Conflicts of the Heart
As I staggered through the front door of my apartment, dragging my heavy suitcase and guitar, I heard the jarring sound of a ringing telephone. Forty sleepless hours of flying to Vancouver from Athens via Amsterdam had not put me in a talkative mood. Joel Bell was on the line, asking jovially if I would like to accompany him that evening to a tennis tournament. I knew my weary legs would have trouble heaving my body onto the bed, never mind downtown, so I declined, explaining the need for at least three days to recuperate from jet lag. After yanking the phone cord from its socket, and still dressed in travel-wrinkled clothes, I sank into a sound sleep, to awaken ten hours later feeling full of energy. I dialed several friends but, finding no one at home, regretted having rebuffed Joel. It might be fun to spend a few hours with the interesting man from last month’s bicycle trip who had sounded so eager to see me again. These thoughts had no sooner formulated than, with telepathic precision, the phone rang again. Joel was trying his luck on the off chance I had changed my mind and fancied dinner at the home of Hanne and Maurice Strong. “Faint heart never won fair lady.”
The refrigerator was bare, my travel fatigue vanquished, and I had always wanted to meet the charismatic Strong, whom I knew was greatly admired by Pierre Trudeau. A few hours later, Joel arrived at my doorstep to drive me to Tsawwassen, forty-five minutes south of Vancouver. How easy this man was to talk with, and what a pleasant change from some of those pretentious tobacco-puffing Europeans I had endured in Italy and Greece. We soon discovered we had acquaintances in common, even though our worlds of music and government were far apart. Joel had served as Trudeau’s personal economic advisor for several years, and it was clear the man had no deficiencies in grey matter. I rarely read the business pages of the newspapers, and Joel, it seemed, rarely read the arts section, which accounted for our failure to recognize each other’s names. Nevertheless, over animated dinner conversation at the beachfront home of the Strongs, I started to feel intrigued by my new companion, so versed in international affairs and possessed of the same political savvy I admired in Pierre. Joel and Maurice had been friends and business associates at Petro-Canada, with the respective positions of executive vice-president and chair. Now Maurice was working with the United Nations, while Joel headed a government holding company, Canada Development Investment Corporation, which ran such diverse operations as Canadair, De Havilland Aircraft, Teleglobe Canada, Massey Ferguson, and Eldorado Nuclear. Men with exceptionally bright minds had always impressed me, and I was starting to feel impressed!
The following day, Joel invited me to an afternoon tea that stretched into dinner at one of the Granville Island restaurants, and for the next two days, we found excuses to see each other before he was obliged to fly back to Ottawa. In Joel I discovered someone who totally understood the devotion I had to my career, as he himself gave 100 percent to his demanding position. Admiring the way I had pursued my musical goals, he seemed fascinated by every aspect of my profession. We shared anecdotes from our extensive travels, which had almost overlapped several times thanks to our common denominator, Pierre Trudeau. In contrast to some of the playboy characters who had crossed my path in Vancouver and Europe, this forty-two-year-old bachelor seemed sensitive and serious. Joel’s gentler nature revealed itself in thoughtful and considerate gestures.
Telephone calls started to come in from Toronto, Halifax, London, or Paris. During his intermittent visits to Vancouver, sensing his appreciation of my music, I played him my new digital release, Virtuoso; in turn, W5 kept me glued to the television screen watching him represent Canadair at an international trade fair in Dallas. This man appeared to lead a rather interesting life.
Joel Bell had been brought up in Montreal, where he had graduated in law from McGill before receiving both business and law graduate degrees from Harvard. Raised in a Jewish family but not overly religious, he had enjoyed such adventurous travel as a six-week mountain trek up K2 on the China-Pakistan border. Needing only a few hours’ sleep a night, he was constantly reading through briefs or dictating memos on corporate files. All this was familiar territory for me after my years with Pierre; perhaps that connection initially played an unconscious role in our relationship.
One day, my manager Bernie called to tell me he had been contacted by a representative from the Canadian military wanting me to perform at a “top secret” event. Mysteriously, he was unable to reveal any details, but we were assured that it was to be a prestigious affair. The function had to remain hidden from media attention, so I was asked to be discreet with any of my associates, which of course included my new boyfriend. Coincidentally, Joel was required to fly to Ottawa for a few days and seemed rather vague about his assignment. “It’s confidential government business, which I’m not free to discuss with you, Liona,” was all I was told.
