AT 29 (121 page)

Lloyd Gannon Clarke hadn't taken a note since midway through the opening act. He hadn't thought about food, his column for the next day, its deadline or the unpleasant prospect of his return flight to Sydney. All of the mundane concerns that formed the mental intrigues of his tiny world were gone. A cough here, a rustle of bodies there, he didn't hear them. He was too concentrated. Epiphany came to mind as he anticipated the final scene.

One happy song captured the essence of Nathan Whitehurst. According to Melba's story he wrote it on the occasion of his son's birth, a present for his beloved wife. Alice wrote the lyrics, but Les made her re-write them until she was satisfied that Alice's words matched the love so clearly evident in the melody. Early on Jimmy picked this song from among the hundreds he'd played and replayed from Nathan's songbook. He tinkered with the arrangement, spending more time on this one piece than all of the others. A dozen versions plastered the walls of his office and he returned to them again and again for weeks before he almost gave up in frustration. The ballad began slowly then built, step-by-step, with a myriad of key changes that culminated in a crescendo of joy. This was easy to replicate. It was the soft opening he could never seem to get right. With Reina's help, dozens of instruments were tried, always coming close, but never meeting the vision Jimmy held for The Whitehurst Legacy's finale. The breakthrough came when Nigel heard one of Jimmy's arrangements for the first time.

“That's not for a harmonica, mate.” He left the theater and returned an hour later with Nathan's hand carved mouthpieces. They tried each one until the otherworldly vibrations of a small whalebone flute, crafted with obvious care, filled the ear.

Flute met the steady beat of the kettledrum, violin met viola, oboe met trumpet and every instrument of the orchestra built key upon key, calling out to the audience. With the resurgent energy that all finales bring to the voices of those who perform, the cast of unknowns, callously dismissed by critics like Lloyd Gannon Clarke, united their talent as one. Jimmy listened, suddenly unaware of anything, but the music. He closed his eyes and opened his imagination to other sights, Les, Nigel, Peggy, Sonny, George, Miles, Cindy, Ellis and all the others who filled his life. His anxiety melted away. Then it was done.

The curtains closed and the actors went to their appointed spots to wait for them to open again. The orchestra slipped into a low replay of the final song. A minute passed. No applause. Tim Seligman looked at Jimmy, spreading his hands in consternation. He signaled the stagehand to raise the curtains. The spotlights automatically trained on center stage. The ensemble rushed forward with fixed smiles masking their confusion. They bowed to more silence then hurried to the rear as the lesser role players took their places. Then, one by one, the stars took their bows until the final actor stepped forward, fighting to appear happy in the peculiar quiet of the packed theater. Seligman, unable to bear another second of humiliation, raised his fist to drop the curtain once and for all.

The theater lights came up. Miles sat still, dejected, but also disgusted. The Whitehurst Legacy was a masterpiece. He knew it from the opening scene. How could Melba's magnificent story go unheralded? How could anyone be unmoved by Nathan Whitehurst's beautiful music? He waited for the audience to rouse from its seats, worrying for Jim and certain that his singer/songwriter, turned theatrical producer, would be heartbroken. No one stirred. McCabe gathered himself and slowly turned to look up at the balcony one last time. He scanned the faces of the critics, all seated in the oddly still theater. Finally, he forced his eyes to the center only to find Lloyd Gannon Clarke looking down at him with a smile on his face, a derisive smile that told him everything he didn't want to know. The Whitehurst Legacy was a flop. Painful realization accompanied the last note of a violin rising from the bowels of the orchestra pit. When it ended a single voice bellowed from the balcony.

“BRAVO!” The voice exclaimed. “BRAVO!!”

McCabe took the cue, quickly rising and clapping his hands while urging others to do the same. He turned to the balcony again. Another ‘Bravo!' in the same voice, Lloyd Gannon Clarke's voice, standing with his arms stretched out. The twenty-minute standing ovation forced seven curtain calls. The cast party lasted until dawn.

