The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  I looked up from the pages and fastened my attention on the window, staring blankly until I realized that it had begun to rain. I stood on shaking legs and walked over, wanting a moment of solitude to gather myself. I stood in the corner of that silent room, listening to my tumbling thoughts and watching the rain streak the glass before my face.

  Why had my mother left this letter unfinished? I ached for her, for the pain she conveyed in her words, and for the childhood years I had lived without a mother’s touch. This letter spoke of a woman whom I barely knew. My mother had remained a gentle lullaby that I would strain and strain and barely hear in the darkness of my bedroom. For me her voice was a soft whisper that sometimes woke me from a deep sleep and then vanished into silence, her kiss a memory of butterfly wings drifting across my cheek, her arms an unanswered yearning. I stood and looked down at this letter from a woman I had never truly known, and missed her terribly.

  She had wished, she had hoped for something and then decided to return home with this letter and see if she might speak to her husband. Yes. She returned home and she tried to talk with my father, but the talk turned to argument and the argument to fury. I stared out the rain-streaked window and remembered my parents fighting those nights after I had been put to bed. She fought with my father that night of her return. She fought and then she fled into the night, into the snowstorm. And she never came back.

  The letter’s last phrase echoed over and over again in my head. He can never let go of the anger over my leaving. What truth there was in those words, for then and for now. She left him for good, and his anger and his guilt and his pain destroyed him. It would be so easy for me to hate him. So very easy. The thought was like a taunt to my aching heart. I have every reason to hate him. My life has been warped by his burdens. His burdens, not mine. I have spent a lifetime carrying the memory of punishments he inflicted upon me for things which I never did.

  Yet there was no anger, no need for hate. Even in the depth of my sadness I could marvel at this. It was the clearest possible way of being shown that I was not alone. Here was a gift from far beyond myself, something that I could never have realized on my own.

  I turned back to my father, the words still chiming in my mind. He can never let go of the anger over my leaving.

  “You never hated my music,” I said, glad that there was still some strength to my voice. “You hate what makes you feel alone.”

  When he did not reply, I returned to my place on the couch. “That’s why you fear my talent too, isn’t it? The music would take me away too, leaving you alone. But you’re already alone, aren’t you? You’ve lost yourself in a labyrinth of old hate and pain, and there’s no room in there for anyone alive, not even for yourself. So I was lost to you before I ever arrived in Dusseldorf. And your rejection of my own music was just something mechanical. Something you did because you had to, not because you felt anything for me.”

  I leaned forward in my seat, holding his gaze. “I forgive you,” I said quietly. “I only wish there were some way I could show you that Christ could give you the strength to forgive yourself.”

  There was nothing else to be said. I sat and watched my father as his gaze scattered across the room, touching everywhere, seeing nothing. My pain was gone, and with it my need to hate him. I felt scrubbed utterly clean inside.

  I looked at this bitterly sad man and realized that here was what forgiveness would always mean to me. I would look back to this moment when describing the freedom that true forgiveness could bring, and remember what it felt to lay my burdens aside.

  Heavenly Father, I prayed to myself, my eyes still on my earthly father, I pray for this man who cannot pray for himself. Grant him your healing. Show him the way back home.

  I sat and looked at him a moment longer, but no more words came. I rose to my feet, asked if I might come visit again and pay him my respects. My father did not answer, did not turn my way, did not even signal that he had heard me. I turned, left the room and the apartment and made my way down the stairs and out into the fresh summer rain.

  I was free.

  Chapter 16

  Six weeks after the mixing was completed I had lunch with Fraulein Rohr and Herr Scherer. It was a happy-sad time, sharing all that had happened, smiling over the good memories, pausing for silences over what was no longer. We ate at a little Italian restaurant not far from the school. Herr Scherer spent much time reminiscing about the meal my grandmother had cooked for us.

  Of the two, Herr Scherer had aged more. What before had been heavy and solid now sagged without support. His beard had only faint flecks of red among the gray, and much of his hair was gone. A deep weariness filled his eyes and touched me deeply, and it was at him that I looked when I spoke of my conversion.

  Yet it was Fraulein Rohr who answered. “Your grandmother would be very proud of you, Gianni. Both for your music and for your faith.”

  She was a little wispier, her wayward hair slightly more clear in coloring, the wide blue eyes surrounded by a few new wrinkles. Yet it was hard to believe that ten years had passed since the last time I saw her.

  “Do you remember when my grandmother invited you to Mass with her?” I asked.

  She gave me her old gentle smile. “Do you know, I have often thought of that very thing. The way she spoke of faith made God seem so real, so close I could almost touch Him.”

  “You can,” I said. “Why don’t you come with me one Sunday? Both of you. There are a lot of Germans in our congregation.”

  “I think I might like that,” Fraulein Rohr replied softly. Herr Scherer fiddled with his coffee spoon and made no reply.

  Fraulein Rohr went on. “Aren’t you excited about your big concert? I don’t think I’d sleep a wink. Imagine playing in front of five thousand people.”

