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.
Veraldi’s skill progressed by the week, sometimes seemingly by the day. Atwood knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The man was an accomplished musician, after all. It was not long before he reached a level where Atwood wanted him to begin performing in public. He hinted at it, only to find his hints ignored. He put forward stronger hints. They were politely declined.
Atwood was bothered enough by this that one Thursday evening he forced Veraldi to accompany him to the Thuringen Gardens.
“Here, take this.” Atwood placed a mug of wine in the Italian’s hand. “Let’s find some place to sit down.”
They wandered through the Gardens, looking for chairs, but the place was busy. It wasn’t until Marcus Wendell hailed them that they found seats at the table he was sharing with Giacomo Carissimi.
Atwood had seen to it that the two Italians had been introduced some time ago. Even in Sweden Veraldi had heard of the composer, and he had been very glad of the introduction. They chattered back and forth for a few minutes while Marcus and Atwood discussed a school program. The two conversations dwindled down at about the same time, and Atwood seized the opportunity.
“John…”
Veraldi hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of wine and set his mug on the table, looking to Atwood with expectation.
“John, you know you’re doing well. You’ve learned a lot of notes in the last few weeks. I think you’re ready to play some of that music in public. You could play with some of the other musicians here in town. You could even play here in the Gardens and make some more money to pay for your stay. But every time I mention it, you put me off. Why?”
Veraldi said nothing for a long moment, just looked down at his mug and ran his finger around the rim over and over. “Master At,” he said finally, looking up, “the fourth day I was in Grantville, I went to the library. When the attendant asked what I was looking for, I gave him my name and told him that I wanted to know what the books from the future said about me. Several hours later, I had my answer.” He lifted his hand from the mug and snapped his fingers. “Nothing. To the future, I am nobody, nothing. I, Giouan Battista Veraldi, who have played before kings and been rewarded by them, I am not worthy even to be mentioned in any of the books of the future.”
Atwood watched as Veraldi resumed circling the rim of the mug with his finger. “I already had my guitar and banjo by then. But that night I resolved that the future that was would not be repeated. I will be more than a memory that fades from the air when the people who know me die. So my plans take on more urgency-I will take the banjo and the up-time guitar to Venice.”
“Venice, huh?” Atwood responded. “What’s in Venice?”
“ Maestro Monteverdi, and Maestros Matteo and Giorgio Sellas, the leading composer and luthiers in Venice, in all of Italy. To them I will bring what I have learned, in the hopes that they will take that knowledge and advance the cause of music in Italy. I will beg Maestro Monteverdi to take up the banjo, to write music for it that will catch the ears of the patrons and make a place for me. To the Sellas family, I will offer the opportunity to measure and analyze the instruments, to make more and make them popular. I will go down in history as the man who brought the banjo to Italy, maybe even to the world.”
Atwood could see Carissimi nodding. He understood what his countryman was saying. “Okay, I can understand that. But what does that have to do with not playing here in Grantville?”
“I am a professional musician, Master At. Setting aside all humility, I am probably the best performer in Grantville right now.”
“Right now,” Marcus interjected, “that’s true, but only because our best performers have moved to Magdeburg.”
Veraldi made a seated bow to the band director. “Yes, I know, but my point is not that Grantville is deficient in performers, but rather that I am very proficient. I do not need the practice of performing in public. I have been a performer for well-nigh thirty years now. I know how to perform. Nor do I need the practice of performing with other performers. Again, that has been part of my life for thirty years.
“What I need to be is focused. What I need to be is committed. What I need to be is single-minded. I will learn everything I can possibly learn in the time I have left. If I take an hour to perform here at the Gardens, then with the time to walk here and walk back, the time to talk to others, the time I would spend in preparing myself for the performance, I would lose at least three hours. That is enough time to learn over a minute’s worth of music. I begrudge that time. I will not spend it thus. And I will especially not repeatedly spend it thus.”
Atwood absorbed everything his student had said. “But can you learn what you need without having to earn extra money?”
“I think so. If not…” A very Italian shrug. “…I will do my best.”
Maestro Carissimi leaned forward. “Master Atwood, you will not change his mind. I recognize this…mind-set, I believe the word is. It would take an act of God to bend him from his purpose.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Atwood said. He turned back to Veraldi. “John, from now on, no payments for your lessons.”
“But Master At,” Veraldi exclaimed. “It is not right to do this. The master is worthy of his fees.”
Atwood laid his hand on the table, palm up. “I don’t teach guitar and banjo to make money. Truth is, most of the time I’d be happy to do it for nothing, just to watch kids learn to play and know that I had a hand in it. But I have to charge something, or they won’t think the lessons are worth anything. So I set the fees just high enough to make the kids feel like the lessons are worthwhile, and to make them work at it because they’re paying for it.
“But you, you’re the kind of student every teacher wants to have, a talented student who wants to learn. So think of it as my contribution to your dream. Who knows, those few dollars may just make the difference in you achieving your goal.”
“Your master gives you a gift, Signor Veraldi,” Carissimi said. “Be gracious in your acceptance of it.”
Veraldi stood and made a formal bow. “As you say, Master Atwood, so shall it be.”
“I have a gift as well,” Carissimi added. “When you are ready to leave, advise me, and I shall give you a letter of introduction to Maestro Monteverdi.”
Veraldi stammered. “Th-thank you, Maestro Carissimi. That is very generous of you, and will be of inestimable value to me.”
Carissimi waved a hand. “It is nothing, mere words on paper. If it helps you on your way, it is worth it. But see here,” he pointed a finger at Veraldi, “if, despite the generosity of Master Atwood, you find yourself short of silver, come to me. You are from Venice, I am from Rome, but we are both Italians, and we must stick together in these cold northern countries, eh?”
The evening ended in a round of laughter.
More time passed. Atwood, true to his word, made no more attempts to get Veraldi to play in public. And he was also true to his word in that he refused to accept lesson fees from his student, even though Veraldi tried to press them on him several times.
It was both inspiring and humbling to watch Veraldi, Atwood decided. He had never personally worked that hard at anything, not even when he was in the air force orchestra with a solo in an upcoming concert tour. The only person he’d ever seen work as hard as Veraldi was one semester when he was an undergraduate-he’d had a friend who was a Ph. D. candidate who had both a dissertation defense and a doctoral level recital scheduled in the same semester. He swore the man lived on coffee that semester. He knew he lost enough weight that he looked unhealthy.