The Blue Guitar Read online

  Praise for Exile

  “Exile hinges on a brave and clever conceit: What if an advocacy group rescued the wrong dissident? … There are a number of ironies author Ann Ireland could have overworked in this novel, and few would have complained, given the strength of dialogue, pacing and description. Instead she spaces her moments of revelation and insight, her writing an exemplar of restraint and confidence.”

  — Toronto Star

  “Ireland’s writing has remarkable humour, and gentle but unshying insight into character. As a past president of PEN, no doubt she’s heard tales to make one shudder…. The consequent unravelling of his [Carlos’s] Canadian experience makes for an unusual and often delightful portrait of an artist-in-exile who’s a kind of literary Homer Simpson.”

  — Globe and Mail

  “Exile is a tour de force. I haven’t been so amused and appalled by a fictional character since reading Vladimir Nabokov’s Pnin…. To see ourselves as others see us is a gift indeed.”

  — Hamilton Spectator

  Praise for The Instructor

  “Scrupulous, vivid detailing of emotion, compulsion, struggle — bloody awful old love…. It’s chilling, the way you feel the artist in her, not just the women, going under. The huge disparity between what one lover is ready to give and the other is able to take — when you realize what her role in his life is and his in hers — that’s to me the real discovery. And that’s when the story transcends this story, these particular people. It doesn’t say, ‘Good thing she got away from that asshole, about time she figured him out’ in the standard, boring feminist style. It says something like, ‘Look — this is how we are, this is how we live.’”

  — Alice Munro

  “… a brilliant study of power and obsession in a relationship.”

  — Quill & Quire

  Praise for A Certain Mr. Takahashi

  “On a surface level, this is a fine and entertaining piece of work. A Certain Mr. Takahashi is humorous and compassionate, funny and sad. Beneath the surface, this is a serious book, presenting an inventive perspective on fantasy and obsession as an entry to the world. Winner of the 1985 Seal First Novel Award, Ann Ireland has made an exciting and accomplished debut with this book.”

  — San Francisco Chronicle

  “… this is a work of the highest literary merit, simply and cleanly written, yet complex in its implications.”

  — Calgary Herald

  To dear Berkeley friends

  Acknowledgements

  I interviewed several eminent classical guitarists during my research for this novel. Big thanks to Denis Azabagić, Peter McCutcheon, Lily Afshar, Anna Graham, and especially Steve Thachuk, who is a patient and inspiring teacher, top-notch guitarist, and pretty funny, too. These musicians are in no way responsible for what I did with their stories and information.

  I am grateful to the Canada Council of the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for financial help.

  Thank you Jenny Munro and Tim Deverell for your close readings and helpful feedback along the way.

  They said, “You have a blue guitar,

  You do not play things as they are.”

  The man replied, “Things as they are

  Are changed upon the blue guitar.”

  — WALLACE STEVENS, “THE MAN WITH THE BLUE GUITAR”

  Prologue

  Eleven years ago Toby Hausner was the one to beat. If you’d seen him stride onstage, shaking those blond dreadlocks, guitar tucked under one arm like a surfboard, you would have felt the confidence blow off him, scary yet tantalizing. The spotlight held his form as he made his way to centre stage to the simple bench waiting there and the custom footstool. The old hall smelled like socks and mould after a solid week of rain.

  He plunked himself down after a quick bow, then swung the guitar onto his lap and tuned while staring, eyes shut, into the spotlight. Not a hint of impatience stirred the audience. Hadn’t everyone been talking about this kid all week, noting his intense focus mixed with a joy of performing, unusual in one so young? Much was made of his rolled-up trousers and bare feet. Toby claimed that his body was a vibratory presence and must connect directly, flesh to floorboards, to create an acoustic chamber.

  Whispers crested through the auditorium as he wiped each palm on his trousered knees. Huddled at the back of the hall were his colleagues, musicians from around the world who had been eliminated from earlier rounds of the competition. They sat forward on their seats, knowledge and nerves burning off them.

