The Blue Guitar

by Ireland Ann

  He checks his schedule: the 12:30 slot is in the west wing. A diagram shows where that is. Take a left, down the hall, make a right turn and cross the overpass. He stares at the diagram. What overpass? He’s in the wrong bloody wing. There’s another room C. He grabs his guitar and darts off. Last thing he needs is to arrive at the session sweaty and out of breath. If Jasper were here, he would have scouted the location the night before. This insight doesn’t help.

  He jogs down the corridor, makes a dash left, then right, then left again, heartbeat ramping up. Moments later he surfaces into the glass-enclosed overpass that joins the two wings of the building. In the parking lot beneath, cadets guard a pair of relic tanks. His guitar case kneecaps him, and he swears, then continues through the overheated bridge toward room C. In this newer wing the doors are cream-coloured with frosted windows and the hallway smells sweet, like French toast. Room C announces itself with a gold letter stamped above the window. Toby pauses to compose himself, tucks hair behind one ear, and waits until his breathing slows.

  The door swings open, and they call him in at the same time as an Asian youth in a blazer scurries out, not meeting Toby’s eye. Two judges sit cross-legged on chairs and don’t look up right away, being busy writing notes. No window, just the hiss of underpowered ventilation. A piano bench is set next to a footstool — that’s it, no music stand. Competitors must play from memory.

  Toby smiles fixedly as he enters, sets his case down, and flings it open, miming a confidence he doesn’t quite feel. This isn’t the time for lame jokes or false bonhomie. The hinge of the case catches on his forearm and leaves a tiny bite. It could have nicked a fingernail, which would have been disastrous. Sometimes it comes down to such small misadventure. He inhales the familiar intoxicating fragrance of his instrument’s wood and varnish.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” commands Manuel Juerta, the noted Cuban guitarist, a chubby man with a shock of reddish hair. Castro lets him out of the country for recitals and conferences because he always returns with a sheaf of ecstatic reviews. The other judge is a couple of decades younger — Jon C. Smyth, a Brit of determinedly plain name and phenomenal technique, already chair of guitar studies at a major U.S. university. Juerta consults his clipboard as Toby settles on the upholstered bench, adjusting its height while the guitar seesaws across his lap.

  “Mr. Hausner is from Toronto,” Juerta says, reading off his list as Toby tunes. “You’re not such a kid, yes?” he chortles, trying to lighten the mood.

  Since Toby’s hairline started to recede, he looks at least thirty. The room is airless and rank with the nervous sweat of earlier contestants. The judges have been at it for a day and a half, and they’re waiting to be astonished. This is what Toby tells himself as he cranks up the footstool to its highest position. He likes the fretboard to skirt his left ear. In his view there can never be a bench too low or a footstool too high.

  First up is the Fandanguillo, a wicked piece full of tricky inversions and heroic leaps up the fretboard plus an endless barre-chord that leaves the wrist weeping. Toby visualizes the opening phrase, exactly where his fingers will plant.

  The judges yawn and stretch and sip water from plastic bottles. At his age, Toby realizes, he could be sitting alongside them, presiding over the future of the next generation.

  Juerta glances at the wall clock. “When you are ready.”

  Toby figures they’ve heard the same three pieces so many times that they’re not sure whether to laugh or scream after encountering the full range of interpretations, too few offering glimmers of originality, let alone genius. He shuts his eyes, for music has a precise moment of entry: in his mind he hears the opening measures played sublimely, a perfect wave he must catch just as it begins to curl. How do you know if you are playing well? Only by listening, and Toby does nothing but listen. He could hear a mouse gnaw a piano string two studios away.

  He begins, evoking the sound of Andalusian streets and baked land — no, nothing so literal, for music creates its own form. He dampens notes to avoid harmonics that might bleed into the next chord. Phrasing and breathing are inseparable, for without phrasing there is no life in the music, just a parade of notes, and without breath, well, we all know where that leads.

