Asturias

by Brian Caswell

  Sam returns his smile, then his head disappears around the corner of the stand, as a woman holds out a fifty dollar note to pay for a seventy-cent newspaper. She walks past Marco, followed by an expressive hand-gesture from the invisible old man behind the counter.

  “Hey kid!” He looks up to see a tiny yellow projectile hurtling towards him. Instantly his hand is up, and he catches it centimetres from his face.

  Juicy Fruit. Sam’s habitual donation to the street culture of the city.

  “Thanks, old man.” He tosses three sweet pellets into his mouth and cracks them between his teeth.

  “You’re welcome. Now get to work. Earn your keep. I don’t know what I pay you for, I really don’t.”

  He laughs under his breath and begins his warm-ups.

  ALEX’S STORY

  I heard him before I saw him.

  He was busking outside the entrance to the station, and I was trying to make my way up to the street against the flow of the evening rush. I had one hand on the hand-rail, dragging myself up towards the entrance, and with the other I was trying to stop my guitar from doing a permanent injury to one of the faceless commuters who were streaming past.

  Progress was slow, and the rhythms he was weaving on his makeshift drum-kit began to register even before I hit the street.

  And they were pretty impressive rhythms. Especially considering the equipment he was using, and the fact that he was keeping up a running conversation with the passing crowd as he played. He commented on the women’s fashions and the state of the weather, thanked people for any donations, and told sick one-line jokes, all without missing a beat.

  He had an old pair of hand-drums on a tripod, which he played with a couple of battered drumsticks. The rest of his “kit” was made up of three old paint-cans of various sizes, two coconut shells and something shapeless and metal that sounded a bit like a cow-bell. But he did more with that collection of cast-offs than most of the drummers I’d heard playing on the studio kits.

  I was in no particular hurry. Claire was meeting me on Park Street at six, which gave me about forty minutes to do the ten-minute walk. So I stopped to watch him.

  I stood near the entrance to the station, out of the wind and away from the stream of people heading home.

  And, I thought, out of his line of sight.

  Wrong.

  “What you got in the case?”

  I looked up to find him staring at me. He stopped playing and nodded towards my guitar. I had it resting against my legs. It was just a cheap steel-string acoustic I was lending to Chrissie’s brother. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think of an answer that wasn’t obvious.

  “You’ve left it a bit late,” he went on. “All the best spots go before four-thirty. Especially on Thursdays. You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around.”

  I looked in his hat. There was maybe ten dollars in church money.

  “You make much?”

  I saw a look of suspicion cross his face, but he must have decided I wasn’t any kind of threat, because it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  “Enough,” he replied. “But not tonight, I don’t think. It’s going to rain.” He looked up at the clouds. “Half an hour. Forty minutes, tops. If you’re going to find a spot, you’d better …”

  He indicated vaguely away into the distance with his head.

  “I’m not looking for a spot,” I said. “I’m just going to meet my girlfriend. How long have you been doing this?” I nodded in the direction of his “drum-kit”.

  He smiled. “About nine months. Four, maybe five days a week.”

  I thought he was going to say more, but he just picked up his sticks and began playing again. I watched for a couple of minutes, fascinated. He really was good.

  “You can jam if you like.” It was an offer of friendship. Street-style.

  How could I refuse? I had time to kill, and it beat a cup of coffee at McDonald’s.

  A quick tune-up and I was into it. And if I’d been impressed before, it was nothing to the way I felt after a few minutes of “jam time”.

  Jazz, blues, rock — even flamenco. He answered everything I threw at him. A couple of bars and it was like he was reading charts. I’ve played with some naturals, but he was … the best. And none of them ever did it on paint-cans.

  I suppose I was vaguely aware of the crowds passing, but it wasn’t until the thunder rolled somewhere in the near-distance, and I realised it was about to pour, that I stopped. I looked at my watch.

  Ten past six.

  Claire was going to kill me.

  “I’ve got to go.” As I spoke I bent down to put the guitar into its case. It was then that the first drops began to fall.

  “Me too,” he said. “It’s about to bucket.”

  He looked down into the hat, and what he saw must have pleased him. “Hey, man. We did pretty good. Grab a handful.” He held it out to me.

  I was impressed by the gesture but I shook my head.

  “It’s your spot. I was just filling in time.”

  He shrugged and began piling his gear into a hessian sack. The rain was getting heavier, and I began making up excuses in my head to explain to Claire why she’d had to stand around waiting for me. None of them sounded particularly convincing, so I decided to try the truth.

  I came across this really amazing drummer and …

  Suddenly it hit me.

  He was hefting the sack onto his back, ready to make his way down into the station, when I touched him on the shoulder.

  “How come you aren’t in a band? With your talent …”

  I could see it was a question he’d been asked before. He gave a slight shrug.

  “I could never afford the skins. Drummers are a dime a dozen. And they all have kits. Besides, I get by … There’s lots of reasons.”

  There was something he wasn’t telling me, but I let it go.

  “Look, I have some friends I’d like you to meet. If you have time. Could be good news … For both of us.”

