Page 100 of Theo of Golden

The contrast among them is striking.

Stocky and muscular, short black hair with a sheen, deep dark eyes. Gray dress suit and lipstick-red shirt, shiny light-gray pointed dress shoes.

Tall and lanky; long, shaggy blonde hair; blue eyes. Denim shirt (starched), dark vest, dark jeans, and brown leather ankle boots.

Medium and graceful; a wiry tangle of tight, inky black curls; deep brown almond eyes. Sweaty tuxedo.

A custodian. A busker. A virtuoso.

“Now, if we are to be criticized or faulted by any fado purists in the room tonight, it could be on grounds that our song is not sad enough. Please forgive us. We tried to write something thoroughly depressing, but we might have failed. If you know Theo, sadness is not the first word that comes to mind when you think of him. Any good performer saves the best for last. We hope you enjoy ‘Fado for Theo.’ ”

Basil counted in the song. “One, two, a one, two, three, four.”

Even the most cultured and sophisticated members of the audience could not resist smiling, tapping their feet, and leaning in when the unlikely trio began the tribute to their mutual friend.

It was not the sort of song one typically heard on a recital stage. But after such a riveting and masterful performance of his formal program, Simone had earned the opportunity to play something for the common man. And for no small number in the room, “Fado for Theo” was the most accessible of the renditions played that night as well as the musical highlight of the show.

It was certainly that for Theo.

Again the audience rose to its feet, cheering, as Basil, Kendrick, and Simone stood close together and took a collective bow.

Before the applause died down, Professor Gobelli entered through the stage door. A student also came from backstage to relieve Simone of his cello. Basil and Kendrick returned to their seats.

The professor cleared his throat and said, “I have attended many recitals over the years, and I have played in hundreds of concerts. I think you will agree that tonight has been truly a night for the ages. And while we have departed a bit from the way we usually do things, we have celebrated music — the writing of it, the performing, the listening, the sharing, and the enjoyment of it.

“Simone, thank you, for honoring our department and for giving us such a memorable experience this evening. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that you earned a passing grade.”

The audience chuckled.

“One more thing remains to be done. And for that, I invite Mr. Theo to the stage.”

Theo rose and made his way to the stage. He hugged Simone, whispered something in his ear, and then turned to face the audience.

“Simone, for us all, I say thank you. When you told me many months ago you were preparing for a recital, I could not have imagined this night.

“I would make mention that it is a great misfortune your father and mother are not here to witness your performance in person. I would make mention of it if it were true, but thankfully that is not the case. Mr. and Mrs. Lavoie, would you like to join us here, please?”

As the room buzzed with surprise, Simone saw movement in the shadows of the balcony. It dawned on him that his parents had been there for the entire evening.

They walked forward. Welcoming applause and warm embraces met them at the stage before Theo spoke again.

He addressed the small audience as if he were addressing royalty. And in his mind, he was.

“It is customary to honor great musicians and artists at the end of their careers, sometimes even years or decades after they have gone silent. That custom often includes the presentation of a portrait. Tonight we will reverse the order of things, and rather than wait till the end of what is certain to be a career of excellence and accomplishment, we,” Theo gestured to the row of his friends from the Promenade, “would like to bestow a small measure of honor, and a portrait, on our dear friend Simone.”

Asher walked forward and stepped up beside Simone, draping his arm across the young cellist’s shoulder. Two students entered from backstage. One set up an easel, onto which the other placed the portrait, covered by a blue drape.

Theo turned to Simone’s parents and spoke directly to them: “I know what it is to love a child and to want, above all else in life, that they be good and wise and happy. In honoring your son tonight, we also honor you. It is written somewhere that ‘most people die with all of their songs still inside them.’ Thank you for protecting Simone from that terrible fate. Because of you, he blesses us.”

Theo turned toward the easel.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Maestro Simone.”

Asher very gently — this was his recital, too, in a sense — unveiled the portrait.

It was drawn in various grades of dark graphite and white charcoal on gray paper, mounted beneath a two-inch white matte and held in a black frame with gold beading and raised edges. It was rendered from a photograph obtained by Professor Gobelli at Asher’s request.

Simone had clearly not been striking a pose for a camera when the photograph was taken. He was lost in whatever song he was playing at that moment, eyes half open and relaxed, dreamily so, as if in a spell.