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Part Two: A Piece of Maria
Sandra looked past the driver and out of the car window at the gloomy, towering building on the other side of the street. A swirl of snow, caught on a frigid wind, momentarily obstructed her view and for a second she reconsidered the stiletto-heeled boots she’d chosen for this evening; she hadn’t planned on snow fall, hadn’t even considered that there would be snow at all. Not that it would have affected her footwear choice, however – these boots had been made to manipulate and she was going to need all of their power tonight.
“Are you sure this is the place, Nige?” she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“Positive,” Nigel, the driver, answered in a slight but distinctive British accent. He turned a handsome-in-his-own-way face to her and gave her a disarming grin. “Have I ever led you astray, Sandy?”
Nigel was the only person who ever got away with calling her Sandy. She preferred Sandra or Ms. Montenegro; “Sandy” sounded like something from high school and had the tendency to dredge up visions of Olivia Newton-John and Broadway musicals.
Sandra looked past her friend at the building again. It was easily seven or eight stories – hard to tell with the snow blowing so hard – and was made of brick that hadn’t been clean since sometime near the turn of the twentieth century. There was a lone man slipping and sliding down the sidewalk, but other than that there was no one to be seen. If this was where she was going to find what she was looking for, she’d expected a line all of the way around the block.
“I don’t know,” she finally sighed in response to Nigel’s question. “It looks so…desolate.”
“It’s Minnesota, love,” he said as though that explained everything. “And it’s January. It’s cold, it’s dark. Can’t expect people to stand outside waiting to get into a club, can we?”
She worked her mouth. All of this time spent chasing – if this was another dead end she was going to scream, have a nervous break down and move to Barbados.
“I do have to say you look smashing tonight,” he said, letting his eyes fall over her outfit. “If anyone is going to get him to talk, it will be you.”
Sandra gave him a tender smile that she only showed in private. In public, she was a barracuda, going for the kill, stopping at nothing to get what she wanted. “Thanks, Nige.”
“Shall we?” he asked, tipping his head toward the club across the street.
She drew in a breath and nodded, then threw open her car door. The wind assaulted her immediately, making her shiver and curse under her breath. An icy gust blew up her tiny leather skirt and made her skin prickle. Swearing louder, she tightened her leather jacket around her throat and tilted her head away from the snowfall. Nigel was at her side, taking her beneath the elbow. It was a good thing, too, because at that moment the stiletto heels betrayed her and she felt herself falling to the sidewalk.
Sandra never hit the icy pavement, though, as her counterpart’s hand steadied her.
“Little steps,” he advised her with a chuckle.
Together, they shuffled across the street, hurdling rows of snow that had been created by a passing plow. Sandra cursed beneath her breath, wished she’d stayed in L.A.
Until they got inside.
Once inside, the drive in her sparked again and she forgot all about the fact that her thighs had turned to ice. She knew now why the street outside was deserted – everyone was
inside. There was barely room to stand or to shoulder past the patrons who had wandered too close to the door.
As the raging wind sucked the heavy wooden door shut behind them, Sandra was filled with excitement. She could feel it – they were so close! Nigel, who was nearly a foot taller than her, turned an expression in her direction that read he was feeling the same thing. Tonight was the night. All or bust.
Tugging on his sleeve, she prompted him to lower an ear to her so she could be heard over the crowd. “How did you hear about this place?”
“I have my sources,” he grinned. “Now I’m going to the bar to get a cocktail. What would you like, love?”
“Vodka tonic,” she said over the din of many voices.
Nigel was swallowed up by the crowd quicker than his height might have dictated. In his absence, Sandra inspected Minneapolis’s residents with a critical eye. Thirty years ago, Prince had reigned over this frigid city, creating a synthesized sound that Sandra thought sounded ridiculous in the modern day. That had been the city’s only musical claim to fame.
Until now. Potentially.
“There’s a table in the corner by a very large speaker,” Nigel shouted over the crowd as he handed her a drink. “I left my coat there to claim it. Follow me.”
Sandra obliged, noting the locals giving her the same critical eye she’d given them. Not that she cared. She had way more class and panache than any of these people ever would. Hadn’t they ever seen a leather mini skirt before?
“People here are so pale,” she said in disdain as she settled into her seat. It was much quieter here than it had been near the bar, but she had to wonder about their proximity to the large speaker.
“It’s Minnesota,” Nigel reiterated. “It’s January.”
“They don’t have tanning beds here?” she countered. “Or spray tans like the rest of the world?”
“Shush,” he said playfully in an attempt to steer her back on track. “Who cares how pale these people are? In a very short amount of time, you’re going to get what we came for and then you’ll be famous.”
Sandra grinned widely. “He’s here, isn’t he? You can feel it, can’t you?”
“As sure as I can feel my next breath. So let’s just be patient and ignore the mighty whitey glow in this place.”