  For a long time he studied me, as if he could read something in my face.

  “It’s not drugs, is it?” There was a note of challenge in his voice. “ ‘Cause I don’t do —”

  “No,” I interrupted him. “It’s not drugs. And it’s not illegal. But if it works out the way I think it could, you might at least end up with a drum-kit you can’t carry in a sack.”

  He looked at the sack, hanging across his shoulder, then at my guitar-case. I got the feeling he trusted my music rather than me. I suppose he figured that pushers, sex-fiends and mass-murderers probably wouldn’t take the time to learn music. He made a decision.

  “I have to be home by ten. I’ve got homework.”

  Homework?

  “How old are you?”

  He looked a little shifty. “Sixteen.” I held his gaze. “Okay, fourteen. But I’m old for my age.”

  He was right about that. I held out a hand.

  “I’m Alex.”

  He smiled. “Marco. Where are we going?”

  “First, we’re going to see if my girl-friend is still speaking to me. If we survive that, I’m going to introduce you to a guy called Max …”

  MARCO

  Ten-fifteen.

  The key turns in the lock, and light spills in from the hallway as he pushes open the door. He makes his way inside, dragging the sack behind him.

  “Marco?” Her voice drifts out from the bedroom, tired as usual. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Ma. It’s me.”

  You were expecting Santa Claus, maybe?

  He bites down hard on the thought.

  It’s not her fault. She can’t help any of it …

  “You’re late.” She stopped trying to keep the whine out of her voice years ago. Most of the time he hardly notices it. But tonight, it grates. For once, there’s a light on the horizon, but he doesn’t know how to tell her. He knows the procedure too well.

  What’s the catch? What do you know about these people?
How do you know …?

  And on and on until his small ray of hope is lost in the clouds of her depression. He takes a breath, then lets it out again.

  Better to wait until there’s something more concrete.

  He turns on the light in the lounge. Hanging on the wall over the sideboard is an old tourist map of Samoa, printed on a lifeless black velvet, and bordered with faded golden tassels. His mother’s home.

  They could never afford to take him there. Not even for a week.

  He thumbs through one of the schoolbooks on the table. Another two hours, at least.

  In the silence he realises she is waiting for a reply. He moves towards the bedroom, then thinks better of it.

  “They were doing trackwork. The train was delayed.” It is just an excuse. Sometimes a lie is easier than the truth. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “If you could … Yes …” She sounds distant again. He looks back at the map and pauses for a few seconds. Then he makes his way into the tiny kitchen to fill the kettle.

  10

  OTHER NIGHTS

  ABUELITO

  Next door, Alejandro is playing. Rodrigo. “The Concierto”.

  He is a good boy. And his hands are touched. By the angels. The old man smiles sadly.

  He sits in the chair, facing the window, watching the sun die behind the houses and the trees on the western side of the street.

  And as the music from the next room reaches a crescendo, his mind is suddenly far away, and the sun is setting over a different horizon …

  15 March 1937

  Guadalajara

  The sky stains red like blood, behind the plumes of smoke rising from the gutted remains of the Italian advance.

  Behind him, the victors sing their triumph, like drunkards in the cantina. But there are no drunkards here, only heroes, drunk on victory. Here, the grasping paw of the Nationalist beast has had its claws pulled.

  Outside, the rain is easing. For days, as the battle raged, it played as much a part in the victory as the bravery of the Brigades — bogging the tanks and lorries of the advancing Italians and grounding their fighter-planes.

  In the corner Ardillo plays a wild flamenco, and Juana is dancing to its rhythm, clapping and stamping in true Asturian style, with an uncoordinated French socialist as her enthusiastic partner. Conchita is dancing, too. With Ramón, the young Basque who left the safety of Guernica months ago to help defend the capital and keep alive his region’s dream of independence.

  Though he is not quite sixteen, Ramon is in love with Conchita and everyone knows it. Everyone except Conchita, of course. Conchita never realises how many men are in love with her. She has only loved one man, ever. Now she turns in her dance and smiles that love across the room towards him.

  Manuel watches her and smiles back. He longs to dance with her to the rhythm of his brother’s guitar, but his leg is resting on a stool, his twisted knee swollen to almost twice its normal size.

  Of all the luck. To survive seven days of the most deadly danger unscathed, only to trip on an uneven cobblestone when the enemy is defeated and it is time for the victors to return and celebrate.

  The music crashes to an end and the dancers hold a pose. Ardillo places his instrument against the wall and sits at one of the tables, leaning his chair back, and reaching for his drink. But before he can raise it to his lips, Juana is upon him, sitting on his lap, her arms around his neck. The chair resettles onto four legs, and the drink is forgotten as other priorities take over.

  Manuel watches and smiles.

  Suddenly Conchita is beside him. She too watches the lovers. Her arm slips around his neck, and she caresses his hair.

  “They make a perfect couple.” Her whispered words are barely audible against the noise of the celebration. Juana is just eighteen, a month younger than Conchita, and they have been like sisters since she came with the brothers from Madrid, when they returned to Consuegra.

