Lafayette
Man of Artistic Fingers
Again, thank you all for your thoughtful input.
At the suggestions and comments of you all, I did another rewrite. Please, let know if this is more in line with what you had in mind. The only thing I didn't work on was making the technicalities of making instruments more subtle. Currently, I have no idea of how to do this. I'll have to think about this some more.
Additional comments. questions, or suggestions are still welcome. In advance thank you.
In a warm kitchen, in a warm wooden house, in Arizona, a sturdy chair squeaked in protest as a chubby Percy Smith leaned back, sipping sweet red wine, and taking a light breath. “As usual, that was beautiful, Vincent. I especially enjoyed the interlude of the third movement. I could hear the birds chirping and the tree leaves rustling in the wind. Your virtuosity puts me there.”
“Thanks, Percy,” replied the troubadour as the twelve-string’s resonance gracefully faded into the afternoon spring air with the chirping robins and sparrows. “It is truly gratifying to display my artistry to someone that sincerely appreciates it.”
“Percy, I could make you a brilliant guitarist too,” said the troubadour. “If only you would become my student. You have the ears and passion.”
Percy glared. “Here we go again, Vincent, I’ve told you before …”
“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Vincent. “I am forty-seven years old; I am too old to learn anything new. The truth, my luthier friend, is, you’re too lazy and complacent, You’re in a rut. You need some adventure to stimulate you.”
“Adventure! Bah! What good is adventure? Will it feed me? Will it keep me warm? Besides, where there is adventure, there is unknown danger and I want nothing to do with it. I’m a Truer and a good Truer doesn’t need adventure.”
Vincent laughs. “Yes, you are a good Truer, perhaps too good.”
“Now, what about your guitar?” asked Percy. “Is it not perfect like all of my creations?”
“Yes, it is perfect,” replies the troubadour, softly strumming the guitar “The lows are mellow, the octaves are clear and rich and it rings like mademoiselle Shannel’s door chime. Like all of your guitars, it’s perfect. However,” he added as he sat the guitar aside and whisper, “I cannot accept it.”
“What! You do not have the money?” asked Percy, raising a black eyebrow.
“Come, come Percy!” snapped the troubadour, quickly standing and waving his hands. “You hurt my feelings. I am Vincent Rene Richards, the greatest troubadour of the three continents! I am paid in the purest gold. Copper never lines my pockets. Here,” he said, tossing his purse onto the table. “As you can see, it is twice the amount you asked for.”
“Then what is the problem?” asked Percy.
“The problem, my friend,” answered Vincent. “Is my impending poverty and surpassing perfection.”
“Impending poverty and surpassing perfection?” echoed Percy.
“Except for the coin, you see, I’m broke,” sighed Vincent. “My traveling expenses and extravagant spending are making me a pauper.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Percy.
“Unless,” added Vincent, “I give a performance surpassing perfection at Prince Raymond’s coronation. Our king to be is demanding, surpassing perfection from everything and everyone, including me.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Percy.
He is promising me he will give me a chateau and a generous pension for my retirement. However, … No performance surpassing perfection, no retirement no chateau.”
“You’re retiring? Why?” asked Percy.
Sitting down again, Vincent picked up the guitar and began finger picking minor chords. “Yes, I’m retiring,” Then he added, “As you know, Percy, the coronation will be the diamond event of the century.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re retiring, Vincent.”
The troubadour let out an enormous sigh. “After sixty-nine years of performing and traveling, I am tired. When it rains, my hands ache and become stiff. I love performing, but I’m getting too old, I need to retire.”
Then, looking up at Percy, he added, “I’m sorry, Percy, your guitar is not beyond perfection.”
“What do you expect?” asked Percy, waving his hands. “I offered you a higher bridge to raise the volume. You say no. I offer ladder bracing and you say it’s too punchy and rude. I offer a maple top instead of spruce for brightness and you say no. You claim the bass runs will sound muddy and lose clarity. You want to hear octaves. I give you octaves. I suggested mahogany. You complain it’s too woody. You demanded heavenly. I give you heaven’s harp. I end up making your guitar from one of my metair trees. It’s not like you to be so temperamental.”
“Yes, that is true,” replied the old troubadour. “Until now, perfection was enough. Now I need surpassing perfection.”
Percy sputters. “You must play my guitar, my masterpiece, Vincent. Business has been turtle slow. The coronation, you, my guitar, will spark new business. Without this crowning achievement, my competitors will have my clientele.”
Vincent stared at his plump friend. “Since when, Percy, do you worry about competitors? Something is wrong, what is it?”
Percy turned his head away. Then he stared at the troubadour with woe. “I’m in debt.”
“You’ve been in debt before and paid your way out. What’s the rub?”
“The rub is Lyon the Lender,” breathed Percy.
“And?”
“And I owe him forty thousand francs.”
