Ten

“Bond, James Bond”

During 1978, Haber Artists continued to handle my Canadian, U.S., and some international dates. Since I had played arenas and stadiums as Gordon Lightfoot’s opening act the year before, Haber was able to book solo recitals in some of the more intimate concert halls. Many in the audience had been introduced to my music through Gordon’s shows, which were building a new following south of the border. My gamble in Minneapolis had paid off. Next, Haber packed me off to New Zealand for seventeen concerts organized by Graham Atkinson, the former manager of the National Ballet of New Zealand. Lured by the opportunity to see another part of the world, I agreed to the six-week tour, knowingly sacrificing much of my precious Canadian summer. In August, alone in a straw-roofed hotel room in the antipodean paradise of Fiji, my first layover, I dreamed up the idea of transcribing three Domenico Cimarosa sonatas in the key of D to create a guitar concerto, which a year later I recorded with the English Chamber Orchestra in London.

A cold rain greeted me in Auckland, where in a damp little motel I reviewed the gruelling tour schedule which involved motoring hundreds of miles all over the North and South islands. On the black-and-white television, a live broadcast of the Commonwealth Games in Edmonton showed Canada’s prime minister, Pierre Trudeau, smiling in his shirtsleeves as he watched the high-jump competition. How warm and summery it looked — how very far away. I brewed a cup of tea, filled a hot water bottle to warm my chilly sheets, and prayed the six weeks would pass quickly. New Zealand was the worst tour of my career: endless cold motels; greasy, overcooked food; and a wearing schedule of press interviews, TV shows, and concerts. I shivered my way through performances in Timaru, Whanganui, and Invercargill, even using electric heaters on the stage in Christchurch, where I could see my breath in the air. For some inexplicable reason, I lost half of my hair; as I combed my normally thick tresses, strands pulled loose as though I were victim of some chemotherapy nightmare. The stresses of this tour were taking their toll.

Two rock fans, presuming I was one of their kind, bought front-row seats to the Auckland concert. The teenaged boys told me later how puzzled they had been by my lack of onstage “gear.” After the initial shock, when my guitar whispered instead of wailed, far from being turned off by the acoustic and classical nature of my presentation, they converted to avid fans who enthusiastically pursued my meanderings around their country. At each concert, the long-haired “groupies” sat transfixed, radiating the wide-eyed awe of adolescent obsession. I wonder if they ever realized their dreams of becoming guitarists.

Atkinson and his obese, loud-spoken wife travelled with me. They were hardly my idea of good companionship on the road, so I started to compose the lyrics and music to songs as we wound our way across sodden, sheep-dotted landscapes. The six songs, which were completed by the time the tour had ended, were eventually produced in the recording studio by Eric Robertson and made into demo tapes. For someone who hates wasting time, I had to find a creative way to pass the endless hours imprisoned in the back seat of Atkinson’s station wagon.

After putting me through six weeks of this exhausting schedule, Atkinson handed me a cheque that bounced when I returned to Toronto. The High Commission of Canada spent months trying to help me collect, but Atkinson had already absconded with the profits and could not be traced. My only compensation had been a ten-dollar sheepskin he bought me — no doubt after a pang of guilt — in the airport gift shop. When I visited Auckland a decade later, I was informed that the crooked promoter was serving time for embezzlement. I hate to think how many other innocents he had exploited. New Zealand is a beautiful country, but that dreary tour of 1978 left a bitter aftertaste. My only treat was being stranded for two days on the tropical island of Tahiti when Pan Am developed engine trouble en route to Los Angeles. At that point, however, I felt so desperate to get home to North America that Papeete’s beauty was all but lost on my travel-weary eyes, which were still counting sheep.

As my career expanded in the late seventies, I welcomed any offers of international exposure. Some music from Dr. Carlos Payet, a young San Salvadorian composer and professional psychiatrist, arrived in the mail. “Cabellos de Oro” and “Lejanía” were lovely melodic pieces that he had dedicated to me. After learning how much I had enjoyed his compositions, Payet arranged some performances for me in San Salvador, where I was welcomed like one of the family by the Guttfreunds, patrons of the arts. Enchanted, I sat eating home-grown cantaloupes in their garden gazebo surrounded by tropical flowering trees whose perfumes scented the warm air, while sweet trilling birds strutted around displaying their plumage. On the second night of my stay, the earthquake that devastated Guatemala jolted me out of bed. Fearing another terremoto might play tremolo during the night, I judiciously plotted an escape route out of my room into the garden.

