“It’s not that, I swear. And he’s not just some busker hanging out on the street. He’s gifted, Robert. Listening to him play is like watching Luis onstage. I feel the notes. I know I’m not . . .” I search for words, flushing. Trying to tell Robert how to do his job is dangerous; he may be my uncle, but he’s been a brilliant musician for much longer.
“I’m not a trained musician like you are,” I say carefully, “but I feel like classical guitar might work here. It’s gentle, and soft, yes, but has the passion and—the vibrancy you mention? It has that. If we’re changing the sound entirely by bringing in Ramón, why not change it this way, too? Have a guitar sing with Ramón, instead of a violin?”
Robert stares at me, speechless.
“Just come with me once.” I grow dizzy from the awareness that I might be convincing him. “Once. That’s all it will take. I know it.”
There’s something almost comical about seeing the impeccable Robert Okai walk into a subway station the following Monday. As he descends into the shadows of the stairs, it occurs to me that since I’ve lived in New York, I’ve never ridden with him in anything other than a town car or a cab. He grew up in the dusty streets of western Africa, playing on the world’s most battered violin and wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and sandals, but it’s impossible to imagine him in any other state than he is today: wrapped in a long wool coat, blue cashmere scarf, black tailored pants, and polished shoes. It’s safe to say I look slightly less polished in my purple cast and fuzzy pink cardigan.
But he isn’t snobby; he dives right into the crowd. He isn’t squeamish about the grime on the handrail or the puddle of filthy water at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. It’s more that Robert gives off the sense that his humble beginnings could never deny who he was meant to become: an exceptionally talented maestro.
As for me, my heart is hammering wildly beneath my breastbone, and I have both fists wrapped around the strap of my bag to keep them from trembling. Not only is Robert coming with me to listen to Calvin play, but it will be obvious to Calvin that I’ve brought someone here specifically to watch him play, thereby making it apparent that I have watched him in the past, maybe many times in the past, and thought about how someone else should join me.
Also, I really don’t want to be wrong about this. Robert’s esteem means everything to me. If he doesn’t agree about Calvin’s talent, I know deep down it will tarnish something within me about Calvin in particular, and my own creative compass in general.
But my nerves may be wasted: other than the screech of the train or the occasional burst of an announcement audible on the stairs, the station is mostly silent. In the past several months, Calvin has been here every Monday night. Has he abruptly changed his routine in one week?
My stomach drops. Sometime, weeks ago, it stopped occurring to me that Calvin might eventually move on from the busking gig. It’s one of those unintentionally selfish assumptions I’m always shocked to find myself making: I just imagined he would be here forever—or at least until I stopped wanting to see him every day. The prospect of never seeing him again sends a cold shiver of panic down my arms.
But as we turn the corner to go down the last flight, the iconic, seductive opening notes of “El Porompompero” drift up, and Robert pauses, his foot caught midair.
As always, the song begins slowly, flirtatiously, and Robert’s pace picks up. Calvin’s feet come into view—then legs, hips, and guitar, then torso and chest and neck and head—and the rhythm increases, the music taking off in an addicting swirl; Calvin alternately strums his guitar and gently slaps it like a drum.
I watch Robert as he listens. In any audience, Robert is a fascinating mix of wildly effusive praise and stern critique, and the only sign I have that he’s mesmerized—for he’s looking down at the floor, as if working out some complicated mental logic problem—is the tiny tap of his index finger in time with the music.
Moving my eyes up just the smallest bit, I catch the quickened rise and fall of his breath in his chest. For my part, I can barely breathe. We’re here, watching Calvin together, and the enormity of the proposition—Consider him for your production—and the fact that he is indeed considering him hit me in a dizzy haze.
Desperate to contribute something, my emotional brain immediately sprints to shelter: I could be saving Robert!
My logical brain holds up a hand: Don’t get ahead of yourself, Holland.
Calvin’s eyes are closed, his head bent chin-to-chest. I watch him sway, lost to the music he’s making. Would his posture change if he had any awareness that the composer of It Possessed Him was standing only four feet away?
Calvin usually takes a small break between pieces, tuning his guitar under the apparent impression that he’s in a bubble. With a final flourish of fingers over strings, he stops, pauses, and then inhales, wearing an expression of bliss as he looks up.
But he’s never in a bubble, and we’re standing right there. His breath catches, and his eyes widen. He’s not looking at me.
