We discussed Albeniz’s Asturias because we had that in common: me, having tried to play that piece some 10 years ago, and he, now working towards mastering it. I had mixed feelings, but mostly pride: he played and studied the guitar with a single-minded obsession. For some reason it became for him what it never did for me: a sort of anchor, and a sort of bulwark against everything. After we talked about it tonight I dug around online and found a great MP3 recording of it over here. I’m listening to it now as I type this, and remembering.
My tutelage, such as it was, began with a cook’s helper over at my hostel, way back then. I was just picking up the guitar for no other reason than because it was one of those socially-acceptable things you did in junior college. He was always a little strange. I can’t remember his name now, even though I spent almost a year learning with him. He had a strange deformity; no, he was a.. deformity. That’s the best way to describe him.
His face was misshapen, one eye larger than the other, and he was somewhat wall-eyed. He was a little older than I am now, and he was all hard work. He would serve food to rich kids and kids on scholarships, and kids with no idea what to do with their futures. He would watch. Then at the end of dinner, or breakfast, he’d wash up. He’d always be squatting next to a gushing pipe and an army’s worth of food trays.
The canteen was the place to study, at the time. Late one night, I found myself restless, stirred by the noise rising from the TV room just beneath mine. I switched off my lights and my Stone Temple Pilots and headed downstairs. It was dark, and the white fluorescent above the cook’s area was the only light. That was when I heard the familiar strains of a guitar.
He was sitting in the dark, practicing. He somehow resists my failing memory, now that I think about it. I was young, so I wondered how such beautiful music matched him - music and deformity. He had this intense look, very intense look, while he was playing. And he had the same look when he saw me, and he carried on playing, looking at me.
I was entranced. So I sat near him. He smiled, after a while. It was strange seeing his smile. The crow’s feet around his eyes would illuminate his face, like embossed, flesh-coloured sun-rays. He stopped playing, and then started again.
And he played Albeniz’s Asturias.
I never had patience, so I practiced on and on for several years, then I stopped practicing. Not before my brother and I bought a classical guitar for our youngest. It was a cheap guitar, but it was all we could afford after pooling our money together. It was smallish, for little boys, but it had a beautiful tone, balanced and bright. It’s been ten years now, and I can’t wait to hear my youngest play it.