CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 14
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 of cante 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.”
Connor used his mug to point toward Ian’s phone. “Scared of calling Miami?”
“Terrified.”
“I take it you know the individual on the other end of that conversation you’re not having?”
“Kiki Kerkorian’s staff calls her the genteel assassin. She runs the festival and is also head of MISO, the Miami Symphony Orchestra,” Ian replied. “When all this broke, she didn’t call. She didn’t try to find out what had happened. She ordered her lawyers into attack mode. That is basically all the introduction you need to Kiki Kerkorian.”
Connor gave that a moment, then said, “But that’s not really what’s kept you frozen to the spot, now, is it?”
Ian swung around.
Now it was Connor’s turn to stare at the sunlit vista. He sipped from his mug. Waiting.
“Excuse me?” Ian said finally.
Connor pointed behind them. “Why don’t we move this inside, find you a nice quiet spot where you can enter meltdown in private?”
Ian hesitated, then followed him down the path. “That’s not funny.”
“Weird. I thought it was.”
Arthur glanced up from his mixing board when they entered. At a motion from Connor, the old man slipped his headphones down around his neck.
Connor asked, “Can we use the studio?”
“For what, exactly?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“In that case, be my guest.”
“Arthur, be a gent and turn off all the feeds.”
The old man slapped a pair of switches. “As if I have any interest whatsoever in your private affairs. Inside what was formerly my private space.”
Connor motioned Ian inside the recording studio and closed the door. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Ian selected a chair by the side wall. “Why are you doing this?”
Connor settled onto the piano stool. “I’ll tell you. But mind if I ask a question first?”
“I suppose.”
“Yesterday you said you’d lost the passion that fueled your music and your rise. When did that happen?”
“I can’t say for certain. I claim it was fourteen months back. But really that’s just when I couldn’t ignore the change any longer. It was so gradual, I didn’t actually notice at first. Then one night, after a concert in Montreal, I got back to my dressing room, looked in the mirror, and there was this cadaver staring back. Lifeless.”
“Scary.”
“Awful.”
Connor studied his empty mug. “So maybe what you’re really frightened of now is going back into that same desperate moment. Isolated and empty. Nothing but dust and ashes. A blanket so thick, it cuts off your air.”
Ian pressed a fist to his gut. Swallowed against the rising gorge. Wanted to ask again how the man knew. But the words did not come.
Connor went on. “As far back as I can remember, all I ever wanted was to be a singer. Play the soft jazz, the swing, bring all those old hits to life in a new age. So I moved to LA, made the circuits, played the gigs. Then one night I performed at a wedding reception for a big Hollywood producer. You know the line. I hoped this might be my big break. Only the hope wasn’t really there. I was telling myself the same old lie I’d repeated a hundred nights before.”
Connor swung the stool around so that he stared at the piano keys. “Midway through the second set, a lady started this drunken jag, screaming so loud she shut us down. Then she flipped over her table, sent glass and plates and cutlery flying everywhere. Everybody started scrambling and shouting. I looked at my band, ready to suggest we take another break. And I really saw them. Maybe for the first time. All three were so stoned, they barely noticed. Helpless and lost. Just like me.”
Ian uttered, “Wow.”
Connor nodded to the keys. “That same night the agent who still represents me came up and said I might have what it takes to make it in film. As an actor. Not a musician. And I did. Make it. And I’m happy. I love my family and my life. Mostly.” He pointed at the silent instrument. “When I’m not off on another shoot, every month or so, I sit in Sylvie’s restaurant and live a tiny shred of my dream. Until one day my neighbor phones and says there’s this star doing some work for our pal Danny. Would I like to sit in? And between takes I look at his face, and I see exactly what I went through.”
Connor looked at him for the first time since entering the studio. “You haven’t lost your gift. If you have any doubt about that, go have a word with Arthur. Sooner or later, you’ll find what’s necessary to rekindle that precious flame. It may not be in the way you expect. But it will come. Right now, in this moment, all you’re doing is repairing a hole in your commercial world. That’s all. Nothing more.” He gave Ian a moment to respond, and when he didn’t, Connor asked, “Ready?”
Ian nodded.
“Good.” Connor walked over, opened the door, said, “Make the call.”
* * *
There was no logical reason why Connor’s confession would render Ian so calmly resolute. But logic held little sway in that remarkable moment. Taking a willful step back into the world from which he had fled. All arguments to the contrary, Connor was right. He needed to do this.
A young man’s voice answered, “MISO. How do I direct your call?”
“The director’s office, please.”
“Who do I say is calling?”
“Ian Hart.”
A pause, then, “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Hold please.”