When I arrived in the capital, I was informed by an RCMP officer that I was going to play for all the NATO ministers of defence. He conveyed the distinct impression that this was a rather clandestine military affair. In contrast to my previous government functions, Pierre Trudeau had had nothing to do with my involvement. As I walked through the National Arts Centre lobby after my half-hour recital, I was amazed to run smack into Joel, who hugged me and laughed at the realization that neither of us had been at liberty to divulge our participation. Of course, I should have surmised that his aircraft companies would have military connections. We had both been invited to a reception at which the ministers of defence were being served drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Joel introduced me to several guests, while others came to offer their congratulations on my playing. The German and Greek ministers had already discovered my albums on sale in the NAC boutique and asked for autographs. The wife of Turkey’s defence minister apparently played the guitar, and to this day Joel credits me with facilitating the Turkish government’s interest in buying Buffalo planes from De Havilland. One of the Europeans remarked how relaxing it had been for him to listen to classical music at the conclusion of two intense days of planning nuclear-war scenarios. So that was the reason all the ministers had been convened! What a sobering thought to realize that these refined and civilized gentlemen had actually been contemplating the doomsday buttons. No wonder they had not wanted the media to get wind of their apocalyptic games. I shuddered as my mind flashed to the Wannsee Conference, where a group of Nazi leaders, probably equally “refined and civilized,” met to plan the annihilation of the Jews. Perhaps they also had found time to savour some classical music.
Joel asked if I would like to accompany him to an airline convention in the Bahamas; I initially declined, but after three weeks of persuasive phone calls, I capitulated. It had been a long time since I had shared a trip with a boyfriend, yet suddenly this man had jettisoned himself into my life. Flushed with the excitement of a new romance, we flew down by private plane to Lyford Cay, outside Nassau. Convention obligations aside, we were able to spend many peaceful hours luxuriating in each other’s company in a beach cabin beside the azure waters of the Caribbean. The salubrious break did us both a world of good. Our relationship picked up tempo during the autumn months, and for the Christmas holidays, we rented Mick Jagger’s house on the island of Mustique.
In January 1984, Joel and I flew to New York for a reception at the Vanderbilts’ home and the National Arts Centre Orchestra’s performance of Handel’s Rinaldo. Pierre Trudeau, looking as dapper as ever, was in attendance. At the post-performance party, my new boyfriend selflessly granted me a dance with my former amour. It felt rather unsettling to be held by those familiar arms, which had embraced me so often yet were no longer part of my life. Pierre and I had maintained occasional telephone contact, so he knew that Joel and I were together. “You certainly made an excellent choice out there in Vancouver,” he remarked, with a twinkle in his eye. The two men, who shared many similar interests and held each other in great esteem, now had a girlfriend in common.
My self-indulgent sabbatical was about to be rudely broken by a thirty-city tour of Canada and the U.S., starting in the Maritimes in March of that year. Bidding a reluctant farewell to my West Coast friends, I packed up the contents of La Mariposa, the condominium where I had spent the past year. Gary McGroarty, my road manager, and I flew to Nova Scotia for the first concert in Pictou, where I was premiering many new pieces learned or written during the year off: Chopin’s prelude, waltz, and nocturne; Fortin’s “Classical Nash” and “L’Oiseau Capricieux”; and my own “Songs of My Childhood” for solo guitar. All of a sudden, I found myself sitting onstage with a few hundred hushed people hanging on to every note. Adrenalin started to pump through my body, playing havoc with my normally calm nervous system. Pieces that I had plucked to myself a hundred times before suddenly seemed to consist of unfamiliar chords that propelled me from one section to the next while I tried to cover up the memory lapses that plagued my performance. Why had I not anticipated the effect that an audience would have on me after spending an entire year away from the concert stage? Why had I chosen such new and difficult music? I could feel the muscles of my arms and shoulders tense up, while my hands strained to reach their correct positions. As I concluded the concert, for which my dear, loyal audience gave a standing ovation, I despaired at the thought that I had let them down. How would I ever manage to play well in some of the major cities that loomed ahead if my nerves were this frayed for a small town?
