Ring of Fire III (44 page)

Atwood was shocked. “John! You can’t sell your lute.”

A determined expression came over the Italian’s face. “I do not want to. She has been my life and livelihood for years, a part of me.” He swallowed. “But lutes are common, Master At. Banjos and up-time guitars are not. I must seize the opportunity before me. To do so means that I must sell my lute.” He looked down again. “As much as I have taken this instrument for granted over the years, I find that the thought of losing her is very painful.” He squared his shoulders and looked up. “Nevertheless, it is what I must do. I have been to your bank and have learned about money here in Grantville. I think she is worth five hundred of your dollars—a fair price for a master class instrument made by the Sellas family.”

Atwood’s thought whirled. “I see. Let me make a phone call.”

After a couple of rings, the phone on the other end was picked up.

“Hello, Ingram? At Cochran here. You know that four-string banjo we talked about? Well, consider it sold. My new student John Veraldi has an excellent lute that he’s going to sell and he’ll buy the banjo out of that.” There was a burst of conversation from the other end. “Yeah, it’s really fine. Made by the Sellas family in Venice. Supposed to be top-drawer craftsmen.” More conversation. “Yeah, you talk to old Riebeck and see what he says. I imagine we can work something out. Okay. Good. See you soon.” Atwood hung the phone up and turned to the Italian.

“Okay, John. Here’s the deal. I’ll buy that lute from you for your price. I’ll give you three hundred dollars cash, plus in exchange I’ll give you a month’s free lessons and this.” He opened a closet door and pulled out a guitar case. It wasn’t as nice as the cases his personal guitars were in, but from the look on Veraldi’s face it didn’t matter. He set it on the table and flipped the lid open. Veraldi slid off his stool and reached for the guitar with hesitation, but at length grasped it with a firm hand and took it out of the case.

“That is a classical guitar, John. It belonged to a student of mine who was left up-time. I was making a small repair to the tuners when the Ring of Fire happened.”

Atwood looked at Veraldi, trying to hold the guitar in the way he had seen the up-timer hold his. “This type of guitar was a standard design in the up-time.” Atwood picked up his own guitar. He held it up beside the one the Italian was holding. “See, almost identical in size.”

“Is yours a better guitar than this one?” Veraldi asked, looking at his guitar with hungry eyes.

“Yes, it is.”

“It is fitting that the master have a master class instrument.”

“Well,” Atwood chuckled, “mine isn’t exactly master class.” Veraldi looked at him with questioning eyes. “The real master class instruments up-time were made by hand using techniques almost identical to those used by down-time luthiers today. It takes a long time to make an instrument that way, and their very best instruments commanded prices in the tens of thousands of dollars. Only the true master performers could or would afford those kinds of prices.” He sat down and cradled the guitar. “No, this was assembled in a factory, using a lot of hand labor, true, but the goal of those making it was not perfection, it was ‘get it as good as you can for the material we use and the time we let you spend on it.’ I’d call it maybe high journeyman work. This was made by the Takamini company, and it cost me about eight hundred dollars several years ago.”

“Are all your guitars like that?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“If these sound so good, it is to be wished that a true master class instrument could have come back with you.” Veraldi sounded wistful. “I would really like to hear such.”

“Sorry,” Atwood chuckled again. “Nobody in the Ring of Fire—including me—would have dreamt of spending as much on a guitar as they would have spent for a car or a house, even if they’d had the money to spare.

“As I was saying, this is a classical design guitar. Almost anything that can be played on a guitar can be played on this one, but it was customary to play certain types of music on the classical and other types on the other guitars.

“So, shall we get started?”

* * *

Giouan felt as if he were walking on air. He had a guitar, and he would get his banjo tomorrow, after meeting Master Atwood at the bank at noon. Things were working out so well.

It indeed pained him to leave his lute behind, but if he had to leave her, he was glad that Master At had taken her. In the master’s hands she would be safe and valued as she should be.

He looked down at the guitar case he was clutching. In his own hands he held the future. With this guitar, and with the banjo, his fortune and his reputation would be made in Italy.