Eons passed. Ice ages began and retreated. Then, “Ian?”
“Hello, Kiki.”
“You have thirty seconds.”
“I didn’t know I was booked to play your festival until the MISO lawyers went on the attack.”
“So the rumors are true.”
“There are so many, at least some of them have to be.”
“I’m not calling them off. Our attorneys can tear you apart, for all I care. So don’t bother begging.”
“That’s not . . . Okay, it would be nice to have my life back. And my home. But I’m calling to say I’ll play.” When Kiki did not respond, he went on, “A friend suggested I ask that in return, you help rebuild my good name. But I’m not asking. If you want to do it, fine. But my offer is without strings.”
Ian heard the woman breathe through pursed lips. “Our advance . . .”
“Is in some Aruba bank, as far as I know. And no, I’m not asking for that, either. I’m coming, and I’ll play. If you still want me.” He stared through the studio’s glass wall, over to where Connor and Arthur were both doing their best to look anywhere but at him. “This is about honoring commitments.”
“Well.” Another breath. “Few things astonish me in this business. And most that do are dreadful.” Then, “Rehearsals start in three days.”
“I’ll be there. What am I playing?”
“You truly don’t know?”
“I have no contract, no alert, no note on my calendar. Truly.”
“If your louse of a manager ever returns, promise you’ll let me skin him.”
“No.”
She might have laughed. “You’re starring in our opening concert. This year’s festival coincides with the delayed art fair. You’ve been sold out for months.”
He asked again, “Kiki, what am I playing?”
“This is the oddest conversation I’ve had in thirty years.”
“Kiki.”
“Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez. And Vivaldi’s Concerto in D Major.”
He knew them both. Intimately. Had performed them countless times. “Who is conducting?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” When Ian did not respond, she said, “Israel Saban.”
“Good. Wonderful, in fact.”
“Not really. Israel is furious. He’s demanding that I ditch you. Bring in someone who doesn’t threaten us with a last-minute tantrum.” A pause, then, “Should I?”
“No tantrums,” he replied. “I’ll give you the best that I have.”
“You better.”
“I’m sorry, Kiki. Really, really sorry.”
“Enough to do the second gig?”
“I heard about that. I don’t remember where. Maybe I saw it online.”
This time her laugh was clearly audible. “Your ex-louse booked you for ‘An Intimate Conversation with Ian Hart.’ Just you and several hundred of your closest admirers.”
“What am I playing?”
“In this case, whatever you like.”
Ian studied the two men beyond the wall and sensed an idea taking form. He opened his mouth, tasted the air, decided the idea was a good one. Better than that. He asked, “Do I have to play classical?”
Another longish pause, then, “It’s not polite to render me speechless.”
“I’ve been working on a film score with Connor Larkin.”
“The film star?”
“And pianist. And singer. He’s good, Kiki. Outstanding, in fact. His specialty is soft jazz and renditions of late-era big band.”
“You. And Connor Larkin. An intimate evening on Miami Beach’s New World Center stage.”
“I haven’t asked him. I just came up with the idea while we’ve been talking. But I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes.”
“Go ask. I’ll wait. And, Ian . . .”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing. Hurry. I’m quite sure I’m late for something vital. I just can’t remember what.”
* * *
Ian decided he wasn’t up for a solitary meal in his apartment. He headed for the diner, then decided a bar was more in keeping with his mood. So he returned to the same stool at Castaways and sat nursing another glass of excellent local grape, reviewing the day.
Everything about it rang true. It was an almost silly way to describe the work and the repetitive takes and the people who crowded in. But Ian felt those words best fit the long and tiring day. Especially given how he was left with a distinct sense of making new friends. Finding his own place in a town where he already felt at home.
His thoughts then veered back to the previous evening. Sitting here in this spot. Sending his favorite artist fleeing into the night.
He reviewed their too-brief conversation and decided he had done nothing wrong. She had asked; he had answered honestly. If honesty was a reason to run off, well, so be it.
Just the same, Ian wished things had turned out differently.
He asked to see the menu and ordered the lamb. The restaurant was lively but far from full. When his meal was ready, the bartender, a lady with dark, dancing eyes, offered him a table. Ian replied that he was happy where he was. She offered a flirtatious smile and said, “That makes two of us.”
As he was finishing, Arthur walked in. “Mind some company?”
“Not at all. Is this a coincidence?”
“Hardly.” Arthur grimaced as Sylvie emerged from the kitchen and kissed his cheek. He asked, “Where’s our lad?”
“Driving the nanny back. She wasn’t feeling well.” To Ian, she said, “Our boys spend the morning at home. Most evenings they’re shifted into the apartment upstairs. I like to be the one who tucks them in at night. When we close, Connor and I swoop them up, and they wake up in their own beds.”
