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Gabriel slashed his fingers across the strings on the last note and stopped. He could feel his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back. Locks of hair were plastered to his face, and he blinked the stinging, salty water out of his eyes.
For a long moment, he kept his head bent over the guitar. He’d poured everything he had into the three pieces he’d played, but had it been enough?
Finding courage in some distant corner of his soul, he lifted his gaze to Marisela. She sat upright on the simple black chair, one hand stroking down her long braid.
“What was that third piece you played?” she asked. “I didn’t recognize it.”
“Something I wrote.” About three months after his kidnapping. He’d taken a chance playing it for her, but the combination of anger and despair had spoken to him in his current mood.
“It’s good, really good.” She gave him a measuring look. “Maybe we could work out a deal for me to get limited performance rights to it.”
“Maybe.” He drummed his fingers lightly on his guitar in a question.
“What do you want me to say?” Marisela spread her arms and hands.
“The truth.” Gabriel had to stop his knee from jiggling nervously.
“I listened to your old recordings last night. You need a shitload of practice to get back to where you were before.” She proceeded to rip his technique to shreds in great detail.
Strangely, none of her criticisms bothered him. He knew it all already, so he waved it aside with a sharp gesture. “I can get the technique back. But can I get back…the ear?”
Marisela just looked at him. “I don’t know what ear you’re talking about. You hear fine.”
Gabriel blew out an exasperated breath. “Can I be good again? Maybe great?”
“You shouldn’t be asking me that. You should be asking yourself.”
“I have. I don’t know the answer.”
“Then you can’t be great.”
Pain knifed through Gabriel, making it hard to draw air into his lungs. This was what he’d feared. He slumped over his guitar, his hands dangling. “Antonio was right. He told me I had lost it.”
She flicked her fingers in a dismissive way. “Antonio believes technical perfection is everything, but that’s just his style.”
“Don’t you seek technical perfection?”
“Dios mío, no!” Horror widened her eyes. “Technique should always be in service to the music.” She shrugged. “If you want me to tell you what your style is, it’s different than before. There’s an edge to it, a rawness. It’s a little angry and dangerous. I like it.”
“But you told me I can’t be great.”
“Look, you’ve got plenty of talent, but I’ve known a lot of talented guitarists who will never be great. They are not willing to aim for it.” She braced her hands on her thighs and leaned toward him. “So aim for it, amigo mío. Focus everything you have in you on becoming great.”
Then she sat back on her chair so that it creaked slightly.
“A word of warning, though. You will never reach your goal. If you think you have, then your career is over. You might as well quit.”
Confusion clouded his brain. “But you’re at the top of your game. You’re considered one of the best flamenco guitarists in the world.”
“All I hear when I play is how much better I need to be, how far I have to go to make the music sound like what I hear in here.” She made a fist and touched it to her forehead.
“Yes!” He felt that way too. The music never sounded the way it did in his mind’s ear.
“Good, you understand.”
“But—” Had she given him an answer?
She held up a hand to silence him before she reached over to grab the case that held the Torres. Pulling it over by her feet, she lifted out the beautiful instrument, its polished wood flashing in the spotlights. “Ah, mi amor,” she crooned as she crossed her legs and cradled it on her thighs to tune it.