I collapsed into a hot bath, trying to soak out the cramps from the trauma of that evening’s concert and wondering if a life away from the concert scene might not be an easier choice. Perhaps I could teach and make records instead of putting myself through this touring ordeal. My new relationship with Joel had been demanding a lot of time: time that should have been used more diligently in preparation for these concerts. Classical guitar, considered the most difficult of instruments, requires tremendous dedication and self-sacrifice; even Segovia practised for hours each day. In every concert, there are thousands upon thousands of notes that have to be formed and then plucked on the strings in order for the music to flow. Accuracy is essential. For a performer, having one’s nerves go to pieces on centre stage is the stuff of nightmares. That night, I thrashed around on my bed consumed by guilt and anguish. As the tour progressed, however, the quality of my playing improved; by the second week, my fingers felt so secure that any doubts about performing had completely evaporated.
Shuffling flight schedules, Bernie and I were somehow able to accommodate a sudden booking, in the middle of the tour, to play at a Toronto luncheon for King Juan Carlos and Queen Sophía of Spain. In Nashville, my next stop, after a concert with George Jones and Tammy Wynette, Chet Atkins arranged for me to serenade the governor of Tennessee and appear along with a rambunctious Boxcar Willie on Nashville Now, a television show with an audience of thirteen million. A few days later in New York, I was seated at the head table, a few feet away from Michael Jackson, at a CBS Records charity event, and Liberace gave me tickets to the premiere of his extravagant show at Radio City Music Hall. The following day, Mr. Showmanship took me in his limo to watch the filming of NBC’s daytime drama Another World; my Albinoni “Adagio” had provided the soundtrack for one of their melodramatic episodes. I found out just how addicting soaps can be as, to my horror, I became hooked for the next six months!
After several concerts in American colleges, I veered north to Canada, playing with the McGill Chamber Orchestra in Montreal, participating in Quebec City’s music festival, and strumming a few pieces for the inauguration of Jeanne Sauvé, Canada’s new governor general. Once again I was back on track in the exciting world of music and show business, my carefree sabbatical days but a memory.
Joel and I tried to see as much of each other as possible, not an easy task given our two crowded schedules, but he made heroic efforts to be at my side, sacrificing sleep and juggling bicoastal meetings. In spite of my occasional misgivings about a long-term relationship, the concept of living together started to creep into our conversations. Although I had not been swept off my feet by unbridled passion, Joel’s company made me happy and I was starting to realize that there would be a certain level of comfort in sharing our lives. Since we both loved the scenic beauty of the West Coast, Vancouver became the focal point of our attention. Maurice Strong knew of a house for sale down the beach from his, and in no time Joel and I were discussing its purchase. How cozy it would be to enjoy log fires, beach walks, and our two interesting careers.
Any lingering feelings I might still have harboured for my young love of the past summer, Sam Houston, faded as the months slipped by. Joel seemed so much more mature, well grounded, and suitable for my social milieu. I did occasionally think back to the joyful sparks that Sam and I had ignited, and wished that I could instill some of that creative zest into Joel’s more cerebral and pragmatic approach to life. Perhaps with time, I rationalized, I would learn to appreciate our differences of character, and besides, a stable personality might balance my artistic temperament. Pierre stepped down from the leadership in June and called to see whether my relationship with Joel was still ongoing. “I’m finally free of politics!” he exclaimed, hoping I might be available to see him; but times had changed, and my life was now revolving around his former advisor. I thanked him for keeping in touch and teased him about all the attractive women who would be only too willing to keep him company.
Just as Joel and I were fine-tuning the Tsawwassen real-estate contracts, an event that was to alter our destinies occurred. In September 1984 the Liberal party was defeated by the Conservatives; Prime Minister John Turner, who had taken over from Trudeau, was replaced by Brian Mulroney. “I have a hunch I may be out of a job soon” was Joel’s wry prediction. He knew that in the minds of many, his position was too closely linked to the Liberal party. It was Joel who had helped draft Canada’s National Energy Program and who championed protectionism with the Foreign Investment Review Agency. How the Conservatives would relish removing Trudeau’s golden boy. Sure enough, in October, Sinclair Stevens, the minister of Regional Industrial Expansion, fired Joel from his position at CDIC, which led him to file a lawsuit over the terms of his termination. No one could have imagined how long the litigation would drag on in the Ontario courts, finally leading, ten years later, to the CDIC’s settling with him. Having lost his Vancouver office, Joel suggested living in Toronto, which seemed to make more sense as my brother, Damien, had been experiencing some serious health problems and I felt my family needed me there for support. It was also more practical to be close to my manager and record company, although I knew I would miss Vancouver’s backdrop of mountains and ocean.