The symphony orchestra of San Salvador comprised seventy enthusiastic musicians who, between gigs playing Beethoven and Brahms, moonlighted in local bands around town. As there was no dressing room in the theatre where we performed Rodrigo’s Fantasía para un gentilhombre and Vivaldi’s Concerto in D, I resorted to tuning my guitar between two cars in the outdoor parking lot! Later that evening, I ran into the concertmaster serenading tables in a restaurant and several members of the brass section waiting to be hired on the street that was famous for mariachis.

The following day, while I was halfway through a solo concert, a power failure plunged the hall into darkness. As luck would have it, I had just started Etude no. 17 by Fernando Sor, the easiest selection in the program; miraculously, my fingers made it through to the end without a slip. The audience, most impressed by my dexterity in the dark, was clapping wildly when the electricity returned, just in time for Sor’s Introduction and Variations on a Theme by Mozart — a piece that would surely have ended in disaster without lights to see the fingerboard. Payet developed a severe case of infatu-ation that inspired him to write “Danza Norteña” and “Brisas del Lempa,” which I later recorded on my Virtuoso album. Sadly for him, I was unwilling to reciprocate his affections; thus scorned by his Canadian muse, he became embittered and refused to write more music for me.

Carlos had introduced me to a gynecologist friend who also fell under the spell of my guitar. For years, he continued to send his ardent poems, songs, and love missives and he plastered an entire wall in his house with my pictures. A record album of his romantic songs featured my photo on the back cover and an opera he wrote was dedicated to me. What his poor wife must have thought of her husband’s obsession I dared not imagine. After another enthusiastic eye doctor started to write, I resolved to stay away from El Salvador; I might have the entire medical profession in chaos! Latin men are utterly helpless when it comes to the lethal combination of blondes and guitars!

As one of the world’s leaders in nuclear technology, Canada had sold CANDU reactors to South America, and the secretary of state for external affairs, Don Jamieson, planned an “anti-nuclear-proliferation” tour to caution various countries to act responsibly when dealing with nuclear power and its military implications. The Canadian government invited me to travel with the delegation in January 1977 to perform at various state banquets as a goodwill cultural offering from the Far North. In addition to the after-dinner performances for Latin American heads of state, five public concerts and a few TV shows had been planned. When I scrutinized the tour schedule and read “concert at Torre Tagle Palace, Lima, Peru; private jet to the Campeche estate in Santos, Brazil; free day at the Cartagena beach, Colombia,” my eyes lit up in anticipation.

I flew down to Rio de Janeiro ahead of the thirty press and diplomatic personnel comprising the Canadian delegation. A tangerine dawn was breaking as my Varig 747 banked over Sugarloaf Mountain to the accompaniment of “The Girl from Ipanema,” which was being piped over the sound system. Yes, I had finally made it to Brazil and was eagerly gazing down at a breathtaking view straight out of my grade twelve geography textbook. The traffic was chaotic, the humidity close to 100 percent, but everywhere I was aware of music in the air and beautiful, smiling faces. The Brazilians embody a most aesthetically pleasing mixture of races, with toasted golden skin, slender African necks, and lithe figures. On the beaches and boardwalks, we drove past both men and women wearing tangas, the scantiest bikinis ever designed; when the Canadian delegation arrived, I could sense that no one was in any great hurry to return to Ottawa! Two days earlier, their private military jet had aborted a takeoff and ploughed into a snowy field at the end of the runway, causing everyone to evacuate down the chute. What a relief to have avoided that traumatic episode. There would be adrenalin enough for me in Brazil.

The Canadian embassy staff whisked me around for TV, radio, and newspaper interviews; because I spoke Spanish, everyone took it for granted that I understood Portuguese, the language of Brazil. On one musical variety show, a feathered, scantily clad hostess approached me after I had played “Sounds of Bells” and rattled off unintelligible questions, shoving her microphone into my face for an answer. “Si, he tocado la guitarra clásica por doce años — yes, I have played the classical guitar for twelve years,” I replied in Spanish to her torrent of Portuguese, which I was later told had dealt with Canada’s cold weather! “Es mi primera visita a Brazil,” I improvised, when she asked me what sort of guitar I played. The disjointed interview con-tinued as I attempted to decipher her rapid-fire questions. Why did she keep talking about violins, I wondered. Finally the penny dropped — the word for acoustic guitar in Brazil must be violão, and here I was a violinista! “Hablo español pero absolutamente no hablo portugués — I speak Spanish but absolutely no Portuguese,” I said, emphasizing the “no” by making a zero with my thumb and index finger and directing it at the camera. The Canadian consul, John Bell, who was with me, cringed in embarrassment, and later explained that I had made what is considered the most obscene gesture to millions of Brazilians on their primetime TV — a rather undiplomatic way to begin a concert tour!