  Near to the front was the row of judges, clipboards in hand. This was what they’d been waiting for all week: one final chance to be dazzled and moved. If this barefoot kid played the way he did in the semis, he’d walk off with the grand prize and an international career would be launched.

  Toby’s elegant hands wrapped around the instrument, and as he raised his fingers over the sound hole, he let out an audible exhalation of air. When a person dies, they may sigh deeply at the end. So it went for Toby.

  He began to play but it soon became clear that something was wrong. The judges squinted at their programs in the dark: allegedly the boy was playing Scarlatti, but this was not what they were hearing. Something more full-throttle and dissonant coasted through the hall, something improvisatory, no known composer, light-years from Baroque mode. Toby’s upper body bobbed up and down, and his mouth moved with each twinge of phrase. He was certainly enjoying himself up there, ripping through weird chord sequences and arpeggios, and despite their horror, no one stopped listening or watching, any more than you’d take your eyes off a kid tumbling from an open window.

  This happened in Paris — some stage for a meltdown.

  One

  Pamela frowns over her bifocals and makes that scratchy noise in her throat that drives Toby nuts. Very slim and brittle, she glares at the manuscript page on her music stand as if the notes were in a foreign language. Toby taps his baton on the side of his own stand.

  “Let’s jump in at bar twelve, kids,” he says. “Right after the key change.”

  This reference to “kids” is a joke, given that the members of Guitar Choir are all at least a dozen years older than Toby and a couple are pushing sixty.

  “Twelve?” Pamela repeats, eyes widening. “Twelve?” she says again, sounding mystified by the request.

  Toby wonders if she’s growing deaf, something that happens to people as they get on in life. He feels a spurt of impatience but fends it off, and instead starts to sing her part, tapping out the beat. At the same time he glances at the wall clock — nearly 4:00 p.m. Soon the after-school crowd will blow in, snapping basketballs in the upstairs gym. This church is multi-use, and Guitar Choir shares space with AA and a Montessori preschool.

  The amateur musicians scramble through the passage and onto the next. Their instruments sound a bit like balalaikas, plinking away. Finally, Bill, a retired fireman, cries in recognition, “It’s a Beatles medley!”

  Indeed it is — eight songs sewn into a cunning five-minute package by Toby.

  “Don’t forget the Parkdale Community Centre concert in two weeks,” Toby reminds them, and they yelp with excitement before coming to a ragged halt.

  Then Pamela repeats, “Two weeks?” and lifts her glasses, indicating this is news to her.

  Toby tugs his jeans over his narrow hips and inhales deeply. Last night was ball hockey, and he feels it in his upper arms and left shin, where someone nailed him with a stick blade. Then there were the half-dozen post-game beers, and didn’t they end up at The Duke singing Broadway tunes?

  “That’s right,” he says brightly. ‘Where were we? Bar forty-something.”

  “Forty-three,” Bill supplies.

  Toby runs a hand through what’s left of his hair and gives Pamel
a a meaningful look. “Note that second guitars enter a bar later.”

  She actually smiles, that strained face pleased to be recognized.

  The choir chugs on, tight with concentration while Toby keeps the beat and cues entrances. Tom, who rarely gets the rhythm right, is lagging on “Norwegian Wood” while the others trot into “The Long and Winding Road.” Toby sings his part, coaxing him back into the fold. For a few lines everything goes smoothly. It is one of those moments where effort turns into music, and they feel it, hardly dare to hope it will continue.

  It is Matthew, the lawyer, who breaks the spell.

  “Someone’s out of step!” he protests, and the group staggers to a halt again.

  “Don’t quit!” Toby pleads. He continues to wave his baton, but it’s no use. They sit in silence, a dozen grizzled faces staring at him, waiting for guidance.

  “Quitting might be the advisable position,” Matthew says, leaning back in his chair and cradling his instrument.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Pamela asks.