“Have you got your cameras?”
“Digital and 35 millimeter.” Nigel patted the pocket of his over-sized overcoat, then frowned. “Ever wonder why we’ve seen no pictures of him?”
Sandra shrugged. “He’s elusive. He’s enigmatic. His followers protect his identify for him. Who knows? I’m sure photos exist somewhere. Just because we haven’t seen any doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Well, ours are going to be seen.”
“Yes, they will. You’re the best, Nige.”
“At what I do,” he agreed without humility. “And
you are the best at what you do.”
She was about to agree with the mutual patting of one’s self on the back when suddenly the club fell uncomfortably silent. Startled, she looked around the large room and found people facing the stage, shifting in anticipation. Someone at the back coughed, a chair squeaked, but everyone else remained mute.
Sandra was about to turn to the photographer and ask what the problem was when her gaze drifted over his shoulder and her words halted in her throat. Even though they sat a mere ten feet away, she hadn’t seen the man take the stage, hadn’t seen him sit down and place the guitar on his lap. It was like he had appeared out of thin air.
Nigel caught her startled expression, then whirled to see what she was looking at.
The man had his head tilted downward, a curtain of dark hair obscuring his face from the onlookers. He was clad in a pair of faded jeans, work boots and a flannel shirt. With a speed of movement that suggested he was in no hurry to go anywhere, he brought his hand up to lightly tease the strings of the guitar.
Sandra was reminded of Kurt Cobain, whose shyness had kept him from making eye contact with his audience. Already, she was forming the first paragraph of her story in her head.
Nigel turned her way with a victorious grin.
Then the man started to sing and Sandra realized she didn’t need to be worried about the speaker since he was going to play acoustic. His voice was not exceptional, but it was unique. It wasn’t going to matter. Many singers had made it big with a less-than-conventional voice. Springsteen, Morrison, Young came to mind.
For an hour, then two, then nearly three, the man sang his songs and the crowd was transfixed. Stopping only occasionally to take a sip of water, he spoke of love lost, of time that would never be regained, of mistakes made and the consequences that followed. Although the subject matter might have strongly suggested it, his words weren’t a plea for pity.
They were a warning.
Love the ones you love, don’t be too proud to admit your love, don’t let that person out of your life.
Or what?
You’d be stuck traveling in anonymity, playing every Podunk bar in North America? Sandra frowned. This guy didn’t make sense. All of the rumors she’d heard of his immense talent were true. He could be so much more than this. He could be rich and famous and
that would show the bitch who had broken his heart, wouldn’t it?
The last couple of songs left Sandra with a sting in her eye – a fact that startled the beejesus out of her. Nothing made her cry, nothing moved her to tears. Not an apartment fire in Boston that killed six children, not an overturned bus in Bolivia that took the lives of a whole family. But something in this man’s tone, in his softly whispered words, broke her heart in two.
“What are you waiting for?” Nigel said, snapping Sandra out of her daze. “Get him before he leaves!”
Quickly, she glanced at the stage, saw the curtains drift closed in the man’s wake. She jumped to her feet, adjusted her sweater, smoothed her skirt and hurriedly applied another coat of lipstick.
“How do I look?” she asked, already rounding the table.
“I’d do you right here and now.”
She barely registered the photographer’s words as she quickly jumped onto the low stage and hurried through the curtains. Backstage was nothing more than a long, cold hallway. The man was nowhere to be found and immediately she started cursing her inaction. But as she walked the length of the hall, she could hear noises coming from one of the rooms on the left side. She approached cautiously, spotted the blue flannel shirt through the crack of the door.
Show time.
Sandra straightened her posture, pouted her lips and casually pushed open the door to the small store room. The man was gently laying his guitar into its case. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for clues as to who he was, but all she saw were containers of condiments and some industrial-strength cleaners.
“Hello there,” she said, planting herself in the doorway, aggressively blocking his exit.
The man looked up and for the first time she saw his intense dark eyes. There was something unusual about them, like they’d seen more than one lifetime’s worth of events. Those wizened eyes followed her face down to her boots and she felt her hopes skyrocket.
“Hello yourself,” he said, straightening. “A little under-dressed for Minneapolis, aren’t you?”
In an instant, she felt foolish for the mini skirt and boots. That confused her – usually the boots could walk her into places most people couldn’t go. Quickly, she recovered her composure.
“Maybe I’m not from Minneapolis.”
“Guess not,” he said, crossing the room to a small desk that held nothing but a jacket and an MP3 player. “Unless, of course, your tan is fake.”
Internally, Sandra frowned. It was unusual to have someone so not attracted to her. “Okay, I’m from LA.”
“Explains a lot. By the way, people here are immune to your come-fuck-me boots.”
He went about stuffing the money he’d received in his tip jar into his jacket pocket.