The next day was my debut in Rio. As I sat tuning my guitar in the dressing room before show time, all the lights suddenly died. “Oh, it’s probably just a short blackout,” I mused, recalling the frequent power failures in Mexico. After five minutes in the dark, I noticed a faint burning odour and anxiously opened the door. The corridor was filled with smoke, and orange flames shot from the direction of the hall. In a panic, I grabbed my guitar and raced to the back door, where my audience was milling around making way for arriving fire trucks. In all the excitement and commotion, no one had thought to rescue the artist from her dressing room! I later learned that two television cameras had overloaded the power supply, sparking a fire that had rapidly spread to the carpets and chairs. Fortunately, the flames were soon extinguished, but it took one and a half hours before the smoke dissipated from the hall. Meanwhile, the good-natured audience waited patiently, seating themselves on the grassy slope behind the rear doors. Never have I played to such a packed hall as I did that unforgettable night in Rio. The temperature topped a hundred degrees, but people overflowed into the aisles, even seating themselves onstage, barely allowing room for my chair. Hushed during my playing, the audience broke into noisy, exuberant applause after each selection. Brazilians must be born with music coursing through their veins, so responsive are they to melody and rhythm. Such intense approbation is exhilarating for a concert artist; to this day, Brazil tops my list for audience reaction.

Occasionally during the course of a concert, I am overcome by a sensation that in some ways approximates an out-of-body experience. So intensely concentrated and involved am I in the music flowing through me that I have the illusion that I am observing the performance rather than creating it. Although my fingers are producing the music, my physical being seems to be floating somewhere up in the rafters of the theatre. Rio was one such memorable high point among my many concerts. The next day, back in Rio, John’s foot was almost amputated by the propeller of a mishandled speedboat after he dived off our government yacht. At a private clinic, the international mecca of plastic surgery run by Dr. Pitanguy, I sat by his bedside with a bouquet of roses for him after they had miraculously reattached his unlucky extremity.

After accompanying me to a ridiculously disorganized television special, where the equipment seized up each time we began taping, my promoter, despairing of the congested traffic, bundled me into a police car whose blaring sirens forged a path toward the Museu de Arte de São Paulo — a novel way to arrive for a performance! Afterwards I signed autographs for the mob of beaming guitar enthusiasts, then, in the company of the attentive Canadian consul, strolled around the Hilton Hotel where I was staying. It was after midnight, but the traffic jams were worse than rush hour in New York, and colourful crowds pushed and shoved along the sidewalks. Hundreds of beautiful women in tight-fitting dresses with elaborate hairstyles and heavy makeup leaned against the street lamps and parked cars. As they flashed dazzling smiles in our direction, I wondered what they were all waiting for. John laughed at my naïveté, explaining that this was the centre of São Paulo’s transvestite quarter; all the gorgeous ladies were actually men! I was speechless with disbelief. We elbowed our way into one of the small bars spilling infectious Brazilian samba onto the side streets. After gyrating with me to the tropical rhythms, John was approached by a cinnamon-coloured beauty inquiring which doctor and treatments I had been using. Later, I was told that the transvestites combine hormonal therapy and plastic surgery to enhance their feminine appearance. This “man” obviously thought I was a smashing success and had been eyeing me with envy.