  Matthew doesn’t answer right away. Instead he tilts his head and looks into the distance before answering, “The Beatles. Is this what we want to play?”

  Here goes. About twice a year Matthew likes to cause trouble. Last time it was over seating arrangements; another time he got the idea they should all use the same kind of strings, the most expensive ones available.

  “I’m not fond of what happens when classical players get hold of pop music,” Matthew adds.

  Toby secretly agrees with this, but still feels a flare of irritation. He’d been so sure they would love playing the songs of their youth.

  There is a short, tense silence, then Toby jumps in, tapping the stand with his baton. “Where do we pick it up?” he asks cheerily.

  “Sixty-four,” someone says.

  “Sixty-seven,” another disagrees. “Didn’t we begin ‘Strawberry Fields?’”

  Matthew is mumbling something about copyright issues. Do they even have the right to sample these tunes?

  Finally, the group settles back into playing and makes it to the next transition, an upbeat version of “A Day in the Life” where again they falter.

  Pamela says in a tragic tone, “This arrangement is blisteringly hard.” She’s been a member of Guitar Choir since day one and organizes the annual fundraiser. As she looks around, anticipating agreement, her seatmate, Bert, ventures, “Not so hard if you count carefully.”

  Pamela snaps back, “Perhaps if you quit tapping your foot on the offbeat —”

  Matthew says in a tone of laboured patience, “Counting is not the only issue here.”

  “Well, genius boy?” Pamela says, looking back at Toby. This term has begun to sound sardonic over the years. “We could perform the trusty Albéniz instead,” she adds, waiting for the others to support this idea.

  They squirm in their chairs; everyone is a little scared of Pamela. The Albéniz features her seven-bar solo, which she plays meticulously and without a shred of musical expression.

  “I’m with Matthew,” Tristan pipes up from the back row. He’s pastor of some weird church in the city’s east end. “Let’s get back to real music.”

  Toby collapses his arms to his sides. “I thought you’d get a kick out of playing these songs.” His lower back is killing him; Jasper promised to hire a Korean girl to walk up and down his spine.

  “We do,” Pamela says, sensing Toby’s mood. “It’s always like this. We flounder, we work, and we eventually succeed.”

  “Do you think we’re getting noticeably better?” Tristan asks plaintively.

  “Of course,” Toby says, but hears his voice sounding less than convinced. It’s a good question: are they better? They seem to have plateaued. Guitar Choir began nine years ago, beginning as a sort of therapy for him after the Paris incident.

  “Because this is the high point of my week,” Tristan says.

  Everyone chimes agreement.

  Toby feels something melt inside him.

  “If we continue another nine years, we’ll have to rename ourselves the Choir of the Ancients,” Matthew says, waiting for the titter of laughter.

  “You’ll never leave us, will you?” Bert asks.

  They all stare at Toby, waiting for his answer. But he’s not speaking. Instead he’s feeling one of those strange episodes where his sense of smell turns aggressive, wave upon wave of odours, Play-Doh and cleanser, vinyl mats rolled up in the corner, and something else that he can’t pin down. It seems to radiate from his own body, acidic and nasty.

  “Toby? You okay?”

  It’s Denise, the pretty one, younger than the rest. She tips her guitar against her chair and darts up, sliding a hand over his wrist as he stands there, swaying from side to side. He must have dropped his baton. He heard it fall, a clatter of fibreglass against tile.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  His lips are suddenly parched. “Please,” he croaks, lowering himself onto the stool, legs dangling. The women scurry about as he unzips his leather jacket and loosens his collar. He hasn’t felt this claustro in years. Is that his heart ping-ponging inside his chest? Tiny points of light hit his retina, and he shakes his head.Whoa, bad idea: the room swims by.

  Denise presses a glass of water into his hands, and he sips gratefully. Whiff of chlorine and fluoride.

  “Know something, gang,” he says after a minute. “I may have to call it quits today.”

  “Of course,” Denise agrees, squeezing his shoulder.