  “We don’t know how many will show up,” I warned. “There is space for five thousand, that’s all we’ve heard.”

  The album was to be launched in two days with a major concert sponsored by Gospel Holland, the Dutch Christian television network. Along with Spark Music, our record label, they were bringing together a number of local groups for a six-hour concert. The entire performance was to be video-taped, then edited down to a two-hour special program. It would be televised the following Saturday evening to a four-country audience estimated at five hundred thousand. We were promised a full forty minutes of air time if our performance met their expectations.

  The concert was planned for Venlo, a city near the Dutch-German border, rather than at the normal television concert hall in Hilvershum, in an effort to attract as many of our German fans as possible. Earlier that same day we were to have one song filmed for a video at the local station. The video was intended to premiere on the prime-time Gospel Holland talk show. We were to be billed as a major new international talent, a discovery from Europe that would help spread the message worldwide. A lot of publicity had been generated by the idea of a gospel group made up of four different nationalities, all singing in English, making their debut album in a German studio with a Dutch producer and record label. We had spotted posters in several cities where we had played, and had many people come up to us at concerts to ask when the album was being released.

  Jake had been pushing us very hard, both in preparation for the concert and for the television-studio taping. Spark Music had decided that “Love Enough To Share” would make a better single for the European market than “If Only They Could Know.” We all disagreed with the choice, but took strength from Jake’s calm acceptance and said nothing. That was the song they were going to synch in the Venlo television studio.

  Synchronization meant that our music was to be played off the album to ensure its quality, while we pretended to sing and play along. This was standard practice for music videos. Preparing for it had been boring, repetitive work made acceptable only because it was intended for television. Audiences in Holland, Germany, Belgium, and northern France all watched that program.

  “The concert will be sold out,�
�� Fraulein Rohr said with absolute assurance. “And just imagine, on television as well. I can’t thank you enough for the tickets.”

  I smiled at her and said to Herr Scherer, “It would be great if you could come, too. With your wife, of course.”

  He did not look at all comfortable. “I’ve never been very big on church music, Gianni, much as I would like to hear you play.”

  “I think you might be surprised,” I told him. “This isn’t exactly what you’d expect to hear in a church.”

  “Of course he’ll come,” Fraulein Rohr said. “If his wife and I have to tie him up and drag him, he’ll be there.”

  He studied me with a hint of the old light back in his eyes. “Do you remember when I told you that you would need to get used to playing in public?”

  I nodded. The memories were both fresh and freshly cleansed, the emotions no longer there to snag me. “My grandmother prayed me through that first concert in Fraulein Rohr’s classroom. I don’t think I could have made it without her prayers.”

  “You never told me that,” Fraulein Rohr exclaimed.

  Herr Scherer shook his head. “Religion pops up no matter what I say.”

  “It’s the most important thing in my life,” I said simply.

  His gaze sharpened. “More than music?”

  “I can’t separate the two,” I replied. “Not any more.”

  * * *

  The television station complex was enormous, covering an entire city block of downtown Venlo. It was full of people rushing around with loud voices, all calling urgently for things that I couldn’t understand. We were hustled into a large chamber strung with more lights than I had ever seen before in my life. Three cameras were set on elevated cranes, positioned to the front and sides of the stage. It was as quiet and calm inside the studio as it was chaotic outside.

  A man in beige gabardine pants and patterned silk shirt came over and shook hands with Jake. The rest of the band gathered round. Jake introduced him as Siebren Rijpma, the program producer and announcer for Gospel Holland. Jake had made it clear to us that Siebren’s personal interest was exceptional, and we tried to show how grateful we were for the opportunity he provided. Siebren had kind eyes and an angular face. When he found a reason to smile, which was often, he glowed with a light that made all of us want to laugh with him.

  We were joined by a gray-bearded balding man in his mid-fifties. He wore jeans and a T-shirt advertising an outdoor rock concert from twenty-five years ago. He stood and listened quietly as Siebren introduced him as the chief cameraman and began explaining how we would be positioned on stage.

  The back doors slammed open. A young man in charcoal gray suit and tortoise-rimmed spectacles came hustling toward us, clipboard in hand. Ignoring the band completely, he started barking choppy little sentences in Dutch at Siebren and the cameraman. He read from his clipboard, pointed at various things around the room, ordered them around some more, glanced at his watch, barked again. Siebren and the cameraman both looked at him with the quiet astonishment they would have shown a monkey at the zoo. The young man glanced once more at his clipboard, nodded as though satisfied that nothing had been forgotten, turned and bounced away. As soon as the doors had closed behind him, Siebren started back exactly where he had left off. I decided that I was going to enjoy working with these two.

  We were fortunate in being able to book the studio for two hours, Siebren said. It would give everyone time to relax and learn synching. We would not actually be recording sound, he explained. The song Spark Music had chosen as our single would be played through the speakers set up to either side of the stage, and we would play in synch to it. We were not to worry about the time, he stressed. It would be far better to run half an hour late, no matter what our gray-flannel friend just said, than rush and make a mess of our debut.