***

At one a.m. a taxi pulled to the rear of the theater. Clarke hefted his bulk from the backseat, carrying a sheaf of papers. He told the driver to wait. Then he knocked on the door. A stagehand led him inside through the corridor, past the dressing rooms and into the rehearsal hall where the revelers partied. In an unusual gesture, the heavy man thanked his guide then proceeded across the hall to where six men sat together. In another unusual gesture, the feared theater critic approached Tim Seligman, cleared his throat, smiled and offered his congratulations with a beefy hand. Seligman jumped with a start, knocking over his chair and spilling his drink.

Miles McCabe recognized the obese man immediately as did Nigel and Jimmy. They stood as the cast and crew stopped what they were doing and the music was turned down. George and Illa were the only ones who remained in their chairs, unaware of the significance. Les, Reina and Alice came through the cast and crew to stand with Jimmy as the critic turned to him and offered his hand.

“That was a wonderful production, Mr. Buckman.” Then he turned to Nigel. “I wonder if I might have a word.” Nigel, as stunned as the others, nodded and motioned to a corner nearby.

“I won't keep you. I merely have a question before I give my editor the green light to print my column.” He held up the papers in his hand. “The presses can only be held for a few more minutes.”

“I understand.”

“Tell me, is The Whitehurst Legacy true?”

A few minutes later, after placing a short telephone call from one of the dressing rooms, Lloyd Gannon Clarke came back. He searched the faces until he settled upon Illa who was standing off to the side watching him closely. The two men nodded and Illa came forward. They chatted for a moment then Clarke reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a business card. He handed it to Illa, waved to the others and left the way he came.

At five a.m. the newspapers arrived. Every one of the dozen local and national publications gave the production five stars. Tim Seligman read Clarke's column aloud.

By: Lloyd Gannon Clarke

They came out of Europe; nautical pioneers, religious zealots, opportunists, vagabonds and ne'er-do-wells with a new world to be discovered and little to hold them in the land of their fathers. Europe rattled sabers, sneering across imaginary lines that marked nascent kingdoms. Gold was king, gold and new lands across the waters, waiting to be plundered and enslaved
.

Those who went to sea sojourned naively in fragile wooden vessels bare of all but the most primitive tools with which to survive gales and mountainous waves. Most did not survive. Down through the centuries, a lucky few, armed with the weapons of a more
modern world and the diseases of a more primitive one, discovered and systematically annihilated the native inhabitants of whole continents. The piety of the one-God religion could not save these people from the onslaught of greed and power that gripped the European heart from monarch to Pope, from captain to pirate and from merchant to slaver
.

One by one, banners were planted in foreign soils. New colonies sprang atop the death pits constructed, stone by stone, by those unfortunate few who escaped the sword and disease of their conquerors only to be chained to a shortened life of bondage
.

In time, a new order emerged. Religion and greed combined to induce fraudulent new wars on the soils of the foreign lands few Europeans had ever seen or cared to see. The Spanish, Dutch, and Portuguese masters of the first wave gave way to the French, Russian and English masters of the second. And, while some may dispute her preeminence, the British throne rose above all others to reign supreme in every corner of the earth
.

Yet, that throne, veiled in the trappings of constitutional right, stank of vile decay. Cloaked in commerce, the promise of human dignity extended only to the very few who claimed privilege above all others based upon feudal patronage. In this way, the British master flogged his far-flung subjects, extracting bounty beyond all measure of right
.

So, too, the hunger for more ignited new exploration. Guided by rumor, glory and courage Cook navigated the seas. He discovered other lands big and small, peopled and vacant, resourced and empty until he came upon the greatest land of all far from traditional routes and so distant from the homeland of the flag he placed in its sparse bush that the throne dismissed its promise. Our home, New South Wales, was born with a destiny carved in the image of its master, but only through the despair of the least of its brethren
.

Men, women and children, yes, the least of our human race were herded onto putrid hulks then to armed vessels for transport to this continent beyond the equator. It is then that the ‘The System' came to our land. Here, Mother England's cruel treatment of her children was left to fester in a convict hell that history cannot adequately chronicle. As the indigenous black nomads were exterminated their places were taken by destitute British castoffs whose right to liberty and life was rejected by chain and lash
.