* * *

Days passed. Giouan had a facile memory, and his speed of learning surprised Atwood, who kept giving him more and more information and more and more music to study and learn. Veraldi acted like a man dying of thirst and hunger who had just been placed at a feast. Atwood didn’t focus on just musical technique in his teaching of Veraldi; he also spent some time on musical theory. Every bit of musical knowledge Veraldi was presented he consumed. He even parted with some of his precious silver to have some of the high school students copy music for him, music that he didn’t have time to learn right then. But above all, he practiced.

* * *

Giouan would always remember the smile on Master At’s face that day.

“This is not only a good piece of music, it’s also incredibly fun. It was originally written for solo guitar with an orchestra interlude by a man named Mason Williams. Another guitarist named Edgar Cruz arranged it for solo guitar only. I love it, and I want you to learn it. It’s named
Classical Gas
, and it’s a bit of a showpiece, as you’ll see.”

And yes, Giouan saw. It was indeed a showpiece, one that he also fell in love with at first hearing, watching Master At’s fingers flash on the strings. When it was over, he heaved a deep sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Master At asked.

“Yet another piece that I must learn,” Giouan replied. “One more piece in the list.” Then he smiled.

* * *

Atwood wasn’t sure how many hours a day Giouan practiced, but he knew it was more than any other student he had ever known, even when he was in college.

* * *

Giouan watched as Master At connected a cable between the Gibson Les Paul guitar and the black cabinet in the corner, then flicked a switch on the cabinet. Master At was going to show him what the electric guitar could do. A slight hum filled the room. “This is a little piece called
Pipeline
,” the master said. A moment later, he flicked a string and a howling tone was generated that went sliding in keeping with the master’s hand on the neck of the guitar, sliding down to an almost thunderous low pitch. He began plucking a fast rocking rhythm, then began overlaying a strident melody atop it. The song didn’t last that long, but Giouan was breathless by the time it was over, feeling as if he had just run up a tall mountain.

* * *

Veraldi’s skill progressed by the week, sometimes seemingly by the day. Atwood knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The man was an accomplished musician, after all. It was not long before he reached a level where Atwood wanted him to begin performing in public. He hinted at it, only to find his hints ignored. He put forward stronger hints. They were politely declined.

Atwood was bothered enough by this that one Thursday evening he forced Veraldi to accompany him to the Thuringen Gardens.

“Here, take this.” Atwood placed a mug of wine in the Italian’s hand. “Let’s find some place to sit down.”

They wandered through the Gardens, looking for chairs, but the place was busy. It wasn’t until Marcus Wendell hailed them that they found seats at the table he was sharing with Giacomo Carissimi.

Atwood had seen to it that the two Italians had been introduced some time ago. Even in Sweden Veraldi had heard of the composer, and he had been very glad of the introduction. They chattered back and forth for a few minutes while Marcus and Atwood discussed a school program. The two conversations dwindled down at about the same time, and Atwood seized the opportunity.

“John...”

Veraldi hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of wine and set his mug on the table, looking to Atwood with expectation.

“John, you know you’re doing well. You’ve learned a lot of notes in the last few weeks. I think you’re ready to play some of that music in public. You could play with some of the other musicians here in town. You could even play here in the Gardens and make some more money to pay for your stay. But every time I mention it, you put me off. Why?”

Veraldi said nothing for a long moment, just looked down at his mug and ran his finger around the rim over and over. “Master At,” he said finally, looking up, “the fourth day I was in Grantville, I went to the library. When the attendant asked what I was looking for, I gave him my name and told him that I wanted to know what the books from the future said about me. Several hours later, I had my answer.” He lifted his hand from the mug and snapped his fingers. “Nothing. To the future, I am nobody, nothing. I, Giouan Battista Veraldi, who have played before kings and been rewarded by them, I am not worthy even to be mentioned in any of the books of the future.”

