Atwood hadn’t handled a lute since a class in Renaissance instruments during his college days. He received it gingerly, holding it in his two hands as if it were a baby. It was a beautiful instrument. The spruce sound board was unvarnished and had darkened a bit from its original white. The ribs of the bowl-shaped body gleamed with a satin patina. And the neck—now there was a joy. The neck was short and wide, supporting ten courses of two strings each. The head bent back from the neck at right angles. He plucked a string, and nodded at the sound. Not as deep and resonant as the guitar, but louder than he had thought it would be.
All in all, it was an excellent example of the luthier’s art. And it was a living instrument with signs of use on it, but nonetheless lovingly cared for. Veraldi’s pride in it was obvious.
“Very fine lute,” Atwood said, handing it back.
“Thank you,” came the response. “It was made for me by Master Matteo Sellas, of Venice. The Sellas family are the finest luthiers in Italy.”
“It is a fine instrument,” Atwood repeated. “Would you like to see the rest of mine?”
Veraldi nodded with eagerness, wiping his hands on his pants.
Atwood started pulling cases out of the stack and opening them up in the tables. “Steel string guitar, twelve string guitar, and of course,” opening the final case with a flourish, “the Gibson Les Paul electric guitar.”
His guest looked around with a dazed look on his face, not understanding what he was seeing.
“Sit, sit,” Atwood said, pointing to the stool. Veraldi sat. The up-timer picked up the classical guitar, and thought for a moment about what to play. After a moment, the perfect song came to him. He wrapped himself around the guitar, and played the opening bars to “Hotel California.”
Veraldi was intent, watching Atwood’s fingers, drinking in the sound. The delicate tapestry of the music wove through the air of the small room, seeming to bring light with it. Atwood stopped at the place where the vocals would have begun.
The Italian sighed. Then he pointed at the other instruments. “Please?”
Atwood smiled. “Sure.” He set the classical back in its case and picked up the steel-string guitar. He settled back onto the stool, then played the same piece of music. Veraldi’s eyes widened at the difference in timbre between the two instruments, so similar in size and shape.
The performance was repeated with the twelve-string guitar. This time Veraldi’s eyes closed, but Atwood could have sworn he saw the man’s ears twitching in time with the music. He smiled a little at the thought.
Once again the excerpt drew to a close. Atwood set the twelve-string back in its case and turned back to his guest.
“You will not play the other guitar?” Veraldi pointed to the Gibson.
“Later,” Atwood laughed. “That one takes a different song. But there is one more for you to see.” He closed a couple of cases, then set another on top of them and opened it. “This is a banjo.”
Atwood picked the banjo up and handed it to Veraldi, whose eyebrows immediately shot up to their limit at the sight of the round flat body. He turned it this way and that, peering at it closely as he took in all the details. After several minutes, Veraldi sat back. “I do not know what I expected to see, but it was not...this. This almost looks like the bastard child of a vihuela and a tambour.”
“You’re not far off,” Atwood laughed. He took the banjo back, and cradled it in his arms. He’d already decided what to play here, so he took off with “Herod’s Song” from Jesus Christ Superstar. The rollicking beat made it a fun song to play.
When he finished, he looked up to see Veraldi smiling. “Yes,” the Italian said, “that is what I heard through the radio in Magdeburg. That sound; that very unique sound. How can I get a banjo? I must take one back to Italy with me.”
“Well,” Atwood replied, “I won’t sell mine. And there’s not very many of them in Grantville. However, Ingram Bledsoe might have one or two. I’ll check with him tomorrow.”
“Then may I return tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, certainly. Say, middle of the afternoon.”
Veraldi stood from his stool and held out his hand. “I will return then,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Herr Cochran. It was very good to meet you.”
Atwood ushered his guest to the front door, where they shook hands again and exchanged good evenings.
“Well,” Lucille said, coming out of the dining room, “dinner’s ready. What did your Signor Veraldi want?”
“Mostly to talk about instruments,” Atwood said. “I have a feeling that we’re going to be seeing a lot more of him. I suspect he’s going to want to drain me dry of everything I can tell him.”
* * *
Giouan muttered to himself all the way back to the hotel. Mother of heaven, what he had just discovered. The banjo alone would be a prize to take back to Italy, but the up-time vihuelas! The sounds they could make. He knew he had had only a taste tonight. He must hear more. He must learn more. He must find a way to take these things home with him.
The next day, Sunday
Atwood opened the door. “Signor Veraldi, come in.” He led the way to the studio. He turned the stereo down, then waved at one stool as he took his seat on the other one. “So, how has your day been? What do you think about banjos now?”
“My day has been good,” Veraldi responded. “And I would very much like to have a banjo. Have you been able to speak to your friend Herr Bledsoe?”
“Yes, I have. The good news is that he has two banjos, a four-string and a five-string. He says he might be willing to sell the four-string. The bad news is it’s somewhat beat-up and he wants three hundred dollars for it.”
“Three hundred dollars.” Veraldi pulled at his mustaches. “How much is that in pfennigs or groschen?”
