The Return of Arturo

by Kenneth Nichols

conclusion

She was no music expert, especially not the classical music for which Arturo was most famous. She would press her ear to the door of the studio and listen to Arturo play. At his request, a friend had composed practice tracks in the style to be used in the contest, pressing him to the limit of his skills.

When the keys and tempo remained the same for long enough, it was magical to hear Arturo match his accompaniment. He evoked sorrow, happiness, fear; every human emotion, and in the right places. When the music changed key to an unlikely successor or reached a ritardando that wasn’t easily telegraphed, Arturo fell apart. He would play off-key for a measure, and then shout in frustration.

Niamh let this transpire for a week before she said anything. She had laid out an early lunch, and nibbled until Arturo came into the kitchen, perspiring and unshaved.

“Arturo, love, can we talk?” She said as she pulled out his chair.

His reply was a tired nod.

“I know you’ve been working yourself very hard, and I understand that you need to focus on things other than us for the time being. But will you please relax with me for a few hours? A little time off might help.”

He ate in silence as she rubbed his back and his arms, and even though he couldn’t see, she smiled at the scent of his hair. She knew he would talk when he needed to.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t think fast enough.”

“Nonsense, Arturo,” She sat in his lap and gently kissed his neck. Were Arturo not bolstered enough by her ministrations, her words certainly helped. “Just think of all your talent has accomplished for you so far. With a little more practice, you’ll be just fine.”

Arturo closed his eyes, and concentrated on Niamh’s dancing fingers. He spoke slowly. “I don’t know if I can do it. Not as perfectly as I want to. I’m working myself literally to the bone.”

“Well, you’re not going to accomplish anything by hurting yourself or being too stressed.” Niamh knew what he was going to say, and pursed his lips with her finger. “I admit I know very little about music. But I have come to see in these wonderful weeks that you can overcome anything. Anything. You’ll find a way. I know it.”

What could Arturo say to such words? He took the rest of the night off. From music, anyway.

In the morning, Niamh was kissed awake by lips at the wrong angle; instead of parallel to hers, they were perpendicular. “Hey there. Why are you dressed? Where are you going?”

Arturo tightened his tie. “You were right. I need to attack my problem in a new way. There’s a friend I haven’t seen in quite a while, and I think paying him a visit may help.”

She furrowed her brow as she sat up, pulling the blankets around her bare chest. “How long will you be gone?”

“Only a couple days. Do you think you can last that long without me?”

Niamh screwed her lips into a pronounced pout. “I don’t believe so. Not at all. In fact, I may just wilt from your absence and simply die.”

“That’s my girl. You’re cute when you make that face.” He bent once more. “Okay, one last kiss, then I need to catch my plane.”

They kissed, and he left.

Thanks to long practice, Arturo was able to use a hat and sunglasses to blend in instead of attracting attention, like a lot of celebrities. After tipping the woman, he carried his own bag to the door, and rang the bell.

Nervously gripping his suitcase, he rang the doorbell of his destination.

The door opened, and Arturo was greeted by a warm smile and open arms. “Arturo! It’s been too long!”

Arturo returned the hug, and agreed. “I’ve been busy. Have you heard the news?”

Though it had been several years, time had not dulled the sparkle in Dr. Edinger’s eyes. He was slightly grayer at the temples, and a paunch had crept to his middle, but his spirit was strong.

Both men were doing well, and happy to hear of each other’s successes.

“So,” Dr. Edinger said. “There must be a very good reason you’ve left a beautiful Irish woman alone in your bed. What brings you here?”

Arturo told him about the contest. “I’m here because I need your help. I can’t keep up. I can’t play such a piece well enough to win. I was thinking you could–”

Dr. Edinger clucked his tongue. “I think I know what you want. Are you sure? This isn’t like microstitching some tendons. You want me to give your brain a little boost, don’t you?”

“I’ve kept up on your work as well as I can as a layman. I just need ten minutes of genius in exchange for the continued relevance of thousands of musicians. This Mindpod will be everywhere; maybe I can at least keep it out of the concert hall.”

The deal made, the old friends turned their attention to other topics.

Somehow, Arturo had expected there to be more spectacle around the procedure. He simply sat on the exam table in Dr. Edinger’s lab and watched the doctor tap away on a keyboard until the air syringe approached him.

“Ready?” The doctor asked. “I’ll spare you the mumbo-jumbo. I’m injecting you with nanobots. When you’re ready, they will stimulate the correct part of your brain to release the right chemicals.”

Arturo nodded and felt the whoosh into his veins. Dr. Edinger handed him a small device with a pushbutton in its center. “What is this?”

