The Intuitives(39)

“Oh, it depends on their mood, really, but most of my friends make me think of different songs I could play.”

“I would like to hear some examples, if I might?”

“Yeah, OK,” Daniel said, and he pulled the guitar bag into his lap so he could unzip it and take out his six-string. He picked up the instrument and walked to the edge of the room, where he had left his amp when he had first come in. He plugged the amp into the wall and then plugged it into his guitar as well, setting it to the lowest volume setting. He plucked each string lightly, in turn.

“You are checking its tuning, yes? With your perfect pitch?”

Daniel blushed and nodded. “Yeah. It’s good,” he said.

“OK then, imagine someone frowning, and play for me what you hear.”

“Uh…” Daniel hesitated for a long time, his hands poised over the strings, ready to play whatever came to his mind, but nothing did. “I’m not sure it works that way,” he said finally.

“Oh?”

“Well, there are lots of different kinds of frowns, for lots of different reasons. I’m having trouble picking one, I think. Like, a particular frown.”

“Interesting!” Ammu exclaimed. “Good! In a way, this is very good, Daniel. This is a strong indication that your music is more than mere word association, that it is, in fact, showing you something about the feelings of the people around you. Perhaps—”

But before he could continue, Daniel began to play. He wasn’t sure where the impulse had come from, but he plucked out a few experimental notes, and Ammu fell silent, waiting. When he settled into a tune, he recognized it as an Eric Clapton song, but he played it much more slowly than the original. He played the chorus and a single verse, and a chorus again, and then, watching Ammu hesitantly, he began to sing very softly, turning the amp up just a bit first.

The song was “Something’s Happening,” from the Behind the Sun album. Daniel had never been certain what the song was supposed to be about, but somehow, in this moment, the lyrics spoke to him, as though the song itself were trying to tell him something, to convey some higher truth that remained just out of reach. He sang the chorus aloud and part of a verse, but then he stopped playing and looked at Ammu hesitantly, the last note of the guitar slowly fading away, hanging in the air between them.

“Something is happening, isn’t it?” Daniel wanted to know. “Something big.”

“Yes,” Ammu said quietly, and he nodded once for emphasis. His face was still kind, but he was not smiling now. He was not smiling at all. “Yes, it is.”





18


Sketch



When it was his turn to meet with Ammu, Roman was nervous. He rarely showed his drawings to anyone outside his own family, not even the good things. But he carried his light sketchpad into the exercise room nonetheless.

Roman liked Ammu, whose calm demeanor reminded him of Tony, but where Tony tended to be quiet in a standoffish sort of way, letting Roman’s mother do most of the parenting while Tony sipped a beer and watched television, Ammu was quiet in a thinking sort of way. This fascinated Roman, and he found himself liking the man despite feeling anxious about having all that intelligence focused in his general direction.

When Roman handed over the pad, Ammu nodded without comment and smiled, a serious sort of smile that conveyed more respect—more significance—than Roman, at eleven, saw from most adults. But as soon as Ammu opened the sketchbook, his face registered surprise, his eyes darting back to Roman, as though seeking something he had missed before, something that might explain the wondrous talent that sat before him in the body of an eleven-year-old boy.

He stared into Roman’s eyes for only a moment and then returned his full attention to the pages, silently turning them, one after another, slowly, reverently, taking in each new drawing like a true believer who has been allowed, for but a few precious moments, to gaze upon heaven.

Roman had been careful not to draw anyone from the center, not wanting such an image to be discovered accidentally, but the notebook was filled nonetheless with Roman’s mystical visions of humanity, including everything from quick, rough studies to detailed renditions that took Ammu’s breath away.

“How long?” the man asked finally, setting the book down on his lap without closing it, the current page open to a particularly fine rendering of Shaquiya’s fairy wings, poised delicately above her as she sat curled in a patch of sunlight, reading a book. “How long have you been able to see such wondrous things?”

“I don’t see that stuff,” Roman said, too quickly. “I just draw things I like.”

“I see,” Ammu said quietly. He took a deep breath and closed the pad, looking directly into Roman’s eyes again, and Roman had the impression that he did see, in fact—seeing everything there was to see about Roman, even the darkness that poured onto his secret pages when no one was looking.

The very thought made him want to throw up.

“It is very important,” Ammu said, “for us to be honest with each other. Not just you and me. All of us. But such a thing is not possible if that honesty only flows in one direction. I, too, know what it means to bear a secret so great that you feel you must hide it from the world—a secret that must be carefully guarded, to protect the ones you love.”

Roman watched as the emblem over Ammu’s heart glowed more brightly, pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat. Roman had to believe it was the beating of Ammu’s own heart—it was the only thing that made sense—but he also had the unshakable feeling that it was somehow the heartbeat of the world itself, emblazoned in light upon this man’s chest.