As I was playing my final encore in Brasília, I became aware of a gigantic cockroach with long, waving feelers making slow and steady progress toward me across the wooden floor. The concert hall was designed with a lowered stage separated from the bank of audience chairs by an orchestra pit, so everyone had ringside seats for the monster’s approach. The women told me afterwards how they held their breath, expecting shrieks at any moment. A North American cockroach would never have fazed me, thanks to my lifetime of exposure to Damien’s entomological enterprises, but in Brazil insects grow to Amazonian proportions! Notes tumbled over one another faster and faster as I slid my chair backwards a few inches at a time to counteract the creature’s inexorable approach, but he was determined to head for the music; soon only millimetres remained between him and my skirt, which draped invitingly on the floor. I placed both feet on top of my wooden footstool, frantically praying that he would make a detour. But my guardian angel must have been off-duty that night! I felt the “thing” creep up my open sandal, his feelers tickling my ankle. Knowing that only a few bars of music remained, I willed myself to ignore the sensations, although my trembling left-hand vibrato was becoming more and more erratic. With the last chord finally struck, I leaped into the air, using my concert skirt to fling the unwelcome visitor to the floor. The audience clattered to their feet, rewarding me with a standing ovation, yelling, “Bravo, Liona. Bravo!” It seemed a fitting finale to this unpredictably exciting tour of Brazil.

The next morning’s 6:00 a.m. wake-up call found me feeling like a springbok shot by a tranquilizer dart, thanks to a late-night reception in Jamieson’s honour at which I had been coerced to perform. In a somnambulistic stupor, I stuffed my suitcase for the drive to the Brasília airport, where our Canadian delegation was patiently awaiting Jamieson’s limousine. With a flash of silver wings, a sleek Gulfstream II materialized out of the cornflower-blue skies and taxied up beside our government’s jet. Several well-groomed attendants in uniform filed down the steps, followed by a distinguished-looking businessman. Gary German from Noranda, who had been chivalrously carrying my guitar case in the heat, asked if I would like to meet Edgar Kaiser Jr. — someone he knew from various business dealings. To me, the name Kaiser conjured up no other association than buns ordered in a New York deli. “Sure,” I replied drowsily, suddenly conscious of my straggly unwashed hair, red eyes, and rather dissipated appearance. Edgar Kaiser nevertheless greeted me with enthusiasm and extended an invitation into his air-conditioned plane, leaving poor Gary and my guitar to melt on the hot tarmac.

I was introduced to the crew and offered a revivifying drink of iced orange juice. The springbok sprang back to life. “May I have your telephone number in Toronto?” the blond-haired man in his late thirties inquired with a twinkle in his eyes before I left his plane. I had never heard of Edgar Kaiser, nor his grandfather, the legendary tycoon Henry Kaiser, but his charming manner and account of how he had played guitar and written songs years ago in Buenos Aires aroused my interest and persuaded me to scribble my phone number on his monogrammed note pad. Edgar Kaiser was not the dark Latin lover stereotype of my fantasies, but he was bright and charming, and ran a two-billion-dollar empire.

My South American tour concluded with visits to Bogotá, Cartagena, and Caracas, where Antonio Lauro, the composer, invited me to dine with his family after an impromptu recital for his students. On my return to Toronto, Edgar started to phone me from various corners of the world where he was deal-making — Belgrade, Reykjavik, and Paris — hoping we could meet in New York. Dinner at the 21 Club was followed by dancing at Regine’s trendy disco, where the staff bent at the waist like plastic juice straws as they passed us, obsequiously whispering, “Good evening, Mr. Kaiser.” How very impressive that everyone from the maître d’ to the coat-check girl knew his name! Edgar explained how his grandfather, the Californian Henry John Kaiser, had founded a shipbuilding company that, after the First World War, was expanded into Kaiser Industries, a multinational conglomerate dealing in steel and aluminum. His grandson, Edgar, had taken over the interests of this powerful family, including Kaiser Permanente, a health-maintenance organization. After graduating from Stanford and Harvard, he ran Kaiser Resources in Vancouver, exporting coal to many countries around the globe. He visited these countries in the spanking new executive jet I had seen in Brasília, which he referred to as “Silk,” after the registration letters SLK painted on her side.

One morning, Silk picked me up after a concert I had given in Tempe, Arizona, at Arizona State University’s Grady Gammage Memorial Auditorium, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. The young fellow from the student committee who drove me to the airport to catch my plane to New York looked on in disbelief as he handed me my paltry cheque and watched me ascend onto a multi-million-dollar jet. The seductive world of Edgar Kaiser, whose high-flying international deals were conducted with great aplomb, started to reveal itself as I became privy to his intriguing business affairs. What a contrast to my non-materialistic lifestyle — where the Tokyo Stock Exchange and the price of crude oil never intruded on my consciousness. Before I knew it, I was buying a few shares in Kaiser Resources to feel a part of his mercurial business scene.

