They stopped the air conditioning.  The little hall went silent.  Except for my parents, siblings, and my High School dear friend, the audience was Japanese.  I was petrified.  My Japanese guitar teacher had insisted that, part of his teaching me meant that I had to perform in his annual repertoire of students.  I was his only “gaijin”, that is, the only foreigner.  

Mind you, he seemed so old!  He was probably in his 30’s, but I was a teenager, I was 16 years old.   He did not speak English nor Spanish nor French.  I knew enough Japanese to take a taxi or shop.  But we communicated on a weekly basis through our mutual understanding of clefs, crotchets and quavers.  Isn’t that a universal language?

He was so formal!  He always bowed when he came to my house – 9-11 Minami 3-chome, Ebisu, Shibuya-ku, Tokyo- impeccably removing his shoes and putting on the slippers.  I bowed back, but not quite well.   Under the severe thick black-rimmed glasses, he had a twinkle in his eye, a beautiful smile, and the most amazing fingers that plucked the guitar and made it weep. 

But I did not notice these things then.  I was too immature.  I was ambivalent about my lessons with him, and I knew I always disappointed him.  I never practiced enough.  Ie, ie ie.  No, no no.  Hai, hai, hai.  Yes, yes, yes.

Somehow, we understood each other.  He came dressed in a dark suit and a dark tie.  He seemed severe, but when he took that guitar and strummed it, all his Japanese formality of those days melted away.  He loved classical guitar and would get exasperated with me because he did not find in me the same enthusiasm.  Little did he know that I did have it, though it was a bit dormant.  I was too young then!

So the day arrived when I had to perform at the concert.  Invitations had been sent, beautifully calligraphed on thick rice paper.  バーバラ ディロン.  Barbara Dillon, in Katakana.

If memory serves me, I played 3 musical compositions.  Within the first couple of minutes of my taking the stage, the air conditioning was turned off because it made a purring sound.  For some reason, someone in that hall decided to give me total silence for the performance.  It then became quiet, like a tomb.  I had stage fright, my fingers were trembling, but I wanted to make my professor proud.  After all, I was, as the Argentines say, “sapo de otro pozo” (a toad from another well). 

In that deep silence, I took the plunge.  I still remember plucking those strings and how, soon enough, I fell into the right rhythm and cadence and mood.  The silence of the hall was deafening.  But, miracles of miracle, I never ever made a mistake!  At the end, the applause was overwhelming.  I looked up and saw my family and friend beaming.  And, standing in the back of the room was that gentleman and gentle professor with the biggest smile I had ever seen.

I studied classical guitar through college and my Father got me the Argentine equivalent of a Stradivarius.  He had high hopes.  I did not deliver.  Life interfered.

I have always returned to my guitar especially when I have needed succor and relief from sorrows.  Today, my fingers are no longer spry.  They are a little bit crooked and stiff with age.

Yet, I am soon getting back together again with my guitar and music scores of days gone by…and these crooked fingers will get the exercise that my soul has been longing for, finally!