My Midsummer Morning. Alastair HumphreysЧитать онлайн книгу.
Laurie into Spain, and do it properly: with a violin and without money.
The morning after I heard from Becks I walked into a musical instrument shop for the first time in my life. I was not in the mood for borrowing a violin to try or searching for bargains on eBay. I needed to move swiftly and decisively before my unrealistic fit of enthusiasm faded. I glanced at gleaming saxophones and trumpets, then walked past the pianos and drums towards a rack of stringed instruments.
‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’
‘I’d like to buy a violin, please.’
‘Certainly, sir. We have a range of sizes and styles made from several different …’
I interrupted the shop assistant.
‘Which one’s the cheapest?’
He reached for a violin and presented it to me. It was the first time I had ever held one. I turned the instrument over in my hands a couple of times, feeling its weight and balance as though it was a cricket bat. It was lighter than I had imagined a violin would be. The assistant looked puzzled.
‘Perfect. I’ll take it.’
I had no idea what to do with my shiny new instrument. The thought of playing it for money was ludicrous. Nonetheless, I presumed it was a reasonable goal to learn a handful of songs before the summer. What should I choose? I allowed my mind to wander. ‘Thunder Road’, for sure. A Dylan song to appear bohemian, perhaps a jaunty flamenco tune or two. I’d learn them by rote and then turn up in Spain, ready to go. It would be tedious performing the same pieces over and over, but they should be enough to rouse a crowd and get them dancing in the streets. I pictured myself among spinning, smiling families and dark-eyed beautiful women or reclining in a mountain meadow with a feast spread before me – empanadas and jamón serrano and manchego cheese – and a bottle of Albariño wine chilling in the stream.
My first lesson changed everything.
I drove to my new teacher’s house, chewing my nails, frowning at the satnav, slowing for speed bumps on the housing estate, peering through the windscreen wipers. I parked the car and dodged puddles on the pavement, the violin dangling awkwardly at my side. I felt daft pretending to be a musician and glanced around in case anyone was watching. My tendency to worry what people think was a significant obstacle ahead of me. I found Becks’ house. It was an ordinary semi, the bins were full and the lawn needed mowing. I rang the bell.
When I had googled for violin teachers, it surprised me how many there were. Dozens of profile photos gazed out at me. How could I choose? There were plenty with glasses and neat hair: proper teachers, sensible and competent. Some were old and stern, others looked young, bright and earnest. Classical musicians, probably, teaching a bit on the side to get by. And then there was Becks.
Her photo showed a woman with waves of shoulder-length blonde hair standing ankle-deep in the ocean in a short black dress, clutching an electric violin. She had tattoos all down one arm and wore a skull ring. She glowered at the camera. Intrigued, I clicked her profile.
Background: world travels and touring with metal bands and rockers.
Musical influences: Iron Maiden, Slash, Prodigy, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich.
I picked Becks.
She opened the door with a smile.
‘G’day, Alastair. Come in!’
I took off my shoes and Becks closed the door behind me. I couldn’t get out of this now. I followed her into the living room. A wizard’s shield and sword hung on the wall. Large models of orcs and goblins stood to attention around the room. I tried not to stare. I suspected our lives were very different. But that suited me. I like people who walk an unusual path and have a different perspective. I wanted a teacher who would laugh at my incompetence, not frown. I needed someone who thought my plan was worth a try even if it was likely to fail. Someone who understood the restlessness.
‘Sit down,’ said Becks, offering the sofa. She had tattoos on her feet, and black nail polish.
I sat, grinned and set about explaining my idea. I told Becks about myself, about Laurie, those dusty white tracks, and how I needed to scare myself again, one last time.
‘So, basically, like, erm,’ I concluded, eloquently, ‘I want to spend a month hiking through Spain next summer, without any money. I’m going to busk, like Laurie. But it is only going to work if you can teach me in time. We’ve got seven months. What do you reckon? Are you up for it?’
Becks laughed, an excellent Australian cackle.
And then we began.
I knew that a violin sounds famously terrible in the hands of a beginner. I had not realised the screech actually sends shivers down your spine.
I was going to fucking starve in Spain.
BECKS GOT STARTED STRAIGHT away: pick up the violin, stick it under your chin and clamp it there. That’s the ridiculous way you have to hold it, like a balloon in a party game. Don’t worry; it’s not a Stradivarius. Relax! You won’t break it. Lightly balance the violin’s neck with your left thumb, keeping your fingers free to position on the strings.
Where should you put your fingers, you ask, for you’ve noticed the violin has no frets to guide you like a guitar? Well, that’s up to you: you must gauge the position, listen to the note and adjust your fingers accordingly. Hopefully, by the way, you tuned the strings: that’s your job, too.
Now, grasp the end of the bow, loosely, with the fingertips of your right hand. You use this awkward horsehair bow (correctly tensioned and lubricated) to produce the note. Draw the bow across the strings, neither too gently nor too hard. Perfectly straight. Not too fast, not too slow. You’ll get through these screeches, I promise. I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for this lesson. See you next week …
Oh, Laurie, why did you inflict the violin upon me? In the hands of someone who has dedicated decades of effort there are few more beautiful sounds. Listen to Yehudi Menuhin playing Elgar’s Violin Concerto or Bach’s Double Violin Concerto. How can such divinity flow from the same instrument with which I just made those first awful screeches? My spine shivers even writing these words! I did not have decades to learn. I had seven months.
I HAVE SPENT MY adult life cajoling myself to work hard and make the most of my potential and my opportunities. I have coached myself to behave more boldly and be more optimistic than my natural disposition. Adventure entails taking on things that scare you, risking failure and pain in pursuit of fulfilment. One reason I gravitated towards physical challenges in remote environments was to make me uncomfortable and fill me with doubt. You put a little grit into the oyster if you want a pearl.
But the more expeditions I went on (what Wilfred Thesiger described as ‘meaningless penances in the wilderness’), the more competent I became. My life of calculated risk began to lose the jolt of surprise that adventures were supposed to provide. This is the timeless addict’s problem, the slippery slope towards bigger doses and greater risks. I could keep doing the same stuff, but higher, further, faster – pushing my limits, pushing my luck – or else something needed to change.
Centuries