  Ardillo is her life. They will be married when the war is over and the Nationalists are driven back into the sea.

  There will be more than one marriage when that day arrives, he thinks.

  If that day arrives.

  The sun has slipped below the distant horizon, though traces of its bloody passing cling stubbornly to the clouds. The columns of smoke have all but disappeared against the darkening sky, and the rain is threatening again.

  As the thunder rumbles distantly, it reminds him of gunfire.

  He turns to Conchita and kisses her. Her smile is the brief moment of sunshine between the storm which has just passed, and the ones which have yet to break.

  “Mi corazón?” she whispers. “Why so quiet? It is a night for celebration. Even if you cannot dance.”

  “There will be plenty of other nights for dancing,” he replies, and forces a smile. But a cloud of premonition has settled suddenly on the noisy room.

  He wonders if he is the only one who can feel it …

  “Abuelito?”

  The boy has finished his practising and stands in the doorway watching him.

  “Alejandro. I … don’t hear you coming in.”

  The boy moves across to stand beside him.

  “Remembering?”

  He nods.

  “Happy ones?”

  “Yes … No …”

  Who can say? The good and the bad. The happy, the sad. How can there be one without the other?

  The boy’s hand is on his shoulder and he reaches up to touch it with his own.

  “How does the practising go?”

  For a moment the boy is quiet. Then he replies.

  “Early days yet. We’re still finding our feet, but we’ve started writing some stuff, and we’re learning to all pull in the same direction. Max says there’s no hurry. He wants it right, before we get a launch. It has to be right. There’s no second chances.”

  No, the old man thinks. No second chances …

  As he stands to make his way to his room and his grandson takes his arm to lead him, he hears again the sound of his brother’s guitar, strumming the rhythms of a flamenco dance. He watches again the movement of her skirt as she stamps out the beat and claps her hands above her head.

  And he wishes there had been other nights for dancing …

  SECOND MOVEMENT:

  ACCELERANDO

  … and the hot strings under my trigger hand

  shooting an old dance at the evening walls.

  Laurie Lee, “Music in a Spanish Town”

  Cordoba, 1936

  There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold,

  And she’s buying a stairway to heaven …

  Led Zeppelin, “Stairway to Heaven”, 1971

  11

  THE YELLOW-BRICK ROAD

  MAX’S STORY

  “And you think they’re ready?” Symonds spoke to me without turning around from the window.

  There was no choice. They had to be ready. I’d used up every bit of his patience, and then some. But it was the only way to play it.

  “Yes. They are.”

  “About bloody time.” Now he turned to face me. “How long has it been?”

  A typical Symonds question. He knew how long — to the nearest minute. I answered anyway.

  “Six months. Give or take. But —”

  “And we’ve been paying them … What? Five hundred a week? Each.”

  “It’s been worth it, Ken. Believe me. They’re ready.” I nearly added, “I’d stake my career on it”, but there was no point. I already had. If they failed now, licking stamps at Polygram was the best I could hope for.

  “For sixty grand, they’d better be.”

  “It’s a good investment. We should get that back in the first month, once the publicity kicks in. We go into the studio on Thursday. In the next three weeks we’ll have four tracks to choose from. We can have the single ready to roll by September first. We’ll start the teasers a couple of weeks earlier.” I didn’t tell him we’d already chosen the one we wanted to use
. He liked to play star-maker.

  “Original stuff?” He only asked questions to keep control of the conversation. Symonds never asked anything he didn’t already know the answer to. He had his spies everywhere; it was part of his corporate paranoia.

  “Three are. We’re doing a cover of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ as a showcase, and it’ll definitely go on the album, maybe even the second single, but I think it’s better to run with an original for the initial release.”

  He nodded non-committally. With Symonds it paid to lay all the cards on the table. And I was confident of my hand.

  We’d gone through maybe a hundred and fifty unrecorded demos from three continents in the early weeks, looking for a vehicle to launch them, but very quickly it had become clear that there would be no need to use any of them. With that much talent, and the enthusiasm the kids had shown, by the end of four or five months we had more than enough original material for two albums.

  The kids had more than earned their money.

  Six months of heart-breaking schedules. For ten or twelve weeks they had just about lived in the practice studio, learning to think and play as a unit.

  Alex, Tim and Chrissie were perfect sight-readers, and their understanding of the musical fine-points was a godsend, and Marco, though he had never had any formal training, was an incredibly gifted natural talent. I’d seen it that first day when Alex brought him in.

  He couldn’t read a note, but for Marco charts would just have been a waste of paper anyway. One rehearsal and he would have the whole song locked down, with more magic touches than any arranger would be likely to think of. And if he got carried away, there was always the gang of three to pull him back into line.

  It was hard to imagine that I’d been ready to strangle Alex for bringing him in that evening, unannounced, out of the rain. There he was, this thin drowned-rat of a kid, carrying his sackful of … garbage, and looking around like a character from Close Encounters who’d just been transported into the interior of a UFO.