He knows exactly who Robert is.
six
Calvin sits up, jerking his guitar to stand on one thigh. “Mr. Okai.” He swallows. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
“My niece tells me your name is Calvin.”
Calvin looks between the two of us, working this out. Robert, with his smooth dark skin and meticulously short hair. Me: pale and freckled with a chaotic, weedy bun on top of my head.
Robert reaches out a hand, and Calvin immediately takes it, standing. “Yes. Calvin McLoughlin.”
This makes my uncle laugh, and the boom of it eases the line of Calvin’s shoulders. “That’s a pretty Irish name for someone with such a good tan.”
“My mam is Greek,” he explains, and then looks back and forth between me and Robert again, as if asking a question of his own.
Robert tilts his head to me, releasing Calvin’s hand and saying in turn, “I married her uncle.”
Calvin smiles, quietly saying, “Ah.”
I sense Robert straighten beside me, and Calvin mimics the posture. My heart turns into a snare drum: it is time to get down to it.
“I am the musical director down at the—”
“The Levin-Gladstone,” Calvin interrupts. “I know. I’ve seen It Possessed Him seven times.”
“Seven?” It’s the first time I’ve spoken, and Calvin turns to me.
He lifts his chin in a nod. “I think you sold me a T-shirt.”
I tink ye sold me a t-shairt.
I pull my surprised mouth closed to speak. “You didn’t think to mention this before? On Wednesday night?”
“You saw each other Wednesday?” Robert asks.
We both ignore him. “I didn’t put it together until now,” Calvin says, in that easy way of his. “I knew I’d seen you before, I just figured it was at the station.”
Robert redirects us. “So you know the production, then.”
Calvin pales. “Of course I do.”
“And, if you’ve seen it seven times,” Robert continues, “I’m inclined to think you’ve heard that Luis Genova is leaving, soon to be replaced by Ramón Martín.”
“I have.” Calvin scratches his jaw. “And I’ve also heard that Seth Astorio hasn’t played in four days. How’s the search goin’?”
Robert pulls back, studying him. “It sounds like you’re skeptical I can replace him.”
“Of course I think you can replace him.” He laughs. “Seth doesn’t.”
“You know Seth?” Robert asks slowly.
“We studied together.”
My uncle pauses, and I watch as his eyes narrow. “Seth attended Juilliard.”
Calvin lifts his chin with a cocky smile. “Aye. He did, in fact.”
I move past Calvin and sit heavily down on his stool.
Juilliard.
Holy shit. Calvin attended Juilliard.
Robert doesn’t beat around the bush any longer. “Would you like to come down to play for us tomorrow?”
A hysterical urge inside wants me to pipe up that Calvin is busy on Tuesdays. At least, he must be, because he doesn’t ever do his regular gig of Juilliard-man-playing-for-change at the Fiftieth Street station then. I press my palm against my mouth to hold the words in.
“To play for you?” Calvin repeats, awestruck. “Ah, go on.”
“I’m serious,” Robert says with a tiny grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
I’m still awake at four in the morning, sitting on my couch, leg jiggling.
Nothing helped me sleep.
Not chamomile, not whiskey, not my favorite pink vibrator, not PBS.
I stand, absently shoving the vibrator beneath a couch cushion, turning off the television, and taking my array of glassware one-handed to the kitchen sink.
If I’m nervous like this, then Calvin must be losing his mind. Unless he thinks he’s only playing for the orchestra, which would be no big deal for someone from Juilliard. Of course Calvin would have no idea who else is coming today: At noon, he will play not only for Robert Okai—former conductor of the Des Moines Symphony and current musical director at the Levin-Gladstone Theater—but for two renowned Broadway producer brothers, Don and Richard Law, and the production director, Michael Asteroff, all of whom had planned to come meet with Robert anyway.
Because Calvin will play in the pit, Robert won’t be able to keep his audition a secret. Brian and whoever has come early from the orchestra will also be there, in the shadows, listening.
At dinner last night, Robert and I strategized: I wanted Robert to simply offer Calvin the role if he performs as well as we expect him to. Robert is the composer, he’s the musical director. Can’t he pull rank?
But Robert disagreed. “Theater politics are delicate.”
He would bring in Calvin without giving the others much information about him. A young guitarist, he would say. Someone Holland had heard play, and who transfixed him as well.