  Toby glances at the judges as he finishes the piece with a long ritardando. They sit in identical postures, legs crossed, pads in hand, expressionless. No acknowledgement that he has just played his heart out.

  Second piece is by a little-known Italian composer from the Romantic era. Musically second rate, but a technical obstacle course that makes it a competition favourite.

  He announces its title in a hoarse voice.

  The judges nod.

  He wipes his hands on his trousered knees, takes his time. The mood will change drastically, and he must set it up. The first bar involves a series of quick chord changes, and a pratfall at the start is never good. He feels a whistle of panic, a sensation that is almost nostalgic: only performance creates this feeling that every second matters.

  Opening line speeds by, though not without a slight drag in the bass, then suddenly he is creating music, not jumping hurdles — and he dares to relax a fraction.

  Mistake: a performer should never feel safe. As if to demonstrate this truth, he fumbles a simple transition. The mishap catches him off guard, though Juerta, if he notices, doesn’t make a mark on his sheet. Smyth’s lips tighten.

  Toby attacks the rest of the work to its edges, aggressive, proving he is in no way scared by his flub. Finishing, he wipes his forehead: one more piece, then it’s free choice, his beloved Sarabande.

  But first the Mark Loesser modern work. The lattice of styles is incoherent to the uneducated ear, and he soon fills the studio with a crunch of atonal chords. The judges nod, impressed, for this musician doesn’t hide and hope for the best, like some they’ve heard over the past two days. The piece closes with rapid fire harmonics, caught at the last minute before they capsize into silence.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hausner,” Juerta says, not waiting until the performer lifts his wrists.

  And so the Sarabande.

  Fall back into time — eighteenth-century Germany. Toby unrolls the Baroque embellishments without going overboard. He’s the master of tasteful mordents and trills, poring over original lute manuscripts, tracking down the composer’s intention. He can’t help the expressions that cross his face: a tightening of the brow, a wince. He is fully exposed, that tenderness twinned with complete control of tone and tempo. So many artists rush the stately dance, not trusting the guitar’s meagre ability to sustain sound, but Toby pulls it off, in part by tricking the audience through body language. His hand hovers over the strings to contain the notes, even as their sound fades. The memory of sound completes the phrase.

  The instant his hand plucks the final note, Juerta says, “That will do, Mr. Hausner. Please pick up your things as quickly as possible. We’re running late.”

  “Names of successful participants will be posted this evening,” Smyth adds.

  Not a word of encouragement or appreciation. Have they any idea what it costs a man like Toby just to step into this room?

  Jasper slips out of his good jacket and hangs it in the closet before placing the bag of takeout pad Thai on the kitchen counter. He eats slowly, taking care to thoroughly chew each mouthful. Like all restaurant food, it’s over-salted. With his free hand he punches Toby’s number. He feels oddly calm. Today the executive of the board demanded a blow-by-blow catalogue of Luke’s misdeeds since he began his tenure as president. Jasper fished through agenda books and emails to organize them thematically, then made multiple copies of the finished document, plus another on disk, just to be sure. Rachel escaped early, creeped out by his vengeful enthusiasm.

  Toby picks up on the fourth ring.

  “So?” Jasper asks, mouth full.

  “I’m in.”

  “They’ve posted the names?”

  “I’m in,” Toby repeats.

  “Congratu
lations,” Jasper says carefully.

  “To be confirmed tonight,” Toby allows.

  Where does this surge of confidence come from? Jasper wonders. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. “I dropped by Lakeview to see Klaus.”

  “You didn’t tell him about the competition?” Toby sounds unnerved.

  “I did not. He’s looking awfully thin.”

  “Of course, he looks thin. He is thin.”

  “You see what you want to see.”

  This irritates Toby. “Klaus is getting old.”

  “Gaunt, that’s the only word for it,” Jasper says. “Maybe he doesn’t like the food at Lakeview.”

  “What’s wrong with the food?”

  “Your father has changed, Toby.” Sometimes the obvious has to be pointed out.

