as I was packing up my guitar case about to leave, I went over and whispered into his ear. “Si, era yo, pero te pido, no diga nada a nadie aqui! ” (Yes it was me, but don’t you dare tell anyone here!)
He gave me a big hug, beaming from ear to ear, and told me how much he had enjoyed seeing my TV special that had been broadcast frequently on Cuban television.
• • •
Such encounters reminded me of how much I missed playing regularly and made the difficulties that I was experiencing even more heartbreaking. Every day I sat in front of mirrors trying to analyze why my right-hand fingers could not execute arpeggios as smoothly as before. Sure, I had just performed my piece “Asturiana” before thousands, but I knew that my fingers were fudging the hard parts and barely making it at times. I consulted a variety of therapists from Reiki healers to New Age energy specialists, and even a woman witch doctor who burned sage and spat on my legs, supposedly a ritual for cleansing bad energies! Nothing seemed to improve my right fingers, and in spite of “Livin’ La Vida Loca” I was constantly battling the utter despair I felt about losing of my ability to play the guitar. It was as though I had lost the most significant part of my life, and that in some cruel karmic joke my talented hands and my best friend, the guitar, had somehow betrayed me.
Researching for hours on the internet, a tool I was still unaccustomed to at the time, I finally decided to check what, if anything, had been written about musician’s focal dystonia. To my surprise, I found extensive information and numerous posts from fellow musicians, many of whom had seen their careers and happiness destroyed by this condition. Why had I not wanted to believe the Scripps Institute diagnosis and its dismal conclusion? I kept hoping they were wrong and that by persevering I would eventually be able to find a solution that would enable me to keep playing.
Although I discovered much that discouraged me during my internet searches, I also came across some reasons for continued hope. After reading that the doctors at National Institute of Health (NIH) in Washington, D.C., had achieved a modicum of success with certain musicians, and that after thirty years away from the stage pianist Leon Fleisher was back performing, I flew to Washington for a consultation and a treatment with the protocol they were using on musicians … Botox! A series of painful nerve tests ensued as a needle probed my forearm searching for the exact muscle they planned to temporarily paralyze so that I could gradually retrain when it started coming back to life — a tedious three or four month process.
When it came time for the treatment, a hulking Transylvanian entered the room, a fat needle in his hand, and with perfect, Dracula-like intonation said, “Are vee now ready vor me to inject zee toxin?”
I shuddered.
A fellow guitarist who was also coming for his FD Botox treatment had accompanied me into the room and had been holding my hand during the torturous muscle probes. I squeezed it extra hard! The dosage of this nerve paralyzer was much larger than the tiny amounts used by cosmetologists to relax wrinkles, and I worried about whether, years from now, this botulism strain might possibly impact my health.
After my injections were done, my friend took his turn, and I reciprocated clasping his fingers tightly. Somehow having a hand to squeeze helped the pain, and on two of my subsequent visits I stayed at the home of this guitarist friend and his wife. My heart went out to him; the poor man’s life had been rendered miserable since he could no longer play his electric guitar. We commiserated and shared our sorrow yet remained hopeful that the Botox and subsequent retraining could work miracles.
I flew up to Washington four times to be treated at the NIH, but Botox never worked for me. The reality was starting to sink in. My brilliant career was about to end, not with a bang but with a whimper. So there I was: The guitarist who had dazzled world leaders, been praised by the New York Times for her “flair for brilliance,” sold out the Cairo Opera House and been hailed there as “The New Segovia.” The woman who had been voted five times by Guitar Player magazine as “Best Classical Guitarist” in their international poll, and who was now a member of their “Gallery of Greats,” could no longer play many of the pieces that had made her famous. The complex arpeggios, trills, and tremolos that had wowed the critics and fellow guitar players were now all discombobulated. For a perfectionist with a formerly virtuosic technique, losing the ability to play my beloved guitar the way I used to was beyond devastating.
5
Srdjan
At a guitar festival in Miami I became acquainted with a talented classical guitarist and singer from Dubrovnik, Croatia, and instantly fell in love with the CD of Croatian songs that he handed me. In the seventies Srdjan Givoje had been part of a renowned duo, Buco and Srdjan, the “Simon and Garfunkel of Croatia.”
How had I discovered this man who could be an ideal duo partner with whom to try out my crazy idea of singing? We tested our voices and, indeed, they appeared to be a match made in heaven. Somehow his sweet, husky tenor cushioned my mezzo-soprano, and the resulting blend could not have been more perfect. Srdjan assured me that my voice had beautiful overtones and “colour” and that, in spite of my lack of confidence in the pitch and lack of strength, both would develop if I persevered. As for the guitar work, we decided that I could take the easier guitar lines, mostly relying on the rest strokes that I was still able to play well, and he would be responsible for any complex free stroke arpeggios and tremolo should our arrangements require them.
• • •
Srdjan and his wife Vesna lived with their two children in Bernardsville, New Jersey, which meant that working together was something of a challenge. I started to fly him down to Miami every few weeks in order to begin recording some songs. I commissioned for him a beautiful Vazquez Rubio guitar, which he still treasures today, and I purchased two Boss recording machines so that we could demo our music on our own and send each other downloadable files through the internet.
Srdjan arranged most of our repertoire while I selected the songs, wrote all the lyrics, and composed the intros and solos. He helped me to learn some of his folk-style techniques, which as a classical player one is never taught, and together we experimented with vocal harmonies. Finally I had a project to work on, and I was ecstatic as the demos of our planned CD started to take shape.
Inspired by the beautiful melodies I had heard on his album, I composed English lyrics to several Croatian songs, such as “Lula Starog Kapetana,” which became my “Little Seabird,” an allegorical song about the struggles of life that I had written in my head one afternoon while driving over the causeway to Key Biscayne. Likewise, I transformed “Dobro Jutro, Margareta” (“Good Morning, Margaret”) into “My Sweet Lover.” Years earlier, I had penned a love song to my guitar using the familiar melody of “Greensleeves.” It now fit perfectly into the new repertoire.
Mother of pearl and ivory
Scent of cedar and tones of gold
Curves of rosewood and ebony
Simple shape that my hands love to hold
Notes as soft as a child’s caress
Chords that soothe like a summer wine
Sounds that linger like memory
Fading slowly away into time
Oh guitar, you were meant to be
The gentle voice of my destiny
You are my peace and my harmony
Oh guitar, yes you are, my guitar
Strings
