Acknowledgements

      I interviewed several eminent classical guitarists during my research for this novel. Big thanks to Denis Azabagić, Peter McCutcheon, Lily Afshar, Anna Graham, and especially Steve Thachuk, who is a patient and inspiring teacher, top-notch guitarist, and pretty funny, too. These musicians are in no way responsible for what I did with their stories and information.

      I am grateful to the Canada Council of the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for financial help.

      Thank you Jenny Munro and Tim Deverell for your close readings and helpful feedback along the way.

      They said, “You have a blue guitar,

       You do not play things as they are.”

      The man replied, “Things as they are

       Are changed upon the blue guitar.”

      — WALLACE STEVENS, “THE MAN WITH THE BLUE GUITAR”

      Prologue

      Eleven years ago Toby Hausner was the one to beat. If you’d seen him stride onstage, shaking those blond dreadlocks, guitar tucked under one arm like a surfboard, you would have felt the confidence blow off him, scary yet tantalizing. The spotlight held his form as he made his way to centre stage to the simple bench waiting there and the custom footstool. The old hall smelled like socks and mould after a solid week of rain.

      He plunked himself down after a quick bow, then swung the guitar onto his lap and tuned while staring, eyes shut, into the spotlight. Not a hint of impatience stirred the audience. Hadn’t everyone been talking about this kid all week, noting his intense focus mixed with a joy of performing, unusual in one so young? Much was made of his rolled-up trousers and bare feet. Toby claimed that his body was a vibratory presence and must connect directly, flesh to floorboards, to create an acoustic chamber.

      Whispers crested through the auditorium as he wiped each palm on his trousered knees. Huddled at the back of the hall were his colleagues, musicians from around the world who had been eliminated from earlier rounds of the competition. They sat forward on their seats, knowledge and nerves burning off them.

      Near to the front was the row of judges, clipboards in hand. This was what they’d been waiting for all week: one final chance to be dazzled and moved. If this barefoot kid played the way he did in the semis, he’d walk off with the grand prize and an international career would be launched.

      Toby’s elegant hands wrapped around the instrument, and as he raised his fingers over the sound hole, he let out an audible exhalation of air. When a person dies, they may sigh deeply at the end. So it went for Toby.

      He began to play but it soon became clear that something was wrong. The judges squinted at their programs in the dark: allegedly the boy was playing Scarlatti, but this was not what they were hearing. Something more full-throttle and dissonant coasted through the hall, something improvisatory, no known composer, light-years from Baroque mode. Toby’s upper body bobbed up and down, and his mouth moved with each twinge of phrase. He was certainly enjoying himself up there, ripping through weird chord sequences and arpeggios, and despite their horror, no one stopped listening or watching, any more than you’d take your eyes off a kid tumbling from an open window.

      This happened in Paris — some stage for a meltdown.

      One

      Pamela frowns over her bifocals and makes that scratchy noise in her throat that drives Toby nuts. Very slim and brittle, she glares at the manuscript page on her music stand as if the notes were in a foreign language. Toby taps his baton on the side of his own stand.

      “Let’s jump in at bar twelve, kids,” he says. “Right after the key change.”

      This reference to “kids” is a joke, given that the members of Guitar Choir are all at least a dozen years older than Toby and a couple are pushing sixty.

      “Twelve?” Pamela repeats, eyes widening. “Twelve?” she says again, sounding mystified by the request.

      Toby wonders if she’s growing deaf, something that happens to people as they get on in life. He feels a spurt of impatience but fends it off, and instead starts to sing her part, tapping out the beat. At the same time he glances at the wall clock — nearly 4:00 p.m. Soon the after-school crowd will blow in, snapping basketballs in the upstairs gym. This church is multi-use, and Guitar Choir shares space with AA and a Montessori preschool.

      The amateur musicians scramble through the passage and onto the next. Their instruments sound a bit like balalaikas, plinking away. Finally, Bill, a retired fireman, cries in recognition, “It’s a Beatles medley!”

      Indeed it is — eight songs sewn into a cunning five-minute package by Toby.

      “Don’t forget the Parkdale Community Centre concert in two weeks,” Toby reminds them, and they yelp with excitement before coming to a ragged halt.

      Then Pamela repeats, “Two weeks?” and lifts her glasses, indicating this is news to her.

      Toby tugs his jeans over his narrow hips and inhales deeply. Last night was ball hockey, and he feels it in his upper arms and left shin, where someone nailed him with a stick blade. Then there were the half-dozen post-game beers, and didn’t they end up at The Duke singing Broadway tunes?

      “That’s right,” he says brightly. ‘Where were we? Bar forty-something.”

      “Forty-three,” Bill supplies.

      Toby runs a hand through what’s left of his hair and gives Pamela a meaningful look. “Note that second guitars enter a bar later.”

      She actually smiles, that strained face pleased to be recognized.

      The choir chugs on, tight with concentration while Toby keeps the beat and cues entrances. Tom, who rarely gets the rhythm right, is lagging on “Norwegian Wood” while the others trot into “The Long and Winding Road.” Toby sings his part, coaxing him back into the fold. For a few lines everything goes smoothly. It is one of those moments where effort turns into music, and they feel it, hardly dare to hope it will continue.

      It is Matthew, the lawyer, who breaks the spell.

      “Someone’s out of step!” he protests, and the group staggers to a halt again.

      “Don’t quit!” Toby pleads. He continues to wave his baton, but it’s no use. They sit in silence, a dozen grizzled faces staring at him, waiting for guidance.

      “Quitting might be the advisable position,” Matthew says, leaning back in his chair and cradling his instrument.

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” Pamela asks.

      Matthew doesn’t answer right away. Instead he tilts his head and looks into the distance before answering, “The Beatles. Is this what we want to play?”

      Here goes. About twice a year Matthew likes to cause trouble. Last time it was over seating arrangements; another time he got the idea they should all use the same kind of strings, the most expensive ones available.

      “I’m not fond of what happens when classical players get hold of pop music,” Matthew adds.

      Toby secretly agrees with this, but still feels a flare of irritation. He’d been so sure they would love playing the songs of their youth.

      There is a short, tense silence, then Toby jumps in, tapping the stand with his baton. “Where do we pick it up?” he asks cheerily.

      “Sixty-four,” someone says.

      “Sixty-seven,” another disagrees. “Didn’t we begin ‘Strawberry Fields?’”