The Blue Guitar

by Ireland Ann

  The look on his face is frightening, as if he met his own death on the lighted stage.

  Inside the green room Toby hikes up his trouser legs and crouches into a headstand. Such a relief to feel blood spill into his cranium, a splendid warmth that flushes brain and ears. He sees the underside of the practice chair, mounds of chewing gum stuck there by rattled performers. Teeter sideways, right himself while the vein in his forehead throbs.

  “Nine minutes, Mister Hausner,” a voice warns from the corridor.

  His spine stretches, feet tap together.

  He will play with all his heart: that simple. Everything else is imagination.

  The building has seen better days, Jasper observes as he jogs down the hallway, following the hand-drawn arrows. In some spots the concrete has begun to shed, exposing a pebbly surface. The ceilings are low, built for optimal heat conservation: Montreal’s winters are cruel. He feels a whip of excitement, imagining the scene to come. Hard to keep a silly grin from exploding off his face. The boy will be in the green room, racing through scales, jittery as hell.

  Toby swings to his feet, enjoying the rush of dizziness as vestibular liquid adjusts. He tucks in his shirt and, as for his stringy hair, nothing to do but sweep it behind his ears: a musician shouldn’t look like a banker.

  Onstage, Javier is tricked out in his Latin lover ensemble — cream shirt a gazillion threads per inch.

  Toby sips just enough water to moisten his lips and throat. He sure as hell doesn’t want to have to take a whiz out there. Pulse elevated but not scary. He won’t pick up the guitar until he’s ready to leave the room; music builds inside this cone of silence. He stands, willing himself to be still before the walk down the short corridor. Only his hands pump once or twice at his sides. He stares at a point on the wall just below the clock.

  Breathe.

  Focus.

  Breathe.

  A polite knock on the door and a dishevelled Hiro pokes his head in.

  “I anticipate personal surprise for you,” he says.

  “Not now,” Toby cautions.

  Hiro hovers in the doorway, dressed in his Beatles suit, skinny pants and ankle boots. He beams. “Is boyfriend, I think.”

  “Jasper?” Toby says, thrown. How could his lover calibrate the exact moment before he begins his march to the stage? Breathing begins to stack up in his chest, tight and nasty.

  Has he been following him all along? Suddenly, this seems plausible — Jasper darting behind lampposts and doorways, notebook in hand, watching for signs of trouble and stress. Jasper his healer, his keeper, his lover, his —

  He stares at his hands, shaking now.

  “Quatre minutes.” The volunteer pops four fingers above Hiro’s head.

  This must be the green room, Jasper thinks, sliding past the two young men blocking the door. In his mind it was all much more glamorous. Instead, tatty broadloom smells like stale cigarettes and beer.

  Toby stands in the middle of the performers’ room, looking handsome and lost. When he spots Jasper, his face freezes. The kid is surprised, maybe even shocked by this sudden appearance. For a tiny moment he seems not to recognize Jasper.

  “I couldn’t stay away,” Jasper says.

  Toby nods. “You mean well.”

  What a peculiar thing to say. This is where they should fall into each other’s arms, but instead a formal feeling enters the cramped room. Toby’s eyes twitch, the only sign of inner commotion, but there is no hint of a smile. The anticipated roar of greeting doesn’t materialize. Instead there is this awkward silence. It’s Jasper who finally steps forward and seizes the boy’s hands — such a relief to feel solid flesh — but these hands are icy cold when they should be pink and warm, the fingers juiced with blood, ready to dance.

  The volunteer clears his throat and rasps, “Nearly time, sir.”

  Since when did Toby become a “sir”?

  “You don’t have to do this,” says Jasper.

  Toby breathes audibly. “I know.”

  Jasper understands that he may be too late. The lad is boxed in. Toby’s hands pull away, leaving behind only the chill. He says something that Jasper doesn’t hear, then leans over to lift the guitar out of its velvet-lined coffin and starts to meticulously rub the soundboard with his sleeve. A spotlight will pick up every smudge.

