Roomies by Christina Lauren
five
Luis Genova is a magical human, and I don’t say that lightly. When I read reviews of him as Theo in my uncle’s show that say he was “born for the stage,” I feel sorry for whatever uncreative journalist wrote it because it’s not a profound statement; it’s akin to declaring that a bird is born to fly.
One night, very early after the production launched and received its first standing ovation, the cast and crew went out to celebrate at the Palm. I was, as I am now, not even an official stagehand and barely worth anyone’s notice, and at the time Luis didn’t yet know my relation to Robert. That night, Luis made the rounds of the entire private room, shaking hands and giving thanks. When he was several people away from me, the air shifted, became charged somehow. There were four of us minions standing together, snacking, trying to stave off self-consciousness, and we all turned and watched him approach as if we were being compelled.
I explained it to Lulu later, describing it almost like if a UFO had landed and deployed some magical brain magnets. We all had to turn and watch him. None of us could continue babbling about how good the calamari was or whether we’d have a Dark and Stormy or a gin and tonic next when Luis Genova was walking toward us. When he reached for my hand and thanked me for all my hard work, he looked me right in the eye and my inane brain lost all capacity for language.
Blinking, I shook his hand, giving him a numb “Okay” before he moved on to thank the person beside me.
Well played, Holland.
It’s not that he’s tall, or particularly good-looking or muscular. He’s just . . . present. The light prays at the altar of his cheekbones. His hair hits his jaw in a smooth black sheet and he tucks it behind his ear, revealing eyes that crinkle into that smile. Lord, his smile.
His smile, which is right here, not ten feet from me.
“Holland, for the love of God, stop gawking.”
I startle, turning at the sound of Brian’s voice. Unfortunately, Luis and Robert—who had been having what appeared to be a lovely conversation and which I would have been happy to witness for a good ten minutes longer—also turn to see what’s happening. Everyone nearby looks at me, their smiles tilting from confused to sympathetic.
Poor fangirl, busted for ogling.
Story of my life, I guess.
My neck heats and I push through the assembled cast and deeper backstage, apologizing under my breath. Admittedly, I get to see Luis a lot, but never standing still like that, so close, and my opportunities are dwindling. He has created a nation of adoring followers, and in only a month, he’s leaving us.
I’m not even a Broadway junkie, and I’m heartbroken. No wonder Twitter is flipping out. No wonder Robert is a stress monster about making sure Ramón nails it when he takes over.
I find a quiet place to sit in the shadows and watch Luis and Robert walk onstage, hugging briefly before Robert waves Lisa up from the pit. She joins them, lifting her violin to her chin and following Robert’s lead before she begins playing. Again and again they practice, blending their two “voices”; Luis has only a handful of performances remaining, but I can see he wants to make them impactful. His final show will be a star-studded event and covered by press that’s already profiled the show a hundred times.
Unfortunately, even to my ear it’s clear that Lisa is no match for Luis in sound or presence, and I have no idea what’s going to come next. Seth is already gone. Luis is leaving soon. Ramón Martín is coming in with a blockbuster voice, and Lisa’s hand is too soft to accompany him.
For the first time, I’m truly worried about my uncle.
Robert finds me in his office later, absently punching holes in a blank sheet of paper. He looks a little dangerous: his dark eyes are bloodshot, his normally smiling mouth is a grim, pale line.
“Are you making a mess in here?” he asks. He takes his glasses off, folding them carefully on the desk.
Sheepishly, I sweep the small pile of punched-out circles into the recycling bin. “I can’t believe anyone uses a single-hole punch anymore.”
“No one does.” He sits in the chair opposite me and bends, putting his head in his hands.
“You okay, Bobert?”
He says pretty much what I expect: “I don’t know how I’m going to pair Ramón. He’ll drown Lisa.”
Robert’s pianist, a man named Luther, is pretty wonderful. “Can Luther carry the solos?”
“On piano?”
I shrug. “Just spitballing here.”
He appears to consider it, and then shakes his head. “The songs don’t lend themselves to keys. The strings have a richness, a vibrancy that the piano can’t mimic. It needs to stir something inside you. Luther is amazing, but we need a musician who demands your attention. Who makes you feel.”
The idea seems to heat my blood, and I straighten. “Wait. Wait.”
Robert looks up, confused.
I hold up my hand. “An idea is forming in my brain.”
His expression clears in understanding. “No, Buttercup.”
“He’s exactly what you’re describing,” I insist. “You’ve never heard him, but trust me—he is.”
