Chapter 33
In addition to the modest pay he earned, the little boy had been promised by his father that, when the harvest was completed, they would take a five-day trip to Lisbon.
It would be Theo’s first-ever visit to the big city by the sea. His world previous to that had been confined to Pinh?o and nearby villages on the Douro. Childhood in those places had borne in him a love for nature and a preference for quiet that would remain with him the rest of his life.
But the trip to Lisbon changed Theo forever.
It was late October when the party of four — Theo, his parents, and his grandmother — boarded the train in Porto and made the journey south.
For five days, the inquisitive mind of the young boy was on full-intake mode.
He was awed by the architecture at the monastery of St. Jerome, by the stonework at St. George’s castle in the Alfama, by the triumphal arch at the yard of the royal palace, and by a hundred other sights that he observed in a rush.
But when he entered the National Museum of Ancient Art, his gait slowed to a crawl as he walked through halls of splendor.
Canvas after canvas, tapestry after tapestry, sculpture after sculpture — it was too much to take in.
And how, he wondered, does anyone make objects and images of such intricate beauty?
Theo’s parents and grandmother, intrigued more by Theo’s fascination with the artwork than the art itself, did not rush the boy.
They knew his thoughtful disposition and respected his propensity to ponder.
They could not feel what he felt, but they knew he was under a spell as he moved slowly from room to room.
At one point in that crawl, sounds of music drew Theo and his family to a large, resonant hall.
There, a string quartet — cello, viola, two violins — played what, to Theo, seemed the song of angels.
He stood motionless for a song that had no name, no human author, no category.
(Music students might have recognized it as Bach’s Art of Fugue.)
When the performance was over, Theo’s eyes stung and his ruddy cheeks were wet.
He returned to Pinh?o after those five days with ears full of Bach and a mind full of art. He had seen the wider world and knew there was much about it that moved his soul. His life, thereafter, was clearly delineated into Theo-before-Lisbon and Theo-after-Lisbon.
Back at home, there was little he could do to fan the spark that had awakened within him.
There were no libraries, no televisions, no radio, no phonographs, and no orchestra nearby.
Nonetheless, the spark never died and when he finally left his boyhood home, he made up for lost time.
Wherever he lived as an adult, he became a patron of the symphony, with a more than casual interest in the music he admired.
The lives of composers, the historical contexts in which they wrote, the structure of their compositions, the instruments that made the sounds, and the conductors who brought the sounds to life — Theo wanted to know it all.
For him, a concert was simply the final step in a long progression that included seed and forest, logger and craftsman, ink and paper, player and audience, mind and body, heart and soul, heaven and earth. Music was a microcosm. It was portraiture in sound.
No surprise then, that, while Theo was in Golden, a friendship between him and Simone sprang up from their common fondness for the cello.
During the school term, the young cellist was a regular face among Promenade pedestrians.
Once you learned Simone’s routine, you could almost set your watch by his morning stroll to class.
On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays during the semester, he would strap his cello on his back, leave his apartment, descend a flight of stairs, exit onto the sidewalk, and begin walking three blocks south to the music school, listing slightly forward, as if fighting a headwind, under the load he carried.
He took careful, deliberate steps, staying as close to the storefronts as possible to avoid unintentional collisions with other pedestrians.
His head was full of music as he walked.
He had the almond-shaped eyes, broad nose, and dimpled cheeks of his Samoan mother. The full head of dark, tightly curled hair, the coffee-brown skin, and the lean physique were traits of his Congolese father.
He was friendly and conversational if need be, and unafraid to meet the eyes of a stranger. But he was otherwise on the quiet, introverted side of the personality spectrum.
Each morning, he made a stop at the Chalice, where Shep or one of the other baristas, in anticipation of his arrival, stood ready to prepare a breve latte with a garnish of nutmeg.
Simone would navigate through the door, still fighting headwind, and take cautious steps to the counter at the back of the shop, mindful that an abrupt turn left or right might strike a chair, a table, or worse, a skull.
He would pay for his drink (student discount) and then slowly pivot to retrace his steps toward the exit and out to the sidewalk.
By eight fifteen, he would be sitting in the rehearsal studio, cello in place, when an equally punctual Professor Gobelli would enter the room for their one-hour, one-student class.
Simone had already completed an undergraduate degree at the state university in Washington by the time he came to Golden.
He had chosen U of G for further studies largely because of the venerable and celebrated professor and also because he was given a full scholarship with a stipend to do so.
He was a serious student with less concern for nightlife and city sizzle than for the purity of his craft.
Schools in Chicago, San Francisco, and Baltimore had all courted him for their graduate programs.
But only Golden had the renowned Gobelli.
Simone’s parents and family lamented his choice of school, given the distance it placed between him and them, but they understood his decision and were confident it was simply another step toward his eventual renown as a master cellist.
Peering into the rehearsal room on a typical day, one might see Simone’s strong hands dancing up and down the cello’s neck, his slender fingers sprinting from one note to another in obedience to whatever score was in front of him at the moment.
The good professor would listen, nod, compliment, and correct. He gave instruction with confidence that it would be accepted and acted upon.
After class, or whenever Simone returned home at day’s end, he walked a bit more leisurely than he did in the mornings.
It was on one such stroll, early in his first semester at U of G, that he met Tony the bookseller, a meeting that, like so many in the South, began with a moment of eye contact and a nod of the head.
A simple question was the pull that parted the curtains. “You a student?”
“Yep.”