  Look at the animal eyes that glance around the room. He’s about to stride down that hallway with its pocked concrete walls, and Jasper knows in his bones that he’ll come back a damaged creature.

  “Better grab a good seat,” Toby says, nodding toward the hallway. His voice sounds reedy, and he heads for the door himself. Jasper reaches to pluck a stray hair from the boy’s shoulder as he squeezes past, parody of the dutiful spouse.

  Toby’s face sets into a mask of concentration, no doubt envisioning the walk to centre stage through the glare of light, followed by the adjustment of stool, then the tune-up. Jasper feels the ritual unfold in his own body. Judges will be sitting in a row near the front, watching for slip-ups, hearing every glitch in the performance.

  From some distant place flutters applause. Javier has finished his program. They didn’t hear a note back here, for the guitar is a stealth instrument.

  “Deux minutes!” the volunteer announces, holding two fingers aloft.

  Toby enters the hallway; he is almost gone.

  “It’s about Klaus,” Jasper says urgently.

  Toby stops in his tracks. “What about Klaus?”

  “Mrs. Smiley called.”

  “Yes?” Hurry up, his eyes say.

  “To report a disturbing situation.” Jasper feels giddy with his news.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Depends what you mean by all right.”

  Toby steps back into the room and reaches for the water glass.

  “Une minute,” the volunteer chirps.

  Both men stare at him with bewilderment, for he is of another world.

  “Your old man caused an uproar at Lakeview,” Jasper says.

  “Tell me later.”

  “You need to hear this now, Toby.” The audience and judges can wait. He is in the best of hands.

  Toby gives in, resting the base of his guitar on his shoe while the doorway teems with volunteers.

  “Javier is off!” someone cries.

  The muted sound of clapping dies down, and the auditorium is quiet, expectant. It’s a soft, buttery evening, every surface slick with humidity, Indian summer’s last hurrah.

  “Turns out Klaus has been carrying on with one of the nurse’s aides,” Jasper says, speaking quickly. “That wide-hipped Caribbean woman who’s been there since forever — Ramona Bradshaw. Think of it, Toby, your father with his old world prejudices.” He hears himself laugh. “All those years we thought he was racing up to Lakeview just to feed your mother pureed vegetables.”

  Toby’s jaw clenches, and he pretends to study the mounted photographs of musicians on the far wall. Klaus kept his mother alive. This is something they all know. He’d drive up to Lakeview every day, first in the Buick and later in the Honda, and spoon-feed his wife because if he didn’t she refused to swallow.

  “They found letters, plus a snapshot of her daughter who looks half-white. Toby, do you suppose —”

  “Ramona?” he interrupts. “She used to send us Easter cards.” He forgot to warm his hands in the sink of hot water — too late now. The discarded banana skin splayed on the window ledge grows browner with each passing minute, the fruit’s potassium already absorbed into his bloodstream. He remembers to stare into the bulb of overhead light, an old performers’ trick. You accustom your eyes to the spotlight so you won’t be blinded when you walk onstage.

  “I’m going,” Toby says, lifting his instrument again.

  Please stop me is what he means.

  “Klaus has left Lakeview,” Jasper says, waiting for the look of surprise, even alarm.

  Toby’s face is bleached white.

  The main theme rises in minor third
s, bend that upper note, so sweet — nothing could be clearer. The rest of life swims by, so many hungry fish.

  “Close your eyes, my delicious angel,” Jasper says, placing his hands on Toby’s shoulders. They’ve been through so much together. He’s lost his job, but he won’t lose Toby.

  Open your mouth and shut your eyes.

  It’s a heated kiss, tongue working inside the familiar chamber.

  I’ll give you something to make you wise.

  The volunteer draws back from the doorway, and there is a burst of tittering in the hall. Jasper doesn’t care, but Toby breaks away, wiping his mouth and smoothing the front of his shirt. He smells feral, a wild creature that has been trapped.

  Watch that angular body march down the corridor toward the stage, guitar tucked under his arm, no sign of hesitation, as if he could trick himself into confidence.