  The kettle, plugged in at the beginning of this conversation, begins to whistle. Crooking the phone against his ear, Jasper pours boiling water over a green tea bag. The smell of it soothes, and he’s transported inside a haiku.

  “He kept looking over his shoulder,” Jasper says, “as if he expected some other visitor.”

  Toby seems to relax. “That’s it then, one of the old girls. They love him there, one of few men with all his marbles.”

  Frankly, Jasper felt hurt, seeing as he’d made the effort to travel across the city in the rain.

  Toby starts to work up a thesis. “The place is full of Mama’s presence, which is why he moved in.”

  “He’s holding something back,” Jasper says, taking a slurp of tea. “One senses it in his furtive manner.”

  They could spend hours discussing Klaus’s peculiarities.

  A monsoon of arpeggios issues from Hiro’s room across the hall.

  “Gotta go,” Toby says.

  “Wait.” Jasper lifts off his chair, then says, “I love you, dear boy.” He stares at the kitchen chair where Toby normally sits.

  Toby waits a beat then says, “I know.”

  The conversation, such as it is, grinds to a halt.

  “Manuel, amigo, we must talk.”

  It’s Portia Vanstone, just flown in from Berkeley, California, to take her seat among the judges. She sweeps past the final contestant now scuttling out of the cramped studio and pounces on Manuel. Literally. She spreads her batwings, garbed in an array of shawls, and touches his shoulders with her fingertips.

  “I have thirst,” he says, pointing to his mouth. During the last rendition of the Fandanguillo, he nearly expired from dehydration.

  She follows as he hastens toward the drinking fountain in the corridor of the Fine Arts Building. Pressing the chrome lever, he watches the water gush in a satisfying arc — so quickly does one become accustomed to responsive plumbing. Portia taps her hip impatiently as he takes long, soothing drafts.

  “Where can we talk?” Her tone is urgent.

  “Now?” Manuel sighs. “I am fatigued and hungry.”

  The other judge, an English kid named Smyth whom Manuel once taught in master class and now sits pretty on a college job in the United States, dashed out of the room ten minutes ago, suggesting they meet in the pub across the street.

  “I can fix hungry.” Portia sinks a hand into her cloth bag and draws out an apple, which she holds out to Manuel, waving it in front of his mouth, as if he were a dog.

  He takes the fruit and rolls it against his throbbing temple.

  “There’s much to discuss,” Portia says. She grabs his elbow, then leads him in a trot down the hall.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Outside.”

  Thank God. What he craves is air untouched by anxious music.

  She propels him down the labyrinth of hallways to a door that warns, in French, that it must be opened only in the case of fire. Without hesitation she pushes it open, and the musicians step outside onto a spongy carpet of moss. They’ve entered a tiny precious green spot, flanked on three sides by institutional buildings. Someone has planted herbs in a clay pot and dragged out a pair of plastic garden chairs. Portia lets go of his arm and rustles in that oversized bag until she finds her cigarettes. She holds out the pack, and Manuel shakes his head, tempted as he is, for he means to quit for good.

  “Promising crop?” she asks in that distinctive raspy voice.

  Manuel understands she means the musicians. “Some very good ones. Perhaps no one outstanding. We will see.”

  She taps the end of the cigarette on her wrist and lowers herself onto one of the chairs.

  Portia’s a force at these competitions. One year she insisted on a Belgian guitarist being promoted to the finals, a girl who was in way over her head and went running back to her provincial conservatory, never to be heard from again. Then there was the Welshman who seemed out of his element, rough clothes and a beat-up guitar, but Portia kept urging the other judges to “Listen hard. This is something new.”

  Alun Carew just finished recording his third CD with Naxos.

  She plants herself on one of the chairs and leans over to remove her sandals, giving a little moan of release as her feet flex. Manuel glances away: he’d seen the dry, scaly skin.

