It was the first real piece she taught me, I mean after the basics. And as I leaf through my old folder of music, it slips out now, and falls into my lap. I can hear her playing it, the little andantino by Ferdinando Carulli. There’s a clarity to each note, and then that beautiful fluency she had. It’s a beginner’s piece, but I never mastered it, something in the fingering that always managed to trip me up. She said we’d come back to it, but we moved on to other things, and it was forgotten.
I still have the guitar, though why I keep it is a mystery, since I’ve not touched it in a decade or more, and I’ve jettisoned so much else of my life I felt was useless. So, no, I cannot play the andantino any more, nor anything really, but I do remember her teaching it, so it must still mean something.
I never thought of myself as musical, but that didn’t stop me from taking up the guitar as a kid. If you must have a reason, I thought it would be a good way of attracting girls and, yes, I know how desperate that sounds. It’s also difficult to imagine a scenario where I could have brought the music to bear, I mean in order to win the hand of a fair maiden. But the mind of a teenager works in mysterious ways and, while I’m sure it makes perfect sense to its self at the time, it leaves my older self, now, none the wiser. It didn’t work, anyway.
The classical guitar is also a difficult instrument to get going with. I needed a teacher but, for a long time, my head was too full of other, work related studies to make room for it. It was only years afterwards, in my later twenties, with those studies out of the way, and still no girlfriend, I thought of night-classes. It’s ironic then, my teacher turned out to be a girl, and of course I fell in love with her.
The night-classes were dreadful. There were a dozen of us in one room, all beginners, all playing a different tune, all at the same time. Students fell away, dissatisfied, unable to hear themselves play, while neighbouring nonmusical classes complained of the noise. But I was in love, so hung on to the end, and when she asked if I wanted to take private lessons with her, I felt the gods were smiling on me, and signed up at once.
She was a good teacher. In the serene environment of her home, she took me from nothing to playing grade six pieces in a couple of years. I’m not saying I was any good, always a bit clumsy, stumbling over my fingers, and I never could play a piece all the way through without a mistake. Still, I had some musical knowledge by then, which was enough to begin making my own way if I wanted, but all I wanted was for her to go on teaching me, and for me to go on seeing her. Seeing her was the highlight of my week.
Sometimes she would demonstrate a piece by borrowing my guitar. I treasured those times for the way her scent would linger upon it, long after her embrace of its curves. And as if that was not enough to have the pulse of a young man racing, there was a set of books she asked me to buy. The cover art appeared abstract at first, but when placed side by side, the books revealed a tastefully naked girl, laid next to a guitar. The memory of this still carries an erotic charge. And, in imagination, of course, she has always been both the girl and the guitar.
I suppose it was always a fantasy I was living. Perhaps I should have declared my love, but I was afraid it would spoil the music between us, and she never gave the slightest indication it would be returned. There was also, the small matter of the boyfriend.
Now, the boyfriend was by no means an impediment to my fantasies. Indeed, I was, for a time, perversely happy to include him as part of the story. It was clear to me, he didn’t like her teaching, you see? She said nothing, but I imagined he did not want her having people around he did not know, or approve of. Least of all, he did not want her seeing male students, like me, or perhaps me in particular. It was obvious he didn’t recognise the genius in her – not as I did. Of course I would say that, because I was jealous of him. But more, I think it was that, in the naive story I was inventing, I needed a villain to rescue her from.
Those were acquisitive times, the eighties. Possession was everything. Fancy car. Fancy girl. Lots of money, and all of it to be flaunted. That’s all she was to him, I told myself, a good-looking girl, and more to the point his girl. But he had no music in him, so on what wavelength they connected remained a mystery. I therefore allowed myself the further foolishness that it was only a matter of time before they split, and then,…. well,… there I was. Waiting.
I had persuaded myself it was more than jealousy, I mean my dislike of him. He had an edge, I thought, something of the bad-boy about him. I’d sensed this at a distance from time to time, when he came to collect her from those night classes, something in the pose of him, in the curl of the lip, and the racy little car he drove.
The closest I got to him was one evening as I was finishing up the lesson at her place. He had let himself in, and we crossed paths in the passageway. I gave him a nod and a smile, nice and polite, but which I swear he returned with a look of such unambiguous hatred, I was taken aback. There was no doubt then, at least in my mind, my presence in that house – even though it was her house – was not welcome.
I sometimes wondered if she sensed my feelings. If so, though she gave no indiction of returning them, she cannot have objected because she did nothing to discourage me. Indeed, the opposite seemed the case, for she was always keen to sign me up for more lessons, money in advance to keep me hooked, to keep me engaged, to keep me bound to the rhythm of our regular timetable. Naturally, I went along with it.
And they were always pleasant, the hours we spent together. Besides the music, we would talk, of quite personal things sometimes, times also when I thought I detected hints all was not well with her life, shadows of some past tragedy. I suppose what I was also discovering was that it is possible, where romance is otherwise hindered, for a man and a woman to experience nonetheless a deepening friendship. If I had only reached out, offered a little more, she might have responded. But the sanctity of those lessons was everything and, while we played, nothing else existed. Beyond that, I don’t think either of us knew what we were doing.
Then came this one time, when I called for my usual lesson, and he was already there. As I knocked on the door, I could hear them, arguing. I had never heard her raise her voice before, and it upset me. I could hear his was the dominant voice, deep, bellowing. Sure he was the boss all right. Worse, I was the subject of the row. He had told her to cancel the lessons, but she had refused, and he was angry now, me turning up again. She was to get rid of me.
