Chapter 35 — Our House (2)

Eppie’s throat felt dry.
She now knew why Zara had skulled her drink before setting foot on stage.

Zara was given Uncle Paco’s Flamenco Guitar, while Eppie was given a classic, an old thing with history and character.

“We’re doing this?” she whispered to Zara. “Holy cows, we’re doing this? Now?”

“It’s a thing,” Zara assured her with a grin no less nervous than her own. “Think of it as training for the Gala. There’ll be ten times the volume of people there, and far more judgemental.”

As bars ought to do, the room grew louder the longer the music refused to play.
Eppie tried her best to tune out the faces in the crowd. With her keen senses, she could hear then all: the father telling a story, the mother holding her daughter, the old men joking, the day labourer sipping his drink, the young men with big smiles.

Zara tuned Paco’s guitar by ear.
Eppie, in a mid panic, tuned her guitar by burning [Causality] on [Perfect Pitch], turning sound into colour and texture. This was her first live in front of an actual audience. She cannot afford to embarrass Zara and insult the musical credibility of the Arriaga household.

“We start with Dream a Little,” Zara whispered, then started the silent countdown. Eppie’s [The Clockwork Pulse] kicked into gear as her other traits fire up their cylinders. Her fingers rested on the fret, taking on a life of their own.

Zara opened the song as they had practised, her fingers picking through the unhurried introduction, the sweet-jazz chord progression warm and sleepy. Eppie joined after two bars, adding to the resonance.

The room quietened, then her vocals rang out, clear as clarion on a cold morning day.

Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper, “I love you”
Birds singin’ in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me

With [Vocality] and [Songstress] and her theatre training, not to mention concurrently running [Perfect Pitch], her voice struck the low ceiling and diffused itself like the delicious aroma of bacalao con tomate. She sang from the chest so that her original voice, which had a child-like pitch, grew deeper, more mellow, taking on the quality of summer sunsets.

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear
Still craving your kiss
I’m longing to linger ’til dawn, dear
Just saying this

The crowd pressed closer. People forgot to drink. The gravy-thick vocals issuing from the tiny female torso seemed impossible at first, but soon, even the visual spectacle was forgotten. Table by table, conversation ceased as eager ears joined the song circle.

Her fingers strummed and plucked, their technique controlled by a higher power, moving from fret to fret like liquid.

At the second verse, Eppie’s sensibilities were lost to the [Sublime]. There was no room, no audience. She was living the music in technicolour.

Zara’s strings followed with a life of their own, missing nothing, drawing out the richness of her voice. Her partner’s body moved with her own. Eppie could not see, but she could feel the connection between them, chord on chord, like fingers entwined, limbs entangled.

By the time the bridge arrived, some people were already humming along.

Sweet dreams, ’til sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you
But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

The song ended, but the music continued. Eppie observed Uncle Paco. The old tocaor had his back against the wooden wall, a drink in hand and deep in thought. He caught her eyes as her gaze grazed him, upon which he tipped his hat a little.

Eppie smiled. Her [Physicality] swayed with the music, borne on unseen tides. Zara’s fingers continued the lullaby, free-styling while Eppie caught her breath.

They did not stop.
They pair had a plan.
A plan for the Gala, which would now be shown to the unknowing world for the first time.

Jarringly, Zara’s fingers plucked the string in quick succession, the keys dropped, the notes fell, the register suddenly changed. The shift in the room was immediately felt. People looked toward the girls in confusion, pondering the unexpected tonal shift.

The next song bubbled up in Eppie’s chest.
Not just the lyrics, but the feeling itself.
Luciana Mio. Poor Mio. Out here in Fresno, instead of the stage where she belonged.

She opened her mouth, and what emerged wasn’t what was planned for the Gala or shown to the Music Chair. It was something more RAW, organic, earthy—something from the heart.

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me

The room was still, but now there was only the sound of Zara’s guitar and her vocals cutting through the tepid air.

Tell me where did you sleep last night.

Before her audience could realise, the murder scene comes and goes. Some people gasp, and some people frown. Two young girls, singing a murder ballad, were not what they had expected. The song was grief without resolution, a lament of the sins of America’s past. It was soleares, solitude, and Eppie could see it creep into Uncle Paco and make the man sombre. Unlike her august, theory-stuffed audience at LAPA, these were simple men and women with Basque blood. They had been here working the land for generations. They knew the dark places that people won’t go. Some of them had been there, a mere generation ago.

In the pines, in the pines,
where the sun don’t ever shine —

Zara’s guitarwork was relentless. Live, she played even better than in practice. Hotel Basque was her home field. Here is where the real Zara shone. Eppie’s voice clung to Zara’s notes, creating harmony, creating resonance.

The last note faded out.
The audience grew completely quiet.

Was that it? Their faces ask. Where is the encore?

Uncle Paco pushed off the wall, approached them with a dire purpose, then picked up a bass guitar from the floor and slung it across his shoulder in one smooth move.

“De nuevo,” he declared in his exotic accent. “From the four-count.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Zara began the song again, Eppie listened, waiting for Paco to join.
It took only two bars, then Paco entered the downbeat like a low-pressure storm from the hidden hills, a low, walking bassline that elevated Zara’s notes, bringing emotion, weight, and chronic depression to an already sad song.

The ceiling felt suddenly lower. The candles burnt blue.

Eppie felt the bass coming through the floor, through her legs, through her chest. Her belly felt funny. She wanted, more than anything, to sing.

If the crowd had been abandoned in the woods before, they were now abandoned in the deep Apalachian South, a thunderstorm brewing on the horizon, rustling the pine needles.

Eppie allowed herself to drift into the music.
She allowed herself to enter Mio, battered and bruised and bleeding.
But Mio wasn’t alone. Mio had Eppie to help her.
Euphemia Fontaine, on the other hand…

In the pines, in the pines,
where the sun don’t ever shine—

Some of the audience, perhaps feeling the emotion in her voice, wiped moisture from their eyes. Her groan grows to a descending crescendo. The notes begin to linger.

I would shiver the whole night through.

Zara held the chord and freestyled four more bars.
The bass note sung, hollow and long… then died.

Eppie allowed her body to return to neutral, as they taught in Theatre.

We need bass. Eppie acknowledged for their second playthrough. That’s what was missing.