CHAPTER14
The next morning found Ian back in Arthur’s studio, drinking overly strong coffee and reviewing the final segments they needed for the film’s completion. It was just the two of them discussing the day’s work in musical shorthand, interrupting the songs with quick punctuations of what might work and how. Two professionals comfortable with each other and the work ahead.
The next four scenes that Arthur and Danny wanted Ian to bridge formed the lead-up to the film’s climax. This was where far too many stories crashed and burned. Too slow, and the audience lost interest in following the drama. Too fast, and the emotions required for an explosive third act never developed. In the first bridge, both characters felt the other had let them down. In the second, they broke up. Again. Which was a terrible move as far as the story went, because the only way they might survive was by forging ahead together.
As Arthur fiddled with the microphones and their relative gain, Ian stared out the rear windows and thought about the previous night. The morning was still, not a breath of wind. Another Pacific mist blanketed the world below the ridge, sparkling gray and silver in the rising sun. Ian had traveled and played in over two dozen countries. And here he was, spellbound by a central California sunrise.
Playing with Connor in Castaways had seemed so natural. Amelia’s presence had been so intensely close. She would have liked seeing him here, doing this work, extending himself in a new direction. Amelia had always felt the classical realm was overly constrictive, far too disciplined and stilted.
And then there was the night’s other little surprise.
Kari Langham. Of all people. He had never even seen a photograph of the artist. And up she had sprung, feeling a need to apologize for not taking his photograph. Talking with him as if they had known each other for years. There was an ethereal quality to the lady, as if she was not truly comfortable with the world.
He liked her already.
Which made the previous evening’s lightning-fast conversation all the more regrettable. He should never have burdened Kari with all his sorrowful confusion. Never, never, never.
Arthur broke into his reflection with, “All right, lad. Let’s see if we can avoid making a complete and utter hash of this.”
The rainbow heritage of Spanish classical music for guitar was rich in connections to the nation’s varied past. The centuries when the Islamic Empire ruled the region, the Castile monarchs who conquered them, the years of conflict and strife all played a role in creating one of the most varied and challenging arenas for classical guitar.
Early in his training, Ian had found opportunities to escape through Spanish music. Teacher after teacher had demanded an attitude that gripped Ian as firmly as an iron straitjacket. “Don’t stop,” they said, and they repeated this with the firm confidence of one quoting holy verses. “Don’t stop, don’t think and, most important of all, don’t feel. Just play the notes.” When Ian complained that the fun was stripped away, along with his reason for wanting to play the music at all, he was punished, sometimes severely. “Fun is the enemy.” They said that, as well. “Fun will not take you where you need to go.”
He endured, and he learned. He made slaves of his hands, playing with a precision that eventually silenced his most ardent critics. And he found escapes when he could. Jazz and contemporary concerts with Amelia.
And the treasures he discovered in Spanish compositions.
Of those composers who became his secret allies, the most important was Isaac Albéniz, who had actually composed for the piano. Later interpretations, including Segovia’s work, which Ian played on numerous occasions, focused upon Albéniz’s use ofcante jondo, the Romany method of singing. Albéniz incorporated themes from Andalusian folk music into his compositions. And most delightful of all, he used the exotic scales associated with flamenco music.
A flamenco guitar had a thinner top and less internal bracing than a classical guitar. It also featured what was known as a tap plate, which permitted the combining of drumbeats to the music. Ian had worn holes through the varnish of several classical guitars by copying the staccato beats required for such melodies. He had secretly considered these scars badges of honor.
The scenes Arthur and Danny wanted him to bridge were both heavy and hot-tempered. Ian took pleasure in bringing forth those hard-earned lessons, taking the melodies he was meant to bridge and tearing them apart.
He played the rage.
Raw, unadulterated, a crescendo of riffs filled the studio and resonated deeply. The music echoed his internal tumult. The conflicts he felt over his current state, the shame he had carried since learning of his manager’s defection, the fury. His guitar wept for all he had lost. He shrieked his fear of all the empty tomorrows. For a very brief moment, the internal flames ignited once again. For all the wrong reasons. But still.
Too soon, it was over. He drove all the unwanted emotions back into their internal cage. He rejoined the second melody, forming a bridge for the song that would help carry the audience into the film’s climax.
He stopped.
The silence resonated so deeply, he remained as he was, head bent over the silent strings. Seeing the sweat drip from his face and puddle on the guitar’s upper rim. Feeling the fire gradually fade to ashes. And for once, he did not mind.
When he looked up, Arthur was seated behind the controls, solemn and watchful. Connor stood behind him, arms crossed, mouth slightly open.
Arthur cleared his throat, then said, “I believe we have what we need.”
* * *
Ian stood by the chest-high rear wall, staring out over the vista. Rooftops and trees gave way in the distance to a trio of lines: first, the coastal road, then the seaside walkway, with its intricate connection of paths and bridges, and finally, the sandy shoreline, sparkling in the afternoon light. A slight trace of Pacific breeze cooled him as the sweat dried and the salt crinkled his skin. It was a beautiful moment, a good end to a fine session. One where his fear had no place. Even so, Ian stood cradling his phone in both hands, wishing he could find the strength to do what he knew had to be done.
Footsteps scrunched on the path, and Connor stepped up beside him. He sipped from his steaming mug, then said, “You did good in there. Arthur is as close to doing backflips as I’ve ever seen him.”
“That was fun.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Totally. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed music this much.”