“He plays guitar. Honey, I know you’re enamored, but—”
“It’s not that, I swear. And he’s not just some busker hanging out on the street. He’s gifted, Robert. Listening to him play is like watching Luis onstage. I feel the notes. I know I’m not . . .” I search for words, flushing. Trying to tell Robert how to do his job is dangerous; he may be my uncle, but he’s been a brilliant musician for much longer.
“I’m not a trained musician like you are,” I say carefully, “but I feel like classical guitar might work here. It’s gentle, and soft, yes, but has the passion and—the vibrancy you mention? It has that. If we’re changing the sound entirely by bringing in Ramón, why not change it this way, too? Have a guitar sing with Ramón, instead of a violin?”
Robert stares at me, speechless.
“Just come with me once.” I grow dizzy from the awareness that I might be convincing him. “Once. That’s all it will take. I know it.”
There’s something almost comical about seeing the impeccable Robert Okai walk into a subway station the following Monday. As he descends into the shadows of the stairs, it occurs to me that since I’ve lived in New York, I’ve never ridden with him in anything other than a town car or a cab. He grew up in the dusty streets of western Africa, playing on the world’s most battered violin and wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and sandals, but it’s impossible to imagine him in any other state than he is today: wrapped in a long wool coat, blue cashmere scarf, black tailored pants, and polished shoes. It’s safe to say I look slightly less polished in my purple cast and fuzzy pink cardigan.
But he isn’t snobby; he dives right into the crowd. He isn’t squeamish about the grime on the handrail or the puddle of filthy water at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. It’s more that Robert gives off the sense that his humble beginnings could never deny who he was meant to become: an exceptionally talented maestro.
As for me, my heart is hammering wildly beneath my breastbone, and I have both fists wrapped around the strap of my bag to keep them from trembling. Not only is Robert coming with me to listen to Calvin play, but it will be obvious to Calvin that I’ve brought someone here specifically to watch him play, thereby making it apparent that I have watched him in the past, maybe many times in the past, and thought about how someone else should join me.
Also, I really don’t want to be wrong about this. Robert’s esteem means everything to me. If he doesn’t agree about Calvin’s talent, I know deep down it will tarnish something within me about Calvin in particular, and my own creative compass in general.
But my nerves may be wasted: other than the screech of the train or the occasional burst of an announcement audible on the stairs, the station is mostly silent. In the past several months, Calvin has been here every Monday night. Has he abruptly changed his routine in one week?
My stomach drops. Sometime, weeks ago, it stopped occurring to me that Calvin might eventually move on from the busking gig. It’s one of those unintentionally selfish assumptions I’m always shocked to find myself making: I just imagined he would be here forever—or at least until I stopped wanting to see him every day. The prospect of never seeing him again sends a cold shiver of panic down my arms.
But as we turn the corner to go down the last flight, the iconic, seductive opening notes of “El Porompompero” drift up, and Robert pauses, his foot caught midair.
As always, the song begins slowly, flirtatiously, and Robert’s pace picks up. Calvin’s feet come into view—then legs, hips, and guitar, then torso and chest and neck and head—and the rhythm increases, the music taking off in an addicting swirl; Calvin alternately strums his guitar and gently slaps it like a drum.
I watch Robert as he listens. In any audience, Robert is a fascinating mix of wildly effusive praise and stern critique, and the only sign I have that he’s mesmerized—for he’s looking down at the floor, as if working out some complicated mental logic problem—is the tiny tap of his index finger in time with the music.
Moving my eyes up just the smallest bit, I catch the quickened rise and fall of his breath in his chest. For my part, I can barely breathe. We’re here, watching Calvin together, and the enormity of the proposition—Consider him for your production—and the fact that he is indeed considering him hit me in a dizzy haze.
Desperate to contribute something, my emotional brain immediately sprints to shelter: I could be saving Robert!
My logical brain holds up a hand: Don’t get ahead of yourself, Holland.
Calvin’s eyes are closed, his head bent chin-to-chest. I watch him sway, lost to the music he’s making. Would his posture change if he had any awareness that the composer of It Possessed Him was standing only four feet away?
Calvin usually takes a small break between pieces, tuning his guitar under the apparent impression that he’s in a bubble. With a final flourish of fingers over strings, he stops, pauses, and then inhales, wearing an expression of bliss as he looks up.
But he’s never in a bubble, and we’re standing right there. His breath catches, and his eyes widen. He’s not looking at me.
He knows exactly who Robert is.