I know of these things. I know of the horror that infested places now serenely loved as Sydney, Brisbane, Tasmania (Van Dieman's land) and, most unholy of all, Norfolk Island. In these places our forefathers were driven to seek freedom only in death for life was too dreadful to bear. Yet, there were some who endured, ‘stone men' so inwardly strong and outwardly defiant that their spirit could not be extinguished. These unconquerable few are the foundation of this glorious country we call Australia
.

As a young man I confronted the truth of our heritage. I wrote what I believed to be an honest account of all that took place as settlements were brutally sculpted from the bush. Now, I know I was blind. In my zeal for academic sifting, my dogged intellectual separation of fact from fable, I failed to perceive the essence of the Australia I sought to portray
.

Our Aussie soul must not be depicted by travail and defiance alone. There is more, much more that requires telling. There is fealty between those who came shackled against their will and those who were already here, white Englishman and black Aborigine. There are innocents brought from the wild to rejoin their own and add depth
to barren lives. There is escape to the sea where true potential could be nurtured and lifelong devotion found. There is war where duty promised honor and glory only to deliver disillusion and injury. There is death, untimely death that causes the spirit to cry out in agony even as it carves a path through the hills and valleys beside the ocean. But, there is also birth that herald's life's rejuvenation, brief, but enduring as it passes from one generation to the next. There is sunlight shining upon verdant fields. And, there are hands and hearts that bond across the oceans and across time. Love so strong that it is compelled to burst forth in song, music so utterly beautiful that one can scarcely imagine life without its sweet melodies forever enchanting the ear
.

The Whitehurst Legacy does what I could not. A theatrical production lasting little more than two hours captures everything I set out to do in a thousand-page tome. It portrays the true story of our grand nation comprised of strong-willed people who, laugh, love and sing to the joy of life
.

Today, I announce the end of this column. Too often it has been the instrument by which talent has met its demise. I am compelled to confess that my critiques, while grounded in the necessary expertise, lacked the compassionate insight that authors, producers, directors, actors and musicians deserve. For years I have portrayed the average as despicable, the magnificent as mediocre and triumph as passing fancy. To all those creative Australians who suffered from my acid prose I offer apology. I retire from your midst chagrined and chastened, never again to be your scourge. The Whitehurst Legacy has moved me to a higher understanding. I trust it will do the same for you
.

SEE IT! HEAR IT!
AUSTRALIA, MY BELOVED AUSTRALIA!
YOU WILL NEVER HAVE YOUR FILL!

Lloyd Gannon Clarke
– Retired from the Sydney Times to re-write his thousand-page history of Australia. He borrowed the emotional character of Melba Whitehurst's story, adding human depth to the portrayal of his country's forebears. The book became an international bestseller. He also partnered with Illalangi Illuka. Together, the historian and the Aborigine established the Gadubanud Research Trust.

Jeff Hines
– Exchanged vows with Penelope Lawrence in Saint Virgil's chapel one year after Jim Buckman's marriage to Leslie Marshall. He earned tenure at Saint Virgil's College and headed the school's religious studies department.

Travis
– Served as Nigel's drummer for six years. He married at twenty-nine and returned to Brisbane, Australia where he formed a local band and continued to play in various clubs.

Eugene
– Accepted Miles McCabe's offer to lead Blossom's Country & Western division. It grew to generate forty percent of the record label's profits.

Ted and Melinda
– Were married and continued to record and tour with Sonny until the birth of their second child. They retired from the recording industry and settled in London where they opened a music school.

Benson LaSalle and Chase Barone
– Were released from prison after two years of quiet negotiations between the government of Singapore and the U.S. State Department. Benson returned to the United States and settled in Louisiana where he labored on a drilling platform. He was beaten to death during a brawl in a New Orleans's nightclub. Chase traveled to Saigon, renamed Ho Chi Minh City, and opened a bar catering to western businessmen. He never returned to the United States.