Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 54

The second half of the recital began with a hauntingly beautiful, even mournful, evocation of a Bohemian forest, Dvořák’s “Lasst Mich Allein.” Simone was joined again by Dr. Takai.

Dear old Theo closed his eyes to listen to the music. And to ponder.

Was it a winter forest that Dvořák had in mind? Was the sun breaking through clouds? Was the composer alone? Walking? Standing still?

Four minutes and ten seconds of sublime beauty.

Other selections, heartfelt and technically precise, completed the second half of the recital, concluding with a melody that fell like a benediction over the room, a duet with Dr. Takai of the “Carnival of the Animals; the Swan,” by Camille Saint-Saëns.

Simone played the final note, dropped his head, let his body relax, looked up with a smile, and stood for yet another bow and a wave of applause.

In response, he applauded the audience, as best as he could while holding a cello and bow in his hands. He nodded to Theo and friends and then left the stage. The crowd remained in place, applause undiminished, and began to call for an encore. Such a call was perfunctory for student recitals, but they were not always obliged.

Simone had played all the songs listed on the printed program. He had done what was required of him, and, in light of the mental, physical, and emotional workout of his performance, he would have been within his rights to remain backstage and hurry home. Once the evening’s adrenaline wore off, he would feel the exhaustion of recent long days.

But return to the stage he did, smiling broadly.

He had removed his tuxedo jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He motioned for the audience to be seated.

“It is unusual for a recitalist to speak,” he said once the room was quiet, “but I’ve been given permission by the faculty to do so. I would like to introduce the next song and to thank you for requesting an encore. I don’t know what I would have done if you had simply left the room, since I’ve really looked forward to playing this final piece. Thank you. But actually, I think I would have played it anyway.”

Laughter.

“This last song is an original composition. I have learned in recent months that there is a song tradition in Portugal called ‘fado’ music. It is a genre that dates back at least to the early nineteenth century in Lisbon. In some ways, stylistically, it is like American folk ballads or even some types of country music. Think George Jones and the Grand Ole Opry. The songs can be about anything, but they often have sad tunes and lyrics. One source says they are ‘infused with a sentiment of resignation, fatefulness, and melancholia,’ the perfect sort of song to end the night with, right?”

More laughter.

“Fado is usually played on Portuguese guitar, classical guitar, and a four-string version of acoustic bass called Viola Baixo. And there is always a vocalist.

“I would like to end the night with a song called ‘Fado for Theo,’ written for my dear friend from the Douro River Valley of northern Portugal.”

Simone turned his full attention to a beaming face with quivering lips. Theo was visibly touched, teary, and surprised. He knew now perhaps how recipients of his bestowals felt .

Unconscious that he was even doing so, he reached for Ellen’s hand on his right and Lamisha’s on his left.

“I offer this song as a gift of thanks for the many kindnesses my dear friend has shown me in the past year,” Simone continued.

He held up his Pernambuco bow horizontally, obviously wanting the audience to know it was at least one of the kindnesses he had in mind.

“Of course, to be fado, I need guitar and vocals. And so, I’d like to introduce and welcome my co-writers and collaborators, Basil Cannonfield and Kendrick Whitaker.”

Applause.

Basil and Kendrick made the short walk forward and took their places beside Simone. The magic of surprise was palpable up and down rows E and F, especially on Lamisha’s nine-year-old face.

The three musicians positioned themselves close together, the better to hear one another and to blend their voices.

Looking toward the stage, the audience beheld Kendrick on the left and slightly in front of the other two, Basil in the center, and Simone, still seated, on the right.

The contrast among them is striking.

Stocky and muscular, short black hair with a sheen, deep dark eyes. Gray dress suit and lipstick-red shirt, shiny light-gray pointed dress shoes.

Tall and lanky; long, shaggy blonde hair; blue eyes. Denim shirt (starched), dark vest, dark jeans, and brown leather ankle boots.

Medium and graceful; a wiry tangle of tight, inky black curls; deep brown almond eyes. Sweaty tuxedo.

A custodian. A busker. A virtuoso.

“Now, if we are to be criticized or faulted by any fado purists in the room tonight, it could be on grounds that our song is not sad enough. Please forgive us. We tried to write something thoroughly depressing, but we might have failed. If you know Theo, sadness is not the first word that comes to mind when you think of him. Any good performer saves the best for last. We hope you enjoy ‘Fado for Theo.’”

Basil counted in the song. “One, two, a one, two, three, four.”

Even the most cultured and sophisticated members of the audience could not resist smiling, tapping their feet, and leaning in when the unlikely trio began the tribute to their mutual friend.

It was not the sort of song one typically heard on a recital stage. But after such a riveting and masterful performance of his formal program, Simone had earned the opportunity to play something for the common man. And for no small number in the room, “Fado for Theo” was the most accessible of the renditions played that night as well as the musical highlight of the show.

It was certainly that for Theo.

Again the audience rose to its feet, cheering, as Basil, Kendrick, and Simone stood close together and took a collective bow.

Before the applause died down, Professor Gobelli entered through the stage door. A student also came from backstage to relieve Simone of his cello. Basil and Kendrick returned to their seats.

