bar. One phrase at a time. You will do this?”
I say nothing.
“You will do this.” Not a question this time.
“Okay. Yes. I will do this.”
We hang up. I sit down on the bench, wrap my arms around my legs, and bury my face in my knees.
One note, he said. All I need is one note.
I pick up my head. My guitar is lying on the bench next to me. As I reach for it, there’s a sudden screech of brakes from the street above me, then the sound of horns blasting. I hear a man yelling—he must’ve gotten out of his car—and then a snatch of a song playing, maybe from his radio—“Norwegian Wood.” It’s a beautiful, bitter tune. Written in the sixties by John Lennon with an assist from Paul McCartney on the middle eight.
I hold the guitar close against me and close my eyes and my fingers find it—that one note. The one Bach needed when a child died. The one John Lennon needed when he woke up alone. The one I need now.
I bungle the opening phrase. Twice. And then I hit it and I’m off, pulled along by Lennon’s wry and gorgeous hook, caught fast in his sad harmonies. Drowning in the music.
I play the song through and as the last notes lengthen and fade, I hear a tiny thud. I open my eyes and see a shiny euro lying in the guitar case. A man, older and carrying a cane, is walking away.
For a few seconds, I can’t figure it out, and then it dawns on me—he thinks I’m homeless. I can see how he would, since I’m sitting on a bench with my boots off and all my worldly possessions spread out around me, but still.
“Hey!” I shout. “Wait!”
I scoop up the coin and run after him in my stocking feet, guitar in hand. I tell him he made a mistake. I’m not homeless, it just looks that way. I try to hand the money back. He tells me I misunderstand. The money is not charity; it’s payment for my lovely music. He enjoyed it very much.
He looks wistful in his overcoat, with his gray hair and gray beard, and it must be the extra pill I took this morning because for a few seconds I see him. Not as he is. As he was. When he first heard that song. A young man in Paris. Did he once have a girl? I can see in his old, sad, beautiful eyes that he did.
He touches the brim of his hat. “Thank you, miss. Goodbye,” he says, and walks on.
I stare after him, and then at the coin in my hand. I put it in my pocket, sit down on the bench, and play.
One note at a time.
16
I t’s Wednesday morning.
One day down, twenty to go.
I stayed out late last night to avoid my father. He had a dinner to go to and I didn’t come back here until I was certain he was gone. I stayed by the river and played guitar for hours. Then I went hunting for more junk shop treasures for my mother. I hit a late-night FedEx and sent it all to Vijay. Dr. Becker will only intercept anything I send directly to her so I’m hoping Vijay can smuggle the goods in during a visit. I called him and he said he’d try.
I’m sitting at one end of the dining room table now. I’ve taken the Vinaccia out of its case and laid it on the table and I’m fiddling with the case’s broken lock, waiting for my father to get off the phone. I want to talk to him. I’ve cooked up a plan. Because I can’t take one more day like yesterday, never mind three whole weeks like yesterday.
Dad’s sitting at the other end of the dining room table, talking with G on speakerphone. G goes into some detailed info on the Bourbons—Louis XVI’s family—and the Habsburgs—Marie-Antoinette’s. I keep fiddling with the prong, trying to get it to come up out of the bottom half of the lock, so the case will close properly. If someone picked it up by its handle, and the strap wasn’t wound around it, the guitar could fall out and break. I can’t bear to even think about that. I tried sticking a paper clip into the lock and wiggling it. It didn’t work. Neither did a pen cap, a corkscrew, or a fruit knife. Now I’m trying a plastic fork.
I hear Dad tell G goodbye. I twist
I say nothing.
“You will do this.” Not a question this time.
“Okay. Yes. I will do this.”
We hang up. I sit down on the bench, wrap my arms around my legs, and bury my face in my knees.
One note, he said. All I need is one note.
I pick up my head. My guitar is lying on the bench next to me. As I reach for it, there’s a sudden screech of brakes from the street above me, then the sound of horns blasting. I hear a man yelling—he must’ve gotten out of his car—and then a snatch of a song playing, maybe from his radio—“Norwegian Wood.” It’s a beautiful, bitter tune. Written in the sixties by John Lennon with an assist from Paul McCartney on the middle eight.
I hold the guitar close against me and close my eyes and my fingers find it—that one note. The one Bach needed when a child died. The one John Lennon needed when he woke up alone. The one I need now.
I bungle the opening phrase. Twice. And then I hit it and I’m off, pulled along by Lennon’s wry and gorgeous hook, caught fast in his sad harmonies. Drowning in the music.
I play the song through and as the last notes lengthen and fade, I hear a tiny thud. I open my eyes and see a shiny euro lying in the guitar case. A man, older and carrying a cane, is walking away.
For a few seconds, I can’t figure it out, and then it dawns on me—he thinks I’m homeless. I can see how he would, since I’m sitting on a bench with my boots off and all my worldly possessions spread out around me, but still.
“Hey!” I shout. “Wait!”
I scoop up the coin and run after him in my stocking feet, guitar in hand. I tell him he made a mistake. I’m not homeless, it just looks that way. I try to hand the money back. He tells me I misunderstand. The money is not charity; it’s payment for my lovely music. He enjoyed it very much.
He looks wistful in his overcoat, with his gray hair and gray beard, and it must be the extra pill I took this morning because for a few seconds I see him. Not as he is. As he was. When he first heard that song. A young man in Paris. Did he once have a girl? I can see in his old, sad, beautiful eyes that he did.
He touches the brim of his hat. “Thank you, miss. Goodbye,” he says, and walks on.
I stare after him, and then at the coin in my hand. I put it in my pocket, sit down on the bench, and play.
One note at a time.
16
I t’s Wednesday morning.
One day down, twenty to go.
I stayed out late last night to avoid my father. He had a dinner to go to and I didn’t come back here until I was certain he was gone. I stayed by the river and played guitar for hours. Then I went hunting for more junk shop treasures for my mother. I hit a late-night FedEx and sent it all to Vijay. Dr. Becker will only intercept anything I send directly to her so I’m hoping Vijay can smuggle the goods in during a visit. I called him and he said he’d try.
I’m sitting at one end of the dining room table now. I’ve taken the Vinaccia out of its case and laid it on the table and I’m fiddling with the case’s broken lock, waiting for my father to get off the phone. I want to talk to him. I’ve cooked up a plan. Because I can’t take one more day like yesterday, never mind three whole weeks like yesterday.
Dad’s sitting at the other end of the dining room table, talking with G on speakerphone. G goes into some detailed info on the Bourbons—Louis XVI’s family—and the Habsburgs—Marie-Antoinette’s. I keep fiddling with the prong, trying to get it to come up out of the bottom half of the lock, so the case will close properly. If someone picked it up by its handle, and the strap wasn’t wound around it, the guitar could fall out and break. I can’t bear to even think about that. I tried sticking a paper clip into the lock and wiggling it. It didn’t work. Neither did a pen cap, a corkscrew, or a fruit knife. Now I’m trying a plastic fork.
I hear Dad tell G goodbye. I twist
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