“You’ll have your ten minutes of genius, Arturo, and it will begin when you press that button.”

Arturo stayed with the doctor another day, catching up properly.

Though it was better than the alternative, Niamh still found herself worried. Arturo hadn’t even looked at his violin since he had returned from his secret trip, though his spirits were buoyed to the sky. He had been cheerful and fun, and clearly unburdened by the challenge at hand.

She focused instead on the more superficial kinds of preparation. She thought Arturo looked extremely cute fussing about as he was fitted for a new tuxedo. She helped him prepare for the requisite interviews and publicity, and tried to grasp the reflected celebrity thrust upon her.

It was worth it, though Arturo would never agree. On the red carpet on his way into the theatre, he looked good enough to light the smallest fire of protectiveness in her belly. Blinded by the flashbulbs, she had to rely on him to find her way through the door.

Mindpod Technologies had made good on their promise: The contest was flawlessly executed. Much ado was made as the judges were led to their table, tightly blindfolded. The announcer spoke in a deep bass. He reminded the audience, live and at home, of the contest rules and thrilled those present with the news: each of them would receive a Mindpod on their way out the door. There’s no better way to make a crowd happy than by making them winners too.

Soundlessly, Arturo’s competition was slid onto the stage. The young man operating it looked lonely in a suit that was too big for him. His skin was pale, and Arturo had no doubt he was indeed a computer engineer. He’d never seen the sun.

The Mindpod was the deluxe model, with the additional dials, and dozens of other electronic goodies, including, ironically, a music player. After the applause died, the music started. The piece was beautiful. Listening backstage, Arturo could tell that the young man was a knowledgeable connoisseur of classical music. The quartet was bracing, though gentle, reaching alternate levels of playfulness and foreboding with turn-on-a-dime skips.

After the young man waited for the last reverberations of his final chord, the audience broke into an unreserved standing ovation. Thanks to his professionalism, Arturo didn’t break a sweat. He knew he could follow any act.

The musician took a deep breath as Niamh squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek. Arturo, hand in pocket, squeezed the button and began his ten minutes. He was surprised as the wave overtook him, his brain coming to life almost instantly. The only feeling that could compare was drinking too much espresso. He wondered if this was how Mozart or Beethoven felt: utterly and completely alive, and in supreme command of fate-gifted ability.

He nodded in silent thanks to the musicians as his turn began. He knew them all from other concerts, and knew they would play what they were given with the utmost skill. His intro measure began, and Arturo knew exactly what was coming. He felt as he did when he was a child, playing simply for the fun of it. He looked impressive on television, reminding all the viewers worldwide of the musician they loved, be it the pop star, virtuoso classicist or musical ambassador.

The twists and turns in the piece were beautiful and organic. Arturo had the state of mind to appreciate this as he played. Every note, every run, every movement was perfect. Arturo drank the applause in like a flower absorbing the sun. After taking his bows, he met Niamh backstage, and gulped a glass of water, feeling the warmth of her arms about him. As quickly as it had arrived, the feeling of power slipped away, and he was himself again.

After brief consultation (and time enough for several Mindpod commercials), the verdict was delivered. The agreed result would be only one word: Mindpod or Arturo.

The de facto foreman of the jury was a friend of Arturo’s. Usually he appreciated her sense of drama, but now it was sheer torture. As he waited, he looked across the stage to acknowledge the young engineer who had challenged him. They exchanged the same glances of congratulation.

At last it was spoken: Arturo.

Arturo and Niamh celebrated with dinner, surrounded by friends and admirers. The wine flowed freely, and the conversation lifted everyone’s spirits even higher. The man of the hour escaped the throng when he left the afterparty, and he found himself still humming from drink as he lay in bed with the woman he loved.

She stroked his chest and cooed, speaking with her eyes closed. “I love you, Arturo. I hope I didn’t embarrass you with all of your friends.”

“Of course not.”

“You were just so amazing. You’re so talented. I’ve never heard anything more beautiful. You know, I never once doubted you would win, but I did worry about you in other ways. You were trying so hard, and not quite getting it. But you pulled through. You’re amazing. The gift in this beautiful mind —” she tousled his hair — “is what makes you special and captured my heart.”

Arturo stared at the ceiling, his buzz quickly receding.

Niamh yawned. “And now I’m going to sleep, only to wake the same way I want to for the rest of my life: beside you.” She wasn’t lying; she was asleep instantly.

He lay awake, eyes opened, staring at the ceiling.

That night was the first of many sleepless ones for the world’s most famous violinist. Arturo had indeed returned, but he would never be the same.