal blue waters brought cries of delight. A tiny village’s train station was rewarded with, “Look! An old-timey choo-choo. I love the ones with elbows!”
Throughout the meal we waited for news from Jake as we had waited every free moment since his return from Holland. There was no reaction from the ebony giant, no sign at all that he was even aware of us. The only words he said came as we discussed a late-night drive around the Lake di Lugano to Campione. Better be getting on back, he advised. We’ve got a sound check and a full day of practice ahead of us. Looks were exchanged among us, but the hope was too great to allow for guessing.
I gave Amy and Jake my grandparents’ bed and moved into the little alcove under the roof. Bringing this new faith to my hometown had troubled me; it was a public declaration to the people and the place that meant the most to me in all the world. Little whispers of doubt and indecision had returned whenever the thought arose. Yet as I lay in the darkness of my little room under the eaves and listened to Jake’s rumbling gentleness and Amy’s sparkling laughter, I knew I had done what was right. It was time to show my new colors.
Alessandro’s greeting the next morning was subdued. He looked enormously weary as he shook hands and led us into the restaurant. He leaned against the reservations station while we inspected the two steel girders that stood like stone-colored masts against the sagging wall. Interlaced steel plates fixed by cables and iron stays held back the inward-pressing stonework. The contractors were right about one thing; with their coating of dusty gray paint, the new works would hardly be noticeable at night.
“Looks like one major headache over there.” Jake’s voice rumbled upward as he leaned back to eye the distant ceiling.
Alessandro turned to him, said in heavily accented English, “So you’re the one who stole my Maestro.”
“Not me, my man,” Jake said, his gaze still on the ceiling of glass. “His Lord’s just called him home.”
We set up quickly, the work down to a smooth-running routine that required little discussion and less hesitation. By the time we were plugged in and tuned up, the room was filled with waiters and cleaners and conoscenti who had stopped by to wish Alessandro luck with his opening. The bearded bear walked over to the edge of the stage, asked Jake if we could play one song so everybody would then get back to work and his grand reopening wouldn’t be put off until next month.
Jake looked around, got the nod from us. “ ‘Soldier Of Fortune,’ ” he murmured, naming a song by DeGarmo and Key.
“Say something, Amy,” Mario called from his place at the back of the room.
Amy pulled the microphone from the stand. “Test, test. Unaccustomed as I am to speaking in public . . .”
Mario adjusted the levels, gave Jake the thumbs up. Jake nodded to Sameh, who clicked us into the song.
It was a solid rock of a number, one that allowed us to power full-on. The cynical expressions of the waiters dissolved into grins. The street-wise crowd at the back with Alessandro lowered their sunglasses, looked at each other, looked at us, moved forward.
When we finished the room echoed to cheers and excited voices. Even Alessandro sported a sad smile as he walked toward the stage. He spoke to me in halting English so we all could understand, “You think maybe you could tell me what I’m supposed to do after you leave?”
“Pray for guidance,” Amy answered for us.
He looked her way, decided she was serious. “I don’t think I remember how.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Amy said.
“You have an answer for everything?”
She smiled at that. “Just the things that matter.”
We took a break halfway through the practice session. I joined the others in the kitchen for coffee. When I returned I found Jake and Alessandro leaning against the stage and talking in low tones. They were so engrossed in their conversation they did not see me. I waited beside the velvet drop that hid the kitchen entrances and watched them for quite a while before I realized they were talking about me.
“I’ve never seen anybody able to hold a crowd like him,” Alessandro was saying.
“Gianni’s got a talent you don’t see so often,” Jake agreed. “It’s not just that he’s a good guitarist. He’s versatile, you know what I mean? Usually somebody talented like that, they get trapped in the groove that comes easy. Gianni’s arrangements are like his playin’. I never know where his next song’s gonna come from.”
“It’s more than talent,” Alessandro replied. “There’s a special power
about Gianni when he’s up there.”
“The man’s got appeal,” Jake said. “When he plays, the audience follows him like their eyes ‘re trackin’ a magnet. Amy’s got it too. It’s a light that shimmers around them when they’re on stage. Talent like that, a performer’s either got it or they don’t. Most don’t.”
“I wish I knew who to replace him with,” Alessandro said, picking at a blistered palm.
“Only advice I can give you is what Amy said earlier,” Jake replied. “Every problem I’ve turned over to the Lord has been solved in His own special way. Then when the weight’s off me I can see there was a reason for it, some lesson I needed to learn.”
Alessandro looked over at the two new stone-colored girders, said, “I find that a little hard to believe.”
“I hear what you’re sayin’, man,” Jake said easily. “It’s one of those things you can’t understand ’til you see it from the inside.”
As quietly as I could I turned and walked back into the kitchen. It gave me a warm feeling to see the power of faith move into this part of my world.
* * *
With Alessandro’s agreement, I limited myself to one opening solo set, which I did on the Chet Atkins acoustic. As always, I entered the stage without introduction. The applause was loud, and throughout the room people called to me by name. I smiled and waved, surprised at the ease of it all. I was back where I had begun, playing before the same crowd I had fled from, and I had not given the first thought to the need for a smoke-filled barrier to protect me. I sat down on my backless stool, adjusted the guitar, smiled once more, and began.
I drifted easily from song to song, needing no conscious decisions to guide my flow. I did not pause until forty-five minutes later, when I placed the guitar back in its stand, waved to the shouts and whistles and applause, and walked from the stage.
It felt immensely pleasing and terrifically strange to return to my dressing room and find the group waiting there. I accepted their compliments and Amy’s hug, allowed myself to be brought into the prayer circle, found myself marveling at how different it all felt. As usual Jake opened the prayer, and as it worked its way around the group I felt a growing desire to speak. My heart was stuttering when it came my turn, but I knew it was time for my voice to be heard as well.
The Maestro Page 34