  Jasper’s mouth feels jazzed up, alive. Toby would never manage on his own, the worry of Jasper being stowed away in quarantine, bills to pay, food to buy, long solo days and nights. They’ll be in it together now, daytime TV their ally and confidant. The virus passes through liquid and membrane, man’s best friend.

  Toby disappears between layers of curtain at stage left, while Jasper climbs the carpeted stairs in the dark, finding a choice position in the middle of the auditorium’s balcony, second row. A woman shifts her purse to make room, and when Jasper whispers an apology, she replies in French. He smiles in that anxious way Anglos do when they don’t understand what has been said and know that they should. These guitar aficionados filling the hall have left dinner early, forsaken a second glass of wine to watch Toby and his colleagues compete. There is the heady fun of comparing performances and guessing who might pull off a career-altering win. A gladiator sport, Jasper decides. His neighbour scratches notes on her program, awarding points to the departed Javier for tone, technique, presentation, and overall artistry. Soon she will do the same for Toby.

  Prickling sweat: Jasper’s. Elevated heartbeat: ditto.

  Rustle of curtain, then Toby enters the stage area, hesitating a beat before striding toward the padded bench. After all these years, he is back and wants to savour the moment. Light breaks icicles in his eyes, and the hall swells like a single breathing mammal.

  Reaching the bench, he bows deeply, acknowledging applause that Jasper hears as strident, even menacing. He twists the knob so that the bench rises to its full height while hundreds watch, noting his lank hair and mottled complexion.

  So far away, a pebble dropping into a deep well. Jasper’s neighbour makes a gasp of surprise, then scribbles on her program. He glances over but can’t make out the words in the dark. Had she been in Paris, witness to the historic breakdown?

  Beginning to tune, Toby crooks his head to stare at the ceiling while listening to sound reverberate in the packed hall. He makes small adjustments, then closes his fist, opens it, a way of dispelling extra energy. This feels like a different auditorium from two days ago, much of its brightness dampened, the seats now thick with flesh and clothing. He will need to use more nail to ensure clarity.

  He lifts his right hand over the sound hole, wrist flat, fingers curled — now or never.

  Jasper picks up the program and fans himself. They shut off the overhead ventilation so its noise wouldn’t distract. No one else seems to notice the dead air. They sit in rapt concentration, eyes fixed on the faraway figure hunched over his instrument.

  The prelude unfolds with a slow, thoughtful beauty, and Toby draws out the line, making a grimace with each peak of phrasing. The final bars slide into a ritardando measured with increasing slowness yet keeping tempo intact. That’s the trick of it, not to fall into timelessness.

  After the final chord, he waits before lowering his hands for all fragments of sound to decay. His eyes remain closed, as if playing for himself.

  Jasper feels invisible — balcony, row B, seat 11. Look up, dear boy. But those blue eyes lift and stare blindly into the spotlight.

  The gavotte goes well, tricky finger stretches nailed, soon to be followed by the manic gigue. But first a pause to adjust tuning, and Toby’s swallowing hard, trying to moisten his mouth and throat. Tug at the collar as heat presses in.

  The gigue is, to Jasper’s ears, rhythmically spotty. Toby stares at the fretboard, watching his own fingers jump, hypnotized by the action. Tension creeps into the phrasing, causing awkward jerks and clipped transitions.

  Jasper’s neighbour waits until the end of the piece before making notes, then she leans over to whisper to her husband, a portly man with a beard. She’s one of those women who take up an instrument in later life, Jasper decides, inspired by articles that describe the brain’s plasticity.

  Next up is the two-movement piece by the Catalan composer Toby is so fond of. Lots of jangly bits, syncopated and showy, meant to sound like the performer is flying by the seat of his pants, though of course he must maintain complete control. He begins with a flourish, series of rolling chords, followed by thwaps on the soundboard with the wrist, then his palm. The audience sits up. They love this already. What they don’t see is the stiffening of his spine as the thing Toby most fears begins to happen: alien thoughts nip at his concentration.

  Not that round-faced woman who wears a nurse’s smock and running shoes? “Mr. Hausner” is what she calls Klaus, though doesn’t he call her Ramona?

