Page 69 of And Still Her Voice
I looked out at the sea of glistening humans and thought I’d drown. I hugged my guitar as if it were a lifesaver.
“Let’s open with ‘Why Can’t You Love Me?’” John said, knocking me out of my trance. I’d composed that song with River in mind, a song we both sang while I played the piano. “I’ll sing River’s part,” Lazarus said.
“Oh, darling,” Grandma said. “This is our—pardon me, this is your big opportunity.”
“Grandma, I don’t—” my voice cracked. Suddenly my tongue seemed to be tied in a knot. “I can’t sing without River,” I said, noticing some crew guy rolling in a keyboard right after Richie left the stage.
“You will sing without him,” Grandma said.
I took a deep breath and held it as if I were diving into the frigid ocean. There was no time to swim away, only time to paddle if I wanted to survive.
“Hey man, that was far out,” John said, reaching out to shake hands with a sweaty, ecstatic Richie Havens walking off the stage.
“Yeah, I played everything else I knew. I had to improvise,” Richie said as another helicopter came into view.
Within moments the chopper landed and when the doors finally opened up, the world pulled away from underneath me. Out stepped the guru from the article I’d read inLifemagazine.
The promoter lifted his arm to look at his watch. “Oh shit, he’s right on time,” he said, flicking his cigarette. “We probably shouldn’t have Swami Satchidananda wait. He’ll go on next, before you,” he said, stomping the still-burning cigarette with his boot and then hurrying over to greet the special guest.
Saved by the Swami, I wouldn’t have to play—just yet—several musicians and crew swarmed the guru and escorted him up to the back of the stage where I’d been standing petrified at the thought of performing. His followers gathered for a blessing before he took to the stage where he sat lotus-style on a bench before addressing the crowd:
“My Beloved Brothersand Sisters, I am overwhelmed with joy to see theentire youth of America gathered here in the name ofthe fine art of music. In fact, through the music, we can workwonders. Music is a celestial sound andit is the sound that controls the whole universe, notatomic vibrations . . .”
I felt a collective unifying vibration, and by the time the crowd chanted, “Hari OM, Hari Hari OM.”
Lazarus Rising finally took the stage and the thought of performing no longer terrified me. “Darling, you are going to be simply fabulous,” Grandma said.
“Yeah, Grandma, I’ve got this,” I responded, taking my place behind the piano.
Still mesmerized after listening to the Swami, the crowd stayed quietly respectable as I struck the first notes of “Why Can’t You Love Me?” John harmonizing River’s part, I realized I’d only come on this journey because of him, and by the time John and I finished the song, the helicopter buzzed up, taking the Swami away to wherever he came from. I pushed away from the piano, leaving John to sing solo and walked to the end of the stage, watching the helicopter disappear into the sky. After a moment, the crowd started chanting, “Honey Moon, come back!”
“Darling, go back and finish,” Grandma said.
I looked at John, a true showman, who glared at me, motioning with his eyes for me to come back. I shook my head and without missing a beat, he picked up his guitar and started the next song.
“I’m finished, Grandma,” I said, stepping off the stage. I then parted my way through the crowd, making my way out onto the road.
“Anna, go back!”
No one would ever remember I’d been on stage. I wouldn’t stay for the rest of the festival. If I had to, I’d follow the guru to the ends of the earth.
CHAPTER 25
The Big Apple
Unfortunately, I would have to stick it out with the band a little longer. My big plans called for big money. As I packed up back at the Liberty Hotel, John showed up and begged me to stay on; promising to pay me more and even letting me perform some of my own music. I couldn’t say no.
***
We arrived at another hotel on 57th just a few blocks from Carnegie Hall. Before unpacking, I took a seat on the bed to phone home. After five rings, I hung up. It was around three o’clock Pacific time. My family was still not home. I’d try again later. Meanwhile, I unpacked my things and decided to try the number River had given me. I wanted him to come visit me.
A man answered. River was out, he told me. I left the number where he could reach me.
Exhausted, I grabbed a book and turned in. I fell asleep but then awoke with a feeling of dread. A memory had been buried in my bones from the past, but whose past? It wasn’t the first night I’d fallen asleep into Grandma’s vivid dreams, into her cravings. Sometimes I felt a sorrow so profound as if someone had beenkilled; perhaps, my grandfather. But last night I dreamed about a young boy who’d died. He’d been related to my father. I woke up heartsore.
I sat up in bed. “Tell me what happened, Grandma. Who was this boy?” With a dogged persistence, I continued to interrogate her before the memory might slip away, before it might get buried again. Grandma remained silent as she had been for some time now, hiding somewhere in the mossy folds of my brain.
***