  “I can’t talk long,” he warns her. “Smyth and I must meet to choose who will continue to the semis.” Yet he sinks onto the other chair, feeling his lower back relax. Two solid days in the studio and he forgets where he is, what country, what year.

  “I’ve agreed to run for the position of president of our august organization,” Portia declares.

  Manuel straightens. “Again?”

  Five years ago she campaigned to oust old Gregorio and failed.

  Undeterred, Portia says, “Several eminent members have begged me to toss my hat in the ring.”

  “I see,” Manuel says. Guitar federation politics bore him.

  “But if I’m to be successful, your help is essential.”

  Manuel, despite his fatigue, is flattered. He takes a bite of her apple.

  “The organization must be dragged into the twenty-first century if we’re to survive.”

  He hears a lot of this sort of thing in his travels, always from people whose countries satisfactorily completed the twentieth century.

  “Of course,” Manuel says, hoping he sounds firm and decisive.

  “The website is a mess.” She sits up straight and pauses, allowing him to contemplate this sad fact. “We must allow prospective competitors to send first-round programs via digital file. Initial vetting is done by a select group of judges around the world, working from wherever they may live.” Her hair, entirely grey now, flings about as she gestures. She’s gained a few pounds in recent years, but so have they all.

  Manuel feels himself resist the suck of energy.

  “Moreover,” she continues, leaning so that the front of her blouse flaps open, revealing a freckled cleavage, “the finals must be recorded on video and posted on our site. People can wager on the winner. We’ll create intense excitement throughout the guitar world.”

  Manuel feels his forehead pulse: protein, that’s what he needs.

  “Progress is impossible as long as Gregorio steers us toward his lost valley.” She waits for Manuel to agree, which he does, because that will make the lecture shorter. “We’ll create a pedagogical destination, with classes delivered by our most eminent members … a digital conservatory.”

  Her teeth are unnaturally white. His tongue darts in the gap between his own teeth, still a shock to discover the absence of the upper cuspid. He wants to sit in a cool, dark room with a towel over his head and a cold beer in hand.

  “This is where you come in,” Portia says. “You shall be in charge of hiring teachers and devising curriculum and thus confer instant prestige on the venture. Please say yes.” She lifts her shawl around her shoulders and beams at him.

  Manuel is thinking. That pretty middle-aged contestant from Toronto — he liked the way she played the Italian piece, very crisp and musical. He actually leaned back and listened, forgetting he was meant to judge. But he could tell Sm
yth was horrified by her very presence; a young man, he flinches from the contamination of age.

  “This will transform our lives, Manuel,” Portia natters on. “You could stay home in Havana soaking up the rays, and still earn money.”

  When he seems less than thrilled by this proposal, she lowers her voice. “And here’s the cherry, the icing on the cake: we organize hologramic recitals of our most august members.”

  “What?”

  “Think of it: eliminate jet lag and billeting with local guitar society members, family dog jumping on your bed in the morning. I see this as an ecological statement. Imagine, Manuel, you play your program from the comfort of your studio where it will be transferred hologramatically to audiences around the world.”

  Manuel’s mind fixes on his current, post-Lucia studio — a corner of the cramped bedroom, which is in turn situated in a corner of the living area, where, if the Venetian or New York audience were to peer closely, a glimpse of his hot plate might turn up in the background.

  “Can I count on your support?” Portia asks, sitting erect on the chair, waiting for his blessing.

  Manuel summons up his last bit of strength. “This must never happen,” he says, rising to his feet, aware she is frowning as he disappears into the building.

  Twelve

  Manuel guesses that this corner bar with its pressed tin ceiling and ceramic floor tiles is considered chic. He hesitates inside the entrance, watching the gangly Jon Smyth perch on a bar stool, his long neck pink from the barber’s razor. A man dressed in black with a white cloth slung over one shoulder greets Manuel, “Ça va?” to which Manuel replies with a dismissive wave. He’ll make his own way, merci, which he manages, grabbing the stool next to Jon’s at the mahogany bar.