Atwood thought for a moment. “About a hundred and ninety pfennigs, maybe. You’d have to convert them at the bank to find out for sure.”
The Italian’s mouth twisted. “He is proud of his banjos, Herr Bledsoe is.”
“To be fair, I was surprised he had any. As of right now, I only know of four in the entire Ring of Fire. I have one, Bucky Buckner of the Old Folks Band has one, and Ingram has the other two. There might be one or two more in closets in town, but I wouldn’t count on it. Banjos weren’t very popular up-time. People thought they were hard to learn to play. Ingram’s going to keep one to be a model for the designers and workers in his factory, so that leaves exactly one to sell. I’m really surprised some musician hasn’t come along and bought it from him. If I had anybody wanting to learn banjo, it would probably have sold already.”
“You teach, then?” Veraldi cocked his head to one side.
“Oh, yeah.” Atwood laughed. “I teach music at the junior high school. I taught in another town before the Ring of Fire. Afterwards, it was just natural for me to keep teaching here. Plus I give lessons on guitar. Anybody under the age of thirty-five in this town who plays guitar probably learned from me. That’s why I have the studio.” He waved his hand around at the room.
Veraldi pulled at his moustaches some more. “Do you teach...older students?”
“Like yourself?”
Veraldi nodded.
“Sure. I once had a sixty-year-old grandmother who wanted to learn the guitar. I think I can teach you.” Atwood smiled, and saw it returned.
“How much do you charge?” Veraldi asked.
“Ten dollars for a half-hour lesson.”
Veraldi spent a moment in thought. “So, perhaps five pfennigs. And how many lessons could one such as I have during a week?”
“Well,” Atwood began, “I normally do one lesson a week for each student, but for you, at least two, maybe three, possibly even four. You would rate as a proficient student.”
“Thank you.” Veraldi frowned. “I would like lessons on both the banjo and the guitar. Please tell Herr Bledsoe that I would like to buy his banjo. I simply must determine how I can pay for it.”
Atwoo
d thought that if Veraldi didn’t stop pulling at his mustache, it was going to come out in his hands.
“Are there guitars that can be bought? Up-time guitars, here in Grantville?”
“Probably,” Atwood said. “I’ll look around for you. They’ll be easier to find than banjos, that’s for sure. Now, when do you want to do your lessons? Sunday and Wednesday night are out. I have commitments with the church and with the Voice of America Radio Network. Saturday I need for myself. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday or Friday, your choice.”
“Twice a week, you said,” Veraldi responded. “What about Monday and Thursday evenings, then?”
Atwood pulled out his schedule book. “That will work. What about seven in the evening both nights?”
Veraldi nodded.
“Good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night, and I should have something to tell you about guitars then as well.” Atwood looked up at the clock. “Oops. Gotta go. I need to get to the radio station. My program goes on in an hour.” He stood and shook hands with Veraldi.
* * *
Three hundred dollars! Giouan almost beat his head. That wouldn’t take all his money, but it would take enough that he wouldn’t be able to stay long in Grantville. If he took lessons as well, that would shorten the time available even more. But if he got the banjo, he would need the lessons in order to get the best out of the instrument.
Giouan walked along, kicking at rocks on the sidewalk. Three hundred dollars. One hundred and ninety pfennigs. He stopped, and took a deep breath. Did he want the banjo and the guitar if he could get them? Absolutely. That desire went to the bottom of his soul and curled around its foundations. The question now was how could he get everything he needed if he bought the instruments?
That question occupied his mind for hours that night. He wrestled with it non-stop—explored every possibility—and in the end there was one way he could think of, one path open to him: the last resort of any good musician. It tore at his heart, but he saw no other way to get what he wanted.
Monday
Atwood looked up from his guitar when Lucille ushered Veraldi into the studio. “Ah, good, right on time.” He continued playing until Veraldi sat on the stool opposite him, then set the guitar aside.
Veraldi looked like a wreck. There were deep bags under his eyes, which were bloodshot. From the looks of it, he was either hung over or he hadn’t had much sleep the night before.
“You’ve probably already learned that we Grantvillers are a pretty informal people,” Atwood began. “Since we’re going to be working together pretty closely for some time to come, I’d like you to call me At, and if I may I’ll call you John, which is what your name translates to in English. All right?”
Veraldi’s eyes opened wide. “That is...improper for a master and student.”
Atwood snorted. “I’m not a master, John. Oh, I’m a good guitarist, and a passable amateur singer, but I’m not a master, not in the sense of your meaning, and not in the standards of our people either. I’ll teach you as much as I can in the time that you have, okay? But leave that ‘master’ stuff out of it.”
“Okay,” Veraldi responded, “but if I call you Master At, please do not berate me. This is a hard habit to break.”
“I think I can live with that, John. So, where do you want to start?”
Veraldi swung his bag off of his shoulder. He held it in his hands for a long moment, then looked up at Atwood. After a hesitation, he said, “Master At, do you know anyone who would be willing to buy my lute?”
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.