Atwood watched as Veraldi resumed circling the rim of the mug with his finger. “I already had my guitar and banjo by then. But that night I resolved that the future that was would not be repeated. I will be more than a memory that fades from the air when the people who know me die. So my plans take on more urgency—I will take the banjo and the up-time guitar to Venice.”

“Venice, huh?” Atwood responded. “What’s in Venice?”

“
Maestro
Monteverdi, and
Maestros
Matteo and Giorgio Sellas, the leading composer and luthiers in Venice, in all of Italy. To them I will bring what I have learned, in the hopes that they will take that knowledge and advance the cause of music in Italy. I will beg
Maestro
Monteverdi to take up the banjo, to write music for it that will catch the ears of the patrons and make a place for me. To the Sellas family, I will offer the opportunity to measure and analyze the instruments, to make more and make them popular. I will go down in history as the man who brought the banjo to Italy, maybe even to the world.”

Atwood could see Carissimi nodding. He understood what his countryman was saying. “Okay, I can understand that. But what does that have to do with not playing here in Grantville?”

“I am a professional musician, Master At. Setting aside all humility, I am probably the best performer in Grantville right now.”

“Right now,” Marcus interjected, “that’s true, but only because our best performers have moved to Magdeburg.”

Veraldi made a seated bow to the band director. “Yes, I know, but my point is not that Grantville is deficient in performers, but rather that I am very proficient. I do not need the practice of performing in public. I have been a performer for well-nigh thirty years now. I know how to perform. Nor do I need the practice of performing with other performers. Again, that has been part of my life for thirty years.

“What I need to be is focused. What I need to be is committed. What I need to be is single-minded. I will learn everything I can possibly learn in the time I have left. If I take an hour to perform here at the Gardens, then with the time to walk here and walk back, the time to talk to others, the time I would spend in preparing myself for the performance, I would lose at least three hours. That is enough time to learn over a minute’s worth of music. I begrudge that time. I will not spend it thus. And I will especially not repeatedly spend it thus.”

Atwood absorbed everything his student had said. “But can you learn what you need without having to earn extra money?”

“I think so. If not...” A very Italian shrug. “...I will do my best.”

Maestro
Carissimi leaned forward. “Master Atwood, you will not change his mind. I recognize this...mind-set, I believe the word is. It would take an act of God to bend him from his purpose.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” Atwood said. He turned back to Veraldi. “John, from now on, no payments for your lessons.”

“But Master At,” Veraldi exclaimed. “It is not right to do this. The master is worthy of his fees.”

Atwood laid his hand on the table, palm up. “I don’t teach guitar and banjo to make money. Truth is, most of the time I’d be happy to do it for nothing, just to watch kids learn to play and know that I had a hand in it. But I have to charge something, or they won’t think the lessons are worth anything. So I set the fees just high enough to make the kids feel like the lessons are worthwhile, and to make them work at it because they’re paying for it.

“But you, you’re the kind of student every teacher wants to have, a talented student who wants to learn. So think of it as my contribution to your dream. Who knows, those few dollars may just make the difference in you achieving your goal.”

“Your master gives you a gift, Signor Veraldi,” Carissimi said. “Be gracious in your acceptance of it.”

Veraldi stood and made a formal bow. “As you say, Master Atwood, so shall it be.”

“I have a gift as well,” Carissimi added. “When you are ready to leave, advise me, and I shall give you a letter of introduction to
Maestro
Monteverdi.”

Veraldi stammered. “Th-thank you,
Maestro
Carissimi. That is very generous of you, and will be of inestimable value to me.”

Carissimi waved a hand. “It is nothing, mere words on paper. If it helps you on your way, it is worth it. But see here,” he pointed a finger at Veraldi, “if, despite the generosity of Master Atwood, you find yourself short of silver, come to me. You are from Venice, I am from Rome, but we are both Italians, and we must stick together in these cold northern countries, eh?”

The evening ended in a round of laughter.

* * *

More time passed. Atwood, true to his word, made no more attempts to get Veraldi to play in public. And he was also true to his word in that he refused to accept lesson fees from his student, even though Veraldi tried to press them on him several times.