The Ann Ireland Library. Ann Ireland
as they always do when they approach such a dwelling. They nod toward the stout woman who fries meat in the outdoor kitchen, and she nods back. The reward money will pay for a concrete floor, and later, maybe running water. Meanwhile a new flush toilet waits, as it has for five years, in its cardboard box in the corner.
The judges cluster at the foot of the stairs of the Fine Arts Building, weary from hours of heated arbitration. No sign of Lucy’s colleagues who must choose this morning between a demonstration on French polish technique in the atrium or Manuel’s ornamentation workshop upstairs.
Lucy holds back, pretending to adjust the strap of her guitar case, and waits for the judges to mount the stairs.
Disappointment ambushes her again. This crew eliminated her from the last round, which means there was discussion over the merits and demerits of her performance. Flaws in technique and interpretation were pointed out, mishaps of presentation, the whole bloody shooting match.
“Ms. Shaker?” It’s the judge from California, Portia Vanstone. “I was so impressed by your performance.” Her teeth are unnaturally white. “Especially the Mark Loesser piece, which you pulled off with great style and brio. Well done.” She lifts her hands to shoulder height and claps three times, a lonely sound in the nearly empty foyer.
“Thank you,” Lucy says and feels her heart ping-pong in her chest. She’s probably flushing, the hormonal goddess never quiet for long.
Portia and the other judges are climbing the stairs when Lucy hears herself say eagerly, “I do prefer the modern repertoire. Purely guitaristic, so much more interesting than arrangements of old work sucked from keyboard and violin.”
Did she really say that?
Jon Smyth, the tall young man with morning beard bristle, pauses on the steps to stare down at her, for he is a noted arranger from the romantic and classical keyboard repertoire.
Too late to grab her words back. “I heard Toby Hausner play when he was very young,” she says, watching as all five judges gaze down at her, waiting for more.
“He was brilliant even then.” Lucy hesitates, then charges on. “Perhaps something has been lost.”
“Lost?” Jon Smyth asks. “What might that be?”
She pretends to think. “Reckless confidence found only in the very young.”
Manuel begins the demonstration session by playing two variations on the opening movement of the Bach suite: first version unadorned, the second featuring full Baroque embellishments. His hands float through the elaborate trills, mordents, and turns. Lucy plucks her guitar out of its case and joins the other musicians in imitation of the master.
None of the competition finalists made it to the tutorial. They’re hunkered down in their rooms, practising while their glorious futures bob within reach.
Twenty
Luke has leaked the whole business to the media and sponsors, which means the phone has been ringing off the hook all afternoon. The first call caught Jasper off guard: Is the institute, a nonprofit organization that depends on the goodwill of government grants, attempting to jettison its highly respected volunteer president because of some personal vendetta?
How the hell did that version get out there? Jasper stares at each staff member passing by his desk — who is the traitor?
Jasper’s gym crony, Al, emails to say he watched a clip of Jasper on the midday cable news. Al tells him that he sounded calm and articulate, but “For God’s sake, flip your collar down.”
What Jasper is, is careful. Careful not to say that Luke is a chronic liar disguised in the mien of backslapping loyalist. No one would care if it weren’t for the virus. The institute is the location of choice for extended rehab.
Write everything down and record each phone conversation. It’s key to keep each member of the board onside and informed before Luke sways them. The institute must not be allowed to capsize because of one errant member. Presidents come and go, but Jasper has been here since the beginning. The fur is flying: Jasper must confess to a certain heated excitement. Not so long ago he and Luke were the best of friends. Luke would sidle up before meetings and flatter his executive director with his easy confidence, pretending to defer on matters of institute policy. There were those long shared lunches at May’s where Luke would order lychee nut martinis and pledge that together he and Jasper would lift the institute to “a whole new level.” He was a man of vision and optimism, just what the old joint needed. Or so he convinced Jasper.
Salon B in the mezzanine of the Fine Arts Building streams autumnal light from a bank of windows. Before entering the cavernous room, Toby must show his conference tag to prove he’s paid up. Luthiers have set up booths to display cutaway models of internal bracing systems next to finished guitars waiting to be taken through their paces. A television monitor shows the artisan tramping through a forest in search of just the right tree to be felled and milled, voice-over with overlay of peeping birds and the crunch of boots on rough trail. Placards contain endorsements by famous guitarists. Other booths display custom stands and stools and other props. One stand folds ingeniously and fits in your pocket; another is guaranteed to prevent back strain. The usual Mel Bay mini-store of sheet music takes up the back corner.
Toby makes his way toward XTract Music, a small publishing company run by judge Jon Smyth that specializes in transcriptions from other instruments and Jon’s own eccentric compositions.
“One of our bright young men,” Jon hails Toby with enthusiasm, for his booth has seen little action during the competition.
The two musicians slap palms, and Jon hustles him onto a chair. “Fresh from the printer,” he says, offering a thin folder. “I’ve sampled Dowland, though you might not recognize the old boy. The trick is finding a meter and sticking to it.” He drops the score into Toby’s waiting hands.
Toby gives the piece a quick scan: Jon uses conventional notation with a hodge-podge of time signatures.
“Perfect encore piece,” Jon says, hovering. “Bravura, yet compact at three and a half minutes.”
Toby taps his toe on the floor as written notes translate to sound in his head. Perfect pitch arrived at birth, but rhythm comes from the heart’s own beat.
“Give it a go, will you?”
Toby smiles. “Sure.”
“Horace!” Jon barks at the luthier hunched over half asleep in a neighbouring booth. “Lend the man one of your gut buckets.”
Horace Manners, who builds concert-level guitars and Celtic harps, wakes up with a snap and gestures toward Toby. “Take your pick.”
Silky smooth grain, spruce top with a yew body made from timber milled on Horace’s property near Lake Simcoe — waiting list for an instrument at least five years. Toby grabs one off the stand. A guitar’s not a newborn. You can bash it around a little. It improves the sound.
Horace winces. Toby grins, but he does remove his zippered jacket and drape it over the back of the chair. He’s the prince of sight-readers. Give him anything and he’ll rip it off the first time, not just correct notes but phrasing, expression, the whole nine yards.
This guitar, redolent of seasoned wood and coats of meticulously applied polish, nestles against his body, a perfect fit. He inhales, and the instrument breathes with him. Run his hands over the smooth neck, then try a chromatic scale: boomy bass notes, brand-new strings too crisp. It takes at least a year to break in a new instrument.
Toby launches into the skittish piece.
The trick is not to over-think, just enter the bloody thing, one eye out for the next corner. First few bars conjure up a tilted version of Dowland’s famous “Lady Beatrice’s Jump,” but isn’t that a Latin beat starting in the bass? The instrument is loud and full-voiced, crafted to reach the far corners of a concert hall without amplification.
A small group gathers around the booth