Ring of Fire III

The Sound of Sweet Strings: A Serenade in One Movement

Grantville

December 1633

The music came to an end. Atwood flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.

“And that was the beautiful ‘Nimrod’ movement from Variations on an Original Theme for Orchestra, Opus 36, called the ‘Enigma’ Variations, by Edward Elgar. That was a foretaste of things to come. We will play the work in its entirety some time next month. I think you will like it.”

Atwood had a smooth bass voice, and he had put it to use over the years from time to time serving as a radio disc jockey. He’d never expected to be doing it in this situation, however, over three hundred years before he had been born. But he’d been assured that there were plenty of crystal radios out there in Thuringia to tune into his show, so he’d agreed to do it.

He looked down at his notes. “To close out this evening’s program, we’re going to play a very different piece of music in a very different musical style. It’s what we call ‘bluegrass’ music. Those of you who listen to Reverend Fischer’s morning devotionals have already heard music like this. This particular piece features an instrument that wasn’t invented for close to another two hundred years, called the banjo. This is ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown.’ ”

Atwood cued up the CD. After a moment the music began to sound. He leaned back and just listened to Earl Scruggs’ picking. Atwood could play the banjo, but it wasn’t his best instrument and he enjoyed hearing it played by a master.

All too soon the music was over, and he leaned forward again. “That was ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown,’ and I hope you enjoyed it.

“Thank you for being with us this Sunday evening for Adventures in Great Music on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I look forward to joining you next Sunday evening.

“I’m Atwood Cochran, and good night.”

A few weeks later

Lucille Cochran turned from the front door’s peep hole. “It’s for you, dear.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, there’s only one of him, he’s a down-timer, and he’s carrying something that looks like one of your old gig bags. He doesn’t look like a lawyer, so I don’t think he came to see the probate judge. That leaves you.”

Atwood levered himself from his recliner, muttering something about people coming around on Saturday evening when a man should be able enjoy some peace and quiet. He opened the door. “Yes?”

“Herr Cochran?” The man on the doorstep was short, dark-haired, dressed in reasonably fine but not new clothing, including a large hat with a bedraggled feather. And he did have what looked for all the world like one of Atwood’s old soft-sided guitar gig bags on his back. Atwood guessed it had a lute in it. The man appeared to be in his forties, and by his accent he was not from the Germanies.

“That’s me.”

“I am Giouan Battista Veraldi. I was in Magdeburg when I heard your radio program with the music of the…banjo?” He pronounced the last word with care, as if he wasn’t sure how it should sound.

“Come in, Signor Veraldi.” Atwood opened the door wider. The Italian beamed at the up-timer’s recognition and stepped through the door. Lucille appeared in the door to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Dear, this is Signor Giouan Battista Veraldi…did I get that right?” The still beaming Italian swept his hat from his head and made a very courtly bow to Lucille. “Signor Veraldi, this is my wife, Lucille.”

“I am very pleased to meet you, Frau Cochran.”

“So, at a guess you would like to know more about the banjo.” Atwood’s curiosity was piqued.

“Yes, please.” Veraldi’s smile widened.

“Come with me, then.” Atwood led the way through the kitchen and opened the door into what used to be the garage. Veraldi sniffed in appreciation as he passed by the stew simmering on the stove. Atwood followed his guest down the step into his studio.

The late afternoon light flooded through the windows at the end of the room. There were posters of famous guitars and famous guitarists on the walls. The room was furnished with a couple of stools and music stands, plus a table under the windows and another at the other end of the room. There was a black cabinet in one corner, and leaning up against it were several odd-shaped cases.

“Where are you from, Signor Veraldi?”

Atwood gestured to one of the stools, but the Italian stood looking around with eyes wide. After a moment, he started and replied, “As you guessed, I am from Italy originally, but I was a lutenist at the Swedish court for a number of years. I left not long ago. The pay was good, but the weather…” He shivered, and they both laughed. “I have been working my way back to Italy. I’m not in a hurry, but it will not be long now before I am back in the land of fine music and olives. I miss olives…”

Veraldi’s German was better than his own, Atwood decided. His accent gave it a lilt that neither up-timers nor native down-timers gave it. “It is always good to return home,” Atwood said.

“True; and I have been gone for a long time,” Veraldi replied. His eyes had by now gravitated to the open case lying on one of the tables. “Such a large vihuela I have never seen,” he breathed.

“ Vihuela?” Atwood asked.

“Do you know guitarra, or guiterne?” Veraldi replied without looking around.

“Oh, guitar. Sure. It’s a classical guitar.”

Veraldi caressed the guitar with his eyes, then turned to Atwood. “May I…”

Atwood gestured in reply. Veraldi set the instrument bag he was carrying down on the table and picked up the guitar. He held it up to the light and peered at it closely, then ran his hand all over the body. At last he plucked a string, and his eyebrows rose at the strong resonant sound. With a sigh he replaced the guitar in its case.

“Very fine vihuela; very fine guitar.”

“Thank you. Please, have a seat.” Atwood waved at one of the stools and sat on the other. Instead of doing so, Veraldi opened his bag and took out a lute, which he handed to Atwood.

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.”

Atwood 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.

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.

Veraldi didn’t seem to be losing any weight, but he was definitely burning the candle at both ends. Some days his eyes seemed to be peering out of tunnels bored deep into his skull.

Giouan counted his silver frequently, even though he knew to the pfennig how much he had. At least once each week he recalculated how long he could stay, how long he could continue learning, when he would have to leave.

That day finally came.

Giouan knew he had to leave. He didn’t want to, not by any stretch of his imagination. He wanted to stay at Master At’s feet until he had learned everything the master had to teach, and then stay some more just to work with the master. But it wasn’t possible. He had to leave, he had to get home to Venice, for only there could his knowledge create the reputation he needed, only there could he build the relationships that would help bring the new music to his land.

It didn’t take long to leave on Saturday. Giouan had already collected his letter of introduction from Maestro Carissimi. He packed his clothing that morning, and slid the instrument cases into the oilcloth bag he had had made for them.

He paid the hotel keeper for the last time. His horse was waiting for him when he arrived at the stable, where he tipped the stable boy generously for taking excellent care of his mount. He tied his packages onto the back of the saddle, then headed for the familiar house of his master.

“So,” Atwood said, “the day has arrived when you have to leave. I’m sorry to hear that, John.”

“I’m sorry to have to say it, Master At. But my money has dwindled to the point where I dare not stay any longer. I have enough to make it to Venice if I start now, but if I stay much longer I won’t.”

Atwood saw the resolution in his student’s eyes, so he didn’t try to argue. In truth, he was surprised Veraldi had stayed as long as he had.

“Do you have everything you want?”

“No. Nor do I have everything I need. But I have enough to begin. If God allows, I will return.”

Atwood held his hand out. “Good luck, John. Go with God. Write to me when you can, come back if you can.”

“I will, Master At.” Veraldi took his hand, then snatched him into a close embrace. A moment later, he was walking down the sidewalk.

Giouan swung up and settled his feet in the stirrups. He looked around one last time, felt a lump rise in his throat for Master Atwood, then reined the horse around and nudged it into motion.