Guitarra Portugesa
Carlos, the troubadour of Fontinhas, keeps alive the fado traditions of Goa even as he yearns to make his own music. To which goal will his efforts to keep alive the Portuguese mother culture lead?
“No tips?” Carlos asked incredulously.
“No tips,” repeated Mario firmly, “you are an artist, not a beggar.”
“How will I collect enough money for a Portuguese guitar to play at the Fontainhas festival?”
“Just play your music when I tell you, where I tell you. I will collect the money for you to walk into old man Pedro’s shop and buy his prized 12-string original Coimbra guitar.”
“OK.” Carlos said hesitantly, looking at the list of places Mario handed him. “These places are all in the Fontainhas.”
“Exactly!” Mario exclaimed, “you just have to walk around and play fado…”
“Only fado?”
“Yes, only fado.”
“But Mario…”
Mario raised his hand, “Carlos, I am bringing tourists to the Latin Quarter of Panjim, Goa. Just play the fado people want to hear. OK?!”
“But Mario,” Carlos protested, “I want to play fusion; I want to create new fusion! Like Madredeus.”
“And you can play fusion when you go to Bollywood. Play their fusion, create your own fusion, do whatever you want. But here, you play fado only so I can tell my tourists you are keeping the Fontainhas culture alive. Understand?”
Carlos nodded.
“Good,” said a relieved Mario, “in the morning, play at the places on my list and in the evening, at 8 o’clock, play outside the music shop. I want my tour group to recognize you when we come out of the tavern near Romeo’s Place.”
The rising sun cast an orange hue on the white St. Sebastian chapel when Carlos started strumming his guitar and wandering through Fontainhas letting his voice join in plaintively.
Ô andorinha da Primavera (O little swallow of Spring)
ai quem me dera tambem voar (how I wish I could also fly)
The sun was almost overhead when Carlos heard Mario announce to a group of tourists nearby, “And these are the famous Peacock steps.”
Carlos was plucking his way through the long, involved opening of Song for Che. His fingers moved from string to string, fret to fret, following a path they knew so well. The music notes floated by behind the lids of his closed eyes, the sounds resonated in the memory chambers of his mind. The spectacular and insistent energy of the composition began to draw the tourists, as Mario had said it would.
“If I am not mistaken, ladies and gentlemen,” Mario announced in a hushed voice to an awed audience, “that is Song for Che, one of the all-time favorites being played by none other than our own Carlos Mandanha, namesake of the great Carlos Parades.
The crowd rushed forward and Carlos suddenly found himself surrounded by mobile phone cameras recording his every move.
“Sir!” Mario moved quickly to touch the arm of a tourist who was about to hand Carlos some money. “Please,” he said gently, “don’t disturb the artist. If you want to contribute in a meaningful way, let us talk this evening at the tavern. We have an NGO to help preserve the Fontainhas culture.”
A familiar voice floated by Carlos later that afternoon as he sat on a stone bench surrounded by the bright, mosaic-like painted wall, sipping his coffee.
“But I don’t want to go to a football game,” he heard Rosie Menezes say petulantly, “I don’t like football!”
“Nonsense! A young girl like you can’t stay locked up with books all the time.” Ines Correa declared, “You need to meet some boys.”
“But these are school boys. I am their teacher!” Rosie whined, “I see them every day.”
“You are coming with me,” said Ines firmly, “Diego, coach Coutinho, suggested I come—I mean we come—to the football game. I can then meet him and you can meet other people at the tavern. Is my hair OK? How do you like my football shirt?”
Carlos watched the two women walk past him toward Font Phoenix, Ines moving with a sense of purpose and Rosie following reluctantly.
As night fell, Carlos could hear laughter echoing on the streets and in the tavern. He let his fingers continue down another familiar path while he sang along softly.
Pouco a pouco (Little by little)
Escolhi (I choose)
O presente silêncio (The present silence)
“Carlos!” The shrill voice of Rosie glowing with the flush of excitement all around her came from the tavern entrance where she stood beside a shell-shocked Ines.
“Your voice is divine,” Rosie cried out, her voice an excited octave higher.
“The nerve of that man,” Ines muttered, “asking me out and then making eyes at her all the time.”
“Mr. Coutinho is a funny man,” Rosie giggled as she passed Carlos, “he kept trying to draw lines on my arm to show me how to make a pass.”
“Next time he tries to talk to me,” Ines fumed, “I will slap that little wig off his head.”
“Will you come and play the guitar on my street, Carlos?” Rosie asked coyly as Ines locked her elbow around Rosie’s arm and dragged her away.
Carlos watched the two women walk down the street. Ines stiff with outrage and Rosie looking back longingly as she swayed her way home.
Mario emerged from the tavern surrounded by tourists flush with one Sangria too many. “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he said pointing toward Carlos, “is what you are supporting with your generous contributions to our NGO.”
Carlos’ voice rang clear fluttering around the notes from his guitar.
Leva-me ao céu contigo, vá (Come, take me with you up to the heavens)
Qu'eu lá de cima digo adeus ao meu amor (From there I will greet my love)
Ô andorinha da Primavera (O little swallow of Spring)
The moon shone bright high up in the sky and a warm breeze flowed through the streets of Fontainhas gently caressing the brightly painted homes. Carlos felt like a true troubadour standing there, apart and yet a part of it all, alone among the crowd, enclosed in a bubble that separated him from the throbbing excitement all around.