  The idea was to give us a low-cost video that could be distributed for album promotion, Siebren told us. Jake nodded, said respectfully, “We covered all this yesterday.”

  The pair showed astonishment. “Covered what?”

  “We’ve been playing that song and one other over our PA and practicing the synch along to it.”

  “For how long?”

  “Absolutely the longest and most boring three days of my entire life,” Pipo replied for us all.

  “I listened to those songs all night in my sleep,” Amy agreed.

  “Worse than being in the studio during the final mix,” Pipo said.

  Siebren and the cameraman exchanged a glance, turned back to us. Siebren said, “You guys want a job?”

  “Go teach the other bands how to come in prepared,” the cameraman agreed. “Save us about a million hours.”

  “No thanks,” Jake replied.

  “Not on your life,” Pipo agreed.

  Siebren thought it over. “You have anything you’d like to do with the extra time?”

  “Maybe we could do a second song,” the cameraman offered. “Use it on the next show if the response is good for the first one.”

  A light powered from Jake’s eyes, but he said nothing. Clearly this was what he had been hoping for.

  “They ought to get a reward for coming in prepared,” Siebren agreed. He asked Jake, “Did you have a second song in mind?”

  Jake looked at me. “Tell them your idea.”

  I hesitated. It seemed silly now.

  “Gianni had an idea for doing a second song,” Amy told the pair. Then to me, “Go on, tell them.”

  I took a breath. “We have this sort of ballad, called ‘If Only They Could Know.’ ”

  “I know it,” Siebren said. “I listened to a demo copy of your album last night.”

  “So did I,” the cameraman said. “And I like your music, by the way.”

  “That song sent chills up my spine,” Siebren agreed. “I really liked the way it went back and forth between the different languages. Really drove the point home.”

  The atmosphere loosened considerably. I went on, more easily now. Siebren listened to me in thoughtful silence. When I finished he looked at the cameraman.

  “No problem from my end,” the cameraman replied. “Maybe use a second camera with high-speed film for the band, do some off-color lighting.” He nodded a decision. “Grainy film for the band, slow sweep from instrument to instrument, real precise lighting for the pair.”

  “Why don’t you send someone to see if we can borrow a sound room for an hour?” Siebren suggested.

  “We’ll have to start fast on the lighting,” the cameraman agreed, and left.

  “There’s a good chance we won’t be able to get this done,” Siebren warned us. “There won’t be time or money to bring you back if something goes wrong. If you prefer, we can use the extra time for more takes here on the stage. That way we’ll at least be sure of having one solid piece for the show. Or we could go ahead and try ‘Love Enough to Share’ here, then move into the sound room and use that as a back-drop for ‘If Only They Could Know.’ ”

  All eyes turned toward Jake. “The more I think about it, the more I like Gianni’s idea.”

  “Me too,” Siebren said, letting the smile show. “Did you bring the outfits?”

  “In the van,” Amy said.

  “Like I said earlier, anytime you people want a job, you know where to come.” He paused, asked us, “Do you think we could spare a moment for prayer?”

  “Don’t see how we could do without it,” Jake said.

  After the prayer, Siebren’s manner became brisk and efficient. We were directed to the stage and placed far apart, each person restricted to a little box of space with heel and toe positions marked in chalk. We were shown which direction to face, where to hold our heads and instruments, how to avoid shadows through crouched body movements.

  While Siebren walked Amy through her steps, the rest of us submitted to the discomfort of makeup and hair spray. A number of people moved around us, taking light readings, talking through headsets to people we could not see, adjusting the cymbals so t
hey didn’t catch the light, drawing lines for the men wearing cameras on their shoulders. One man with a shoulder unit came up so close I could see my reflection in the lens. When I started to back off he told me quietly to hold very still, then to turn my head, then to move as though swinging through a solo. As I did he curved around me, shooting my face from different angles. He moved back a step, focused on the guitar neck, told me to finger a run. I did. One of the men on the camera cranes swung over my way, coming down very close and shooting me from a higher angle. The first cameraman crouched down in front of me, swiveled the eyepiece up so he could balance the video-cam on the floor and shoot me from as low as possible. Their movements were carefully coordinated, and I realized some unseen individual was directing them through the headsets. The other band members watched gravely. None of us had ever been through anything like this.

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Mario standing beside the stage. When the cameras were finished with me and pointed toward the next man, I unstrapped my guitar and went over.

  “I can hardly believe this is happening,” Mario said, drinking it all in with round eyes.

  “You’re telling that to me?”

  “They said I could watch it from the control room. The producer’s a great guy. He’s doing the concert tonight, said I could handle the mixing board if I wanted. Seems that André Fredericks called and told him I would be the best man for the job.”

  I leaned over the edge of the stage. “Better grab hold. Your feet aren’t even touching the ground.”

  He grinned. “Hey, Maestro, remember the first time you played for me?”

  I didn’t have to think. “You were standing with my grandmother in the doorway watching me practice.”