Edgar and I began to see each other whenever our busy schedules would permit. I had just finished recording an album of short melodic pieces, Miniatures for Guitar, and had to juggle concert and studio commitments in order to accommodate our dates. He bought a block of tickets for his Kaiser Resources executives to attend my concert at Vancouver’s Orpheum Theatre and later hosted a reception. My new amour was serenaded with guitar music in his exquisitely furnished private apartment atop the Waldorf Towers in New York. I admired the art collection at his rambling house in Vancouver, and dined at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco after racing around the “City by the Bay” in his Italian sports car. It felt as though I had been hurled into the pages of a Harlequin romance novel. Edgar regaled me with stories of his eighteen months in Vietnam with the U.S. Agency for International Development, his CIA and Trilateral Commission connections, his days at Harvard, his time as a White House Fellow under President Lyndon Johnson, and his experiences with the international Young Presidents’ Organization and an ultra-exclusive men’s club, the Bohemian Club. It was difficult not to be impressed by the many charity boards and international business councils on which he had served. High above the stratocumulus, I succumbed to Dionysian delights during my initiation into the mile-high club. At heart, my business magnate was a romantic who sang me songs while picking out the chords on my guitar. How could I possibly resist his attentions? Edgar commissioned a gold brooch inlaid with rubies and diamonds, and a hand-carved cherry-wood music stand depicting the Garden of Eden, which became one of my most treasured possessions. He was a truly fascinating young man, with a love for the arts, music, and poetry, in addition to a brilliant business mind; fate, however, did not intend for our lives to continue to flow together.

In retrospect, I must have seemed utterly naive and unsophisticated compared with the glamorous society women Edgar had dated. My clothes were often unstylish things picked up at the Toronto Symphony sale or homemade by my mother. Focusing on my career, I had neither the time nor the inclination to be concerned about the latest fashions, and I remember him despairing over my basse couture outfits and Kmart lingerie. I shudder to think how my flyaway hair and unorthodox wardrobe must have been viewed by his friends. Stereo Review and Guitar Player magazine held more interest for me than Vogue. I had never heard of Judith Leiber evening purses, Ferragamo shoes, or Christian Dior negligées. In contrast, Edgar was constantly calculating the style and image he wished to project as a “young tycoon.” Everything, from the expensive cufflinks and Swiss watch to the pinstripe suits, was intended to maintain this impression. The elite world of Edgar Kaiser seemed to exist in another dimension, but I sometimes wondered who really had the happier life. He would be up at dawn placing urgent calls to Europe and Japan; being responsible for manipulating millions of dollars around the world was a stressful job. Edgar’s secretary, Sue, organized his entire life, including our dates, but a sixth sense made me suspect she harboured more than secretarial ambitions toward her boss; my intuition would later prove to be correct.

In March, People magazine published a story on my career that unfortunately mentioned my friendship with a certain Mr. Kaiser, age seventy-two — Edgar’s father! The magazine was forced to print an apology in their next issue, but I felt badly about the mistake, especially as Edgar’s father was in failing health.

Kaiser Junior explained how he could be an easy target for women, many of whom wanted to have his child in order to get financial support. I was shocked that Edgar had to concern himself with such chicanery, but I confess that during some idle moments, I pondered the fantasy that he had planted in my mind. If I were to bear the son he desperately desired, I would probably become Mrs. Kaiser, with a life of Hawaiian mansions, private jets, and the best recording studios money could buy! In return, I would have to learn to live with Mr. Kaiser’s complex personality, considerably large ego, and reputed taste for glamorous women. No doubt it would spell the end of my guitar profession, but had I not already had a wonderfully satisfying career, and had I been in love rather than infatuated, I would have to admit that I, too, might have been tempted by that clichéd strategy of romance novels.

Edgar, I am sure, must have realized that I would make a hopeless wife for someone with his lifestyle. Would I know how to select cashmere suits in the fashionable boutiques of Paris, chat with the ski crowd in St. Moritz, or host New York dinner parties for his fellow tycoons? Would I have wanted to spend days at hairstylists and dress designers in order to fulfill the role of Mrs. Tycoon? I would have failed him miserably; luckily we both made the right decision, but in 1977 ours was indeed a sweet romance.

At the end of the summer, Edgar suddenly jetted in to Toronto; he had “something serious” to discuss. We walked hand in hand in James Gardens, where the air had that nostalgic autumn tang and the maples were streaked with orange. “It’s to do with my secretary, Sue,” he started. I already knew before he spoke another word; Edgar was about to be given a son.