“Forty thousand francs!” exclaimed Vincent. “By the saints, that is a lot of coin. Why so much? And, why did you ever agree?”
“My aunt Joenic was very sick with a rare disease,” answered Percy. “The healers declared the only cure was five very rare and expensive potions. I didn’t have the coin. And the local lenders don’t enjoy lending to Truers.”
“Lyon heard of my plight and made me an offer. He would give me fifty thousand francs up front if I made his mistress a guitar of Teitton Swamp Oak in one month.”
Richards’s mouth dropped open. “Percy. just owning a plank of Teitton Swamp Oak is illegal.”
“Yes, I know, but Aunt Joenic was failing every day. I just couldn’t see her suffer and do nothing. To meet his deadline, I had to cancel five contracts and refund ten thousand francs. Swamp Oak is extremely hard to work with. I went without sleep for six days, but I completed and delivered it.
“But he was not happy,” added Vincent. “Why?”
“He was for three days. Two days later, the guitar was infested by Boemeanian Termites. The guitar was beyond repair. He screamed and waved a knife at me, saying I should have treated the guitar with Morteen. Morteen is incompatible with Swamp Oak. He wants his money back in three weeks. He vows to burn my house and shop down.”
“I can’t that raise that much money in three weeks,” cried Percy. “Without your endorsement and a royal gesture from the king, I’m doomed.”
“You can have my pouch of coins, Percy.” said Vincent. “I wish I could do more for you, Percy, but as I’ve said, I’m broke.”
“You can help me, Vincent, by playing my guitar.”
“Percy, Percy, I .. can’t .. do .. that,” replied Vincent. “I promised the prince a performance beyond perfection. In all honesty, your guitar is not beyond perfection. You’re a man of integrity. You should understand this. I am truly sorry, Percy.”
Vincent, if you don’t play my guitar, what am I to do?”
Vincent tries to smile. “I don’t know. But you will survive, you are a Truer and Truers always survive, but I’m not a Truer and I’m desperate. That is why I’m going to see Taylor Gibson.”
“Bah,” Percy sneered. “Taylor is too young to create a masterpiece guitar. His calluses and blisters are like a baby’s butt. Now tell me what is the problem and I will fix it.”
At first Vincent avoids Percy’s stare, then he sighs and speaks, “Je ne sais. There is something lacking. My friend, your guitar lacks magic.”
At the suggestions and comments of you all, I did another rewrite. Please, let know if this is more in line with what you had in mind. The only thing I didn't work on was making the technicalities of making instruments more subtle. Currently, I have no idea of how to do this. I'll have to think about this some more.
Additional comments. questions, or suggestions are still welcome. In advance thank you.
For Forum
Part 1 of Chapter 1
What is Magicwood?
Rewrite 2
Part 1 of Chapter 1
What is Magicwood?
Rewrite 2
In a warm kitchen, in a warm wooden house, in Arizona, a sturdy chair squeaked in protest as a chubby Percy Smith leaned back, sipping sweet red wine, and taking a light breath. “As usual, that was beautiful, Vincent. I especially enjoyed the interlude of the third movement. I could hear the birds chirping and the tree leaves rustling in the wind. Your virtuosity puts me there.”
“Thanks, Percy,” replied the troubadour as the twelve-string’s resonance gracefully faded into the afternoon spring air with the chirping robins and sparrows. “It is truly gratifying to display my artistry to someone that sincerely appreciates it.”
“Percy, I could make you a brilliant guitarist too,” said the troubadour. “If only you would become my student. You have the ears and passion.”
Percy glared. “Here we go again, Vincent, I’ve told you before …”
“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Vincent. “I am forty-seven years old; I am too old to learn anything new. The truth, my luthier friend, is, you’re too lazy and complacent, You’re in a rut. You need some adventure to stimulate you.”
“Adventure! Bah! What good is adventure? Will it feed me? Will it keep me warm? Besides, where there is adventure, there is unknown danger and I want nothing to do with it. I’m a Truer and a good Truer doesn’t need adventure.”
Vincent laughs. “Yes, you are a good Truer, perhaps too good.”
“Now, what about your guitar?” asked Percy. “Is it not perfect like all of my creations?”
“Yes, it is perfect,” replies the troubadour, softly strumming the guitar “The lows are mellow, the octaves are clear and rich and it rings like mademoiselle Shannel’s door chime. Like all of your guitars, it’s perfect. However,” he added as he sat the guitar aside and whisper, “I cannot accept it.”
“What! You do not have the money?” asked Percy, raising a black eyebrow.
“Come, come Percy!” snapped the troubadour, quickly standing and waving his hands. “You hurt my feelings. I am Vincent Rene Richards, the greatest troubadour of the three continents! I am paid in the purest gold. Copper never lines my pockets. Here,” he said, tossing his purse onto the table. “As you can see, it is twice the amount you asked for.”
