The Blue Guitar

by Ireland Ann

  The front door of the apartment kicks open, and Jean-Paul glances up. His face changes. He looks startled, then wary.

  A stout young woman appears in the doorway. She is a mess, hair uncombed, jeans slung low on full hips. Jean-Paul speaks in rapid French, which the girl ignores. Instead she examines the scene in the room and demands in unaccented English, “What are these assholes doing here?”

  Jean-Paul’s expression freezes, then he speaks quietly to the assembled group. “I apologize for the manners of my stepdaughter.”

  “Don’t apologize for me.”

  Jean-Paul’s face blanches. Or rather it loses its colour and white is what remains.

  “Come.” Portia seizes Manuel’s hand. “Now’s our chance.”

  They retreat to the room behind the kitchen where coats hang next to a stack of neatly tied newspapers. Daisies wilt in a pair of window boxes, the petals brown so late in the season. Beyond the window is the fire escape decorated with a compost bucket.

  “Tell me why you’re not supporting my initiative,” Portia demands, pressing her hip against the ledge. “It’s not my nature to twist arms, yet I’m fully prepared to do so, for the sake of the organization.”

  “I understand,” Manuel says.

  “And yet you claim not to be in favour of the virtual conservatory.”

  “It is so.”

  She can’t bear his bland tone. “It’s the only way we can grow into a global organization.”

  He thinks of Guillermo and Mónica back home, content to live their lives staring at a computer monitor, never setting foot outside the country, hardly moving beyond the confines of the decaying capital city, lulled into a hypnotic trance they mistake for life.

  More stormy words issue from the front room, followed by Jean-Paul’s measured tones. The man is a paragon of self-control. After this exchange, they hear a stomping noise as the girl makes her way upstairs, then the bone-rattling slam of a door and the rumble of a bass beat — the universal language of adolescence. Even his beloved Gabi exhibited such behaviour once or twice.

  “I will return to the meeting now,” Manuel says, not about to be bullied by this woman who sweeps her hair behind her ear, a woman who thinks she is still beautiful.

  She ignores his small threat. “Do you really think Aaron Whatshisface from Tel Aviv is a possible leader? The man can’t be bothered to show up for meetings. And Harry from the Florida Panhandle? Nicest guy on earth but —” She raises her palms. Words fail her. “I’ve led Berkeley Integrative Strings to its present stature, sat on every committee in the federation.” She stops. “Why am I working so hard to sell myself?”

  “I don’t know,” Manuel says.

  Her expression shifts, all trace of pleading gone. “If you don’t sign on, your indiscretion of last night will become public knowledge. How many more competitions do you think you’ll be invited to judge?”

  The woman is a warrior, and Manuel likes warriors. He is one himself.

  “Perhaps I will support this plan,” he muses aloud, “but first I have one favour to ask.”

  “What?” she asks, already suspicious.

  “Can you create an artist’s position for me in California?”

  As soon as he speaks, he feels a surge of excitement. Lucia will whoop for joy at the news. He’ll send home envelopes, via Western Union, full of crisp money orders that she’ll dangle in front of her family. Morning fog rolls into Berkeley, California, the city where Nobel Prize winners meet over coffee to discuss the birth of the universe or urban ecology, and where he, Manuel, might finally cease the daily struggle.

  Nineteen

  So it’s over. No need to make a fuss. It’s a miracle she made it this far.

  Lucy plants herself in the middle of the dorm room, open suitcase on the bed, train ticket in hand. She could make the 2:10 to Toronto and be back in time for dinner. Wadding up soiled underwear and socks, she stuffs them into a plastic bag, which she tucks into the bottom of the suitcase. Hope springs eternal, as her mother would say, but now she is merely tired and wants to be home. She’ll phone the empty house and leave a message, hint that Mark stick a roast in the oven. The boys could help — peel carrots and wash lettuce for salad and thaw the berries for dessert.

  Here she goes, planning her own welcome-back meal.

  “What are you doing at home?” she demands when, to her surprise, someone picks up the phone.