Edgar and I still exchange occasional phone calls and send each other Christmas cards. Through our friendship, I was exposed briefly to a way of life known to only a privileged few. Even something as simple as accepting an orange juice in a Brazilian airport can influence your life and inadvertently enlarge your perception of the world!

As my concerts in Brazil had been so well received, I was invited back for return engagements in São Paulo, Belo Horizonte, and Rio, where Madame Villa-Lobos, the widow of Brazil’s famous composer, came backstage to offer congratulations on my interpretations of her husband’s music. For my debut recital in Salvador, a charming town in the province of Bahia, I was accommodated in the Convento do Carmo, now functioning as a hotel. On the first evening, the Canadian ambassador to Brazil, Jim Stone, and his wife cajoled me into bringing my guitar down to the central courtyard. Under a full moon, we leisurely sipped Cointreaus, enjoying the evening air perfumed with the scent of night-flowering vines blanketing the old walls. My playing attracted three other guests, who drew close to listen. The producer, director, and assistant director — Cubby Broccoli, Lewis Gilbert, and Bill Cartlidge — of the James Bond films had been scouting around South America in search of locations for Moonraker. The ambassador made introductions and we conversed into the night, interspersing our repartee with their requests from my repertoire.

The next evening, after my recital in a resonant church, the Bond team and I strolled around the town together exploring the “movie set” streets, which were lined with the brightly coloured wooden houses characteristic of Salvador. Lewis Gilbert was one of the most interesting and amusing men I had ever met. Born in England, he was at that time based in Paris. Alfie and two of the James Bond pictures were among his many successes. Cubby and Lewis, both classical music aficionados, invited me to stop by their studios to watch some of the Moonraker production when I was next in Paris.

A couple of months later, booked to perform in the French capital, I checked into the Raphael Hotel on Avenue Kléber, where the Bond team was staying. What fun to be on the set of Moonraker as a guest of the producer and the director! Their handsome British star, Roger Moore, invited me to lunch in a rustic café near the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, where the shoot was under way. As we motored through rolling French countryside in his Rolls-Royce, with the haunting theme of Concierto de Aranjuez on the tape deck, I felt as though I had stepped into an episode of “The Saint.” It was the only time in my life that I swallowed raw oysters; one does not say, “No, thank you,” to James Bond! Roger showed me a few pieces he had learned to finger on the classical guitar, then impressed the director with his prowess by pretending I had just given him a quick lesson.

The filming was fascinating to watch — shouts of “action,” “camera rolling,” noisy helicopter flights, and daredevil stunt men. The cheerful British unit demanded their ritual tea breaks, while the serious French insisted on long gourmet lunches — much to the chagrin of the Brits. Roger, dressed in black 007 garb, scouted around the magnificent château, trying to find the washrooms I had requested. As I followed his trim figure down the granite staircases, I imagined I had been drawn into the film itself; instead of toilets, we were in search of secret subterranean chambers. In Moonraker, when the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte is seen from an aerial perspective, I am on set ensconced in the back of Roger’s Rolls so as not to be spotted by the cameras! During one of the breaks, when I played Carlos Payet’s “Lejanía,” Moore observed accurately that the melody echoed my name. “I bet Payet was in love with you when he wrote that piece,” he remarked. Roger was a most astute man. I autographed one of my albums for him, and a few years later he selected it for a BBC Radio show, “Desert Island Discs,” in which celebrities named ten favourite albums they would choose if stranded on a desert island. I would not have minded being stranded with Roger on that island along with my disc!

The Bond team invited me to the Billancourt Studios, outside Paris, where I witnessed more filming. When stray sparks from the special effects explosions ignited a chemically treated wooden ceiling, a panicky extra pushed open the huge set doors, creating a draft that spread the flames even faster. Never have I seen people run as fast as Lewis, Cubby, and Bill, scrambling out to safety. “These French blokes are bloody pyromaniacs!” Lewis growled angrily as the standby firemen rushed to hose down the blaze. For the remainder of the shoot, I judiciously positioned myself beside the exit. It was fascinating to watch John Glen, the editor, painstakingly piecing together the rough cuts of Bond’s extravagant adventure, or to talk to several of the actors, including Jaws (Richard Kiel), Bond’s seven-foot nemesis with teeth of steel.

