career.”
“As you did,” Manuel points out. “And so you have this excellent position at the university —”
“A position, right,” Jon cuts him off. “Seventy percent tedium and politics.” Their eyes meet in the mirror. “Even my most gifted students crave safety. They talk about landing jobs at colleges and universities with pensions and health plans. That’s what this generation desires, Manuel. They’re not willing to knock around the world, playing recitals in gymnasiums, carving a reputation from pure gut and talent, not like you, Manuel. You’re a dying breed, my friend.”
“They are sensible,” Manuel says.
“Sensible,” Jon agrees. “‘What must I do to get a job like yours?’” they ask. “‘What are the most important competitions?’”
“Another round?” The bartender flicks his towel over the counter, and the men nod a synchronized “yes.”
No matter how much Manuel drinks, he is still thirsty.
Smyth draws a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. “Whom are we going to sprinkle with fairy dust today?”
Manuel digs out his own list, knowing there will be arguments about the contenders. He reads off several names, and when he reaches Lucy Shaker, the other man snorts.
“Are you joking? We’re in the business of launching careers, not rewarding middle-aged hobbyists.”
“There was something interesting in her playing,” Manuel protests.
“Really?”
“She wasn’t mimicking a performance.” That isn’t quite what Manuel means.
“Ah.” Jon lifts one long leg to cross the other and smoothes the material of his khakis. “But is that enough?”
“I only know what I hear.”
Jon clears his throat. “Of course, I trust you implicitly. If anyone’s got sharp ears, it’s Manuel Juerta.”
Manuel acknowledges this flattery with a nod. Jon isn’t the least bit convinced, of course, and so the deal-making begins.
An hour and a half later they’ve whittled the list down to twelve, and the two weary judges have polished off another round along with a platter of tourtière, the tasty minced beef pie native to the province. The bar has filled with office workers: women in short skirts and high heels, men sheathed in skinny pants with open-collared shirts.
Smyth chips away at the last of the meat pie. “We’ll get you down to my college to teach a master class. Interested?”
“Certainly,” Manuel says.
“The dean will spring for a modest recital fee, but we can lay on extra for expenses and teaching a master class. What do you say, amigo?”
“I say yes.”
Jon slaps him on the shoulder. “Consider yourself booked.”
They are silent for several minutes, the letdown after strenuous negotiations.
Manuel got through to Lucia late last night. She’d gone to visit Eric at the detention centre, taking him sandwiches and fruit. “He was so pale,” she said over the crackly phone line. “Papa promises he’ll be out by the end of the week, but I don’t know. Papa isn’t so powerful now.”
Listening to this plaintive description, Manuel sat cross-legged on his bed on the seventh floor of the boutique hotel, eyeing a room service trolley that held two steaming platters covered with metal lids.
“Where is your college?” he asks Jon.
Jon names a state in the Southwest.
“Maybe you can create a permanent position for me at this college,” Manuel says.
Smyth peers at a handful of Canadian bills before selecting one and placing it under his glass. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
“I am always serious.”
“You don’t want to even think of such a thing, not at your stage of the game. It would absolutely mutilate your soul.”
“My soul is already mutilated.”
They walk out together into the early evening, sunlight careening off the flank of the high-rise across the street.
Jon looks around in all directions, his small head bobbing. “I’d love to have you join us. What a dream.” His long nose makes him seem like an elegant mammal, perhaps an antelope. “Your technique is brilliant, but —” He pauses to whistle in admiration as a yellow sports car roars past. “Fucking brilliant, but not precisely what we teach in our academy.” He grabs Manuel’s elbow, and they dart through two lanes of traffic to the opposite sidewalk where Jon stands, barely winded, and Manuel feels his chest tighten and wheeze.
“If we teach opposite forms, the poor creatures will be even more confused than they are now,” Jon says, waiting for Manuel to agree. When this doesn’t happen, he continues. “It’s a bloody bore being chair of the department. All these accommodations and decisions. One is more politician than musician. But you’ll come to visit us next term, yes?” He dives into his pocket to retrieve his phone and scrutinizes the tiny screen. “Interdepartmental meeting postponed,” he reads aloud. Then he adds, “One is cancelled, but another appears. Such is my life.”
“Names are posted!” Larry races past Toby’s door like the white rabbit, leaving his scarred guitar lying across his bed. The others pop out of their cells: will they be invited to join the semifinal round, or will they return home, stricken with shame and excuses?
Toby pulls out his ear buds, rolls off the bed where he was napping, and slowly buttons his shirt. So this is it. This is why he came. That sharp metallic taste in his mouth appears again. He skips the elevator, which is going crazy jumping between floors to pick up contestants, and lopes down the fire stairs.
Sixty-five members of the guitar congress mash around the bulletin board in the foyer of the Fine Arts Building. Only twelve names are posted, twelve names printed off a sheet of white paper. Urgent castings for glitches in alphabetical order are fruitless — there are no such errors.
Toby doesn’t stampede to the front. Instead he holds back a dignified distance and runs over the way he played in the preliminary round, and for the life of him, can’t imagine anyone did better.
“Dumb fucks,” someone moans. A fist slams the wall. It belongs to Marcus, a young man from London. With his cropped hair and spotty face, he looks like a soccer hooligan, not one of England’s finest young interpreters of the pre-Baroque repertoire. He didn’t make the cut. Even the best can have a bad day.
Trace appears at Toby’s side, reeking of bubble gum. “Hausner, right?”
Toby nods.
“I saw your name up there.” She waits for his response, but Toby betrays nothing, though inside the beast stirs. “You don’t look exactly thrilled.”
Trace doesn’t understand that he’s been