  It’s Mike, mid-morning on a school day.

  “Who’s this?” he asks groggily.

  “Your mother.”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Is this a PD day?”

  “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is.”

  “Charlie’s home, too?”

  “Charlie’s wherever Charlie is.”

  “And where is your father?”

  A long pause with the sound of feet padding to the window. “Car’s gone, so he must be at work.”

  “Does he know you’re home?”

  “I can’t be expected to intuit what Dad knows or doesn’t know.”

  She recalls how the boys looked lying side by side in the dresser drawer when she first brought them back from the hospital before Mark assembled the crib. Charlie had cradle cap, scaly skin on his bald head, while Mike was pink and clear from the start.

  “Did you win?” Mike remembers to ask.

  “God, no.”

  “Hey, that’s too bad.” Mike seems to come alive. “How come?”

  “I’m not good enough.” This is a useful lesson for the boys, Lucy thinks. It’s not always enough to work hard and to want something badly. “I didn’t make the finals.”

  “No way!” Mike is indignant. “Who do I have to come and kill?”

  She laughs, feeling oddly pleased by his impassioned response. “I’m headed home now.”

  “Don’t you have other stuff to do there?” he asks quickly.

  He refers to the schedule of workshops, recitals, presentations.

  “I guess I’ve lost heart.”

  “Don’t utter such words,” Mike says. “Don’t be a quitter.”

  He sounds so firm and mature.

  “You really think so?” she asks, pretending to defer.

  “You’ve been looking forward to this event for months. Live it out, Mum. We’re counting on you to set an example. Charlie and me, we could use some uplift.”

  She slips the phone into its case, her eyes shamelessly red, and picks up the program. If she hustles, she can still make Manuel Juerta’s Baroque Ornamentation workshop.

  As she splashes water on her face, other thoughts elbow in: why doesn’t Mike want her to come home? And what’s this hedging around Charlie’s whereabouts? PD day, my foot. Isn’t Mike supposed to be at band practice this morning, allegedly playing saxophone?

  I am becoming mentally ill, Lucy thinks.

  Uncle Philip, neatly pressed clothes soaked in sweat, pulls the two boys close to his body. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, as if he could draw them inside himself. They are lying on a bed in the room at the back of the hut, dirt floor and no glass on the window, just a sheet of newspaper taped up, and through it he can hear the sound of the street, the put-put of a motor scooter, mothers calling to children — though not these children.

  He props himself on one elbow and gazes at the boys, whose eyes remain closed as they pretend to sleep. Their narrow chests rise and fall in perfect synch. He doesn’t hear the grinding of a car as it pulls up, nor the popping of doors as two men in uniform slide out and take their sweet time making their way to the entrance of the hut, hands grazing their holsters as they always do when they approach such a dwelling. They nod toward the stout woman who fries meat in the outdoor kitchen, and she nods back. The reward money will pay for a concrete floor, and later, maybe running water. Meanwhile a new flush toilet waits, as it has for five years, in its cardboard box in the corner.

  The judges cluster at the foot of the stairs of the Fine Arts Building, wear
y from hours of heated arbitration. No sign of Lucy’s colleagues who must choose this morning between a demonstration on French polish technique in the atrium or Manuel’s ornamentation workshop upstairs.

  Lucy holds back, pretending to adjust the strap of her guitar case, and waits for the judges to mount the stairs.

  Disappointment ambushes her again. This crew eliminated her from the last round, which means there was discussion over the merits and demerits of her performance. Flaws in technique and interpretation were pointed out, mishaps of presentation, the whole bloody shooting match.

  “Ms. Shaker?” It’s the judge from California, Portia Vanstone. “I was so impressed by your performance.” Her teeth are unnaturally white. “Especially the Mark Loesser piece, which you pulled off with great style and brio. Well done.” She lifts her hands to shoulder height and claps three times, a lonely sound in the nearly empty foyer.

  “Thank you,” Lucy says and feels her heart ping-pong in her chest. She’s probably flushing, the hormonal goddess never quiet for long.