  He’s overplaying; the buzzes and tiny mistakes mount up.

  All those drives in midwinter, careening through blizzards to arrive at Lakeview and push spoonfuls of tapioca pudding into his wife’s mouth to keep her alive.

  Actual wrong notes pop up, and audience members raise their eyebrows. Someone whispers in the row behind, and Jasper whirls around to land a glare. Between movements Toby pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the fretboard dry.

  Opening snap of the allegro is loud enough to wake the dead, but Toby is beyond caring. What he feels now is the concrete wall, another word for his treacherous mind. He has no idea where he is, and the auditorium retreats to a tiny aperture, a pink asshole that slowly shuts.

  Quarantine means pizza delivered through a half-opened door and a television that blares around the clock. It would be like living above the Arctic Circle, no night, no day. They won’t get sick, Jasper decides, but two weeks in precautionary isolation is the law.

  He’ll have Toby to himself — isn’t this what he wants?

  Then one morning it will be over, no fevers or rashes, but the boy will have grown mute and unapproachable, blaming Jasper for the possible viral kiss. The concert experience, now a hazy dream, will have left him shell-shocked. Re-entry into public life equals Jasper arranging therapists’ visits; Toby has pawed through months in an anxiolytic haze before. Every time Jasper sets out of the house he’ll be afraid of what might happen in his absence, and when he returns home, he’ll be wary of what he might find there. They’ll give him a neural MRI. Jasper will insist on it, for who knows what lurks in the folds of the cerebellum. When the boy stares woefully at his flaccid genitals, Jasper will explain about pharmaceutical side effects.

  There was a time when all of this would tempt, watching the mutilated flower unfold its petals and bloom under his care. Yet as he sits in the auditorium balcony peering down at his flailing lover, Jasper knows he can’t possibly do it again. The very thought causes a shudder of despair, and he lets go of the breath he’s been holding since the beginning of recorded time.

  Left hand zigzags up the fretboard, right fingers roll. Bit of a march thing happening. Glimpse of the judges’ lights clamped to their seats, and for a moment Toby forgets the program order. Black ice. Regain footing. Cresting the opening movement of the bolero, jack it up a notch. No one plays this piece so fast and lives. Remember to breathe: a man can go five days without water, thirty-two days without food, but you need the basic exchange of gases.

  The guitar he had in the old days was a honey of an instrument, juicy tone loaded with butterfat, left on the subway whe
n Toby decided it was a mad dog.

  Klaus buzzes apartment 1204 on the intercom, not realizing the gizmo’s broken, and when no one answers, he slips through the front doors of the complex, tagging along with a group of residents.

  Well-dressed retired white fellow, they think as he squeezes into the crowded elevator, planting his suitcase between his legs. He stares at the numbers as they light up, feeling a flare of almost unbearable excitement: she will greet him with her large hands, then cackle with pleasure. It has taken them far too long, practically an eternity, to get to this point. Never in his life did he imagine such delight would come to him. By the time he reaches the twelfth floor, he is alone in the elevator and no one witnesses his giddy smile.

  He walks down the carpeted hallway, tugging the suitcase behind him. The building is worn at the edges, and he hears squalling kids behind the row of locked doors. It feels like home, a far cry from the institution he entered to be near this woman. Ramona, a name with three vowels; this is where she lives and these are her people.

  And because of her he has become the man who can stride up to apartment 1204 and knock firmly on the door.

  He waits, hearing a clattering of dishes within followed by heavy footsteps. She’s a robust woman, his Ramona. In a moment she will swing open the door and he will see that broad face, that welcoming smile.

  Ramona peers through the spy hole. “What are you doing here, old man?”

  The smells in the broadloomed corridor tantalize: curried goat and fried bread and spices he’s never heard of. He sold his house for her, got rid of everything except this suitcase and a few photographs.

  He points to his chest and calls out, “It’s me, Klaus.”

  A single brown eye blinks from behind the dab of glass. After a hesitation the door pops open and she stands before him, a full-figured woman with her hair wrapped in a towel, as if she’s just stepped out of the shower.