One evening a group of us were sitting around a candlelit table, enjoying a dinner in one of the Latin Quarter restaurants. Bill was describing in vivid detail how the space station would be blown to smithereens, explaining in a low, serious voice the number of guards who would be killed. The precise choreography of a Bond production can be as complex as any military manoeuvre. I gradually became aware of the incredulous expressions on the faces of a couple of elderly American tourists dining at the table adjacent to ours. Evidently they believed themselves privy to the malevolent machinations of a gang of British terrorists!

My performing and recording itinerary had kept my calendar crammed to capacity. The few days at home in between tours were whirlwinds of unpacking and repacking, answering telephone messages, and sorting records to sell after concerts, all while trying to squeeze in a few social evenings with friends. Tom York had become my confidante when the trials of touring left me exhausted and road weary. An acclaimed author, intellectual, sensual adventurer, jazz aficionado, and United Church minister, Tom York offered sanctuary and friendship, dispensing spiritual wisdom and tempering my “have guitar, will travel” modus operandi. I found his conversation stimulating, occasionally exasperating, but always challenging. We shared fireside chats at a Hockley Valley retreat, Abraxas, where my parents were members of a primal-therapy team, as well as snowshoe expeditions in the dead of winter, jazz albums by candlelight, and three New Year’s Eves. I read his books We, the Wilderness, And Sleep in the Woods, Trapper, and Snowman, affectionate poems he occasionally dedicated to me, rough drafts from his novel in progress, and transcripts of his Sunday sermons. Tom was a most extraordinary person who touched the lives of many with his non-judgmental ministry and his compassionate tolerance for humanity’s weaknesses. He had survived with the Inuit in remote Arctic outposts, lived with the Natives in northern British Columbia, weathered an anchoritic winter in a remote Maritime cabin, fathered four children, and served a faithful Toronto congregation who defended his unorthodox services when they occasionally raised the eyebrows of church elders. Sadly, Tom, my beloved and loyal friend of the late seventies, died at the hands of a drunken driver on January 2, 1988. I sorely miss his calming presence in my life and hope his spiritual journey continued in the world beyond.

In the seventies, my father left the teaching profession to help run a therapeutic retreat; Vivien, after qualifying at the University of Toronto’s dental school, went away to gain further experience at Michael Reese Hospital in South Side, Chicago; Damien was studying for his degree in biochemistry at the University of Toronto; my mother qualified as a massage therapist and pursued university studies in Spanish, as well as keeping busy with all aspects of my career.

In relation to the business side of my career, in between my concert engagements, my mother and I had been having all kinds of high-pressure meetings with lawyers and accountants. Noticing a break in my schedule, I suggested replenishing our energies with a week’s holiday in Puerto Rico, where our Spanish could benefit from a workout. How wonderful it would be to escape from the harried world of concerts, guitar players, and anything connected with the business of music!

Our packing was simple — a couple of cotton dresses, white slacks, bikinis, and sandals. We flew via New York to San Juan, where a welcoming wall of hot, humid air hit us as we alighted from the plane. A taxi with blaring Latin music took us to a small hotel picked at random from a travel book. Within moments, we were sipping piña coladas in a bougainvillea-filled terrace. What a lovely feeling to be so far from the clutches of lawyers and accountants!

I had brought along a cheap Japanese sun guitar to play on the beach and use to learn a Bach prelude for the Canadian Brass’s new record, Unexplored Territory. An hour’s practice was enough to keep my fingers flexible. “Let’s go exploring the town,” I suggested to my mother, who was busily hanging our crumpled dresses in the closet and sorting out traveller’s cheques.

San Juan is a modern city with rows of tourist hotels, but we headed for the central square in the older section of town. Suddenly I heard my name called, and a group of long-haired, long-nailed fellows I recognized from the Dallas and Seattle guitar societies approached. “Eileen, Liona, we didn’t know you were coming!” they told us excitedly while, to my horror, Robert Vidal, the Paris Guitar Competition mogul, padded toward me with the guitarist Oscar Ghiglia at his side. “Why are all you guitarists here?” I started to query, before realizing we were standing in front of a banner that read “International Guitar Festival of Puerto Rico.” “You must come to the concert tonight,” they insisted, as more guitar acquaintances came to greet me. “So how is everything with your recordings? When are you playing in Seattle next? Where do you get your nail-polishing paper from? Do you know a good agent in Toronto who can organize concerts for the Puerto Rican players?” Questions flew from all directions — just what I had come three thousand miles to escape! Already the participants were inviting us to dinners and plotting out our next few days. “Oh, you’d love to meet Enrique! He has all your records. Liona, why don’t you give a surprise master class at the university tomorrow?” I looked at my mother in despair. We had to forfeit our planned evening’s stroll around old San Juan to attend a soporific performance, followed by a reception where I was set upon by wide-eyed aficionados. “Tomorrow we’re getting as far away from San Juan as possible,” I resolved. I hated to appear ungrateful to people who obviously appreciated my work, but there are certain times when one needs to escape. This was definitely one of them.