The bartender offered, “They’ll either be great travelers or seriously schizoid.”
Arthur said, “That’s actually not a proper term, Marcela.”
“Of course it is. You’ll find it in the dictionary, right after seriously grouchy.” Marcela smiled at the old man. “Hi, Arthur.”
He grimaced. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to kiss the old wattled cheek.”
“Been waiting for this moment all day.”
Sylvie asked Ian, “How was the meal?”
“Great. Better than that.”
“What we like to hear.”
Danny Byrd entered the restaurant, accompanied by his fiancée, the attorney Megan Pierce. Connor arrived back two minutes later. As the greetings and laughter grew, Ian had the sense of being drawn into a clannish community. Old friends who gladly made room for him. He found himself wishing Kari were still there, that it was the two of them together being welcomed into this group.
Which was when Arthur said, “I suppose we’d best tell the man of the hour what’s going on here.”
“Not just yet.” Sylvie said to Marcela, “Open a bottle of that stuff we couldn’t unload last New Year’s Eve.”
“On it.” Marcela went through a professional’s process of icing seven glasses, setting them out on little starched napkins, then uncorked the champagne with a flourish. They watched in happy silence as she filled the glasses, picked up the last one for herself, and asked, “What do we toast?”
“I’ve always been partial to Winston Churchill’s comment,” Arthur replied. “ ‘Champagne should always be cold, dry, and free.’”
“I’m not toasting another old grouch,” Marcela said. “Especially one who’s dead.”
“Here’s to friends, old and new,” Sylvie said.
Connor lost his smile. “And dreams long dead.”
Sylvie used her free arm to embrace her husband. “Not dead. Never dead. Just dormant.”
“No longer,” Danny said. “Right, Ian?”
“Absolutely,” Ian said, feeling vaguely ashamed over how he missed a woman he did not actually know.
They drank; then Megan nudged her fiancé. “Go on, then. Say your say.”
Danny said to Ian, “I’ve had a word with the powers that be.”
“He means the folks running Amazon Prime,” Arthur said. “And it was more than one word. Several hours’ worth. First, they talked. Then Danny showed them a revised rough cut of the film, now including some of your musical bridges. Then they talked again.”
“They’re impressed with what we’re doing here,” Danny continued.
“Blown away, more like,” Arthur offered.
“Who’s the guy telling this?”
“You are, mate. Megan and I are just filling in the blanks.”
“They’re going to give my new film a limited theatrical release,” Danny went on.
Megan said, “Enough to make the project open to possible film awards.”
“So I went ahead and played them another rough cut, this of the video we shot of your and Connor’s music,” Danny revealed.
Arthur said, “Against my strident objections. I hate music rough cuts worse than a rash on my unmentionables.”
“They want me to ask if we can film you and Connor playing in Miami,” Danny said. “Put together a documentary. Amazon wants to release it along with the film.”
Ian shrugged. “That’s not for me to say.”
“Ahem,” Megan said. “May the lawyer have a word?”
“Whenever does a barrister ask permission?” Arthur tapped the side of his empty glass. “Oi, barkeep.”
Marcela plied the bottle. “Somebody ought to teach you manners, old man.”
“Not worth the trouble,” Sylvie said.
Megan said, “Danny asked if I’d help with that. So I phoned Kiki Kerkorian. Just in case you might be willing to let this happen.”
“Megan put her on speaker,” Danny said, smiling. “Kiki didn’t actually do handsprings. But she came close.”
“The Miami Music Festival, an Amazon Prime special,” Arthur said. “Starring Ian Hart and Connor Larkin. What’s not to love?”
Danny added, “Recorded and mixed and edited by none other than the winner of three Oscars, Arthur Rowe.”
Arthur accepted his refilled glass, toasted Marcela. “Oh. Him.”
Danny said, “So now’s the moment when we ask if you might be willing to let this happen.”
All eyes were on Ian now. All save Connor’s. The actor stared at his wife’s hand, the one anchoring him to earth. Not sad, not really. Just the same, the man’s expression brought a lump to Ian’s throat.
He managed, “I would be honored.”
As they broke up, Danny drew Ian to one side. “Megan tells me you’re short of money.”
He hated having to admit, “Very.”
Danny handed him a check. “Full payment for your initial segments.”
The simple act should not have moved him as it did. “Thank you so much.”
“Your attorney has the new contract ready for signatures. This one covers the documentary, a possible album, and residuals. There’s a signing bonus, which should ease your way through the next few months.” Danny’s smile was more a grimace. “Just ignore the tearstains I left in the margins.”