#ChallengeAccepted - 2nd Place

Love at First Sight

Written by Rosemary Stride

____

The bowl gleams, ribs curving expectantly towards the fine-grained soundboard; a dark neck stretches out across the forest-green velvet on which the instrument reclines. I can’t take my eyes off it. My fingers ache to stroke its silky contours, depress the strings against the ebony fingerboard, bring the lute to life.

      The price tag snaps my reverie. Weekend shifts at the coffee shop won’t finance such indulgences. My meagre savings are being put aside for university next year. I try being stern with myself: tell myself my classical guitar is quite good enough for the Senior Music and Drama performance. But, but, but. That lute’s beautiful. It couldn’t sound anything but enchanting. And no one else has one. Most of the class wouldn’t know what it was. Until last school holidays, nor would I.  

      We were visiting relatives in Canberra when my parents spotted a flyer for a concert by the Song Company and an English lutenist called Nigel North. It was a revelation. I loved the Renaissance music, especially the pieces by John Dowland. The clarity of the notes, underpinned by a delicate resonance, delighted me. By the end of the evening I was hooked. One day, I promised myself, I’d learn to play the lute.

Feste, the clown dressed in motley, court jester in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night is my allotted role. I’m one of several. Each of us will sing a song from the play and accompany him or herself. It’s our final music assessment — vital that I do well if I’m to get into the Conservatorium next year. My performance needs to stand out.  

      When we draw straws for the songs I get lucky. I draw the one that closes the play — When that I was and a little tiny boy. I’ll have the stage to myself and the choice of setting is mine. Numerous tunes have been used in the four hundred years since the bard wrote the words, and the original music has been lost. My teacher suggests I might like a modern setting. I don’t. I want to sound authentic. I want something I could accompany on a lute. But that is to be a surprise.

      The instrument’s dark pegboard beckons as I pass on my way home the following week. And this time I notice the rose. It’s a Celtic knot design, a symbol of eternity, of unending love. So apt.

      “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

      I jump. The shopkeeper’s been watching me from his door.

      “Love the wood. That dark honey with a pattern through it. What is it?”

      “Figured maple. Birdseye pattern.”

      “Spruce soundboard?”

      “Yes. Fine-grained. Good resonance.”

      “Attractive contrast with the maple and the dark neck.”

      “Black walnut that.” He puts out his hand. “Tom Davies.” His grip belies his years.

      “Nick Morgan.”

      “How d’you know about lutes?”

      “Heard one a few months back. Been wanting to learn ever since. I play guitar but the lute sounds better.”

      Mr Davies’ white moustache crinkles. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I sell all sorts of string instruments, old and new, and do repairs. But I’m with you, Nick. Lutes are special. Don’t often get them though. Certainly not ones as lovely as that. It’s Renaissance style with six courses.”

      “Where’d it come from?”

      “Elderly gentleman had it custom-made for his wife. She was ill. They’d met doing Renaissance literature at university, and both had roles in one of Shakespeare’s plays. The old guy said she fell in love with the music before she even looked at him. But he only got to play it for her once or twice before she passed away.”

      “For the rain it raineth every day.”

      Mr Davies’ eyebrows shoot up.

      “It’s a line from a song in Twelfth Night,” I explain. “Says life’s always a mix of happy and sad. Like your story.”

      He smiles as I describe my role and how I need it to be special.

      “Come back on Friday, Nick. I’ve an idea.”

      The week drags. I use the time memorising the lyrics, adding and re-adding every dollar and cent I have, hoping to come up with a larger figure. My parents nag: I’m distracted, not answering questions, forgetting things. Dad decides I’m in love. I am. Just not the sort he has in mind.  

      On Friday, Mr Davies is waiting.   

      “Come in, Nick. No customers. You’re not disturbing anything.”

      He ushers me towards the back of the shop, past violins, violas, cellos, double basses. Right at the back I spot a mandolin and several brightly coloured ukuleles. Children’s instruments.

      “I see you cater for everyone, Mr. Davies, but I don’t see any other lutes.” He chuckles and pulls back a curtain behind the counter.

      “Voilà!” On his workbench lie two, big-bellied lutes. “Had these a while. Pegs need replacing. They get out of shape after a while, which makes tuning difficult. No match for the beauty in the window, but I’d be happy to teach you on one of them in return for help on Saturday mornings. Say half an hour after we shut at twelve?” My nod’s emphatic. “Used to teach. Too old and crabby now. But you seem keen and if you master it quickly maybe you’d like to borrow one for the performance?” I open my mouth, but he continues. “And I could ask the old gentleman if he’d reconsider the price of the one you’ve been ogling.” 

      Why take on extra work? Surely Sunday mornings at the coffee shop are enough in such an important year? My parents are unimpressed, but I don’t explain. It could all come to nothing. Instead, I try to placate them by asking for help finding a setting for my song. Not an easy task. Nothing sounds authentic and I’m considering other options when Dad finds Arthur Deller’s version of Feste’s song, accompanied on the lute. It’s perfect. Except that he’s a counter tenor. I’m not. Dad promises to help me to transpose the melody down a little, to suit my range, but I’m worried the accompaniment might be a little low for the lute.   

Saturday mornings have become the highlight of my week. I dispense cakes of rosin, replacement strings and pegs, take in instruments for repair, sweep the floor, make coffee, refill the sheet music stand and update advertisements for lessons. Nothing’s too much trouble; my courtesy never wavers. And when it’s over, I get my lesson. Mr Davies has helped me adapt the accompaniment, and I’m getting used to the different hand position. So much more intimate than the guitar. Resting my little finger against the soundboard, thumb folded into my palm I feel I’m cradling something precious, fragile. Plucking the strings with my finger pads instead of a plectrum I’m as one with the instrument.   

“Would you like to try the lute in the window?”

      “Really?” Can’t believe my ears. As instructed, I’ve been practising on my guitar with the third string tuned down a semitone to suit the lute music, but it always takes a few moments to readjust to the genuine instrument. Still, Mr Davies must think I’m doing well. 

       I run my fingers over the silken maple, pluck the first bar of Feste’s song, and immediately hear the difference. The timbre of this lute holds a subtle warmth which thrills me. It’s a warmth I see reflected in Mr Davies’ eyes.

      “The gut strings do that,” he smiles.

      I continue, entranced, until a note twangs and I freeze.  

      “Don’t worry,” he reassures me. “Try not to press down too hard with your thumb. Use a smooth, sideways movement.”

       I try. Again, and again. Until the tone sounds golden, honeyed.

      “Well done, Nick. Shall I ask if you can borrow this lute for your performance?”

       My grin hurts.

Waiting in the wings, the play seems endless. It’s been shortened, but everyone must have their chance to shine. Drama and music students. My song isn’t until Act Five, after everyone else has left the stage. I’ve performed before, but I’m nervous as a novice. I listen for my cue while keeping a close eye on the lute recumbent in its open case. Curious glances dart in my direction, but mid-performance is no time for questions. I’m a fraction late entering with Malvolio’s letter, but it seems only moments before Orsino is leading the cast off-stage in pursuit of the humiliated, yellow-stockinged steward. I retrieve the lute and take my seat on a low stool, stage right.  

      A few introductory chords still the laughter. Silence cloaks the auditorium in velvet. Clear as a bellbird, the lute fills the space with delicious harmonies, complementing my tenor perfectly. My love for this instrument pervades every phrase.

      Moments pass. No one moves. And then the studio erupts. My parents are clapping, my peers cheering. At the rear of the auditorium stands an elderly man wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. Mr Davies. And at last I understand. The lute is his; it’s the one he played for his wife.