I consulted a yellowing map on the wall of the hotel, and noticed a little town at the extreme opposite side of the island called Boquerón. We had been warned that it was dangerous to go “out on the island,” but like an adventurer who throws a dart at an atlas and determines to go wherever it lands, I had made up my mind. We would go in search of Boquerón. As no buses or trains went there, we hired a garrulous taxi driver, who barrelled us over the twisting interior roads for three hours as we hung on for dear life.

The village was even more beautiful than we had imagined: a sleepy fishing outpost with not one tourist in sight. We were welcomed by the owner of a dilapidated hotel built on poles over the water’s edge; my mother and I were his only guests. Our spacious room had large open windows and warped wooden floors. For eight dollars a night, it was perfection, in spite of a fierce-looking cockroach who was waiting to greet us in the bathroom sink! Boquerón turned out to be an idyllic spot — with quaint little streets and deserted, white sandy beaches stretching into the distance. The village fishermen, who spotted us immediately, decided to put on a show of local hospitality, bringing offerings of sweet pineapples and coconuts. Although our San Miguel Spanish was almost a different language from the local dialect, we managed to communicate. At dawn the next morning, I was gently lifted from my dreams by the mellifluous voices of the fishermen singing while preparing their boats, which were beached only a few yards from our room. As I lay in bed, feeling the warm caress of a Caribbean breeze across my face and enjoying the sound of lapping waves, I knew this was the Puerto Rico I had dreamt of discovering.

We spent five perfect days in Boquerón. The handsome captain of the lobster fleet took us sailing in his boat to Rockefeller’s private coral-strewn island, where we cooked a fresh red snapper on the beach. While we were on board, el capitán insisted on plying us with champagne, which we surreptitiously tossed into the blue Caribbean waters whenever he looked away, realizing that champagne and the boat’s undulations were not compatible. Every day the appreciative locals were treated to guitar playing; one star-spangled evening, I gave an informal concert aboard one of their boats. With our newfound friends, we drifted through pearly seas around the indented coastline. A gentle purring of the motor was the only sound in that tropical night, as we cut through smooth warm water that shone with green phosphorescence whenever we trailed our fingers on its surface — an eerie green glow like that magical sea in the Rupert Bear stories of my childhood.

During one of our walks to the beach, we were assured by an elderly man that we had no need to worry about the gallant attentions of these friendly Latinos; they were so competitive that each one was watching like a hawk for any suggestive moves that his companions might try to make. What fun to have half a dozen coffee-eyed Puerto Ricans to flirt with! We felt comfortably safe in their charming, animated company. How many of life’s rich experiences could so easily be passed by because of fear and misunderstanding. Certainly having my mother along helped, as Latin men tend to have great respect for mamitas. Playfully they taught us Spanish phrases in their local dialect and listened enthralled to my Agustín Barrios waltzes.

Each evening, when dusk dropped her velvet curtains, our empty hotel opened a bar at the end of a rickety wooden platform extending over the water. Here we danced with our newfound amigos to the juke-box music of a fellow from Spain called Julio Iglesias. How could I have guessed that several years later, I would be ensnared by that charismatic character from Madrid?

On our last day, while I was playing a Tárrega étude beside the pellucid tidal pools of a deserted, palm-strewn beach, two women appeared mirage-like on the horizon, slowly strolling along the water’s edge toward us. Hearing my guitar, they had come over to greet us. To our astonishment, they turned out to be the wife and daughter-in-law of the one and only person I had been told to look up by a guitarist friend from Tennessee! They insisted we spend the evening in their villa, twenty miles inland, to discuss music and mutual acquaintances. It seemed that even the most desolate beach of a Puerto Rican fishing village could not guarantee protection from the amazingly ubiquitous world of the classical guitar!