  Portia and the other judges are climbing the stairs when Lucy hears herself say eagerly, “I do prefer the modern repertoire. Purely guitaristic, so much more interesting than arrangements of old work sucked from keyboard and violin.”

  Did she really say that?

  Jon Smyth, the tall young man with morning beard bristle, pauses on the steps to stare down at her, for he is a noted arranger from the romantic and classical keyboard repertoire.

  Too late to grab her words back. “I heard Toby Hausner play when he was very young,” she says, watching as all five judges gaze down at her, waiting for more.

  “He was brilliant even then.” Lucy hesitates, then charges on. “Perhaps something has been lost.”

  “Lost?” Jon Smyth asks. “What might that be?”

  She pretends to think. “Reckless confidence found only in the very young.”

  Manuel begins the demonstration session by playing two variations on the opening movement of the Bach suite: first version unadorned, the second featuring full Baroque embellishments. His hands float through the elaborate trills, mordents, and turns. Lucy plucks her guitar out of its case and joins the other musicians in imitation of the master.

  None of the competition finalists made it to the tutorial. They’re hunkered down in their rooms, practising while their glorious futures bob within reach.

  Twenty

  Luke has leaked the whole business to the media and sponsors, which means the phone has been ringing off the hook all afternoon. The first call caught Jasper off guard: Is the institute, a nonprofit organization that depends on the goodwill of government grants, attempting to jettison its highly respected volunteer president because of some personal vendetta?

  How the hell did that version get out there? Jasper stares at each staff member passing by his desk — who is the traitor?

  Jasper’s gym crony, Al, emails to say he watched a clip of Jasper on the midday cable news. Al tells him that he sounded calm and articulate, but “For God’s sake, flip your collar down.”

  What Jasper is, is careful. Careful not to say that Luke is a chronic liar disguised in the mien of backslapping loyalist. No one would care if it weren’t for the virus. The institute is the location of choice for extended rehab.

  Write everything down and record each phone conversation. It’s key to keep each member of the board onside and informed before Luke sways them. The institute must not be allowed to capsize because of one errant member. Presidents come and go, but Jasper has been here since the beginning. The fur is flying: Jasper must confess to a certain heated excitement. Not so long ago he and Luke were the best of friends. Luke would sidle up before meetings and flatter his executive director with his easy confidence, pretending to defer on matters of institute policy. There were those long shared lunches at May’s where Luke would order lychee nut martinis and pledge that together he and Jasper would lift the institute to “a whole new level.” He was a man of vision and optimism, just what the old joint needed. Or so he convinced Jasper.

  Salon B in the mezzanine of the Fine Arts Building streams autumnal light from a bank of windows. Before entering the cavernous room, Toby must show his conference tag to prove he’s paid up. Luthiers have set up booths to display cutaway models of internal bracing systems next to finished guitars waiting to be taken through their paces. A television monitor shows the artisan tramping through a forest in search of just the right tree to be felled and milled, voice-over with overlay of peeping birds and the crunch of boots on rough trail. Placards contain endorsements by famous guitarists. Other booths display custom stands and stools and other props. One stand folds ingeniously and fits in your pocket; another is guaranteed to prevent back strain. The usual Mel Bay mini-store of sheet music takes up the back corner.

  Toby makes his way toward XTract Music, a small publishing company run by judge Jon Smyth that specializes in transcriptions from other instruments and Jon’s own eccentric compositions.

  “One of our bright young men,” Jon hails Toby with enthusiasm, for his booth has seen little action during the competition.

  The two musicians slap palms, and Jon hustles him onto a chair. “Fresh from the printer,” he says, offering a thin folder. “I’ve sampled Dowland, though you might not recognize the old boy. The trick is finding a meter and sticking to it.” He drops the score into Toby’s waiting hands.

  Toby gives the piece a quick scan: Jon uses conventional notation with a hodge-podge of time signatures.

  “Perfect encore piece,” Jon says, hovering. “Bravura, yet compact at three and a half minutes.”

