The Ann Ireland Library. Ann Ireland
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transition, an upbeat version of “A Day in the Life” where again they falter.
Pamela says in a tragic tone, “This arrangement is blisteringly hard.” She’s been a member of Guitar Choir since day one and organizes the annual fundraiser. As she looks around, anticipating agreement, her seatmate, Bert, ventures, “Not so hard if you count carefully.”
Pamela snaps back, “Perhaps if you quit tapping your foot on the offbeat —”
Matthew says in a tone of laboured patience, “Counting is not the only issue here.”
“Well, genius boy?” Pamela says, looking back at Toby. This term has begun to sound sardonic over the years. “We could perform the trusty Albéniz instead,” she adds, waiting for the others to support this idea.
They squirm in their chairs; everyone is a little scared of Pamela. The Albéniz features her seven-bar solo, which she plays meticulously and without a shred of musical expression.
“I’m with Matthew,” Tristan pipes up from the back row. He’s pastor of some weird church in the city’s east end. “Let’s get back to real music.”
Toby collapses his arms to his sides. “I thought you’d get a kick out of playing these songs.” His lower back is killing him; Jasper promised to hire a Korean girl to walk up and down his spine.
“We do,” Pamela says, sensing Toby’s mood. “It’s always like this. We flounder, we work, and we eventually succeed.”
“Do you think we’re getting noticeably better?” Tristan asks plaintively.
“Of course,” Toby says, but hears his voice sounding less than convinced. It’s a good question: are they better? They seem to have plateaued. Guitar Choir began nine years ago, beginning as a sort of therapy for him after the Paris incident.
“Because this is the high point of my week,” Tristan says.
Everyone chimes agreement.
Toby feels something melt inside him.
“If we continue another nine years, we’ll have to rename ourselves the Choir of the Ancients,” Matthew says, waiting for the titter of laughter.
“You’ll never leave us, will you?” Bert asks.
They all stare at Toby, waiting for his answer. But he’s not speaking. Instead he’s feeling one of those strange episodes where his sense of smell turns aggressive, wave upon wave of odours, Play-Doh and cleanser, vinyl mats rolled up in the corner, and something else that he can’t pin down. It seems to radiate from his own body, acidic and nasty.
“Toby? You okay?”
It’s Denise, the pretty one, younger than the rest. She tips her guitar against her chair and darts up, sliding a hand over his wrist as he stands there, swaying from side to side. He must have dropped his baton. He heard it fall, a clatter of fibreglass against tile.
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
His lips are suddenly parched. “Please,” he croaks, lowering himself onto the stool, legs dangling. The women scurry about as he unzips his leather jacket and loosens his collar. He hasn’t felt this claustro in years. Is that his heart ping-ponging inside his chest? Tiny points of light hit his retina, and he shakes his head.Whoa, bad idea: the room swims by.
Denise presses a glass of water into his hands, and he sips gratefully. Whiff of chlorine and fluoride.
“Know something, gang,” he says after a minute. “I may have to call it quits today.”
“Of course,” Denise agrees, squeezing his shoulder.
“How will you get home?” someone asks. They know he doesn’t drive.
“I’ll run him back,” Denise offers.
“No, let me,” Pamela says, popping her guitar in her case. “Don’t you have to pick up your kids?”
Should have eaten a proper lunch, Toby thinks crossly. No more hot dogs grabbed off a street vendor: sunk by fat and carbs. He drains the water glass, and gradually the room rights itself. His jacket, now gathered on his lap, smells like a stable. They all stare at him, faces pinched with concern. He manages a smile. “I’m feeling better.” It’s true. The heightened senses have begun to settle down.
They aren’t convinced but soon chatter as if it were a normal break period. Tristan offers to go out and fetch coffee; someone else shows off a new digital tuner. Toby feels heat evaporate off his skin.
Matthew approaches, speaking in his plummy trial lawyer’s voice: “You were quite correct in insisting that we finish playing the piece before making any decision. I suggest holding off our vote.” He leans over. “On a different topic, I understand there’s an international guitar competition coming up in Montreal.”
“Right you are,” Toby says.
The room falls nearly silent.
“Any thoughts of entering?”
Toby lets out a jittery laugh. “Last time didn’t go so well for me.”
They all know the story: breakdown, drawn-out recovery, and no public performances since.
“Don’t pressure him,” Denise warns.
“I don’t mind,” Toby says. “In fact, I’m flattered.”
“You are one hell of a musician,” Pamela says.
They have gathered in a semicircle.
“You don’t walk into these things after a decade off performing,” he reminds them.
“You play for us all the time,” Pamela points out.
That’s true. He always rips off a piece or two for them at the end of each session. And when they perform at the old folks’ home or community centre, he’s liable to turn a short solo somewhere in the program.
Tristan re-enters the room, carrying a tray of coffee and a box of assorted Timbits, which he lays on the table.
Eyeing these, Toby says, “A new generation’s come up since me.”
“One needn’t win these things,” Matthew says, “in order to make an impact.”
What they don’t know is that Toby checked the competition website last month and brushed up on the compulsory pieces, two of which he’d played in recital years ago. He studies the group for a moment, noting their eager faces, understanding that they see him as a kind of secret weapon they’ve been holding on to all these years. Maybe he sees himself the same way.
Toby pulls his guitar onto his lap and tunes while Guitar Choir members grab coffees and find their seats. He waits, as he’s taught them to do, for the room to quiet down. Anticipation creates the silent beats before music begins.
“You’re not going home?” Pamela asks, puzzled by the change in plan.
Toby nods “no” while others shush her.
Hands hovering over the strings, he lowers his eyes, then unrolls the opening arpeggio, launching into a neo-classical sonata, pure juicy pleasure, each phrase ducking into the next, the rise and fall of breath twinned to the cadence of sound. The piece is in his hands, has been since he was a teenager. A relief to send it into the world again.
Hardly pausing, he wipes his palms and starts the second piece of the compulsory program, this one a lush Spanish waltz, direct from Andalusia. He ignores the snap of basketballs overhead as the teenagers arrive. Not too fast, for a waltz is graceful, lifting off the third beat.
“Well done,” Matthew booms, but he’s too soon, for Toby isn’t finished yet.
Their parking meters have expired, kids need to be picked up from school, and someone has a dental appointment, but no one leaves, no one dares.
The third piece is a