  “How will you get home?” someone asks. They know he doesn’t drive.

  “I’ll run him back,” Denise offers.

  “No, let me,” Pamela says, popping her guitar in her case. “Don’t you have to pick up your kids?”

  Should have eaten a proper lunch, Toby thinks crossly. No more hot dogs grabbed off a street vendor: sunk by fat and carbs. He drains the water glass, and gradually the room rights itself. His jacket, now gathered on his lap, smells like a stable. They all stare at him, faces pinched with concern. He manages a smile. “I’m feeling better.” It’s true. The heightened senses have begun to settle down.

  They aren’t convinced but soon chatter as if it were a normal break period. Tristan offers to go out and fetch coffee; someone else shows off a new digital tuner. Toby feels heat evaporate off his skin.

  Matthew approaches, speaking in his plummy trial lawyer’s voice: “You were quite correct in insisting that we finish playing the piece before making any decision. I suggest holding off our vote.” He leans over. “On a different topic, I understand there’s an international guitar competition coming up in Montreal.”

  “Right you are,” Toby says.

  The room falls nearly silent.

  “Any thoughts of entering?”

  Toby lets out a jittery laugh. “Last time didn’t go so well for me.”

  They all know the story: breakdown, drawn-out recovery, and no public performances since.

  “Don’t pressure him,” Denise warns.

  “I don’t mind,” Toby says. “In fact, I’m flattered.”

  “You are one hell of a musician,” Pamela says.

  They have gathered in a semicircle.

  “You don’t walk into these things after a decade off performing,” he reminds them.

  “You play for us all the time,” Pamela points out.

  That’s true. He always rips off a piece or two for them at the end of each session. And when they perform at the old folks’ home or community centre, he’s liable to turn a short solo somewhere in the program.

  Tristan re-enters the room, carrying a tray of coffee and a box of assorted Timbits, which he lays on the table.

  Eyeing these, Toby says, “A new generation’s come up since me.”

  “One needn’t win these things,” Matthew says, “in order to make an impact.”

  What they don’t know is that Toby checked the competition website last month and brushed up on the compulsory pieces, two
of which he’d played in recital years ago. He studies the group for a moment, noting their eager faces, understanding that they see him as a kind of secret weapon they’ve been holding on to all these years. Maybe he sees himself the same way.

  Toby pulls his guitar onto his lap and tunes while Guitar Choir members grab coffees and find their seats. He waits, as he’s taught them to do, for the room to quiet down. Anticipation creates the silent beats before music begins.

  “You’re not going home?” Pamela asks, puzzled by the change in plan.

  Toby nods “no” while others shush her.

  Hands hovering over the strings, he lowers his eyes, then unrolls the opening arpeggio, launching into a neo-classical sonata, pure juicy pleasure, each phrase ducking into the next, the rise and fall of breath twinned to the cadence of sound. The piece is in his hands, has been since he was a teenager. A relief to send it into the world again.

  Hardly pausing, he wipes his palms and starts the second piece of the compulsory program, this one a lush Spanish waltz, direct from Andalusia. He ignores the snap of basketballs overhead as the teenagers arrive. Not too fast, for a waltz is graceful, lifting off the third beat.

  “Well done,” Matthew booms, but he’s too soon, for Toby isn’t finished yet.

  Their parking meters have expired, kids need to be picked up from school, and someone has a dental appointment, but no one leaves, no one dares.

  The third piece is a tricky tour de force he learned at age seventeen. It’s sewn into his mind; he could play its stampeding runs in his sleep — and has. He holds it now as a living creature, both tame and wild.

  The last note rings a full four beats, then fades to a dot on the horizon. Toby lifts his head and exhales, thrusting his shoulders back. Glance at the clock; he’s been playing for twenty-five minutes.

  No one applauds at first, then an amazing thing happens: each member of Guitar Choir rises and claps.

  Toby feels his whole body vibrate, the residue of performance clinging to his skin.