  Toby taps his toe on the floor as written notes translate to sound in his head. Perfect pitch arrived at birth, but rhythm comes from the heart’s own beat.

  “Give it a go, will you?”

  Toby smiles. “Sure.”

  “Horace!” Jon barks at the luthier hunched over half asleep in a neighbouring booth. “Lend the man one of your gut buckets.”

  Horace Manners, who builds concert-level guitars and Celtic harps, wakes up with a snap and gestures toward Toby. “Take your pick.”

  Silky smooth grain, spruce top with a yew body made from timber milled on Horace’s property near Lake Simcoe — waiting list for an instrument at least five years. Toby grabs one off the stand. A guitar’s not a newborn. You can bash it around a little. It improves the sound.

  Horace winces. Toby grins, but he does remove his zippered jacket and drape it over the back of the chair. He’s the prince of sight-readers. Give him anything and he’ll rip it off the first time, not just correct notes but phrasing, expression, the whole nine yards.

  This guitar, redolent of seasoned wood and coats of meticulously applied polish, nestles against his body, a perfect fit. He inhales, and the instrument breathes with him. Run his hands over the smooth neck, then try a chromatic scale: boomy bass notes, brand-new strings too crisp. It takes at least a year to break in a new instrument.

  Toby launches into the skittish piece.

  The trick is not to over-think, just enter the bloody thing, one eye out for the next corner. First few bars conjure up a tilted version of Dowland’s famous “Lady Beatrice’s Jump,” but isn’t that a Latin beat starting in the bass? The instrument is loud and full-voiced, crafted to reach the far corners of a concert hall without amplification.

  A small group gathers around the booth as the music erupts. Enter Javier, then a couple of other luthiers emerging from their booths, followed by students from the local conservatory, all pressing in to hear the world premiere of “Dowland’s Backbite.”

  Toby nails the complicated patterns, the zigzag of counter-rhythms and nasty transitions, his jaw tight and shoulders hunched, bronco rider taming the beast.

  When he finishes, giving the final chord ample time to ring, he lowers his hands.

  Someone says, “Holy shit.”

  There is a smattering of applause and even laughter.

  Jon Smyth’s e
yes burrow in on him. “I know you.”

  Toby recoils. This is not what he expects.

  “I remember this bloke.” He points at Toby, then glances around at the gathered crowd.

  Toby squeezes the guitar into his chest — body armour.

  “Paris,” Jon announces. “You went off the rails. But first you ambushed everyone in the semis. After hearing you play, I nearly packed it in.” He’s extending a hand, and Toby understands he’s meant to shake it. “I offer you this work for your repertoire.”

  Toby remembers to smile — a dragonfly lighting up at this moment, wings shot with gold. He’s always known this about himself, that he’d rise higher, faster, translucent.

  The composer must have sat at this window looking down at the bustle of St. Lawrence Boulevard, working at this beat-up desk, really just a table with a drawer. The room is small but bright, and Leopold Hirsch was already feeling the effects of the osteoarthritis that crippled him in later life. His last couple of decades before dying of emphysema were spent back in Europe where he scraped by thanks to earlier achievements. Didn’t he conduct a regional orchestra in the Netherlands?

  Toby is alone in the museum room except for Lucy, who cranes her neck to read the titles on the top row of the bookshelf. He runs his hand over the bumpy surface of the table despite a sign that warns: do not touch. But he is here to touch, to inhale, to enter the life of this man.

  Leopold Hirsch, born 1900, lived in this third-floor apartment with his family for close to twenty years. The notebook splayed under glass was fashioned by the composer, heavy paper sewn roughly into leather covers, and it’s clear by its concave shape that he must have carried it around in his back pocket. There’s a scattershot of notes pencilled on hand-drawn staff lines, the stems unanchored to note heads, flags tiny as commas. This is the man’s mind in action, untethered, the actual record of his musical thoughts as they tumbled out. The label describes the journal as being “preliminary fragments” of what became “Triptych for Guitar and Orchestra” — here, a gleam in its creator’s eye.