Page 99 of Theo of Golden

When the song ended with a hard stop, Simone and Dr. Takai froze — her head bowed low over the piano keys, his face bent skyward with closed eyes — as the last note slowly died.

The audience, on the other hand, clapped, stood, whistled, and shouted. Pianist and cellist thawed to the praise, nodded and smiled and applauded one another, and then faced the crowd.

Rows E and F were awash in glee.

Intermission.

CHAPTER 56

The second half of the recital began with a hauntingly beautiful, even mournful, evocation of a Bohemian forest, Dvořák’s “Lasst Mich Allein.” Simone was joined again by Dr. Takai.

Dear old Theo closed his eyes to listen to the music. And to ponder.

Was it a winter forest that Dvořák had in mind? Was the sun breaking through clouds? Was the composer alone? Walking? Standing still?

Four minutes and ten seconds of sublime beauty.

Other selections, heartfelt and technically precise, completed the second half of the recital, concluding with a melody that fell like a benediction over the room, a duet with Dr. Takai of the “Carnival of the Animals; the Swan,” by Camille Saint-Saëns.

Simone played the final note, dropped his head, let his body relax, looked up with a smile, and stood for yet another bow and a wave of applause.

In response, he applauded the audience, as best as he could while holding a cello and bow in his hands. He nodded to Theo and friends and then left the stage. The crowd remained in place, applause undiminished, and began to call for an encore. Such a call was perfunctory for student recitals, but they were not always obliged.

Simone had played all the songs listed on the printed program. He had done what was required of him, and, in light of the mental, physical, and emotional workout of his performance, he would have been within his rights to remain backstage and hurry home. Once the evening’s adrenaline wore off, he would feel the exhaustion of recent long days.

But return to the stage he did, smiling broadly.

He had removed his tuxedo jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He motioned for the audience to be seated.

“It is unusual for a recitalist to speak,” he said once the room was quiet, “but I’ve been given permission by the faculty to do so. I would like to introduce the next song and to thank you for requesting an encore. I don’t know what I would have done if you had simply left the room, since I’ve really looked forward to playing this final piece. Thank you. But actually, I think I would have played it anyway.”

Laughter.

“This last song is an original composition. I have learned in recent months that there is a song tradition in Portugal called ‘fado’ music. It is a genre that dates back at least to the early nineteenth century in Lisbon. In some ways, stylistically, it is like American folk ballads or even some types of country music. Think George Jones and the Grand Ole Opry. The songs can be about anything, but they often have sad tunes and lyrics. One source says they are ‘infused with a sentiment of resignation, fatefulness, and melancholia,’ the perfect sort of song to end the night with, right?”

More laughter.

“Fado is usually played on Portuguese guitar, classical guitar, and a four-string version of acoustic bass called Viola Baixo. And there is always a vocalist.

“I would like to end the night with a song called ‘Fado for Theo,’ written for my dear friend from the Douro River Valley of northern Portugal.”

Simone turned his full attention to a beaming face with quivering lips. Theo was visibly touched, teary, and surprised. He knew now perhaps how recipients of his bestowals felt.

Unconscious that he was even doing so, he reached for Ellen’s hand on his right and Lamisha’s on his left.

“I offer this song as a gift of thanks for the many kindnesses my dear friend has shown me in the past year,” Simone continued.

He held up his Pernambuco bow horizontally, obviously wanting the audience to know it was at least one of the kindnesses he had in mind.

“Of course, to be fado, I need guitar and vocals. And so, I’d like to introduce and welcome my co-writers and collaborators, Basil Cannonfield and Kendrick Whitaker.”

Applause.

Basil and Kendrick made the short walk forward and took their places beside Simone. The magic of surprise was palpable up and down rows E and F, especially on Lamisha’s nine-year-old face.

The three musicians positioned themselves close together, the better to hear one another and to blend their voices.

Looking toward the stage, the audience beheld Kendrick on the left and slightly in front of the other two, Basil in the center, and Simone, still seated, on the right.