Raphael (33 page)

Gaspare had turned from his namesake and was staring fixedly again out the window. His hands, laced together, were white-knuckled.

“Following the music,” he mumbled under his breath. “Without a sou, I suppose.”

“No.” In truth it had been part of his plan to ask his great-uncle for provision during his stay, but one look at the old man's worn foppery had caused him to put that matter quietly away. His innate honesty forced Caspar to amend his answer. “Not quite without a sou.”

Gaspare cast one taut look in his direction. He gestured at the lute on the table. “Play it for me, boy.”

Caspar had been longing to play ever since seeing the lute. But the voice held more challenge than invitation, and besides, old people never liked his music.

Yet it was old Gaspare who taught his father to play the lute and Caspar had learned from him, so Great-uncle had a right to hear. Caspar cleared his throat. “I am more used to an instrument of six courses,” he qualified, lifting the lute from the table. It was almost weightless.

“Six!” cackled Gaspare. “Why, boy, you have only five fingers to play them with!”

Caspar's smile twisted under the expected witticism. He found the lute in very close tune.

Gaspare listened to a Provençal folk tune done in very pleasant, antique style. In a very few seconds' listening he had granted the boy technical competence. But he cut him off roughly before the song was done. “Don't humor me, Nephew! God's bollucks, I'm a musician too! Play your own music for me! Play to your limit!”

Caspar's eyes rose startled and he glared back at his great-uncle.

Everyone at home thought the world of Caspar and he did so LIKE to be liked. Here he'd come eighty miles out of his way to visit the old man only to be treated like this! Unremitting hostility and scorn.

Of course what Gaspare said was quite true. Caspar HAD been humoring him. He ground his teeth together and flexed his fingers over the hand-tied frets. “Very well,” he snapped at his great-uncle. “I'll play what I like best. But don't bother to tell me you don't like it!”

Caspar played. His left hand spread like a spider on the broad lute neck. His right hand bounced. He played seconds against one another. He ended lines on the seventh chord. He played melodies that chased each other impudently in and out of a music where structure threatened to dissolve momentarily into chaos. The lute sounded like a guitar, like a harp.

But though there was virtuosity in Caspar's attack, it was not mere show, for the technique worked in the service of feeling, in a music with much soul and a very playful rhythm. His unobtrusive chin (nothing like Gaspare's chin) jutted out as he played, like that of a man who speaks and does not expect to be understood.

When he was done and not before, he glanced up at his great-uncle. He was prepared for coldness, and half-expected an explosion. But to the Provençal's horror, the old man was weeping. Tears spattered onto the black wood of the tabletop. Caspar was stricken. “Great-uncle! Forgive me. It is dissonant, when one is not accustomed to it, certainly. But I had no inten—”

But the young man was no fool, and he read the truth in his great-uncle's face.

Gaspare reached over the tabletop, shoving pitcher and mugs to one side. “Boy,” he whispered. “Don't apologize. Never apologize for being what you must be.

“And pay no mind to me, for I can't explain it to you. It's just the music, when I'd believed it to be all lost.

“But nothing is lost, you see? Nothing. Not even if his… his city is lost, and no one remembers his name.”

Caspar's quick brown eyes narrowed. “I don't understand,
grand-oncle.
But have I finally done something right in your eyes?” Caspar asked, half touched by the old man's tears, half still-resentful of his tempers.

“You have,” replied Gaspare, grinning at his great-nephew. “Of course you have, boy. You have shown me an angel.”

Author's Note

THIS IS THE LAST OF THE TALES OF DAMIANO AND HIS FRIENDS I WILL WRITE. BY NOW I IMAGINE THEY ARE ALL RATHER TIRED.

I KNOW I AM.

BUT NO CONCLUSION IS FINAL, AND THE READER IS WELCOME TO CONTINUE THE STORY IN ANY DIRECTION DESIRED. AFTER THREE BOOKS, HE OR SHE KNOWS AS MUCH TO THE PURPOSE AS I.

Bertie MacAvoy