The Ann Ireland Library. Ann Ireland
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president of our august organization,” Portia declares.
Manuel straightens. “Again?”
Five years ago she campaigned to oust old Gregorio and failed.
Undeterred, Portia says, “Several eminent members have begged me to toss my hat in the ring.”
“I see,” Manuel says. Guitar federation politics bore him.
“But if I’m to be successful, your help is essential.”
Manuel, despite his fatigue, is flattered. He takes a bite of her apple.
“The organization must be dragged into the twenty-first century if we’re to survive.”
He hears a lot of this sort of thing in his travels, always from people whose countries satisfactorily completed the twentieth century.
“Of course,” Manuel says, hoping he sounds firm and decisive.
“The website is a mess.” She sits up straight and pauses, allowing him to contemplate this sad fact. “We must allow prospective competitors to send first-round programs via digital file. Initial vetting is done by a select group of judges around the world, working from wherever they may live.” Her hair, entirely grey now, flings about as she gestures. She’s gained a few pounds in recent years, but so have they all.
Manuel feels himself resist the suck of energy.
“Moreover,” she continues, leaning so that the front of her blouse flaps open, revealing a freckled cleavage, “the finals must be recorded on video and posted on our site. People can wager on the winner. We’ll create intense excitement throughout the guitar world.”
Manuel feels his forehead pulse: protein, that’s what he needs.
“Progress is impossible as long as Gregorio steers us toward his lost valley.” She waits for Manuel to agree, which he does, because that will make the lecture shorter. “We’ll create a pedagogical destination, with classes delivered by our most eminent members … a digital conservatory.”
Her teeth are unnaturally white. His tongue darts in the gap between his own teeth, still a shock to discover the absence of the upper cuspid. He wants to sit in a cool, dark room with a towel over his head and a cold beer in hand.
“This is where you come in,” Portia says. “You shall be in charge of hiring teachers and devising curriculum and thus confer instant prestige on the venture. Please say yes.” She lifts her shawl around her shoulders and beams at him.
Manuel is thinking. That pretty middle-aged contestant from Toronto — he liked the way she played the Italian piece, very crisp and musical. He actually leaned back and listened, forgetting he was meant to judge. But he could tell Smyth was horrified by her very presence; a young man, he flinches from the contamination of age.
“This will transform our lives, Manuel,” Portia natters on. “You could stay home in Havana soaking up the rays, and still earn money.”
When he seems less than thrilled by this proposal, she lowers her voice. “And here’s the cherry, the icing on the cake: we organize hologramic recitals of our most august members.”
“What?”
“Think of it: eliminate jet lag and billeting with local guitar society members, family dog jumping on your bed in the morning. I see this as an ecological statement. Imagine, Manuel, you play your program from the comfort of your studio where it will be transferred hologramatically to audiences around the world.”
Manuel’s mind fixes on his current, post-Lucia studio — a corner of the cramped bedroom, which is in turn situated in a corner of the living area, where, if the Venetian or New York audience were to peer closely, a glimpse of his hot plate might turn up in the background.
“Can I count on your support?” Portia asks, sitting erect on the chair, waiting for his blessing.
Manuel summons up his last bit of strength. “This must never happen,” he says, rising to his feet, aware she is frowning as he disappears into the building.
Twelve
Manuel guesses that this corner bar with its pressed tin ceiling and ceramic floor tiles is considered chic. He hesitates inside the entrance, watching the gangly Jon Smyth perch on a bar stool, his long neck pink from the barber’s razor. A man dressed in black with a white cloth slung over one shoulder greets Manuel, “Ça va?” to which Manuel replies with a dismissive wave. He’ll make his own way, merci, which he manages, grabbing the stool next to Jon’s at the mahogany bar.
“What are you drinking?” Manuel peers at the glass of red liquid.
“Bloody Mary, minus the blood and minus Mary,” Jon says. “The liver’s become a conscientious objector.”
Manuel straddles the padded stool, but only the tips of his toes reach the floor. This country is full of such small humiliations. Electronic music pulses in the background, a computer mimicking oboe and strings, even brass. The barkeep brings him a pint of ale.
“That last girl …” Jon winces.
“Nina,” Manuel says, remembering the fine-boned Mexican girl, pride of the University of Veracruz, who fell apart during her recent performance in the studio. She played the first piece like an angel, but during the modern work she lost her way yet insisted on ploughing on, a shambles, until to their horror she began to weep. She kept playing while tears splashed onto the soundboard, and Manuel hadn’t dared order her to stop, any more than he would have jumped in front of a runaway train. The episode left both men feeling mean and ill.
“Remind me never to sign on for this job again,” Jon says. “We should be like Portia, swanning in to judge only advanced rounds.”
They chink glasses as Jon stares gloomily into the mirror at his own hunched form. Manuel remembers the teenage Jon wearing an oversized jersey from his beloved Manchester United, playing Granados under a tree in that hillside town in southern Italy where a festival convenes each summer. Smyth had been the star that season, performing with obvious joy. Today his face looks haggard, his eyelids heavy, that fine hair beginning to thin on top. When young people start to grow old, it is particularly sad.
“Does sweating through a competition make you a better musician?” Jon asks. Without waiting for a reply he barges on. “It’s about building a fucking career.”
“As you did,” Manuel points out. “And so you have this excellent position at the university —”
“A position, right,” Jon cuts him off. “Seventy percent tedium and politics.” Their eyes meet in the mirror. “Even my most gifted students crave safety. They talk about landing jobs at colleges and universities with pensions and health plans. That’s what this generation desires, Manuel. They’re not willing to knock around the world, playing recitals in gymnasiums, carving a reputation from pure gut and talent, not like you, Manuel. You’re a dying breed, my friend.”
“They are sensible,” Manuel says.
“Sensible,” Jon agrees. “‘What must I do to get a job like yours?’” they ask. “‘What are the most important competitions?’”
“Another round?” The bartender flicks his towel over the counter, and the men nod a synchronized “yes.”
No matter how much Manuel drinks, he is still thirsty.
Smyth draws a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. “Whom are we going to sprinkle with fairy dust today?”
Manuel digs out his own list, knowing there will be arguments about the contenders. He reads off several names, and when he reaches Lucy Shaker, the other man snorts.
“Are you joking? We’re in the business of launching careers, not rewarding middle-aged hobbyists.”
“There was something interesting in her playing,” Manuel protests.
“Really?”