“All right,” she said, dropping the coquettish air she was trying to put on. “I’ll level with you.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“My name is Sandra Montenegro.” She waited for him to show some sign of recognition – he showed none. Another hint was needed. “I’m a reporter.” Nothing. “I want to do a story on you.”
“No.”
The word wasn’t spoken harshly or rudely, but definitely with finality.
“Why not?” she begged. “You don’t seem to realize how big you could be. I’ve heard rumors of you all over, everywhere I go. People are buzzing about you. If you were to put out an album, it would shoot to number one immediately. I’m sure of it!”
“That’s not why I do this,” he said, tugging on the coat.
He was getting ready to leave. Panic flared inside of Sandra. She didn’t like that – she never panicked about anything.
“Then tell me why you do,” she baited.
He stopped as he was about to retrieve his guitar case, his eyes locked on hers. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was holding himself back.
“I’ve been trying to find you for two years,” she said, attempting to appeal to his sense of sympathy. “Roanoke, Boston, Pittsburgh, Tallahassee, Seattle. You name it, you were there and I was always just one day too late. Please. I’ve finally found you. Give me something to go on, to understand you, even if it’s something small. Just one thing.”
He pursed his lips and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “There’s a piece of Maria,” he said, “in every song I sing.”*
Sandra’s face lit up. “Maria?”
He nodded and bent to grab the guitar case.
“Who is she?”
“You said one thing.”
“Yeah, but you’ve hardly explained yourself.” She tried guilting him this time.
“I don’t have to explain myself,” he said without confrontation. “I travel, I sing. End of story. You, on the other hand, have to explain why you’ve wasted two years of your life chasing a shadow.”
Sandra couldn’t stop the stung look that came to her face.
“Go back to LA,” he advised, his words softening a little. “And forget about me.”
“Why do you do this?” she asked, shaking her head, the reporter laid to rest as personal curiosity took the fore.
He paused, then said simply, “I have to.”
Nigel’s head appeared in the doorway and both Sandra and the man looked his way. A Nikon hung around his neck.
“How’s it going in here, love?” he asked, glancing at the man.
“All right,” she said, though her tone held defeat. She turned to the musician. “This is Nigel, my photographer. Could we at least take a few pictures?”
The man looked at the camera around Nigel’s neck. “Hey, man, I used to have a camera like that. Mind if I see it?”
Nigel may have been smiling when he handed it over, but he half expected the man to smash it into pieces. But he didn’t. He simply turned it over in his hands, looked through the view finder, and gave it back.
“I guess a few snaps wouldn’t hurt,” he said, dropping the guitar and moving to put his arm around Sandra.
Nigel anxiously took the pictures, unable to believe the enormous score, then pulled out his digital to take some more. After a few snapshots, the man reached for that camera as well.
“I’ve never used one of these,” he said as he took the tiny camera from the photographer. “Go stand by Sandy. I’ll take a shot of the two of you.”
Sandra was so astonished at his openness for the pictures that she barely noticed he called her “Sandy.” Maybe if she didn’t have enough material for a feature, she and Nigel could publish the pictures together. This night wasn’t wasted entirely.
After the photos had been taken, the man shook each of their hands and disappeared out the door that stood at the end of the hallway.
“Wow,” Sandra breathed.
“Serious wow,” Nigel agreed, carefully tucking his camera into its case. “Did you get enough for a story?”
She shook her head.
“Did you at least get his name?”
“Shit!” she swore, then took off down the hallway as fast as her stilettos would allow.
Shoving the door open, she fought the frigid air to search for the man. Even though he’d been gone only a minute, there was no sight of him.
“Dammit!”
Nigel met her at the door. “Want me to go look for him?”
Sandra shook her head. “No. You’ll never find him.”
On the drive back to the airport, she watched the snow zip past the car, garish in the lights of passing vehicles. She never wanted to come here again.
“Oh, cheer up, Sandy,” Nigel said as he signaled to switch lanes. “At least you finally found him. At least you got to meet him.”
“To what end? There’s nothing to write a story from here. Anything I would try to write about some mysterious traveling troubadour is going to sound so fake and convoluted. People are going to think I fictionalized all of it.”
“I’ll tell you to what end.” He grinned. “You and I are going to publish those pictures. Once people see his face, he won’t be able to hide for very long. And then maybe he can be persuaded to come out of hiding.”
Sandra smiled back at him. He was right – the chase was far from over. The pictures were their tickets to fame, to the interview to end all interviews.
It wouldn’t be until they got back to LA that they would discover that the digital camera’s memory card had been erased and that the film in the 35 millimeter had somehow been exposed.
And somewhere in the word, a mysterious man roamed free, paying his penance and warning others of the mistakes he’d made.
*Title and lyrics from “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by The Counting Crows
Next Up: "All That's Left of Me"
"All That's Left of Me" will be next 