After a long while, she opened the door, clearly still distressed, though having made an effort to compose herself and tidy her hair. There had been a mistake, she said, she was sorry, but she could not teach me today. She would consult her diary, and call me later. But, listening to that row, I had already skipped several pages ahead in our story, and I knew she would not. Could not.
What to do? Well, I was sorry if this was to be my parting memory of her, but I was in no position to do or say anything, except cover it with a smile, tell her it was fine, no problem. Had I been an alpha things might have been different, but I wasn’t. I just wanted to make it easy for her, to give no indication I had heard the row, so as to preserve her dignity, and the secret of my love. I had been right about him all along. And he had been right about me.
I was in love with her. And I had wanted her. And he had known it.
We might have been good for one another, she and I, for I had sensed in her a kindred spirit, but in that moment I saw she had chosen her man, and that man was not me. If I was wrong about any of that, then she’d call me, but she didn’t. I never saw her again.
I have often wondered how we would have been, together I mean, if things had been different. I would never have matched her talent as a musician, so we would not have become a guitar duo on the international circuit. She would soon have despaired of me, fluffing my way through pieces I had never the discipline, let alone the gift, to master properly. But I would have done my best to encourage her. I would have protected her with my ordinary job, and my modest income, until she’d found her wings. Then I would have watched her soar, and been glad for it.
As for my own music, it deepened no further, and I did not want another teacher. I played the same old pieces for years, until they fell away under the weight of more mundane things. The guitar gathered dust, was knocked over, and bruised now and then by the vacuum cleaner. My fingertips softened as the playing left me, and there grew a reluctance even to pick it up. There was also a resentment.
The resentment was puzzling, for I had no cause to lament the way my life turned out. But why leave the guitar lying around as a reminder of those times? Why not pick it up and play? How often had it come up in conversation with visitors: “Oh, do you play the guitar?” And I found myself mumbling that I did not, that it was only for fancy. What was the point? What part of all that hurt had I still not dealt with?
I think it was the recognition of my cowardice. I should have showed my hand earlier, allowed her the opportunity to unambiguously reject it, and spare her the suspicions of her man. Then I might have swallowed the hurt, got over it and found myself another teacher. And I would still have had the music, instead of just this story of a failed love that’s been rattling around my head all these years, part truth, part myth, part imagination.
So, recently I was blowing the dust off that old folder, and the music spilled out. Among the pieces were studies by Carcassi, Sor, and Tarrega. They carried the pencilled notes I must have added all those years ago, though I don’t remember playing them. I must have done, though, because she’d also placed a double tick at the end of each piece. One tick was to indicate I should keep practicing, two ticks meant I had practised enough, and should move on to the next exercise.
Then that little andantino fluttered out, and there was just the one tick to indicate I was to keep practising.
From time to time I’ll type her name into the search engines, wondering if I’ll discover her playing solo in a grand salon, to an audience of admirers, or even just still teaching, somewhere. And it’s not because I harbour fantasies about her. We’re both far too old for that now. It’s more I feel she’s always deserved to be known for her music. There are lots of fancy guitarists posing online these days, and none of them a patch on her. But it’s as if she has disappeared, and it has me wondering if the music died in her, if it was crushed out of her under the weight of an ordinary life, perhaps even submissive to a man she loved, yet who had no music in him at all and no tolerance for the music in her.
It’s taken a long time, but I’m at peace with it, now. She was the conduit through which I received the music, and I suspect that, as well as the memory of my own clear inadequacies in the affair, the resentment I feel is also against my own self for having let the music die, and lacking the courage to pick it up again. It also devalues the times we shared, which were chaste and beautiful, and if anything of that has gone to waste, if I have allowed the sweetness of it to go sour, well, that’s my own fault, isn’t it?
So lets take a look at this little andantino then, see if we can get our fingers around it, blow away the cobwebs, and finally fill in that last tick, I mean in her absence. And then, who knows? Maybe I can let the music back in, and with the fondness it deserves. And all of it thanks to her, and to whom I dedicate these words,…
with affection, and apologies.
It’s a beautiful little piece, Carulli’s andantino. Do you know it? It goes like this,…
My best guess is that she thinks of you now and then, fondly.
I hope so, Niel. 🙂👍
Beautiful music and words!
Thank you, Tanja.
An intriguing read for a lazy Monday morning and beautiful music.
A bit of Spanish guitar for a change.
I loved this as I’ve been there too! That guitar looks just like mine, except that it is being played beautifully by 💓
Thanks, Ashley – the follies and misfortunes of youth. And I still can’t play the Andantino without messing it up.
I just can’t play! My old back won’t allow me to sit “one-sided”. I did begin singing lessons & went through a similar story to yours…but I’d better say no more…embarrassing! 🥵
Ah, least said, Ashley. But I hear you.
My old dad did classical guitar at evening classes around his retirement. He was terrible, but I was sad when he gave it up, it was like it he surrendered his independence, gave in to my mum and the telly.
I think if you just manage that one piece, and perhaps a few scales and arpeggios you’re getting somewhere.
Don’t be hard on yourself.
And enjoy the memories of what might have been, over time you might rose tint them?
Argh, the telly. I do still fumble that piece, but since writing Arpeggio, I’ve remembered others I was taught, which I still fumble, but enjoy playing. I did manage to pass on the music to my son, who seems a natural, and does not fumble. 🙂