“Then what is the problem?” asked Percy.
“The problem, my friend,” answered Vincent. “Is my impending poverty and surpassing perfection.”
“Impending poverty and surpassing perfection?” echoed Percy.
“Except for the coin, you see, I’m broke,” sighed Vincent. “My traveling expenses and extravagant spending are making me a pauper.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Percy.
“Unless,” added Vincent, “I give a performance surpassing perfection at Prince Raymond’s coronation. Our king to be is demanding, surpassing perfection from everything and everyone, including me.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Percy.
He is promising me he will give me a chateau and a generous pension for my retirement. However, … No performance surpassing perfection, no retirement no chateau.”
“You’re retiring? Why?” asked Percy.
Sitting down again, Vincent picked up the guitar and began finger picking minor chords. “Yes, I’m retiring,” Then he added, “As you know, Percy, the coronation will be the diamond event of the century.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re retiring, Vincent.”
The troubadour let out an enormous sigh. “After sixty-nine years of performing and traveling, I am tired. When it rains, my hands ache and become stiff. I love performing, but I’m getting too old, I need to retire.”
Then, looking up at Percy, he added, “I’m sorry, Percy, your guitar is not beyond perfection.”
“What do you expect?” asked Percy, waving his hands. “I offered you a higher bridge to raise the volume. You say no. I offer ladder bracing and you say it’s too punchy and rude. I offer a maple top instead of spruce for brightness and you say no. You claim the bass runs will sound muddy and lose clarity. You want to hear octaves. I give you octaves. I suggested mahogany. You complain it’s too woody. You demanded heavenly. I give you heaven’s harp. I end up making your guitar from one of my metair trees. It’s not like you to be so temperamental.”
“Yes, that is true,” replied the old troubadour. “Until now, perfection was enough. Now I need surpassing perfection.”
Percy sputters. “You must play my guitar, my masterpiece, Vincent. Business has been turtle slow. The coronation, you, my guitar, will spark new business. Without this crowning achievement, my competitors will have my clientele.”
Vincent stared at his plump friend. “Since when, Percy, do you worry about competitors? Something is wrong, what is it?”
Percy turned his head away. Then he stared at the troubadour with woe. “I’m in debt.”
“You’ve been in debt before and paid your way out. What’s the rub?”
“The rub is Lyon the Lender,” breathed Percy.
“And?”
“And I owe him forty thousand francs.”
“Forty thousand francs!” exclaimed Vincent. “By the saints, that is a lot of coin. Why so much? And, why did you ever agree?”
“My aunt Joenic was very sick with a rare disease,” answered Percy. “The healers declared the only cure was five very rare and expensive potions. I didn’t have the coin. And the local lenders don’t enjoy lending to Truers.”
“Lyon heard of my plight and made me an offer. He would give me fifty thousand francs up front if I made his mistress a guitar of Teitton Swamp Oak in one month.”
Richards’s mouth dropped open. “Percy. just owning a plank of Teitton Swamp Oak is illegal.”
“Yes, I know, but Aunt Joenic was failing every day. I just couldn’t see her suffer and do nothing. To meet his deadline, I had to cancel five contracts and refund ten thousand francs. Swamp Oak is extremely hard to work with. I went without sleep for six days, but I completed and delivered it.
“But he was not happy,” added Vincent. “Why?”
“He was for three days. Two days later, the guitar was infested by Boemeanian Termites. The guitar was beyond repair. He screamed and waved a knife at me, saying I should have treated the guitar with Morteen. Morteen is incompatible with Swamp Oak. He wants his money back in three weeks. He vows to burn my house and shop down.”
“I can’t that raise that much money in three weeks,” cried Percy. “Without your endorsement and a royal gesture from the king, I’m doomed.”
“You can have my pouch of coins, Percy.” said Vincent. “I wish I could do more for you, Percy, but as I’ve said, I’m broke.”
“You can help me, Vincent, by playing my guitar.”
“Percy, Percy, I .. can’t .. do .. that,” replied Vincent. “I promised the prince a performance beyond perfection. In all honesty, your guitar is not beyond perfection. You’re a man of integrity. You should understand this. I am truly sorry, Percy.”
Vincent, if you don’t play my guitar, what am I to do?”
Vincent tries to smile. “I don’t know. But you will survive, you are a Truer and Truers always survive, but I’m not a Truer and I’m desperate. That is why I’m going to see Taylor Gibson.”
“Bah,” Percy sneered. “Taylor is too young to create a masterpiece guitar. His calluses and blisters are like a baby’s butt. Now tell me what is the problem and I will fix it.”
At first Vincent avoids Percy’s stare, then he sighs and speaks, “Je ne sais. There is something lacking. My friend, your guitar lacks magic.”