The professor cleared his throat and said, “I have attended many recitals over the years, and I have played in hundreds of concerts. I think you will agree that tonight has been truly a night for the ages. And while we have departed a bit from the way we usually do things, we have celebrated music — the writing of it, the performing, the listening, the sharing, and the enjoyment of it.

“Simone, thank you, for honoring our department and for giving us such a memorable experience this evening. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that you earned a passing grade.”

The audience chuckled.

“One more thing remains to be done. And for that, I invite Mr. Theo to the stage.”

Theo rose and made his way to the stage. He hugged Simone, whispered something in his ear, and then turned to face the audience .

“Simone, for us all, I say thank you. When you told me many months ago you were preparing for a recital, I could not have imagined this night.

“I would make mention that it is a great misfortune your father and mother are not here to witness your performance in person. I would make mention of it if it were true, but thankfully that is not the case. Mr. and Mrs. Lavoie, would you like to join us here, please?”

As the room buzzed with surprise, Simone saw movement in the shadows of the balcony. It dawned on him that his parents had been there for the entire evening.

They walked forward. Welcoming applause and warm embraces met them at the stage before Theo spoke again.

He addressed the small audience as if he were addressing royalty. And in his mind, he was.

“It is customary to honor great musicians and artists at the end of their careers, sometimes even years or decades after they have gone silent. That custom often includes the presentation of a portrait. Tonight we will reverse the order of things, and rather than wait till the end of what is certain to be a career of excellence and accomplishment, we,” Theo gestured to the row of his friends from the Promenade, “would like to bestow a small measure of honor, and a portrait, on our dear friend Simone.”

Asher walked forward and stepped up beside Simone, draping his arm across the young cellist’s shoulder. Two students entered from backstage. One set up an easel, onto which the other placed the portrait, covered by a blue drape.

Theo turned to Simone’s parents and spoke directly to them: “I know what it is to love a child and to want, above all else in life, that they be good and wise and happy. In honoring your son tonight, we also honor you. It is written somewhere that ‘most people die with all of their songs still inside them.’ Thank you for protecting Simone from that terrible fate. Because of you, he blesses us. ”

Theo turned toward the easel.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Maestro Simone.”

Asher very gently — this was his recital, too, in a sense — unveiled the portrait.

It was drawn in various grades of dark graphite and white charcoal on gray paper, mounted beneath a two-inch white matte and held in a black frame with gold beading and raised edges. It was rendered from a photograph obtained by Professor Gobelli at Asher’s request.

Simone had clearly not been striking a pose for a camera when the photograph was taken. He was lost in whatever song he was playing at that moment, eyes half open and relaxed, dreamily so, as if in a spell.

If his countenance were indicative of the selection he was playing, one would likely guess the song was pastoral, slow, melodic.

The portrait was rendered as a long rectangle, twice as wide as it was high. It featured Simone’s face and his left hand on the cello’s neck, just inches from the headstock. His right arm, only partially visible, was extended for a draw of the bow on the left side of the portrait.

Theo announced that the portrait would be shipped to the home of Simone’s parents. Mrs. Lavoie clasped her hands over her heart in gratitude. It would take a sizable section of wall space to accommodate so large a frame. No one doubted she would find room for it.

Finally, the recital was a fait accompli .

The audience, in no hurry, trickled out of the hall. Friends and faculty stood in a reception line to admire the portrait and congratulate Simone.

After a while, only his parents, and those who had been sitting in rows E and F remained.

They were a striking assortment of humanity, brought together by admiration for the young musician. Theo moved among them like a proud father. Simone graciously received a steady flow of compliments. Eventually, the Promenadeans were herded out of the room together.

Lamisha glanced over her shoulder at the overhead lamps as the security guard turned them off. She imagined all of those notes in hiding up there somewhere.

Simone excused himself briefly to secure the cello in his instrument locker. Once he rejoined the others, they walked en masse to the Chalice, where coffee and celebratory cake, in the shape of a cello, awaited them, compliments of Shep and Addie.

After an hour or so, members of the party began to take their leave, each with mind and heart full. They all had lots to talk about on the way home.

Ellen rode away on the Noble Invention, her blue hat bobbing like a cork on a fish pond as she moved up the Promenade.

As he walked to Ponder House alone, Theo thought to himself, I have tasted heaven .

Before he fell asleep that night, he relived the day in his mind. This might well have been the happiest day of my life. Thank you, Sir. Thank you .

Simone walked his parents to their nearby hotel. He and they moved as ones in a dream, elation in every step.

Simone stayed with them well past midnight, answering questions and telling stories about his Golden friends. He was delighted at this unexpected reunion with his parents, and pleased at the prospect of giving them a proper tour of Golden the next day.

Eventually, exhaustion weighed on his eyelids.

He kissed his parents goodnight and walked into the familiar nocturnal quiet of Broadway.

He stopped by the school to retrieve his cello before walking slowly home for much-needed and well-deserved sleep.

He hummed as he walked. Fado for Theo. Such a wonderful occasion.

“A night for the ages.”