“Well, then let me guess. Either you’re in the music school or you’re studying to be an astronaut, and that’s your spaceship on your back.”
Simone smiled broadly, dimples on full display. He was used to jokes about the cello.
In short order, Tony and Simone’s acquaintance grew into a friendship of sorts, nourished by frequent repartee and the occasional long conversation.
Tony was pleased that the young student was able to survive, maybe even enjoy, his humor. It was one of the things Simone mentioned most often in emails to his family.
Mom and Dad, I met a local guy who owns a bookstore near my apartment.
His name is Tony. He’s gruff but friendly, like Uncle Spoe.
He likes to tease me about being a classical musician.
He asked me this morning if a cello is like a big ukulele.
He called it a nuclear uke and then a nuke uke and then a uke on Viagra.
His store is called the Verbivore. When I asked him where the name came from, he recited a poem he’d written: “Herbivores eat Brussels sprouts, carnivores eat birds, cashivores eat dollar bills, and verbivores eat words.”
He likes to joke and play dumb, but I think he’s actually pretty bright.
Theo and Simone finally made an appointment to meet at the Chalice and talk music. It was a mid-afternoon, when the shop was quiet. After they each explained how they ended up in Golden, Theo asked Simone to tell him about his cello.
Simone was as happy to answer as Mr. Ponder had been when asked about the history of Ponder House.
“When I first started playing cello in high school, my music teacher found one that I was able to borrow for band class. I played it for three years, all through school. The neck was bent a little bit, so it was hard to keep in tune, and there was a crack along one of the seams at the top and side, but I didn’t mind.
I was still able to learn scales and fingering and basic technique on it.
“My parents couldn’t afford to buy one for me, so I worked and saved some money to buy one myself.
When I graduated from high school, I found one for twelve hundred dollars.
That one had some flaws, too, but it was a definite improvement.
When I auditioned at university for the orchestra, the professors all suggested I get a better instrument.
I wanted to, but I just couldn’t afford it.
“So, I kept using the one I had. When I had recitals or concerts, my professor would let me practice and perform with one of hers. I kept saving my money, but I knew it would be a while before I could buy a really good one. They’re pretty expensive, you know.”
Theo nodded. He knew very well.
“In my senior year at university, my grandmother died. My mother’s mother. She lived with us when I was growing up. I was really close to her. Most people thought I was crazy to study cello, but not her. She loved to hear me play, even when I was just beginning. Her ears were very kind.
“When she died, she left me some money. I didn’t think she had a thing in the world, but she had saved some money somehow.
She left it all to me with a note that said ‘Buy a cello, and play for the angels.’ It was almost fourteen thousand dollars.
I couldn’t believe it. I took the little bit I’d saved and put it all together and started looking for the cello of my dreams.
“It took a year, but I finally found it. Or it found me. My professor told me about it. There was a man who got Parkinson’s and couldn’t play it anymore, so he asked my professor if she knew anybody who would appreciate and take good care of it.
Lucky me. The man could have charged me three times what I paid for it.
So, Mr. Theo, I play an 1859 Kriner, from Munich. To me, it is a masterpiece.”
“It is a masterpiece,” Theo agreed. “So, let me guess. The top is made of spruce, and the sides, back, and neck are made of maple. The headstock is scrolled, similar to a Stradivarius, and is also made of maple. At low C, it makes the floor shiver.”
Simone grinned proudly. “All true. I’m impressed. How do you know so much about cellos? Do you play?”
“Ahh, I wish I could, but I leave that to artists like you. I have no talent for music, except to listen. But what one loves, one learns about. I am not sure why I love the cello so much, but I do. I once heard Casals play in Paris. I think I was never the same after that.”
“Really, you heard Casals? The Pablo Casals?
Theo nodded. “It was remarkable. Indescribable.”
“I first heard his recordings of the Bach Suite when I was in high school,” Simone said. “That’s what made me want to learn cello.”
Theo smiled. “And your bow? What type of bow do you use?”
“Well, I hope someday to own an Emil Werner, but for now I play with a DZ Strand, number 805. Ebony frog. Quad-A Mongolian horsehair. Twenty-eight point three inches long. Seventy-eight grams. Pirastro, medium rosin.”
Theo beamed. “Excellent! If I’m not mistaken, that one is made of Brazilwood, yes?”
Simone nodded. “Correct.”
Theo said, “Which means that since it comes from Brazil, it sings in Portuguese.”
It took a moment for Simone to understand Theo’s humor.
“I hope I will get to hear you and your cello perform someday.”
“That would be nice. When I first heard Professor Gobelli play it, I almost cried. I heard music and tones that I never knew were there. My grandmother would have been so happy to hear it. Ya’ know, my cello is sorta like a son or a daughter to me.
That’s why I carry it with me everywhere.
I don’t leave it at the school. This ‘hockey player,’ as Tony calls it, is my grandmother’s voice to me. ”
“And have you honored her request? Do you play for the angels?”
“I try.”
“And when is the next time you will play for humans?”
Simone told Theo of upcoming events: a quartet performance, a wedding, a concert of the university chamber orchestra.
He was also beginning to prepare for his recital the following spring.
That recital would be Simone’s last step before completion of his master’s degree.
It might also lead to the next step on his career path.
Representatives from symphonies around the country, at the invitation of Professor Gobelli, would be in attendance that night to assess Simone’s proficiency.
His focus and diligence, therefore, even this far in advance, were understandable.
The recital was almost a year away, but Theo made a mental note of the event.