In spite of having to record The Romantic Guitar album and make appearances on several U.S. and British television shows, I found time to spend a relaxing week with Joel in Martha’s Vineyard; my punishment was a severe case of poison ivy for the following month. Arlo Guthrie and I shared the billing in Cohasset, Massachusetts, but playing concerts with blistered hands and legs was agony! Although Joel and I enjoyed each other’s company, I started to notice how little gestures of consideration were neglected; when my birthday passed by unacknowledged, I began to feel taken for granted.
Sam Houston resurfaced in Toronto, fresh-faced with his youthful enthusiasm and pledges of devoted love. He had just ended a relationship and was eager to pick up ours from where we had abandoned it the previous summer. Suddenly, Joel seemed old and tired compared with my green-eyed romantic; cautiously, I began to resume that friendship. Sam had charmed the New York art world with his knowledge and business acumen while representing the famed contemporary artist Robert Rauschenberg. He was spending most of his time in Manhattan, but rented a second house in Toronto, where his art deals were flourishing. One evening I would sit in Sam’s Yorkville pied-à-terre sipping mint tea by candlelight as he read poems and fantasized about living in a farmhouse in Connecticut with the children he hoped we would have; the next evening I would dine with Joel and his political friends. My terrible inner conflicts over these two contrasting suitors continued for several months, culminating in a breakup with Joel, who sent bouquets of roses and desperately followed me to L.A., where I had flown to tape The Merv Griffin Show and The Tonight Show. Somehow, my concerts were being wedged in between this crisis of the heart.
Career bookings took me on a tour of the Far East; to the Juno Awards, where I was again voted Instrumental Artist of the Year; and to Germany for a promotional tour. Each time, I was consumed by the same dilemma on returning to Canada. One man offered passion, romance, and total insecurity, the other stability and loyalty. If only I could have combined the two! The writer from Vancouver magazine who referred to me that autumn as “Miss Goody Two-Shoes” would have blushed had she been privy to all the clandestine shenanigans involved with carrying on two simultaneous love affairs in the same city! In the midst of all these frenetic days and nights, Pierre Trudeau tried his chances once again, phoning to invite me on a skiing holiday with his boys. But I already had plenty on my plate trying to sort out my feelings for Joel and Sam, so there was no option but to decline.
As I had done once before, after abandoning Cal in San Francisco, I fled to the comfort of my family, who were holidaying in San Miguel de Allende, where I promptly succumbed to the flu. Music has always provided me with solace in times of despair, and out of troubled emotions was born the Adagio movement of my Concerto Baroquissimo for guitar and orchestra. I have found that, during the composing process, certain mental states trigger inspiration. The euphoria of a new love affair or the anguish of a failing one have, throughout the ages, stimulated the composer’s muse, which inhabits life’s peaks and crevasses rather than the stable plateaux. In the evenings, alone in a small apartment down the street from my family’s crowded house, I pencilled the notes as the shadows from the flickering fireplace danced across my manuscript. Only two months into the new year did I make the decision that put an end to months of sleepless nights.
Despite nagging doubts that Joel would ever be able to fully understand my artistic nature, I concluded that I could build a good life based on our love and respect. Sam, with all his promises and daydreams, was proving too volatile and undependable, leading me to realize that our relationship would be fraught with pitfalls. He was like a competitive child; I needed a grown man to share my life. Perhaps, in retrospect, I should have listened more carefully to my cautioning inner voices, but Joel and I were to spend eight reasonably happy years in each other’s company. I felt greatly relieved that Sam was out of my life, and that Joel and I could get on with the challenge of establishing a home base.
As winter turned into spring, we began to house hunt among the Rosedale ravines and the lakefront of Toronto. We both relished the idea of finding somewhere with a view of the water, because of our West Coast experience; but until the right house came along, I lived with my parents and Joel rented a harbourfront apartment. After searching as far as Oakville and the Credit River, we happened to spot a tiny area just beyond the neighbourhood known as The Beaches. A steep hill led to Fallingbrook Drive, with its expansive view of the lake. “Oh, Joel, if only one of these houses were for sale. This is perfect!” I exclaimed. “Let’s knock on the door of this contemporary one and see if the owners know of anything for sale. Look, it’s even my lucky number, seven!”
“Who told you we were planning to sell the place?” the man answering the doorbell queried. Our eyes could scarcely conceal our excitement on learning that we had stumbled across the one house on that street that was about to be put on the market! A few months of negotiation ensued, until eventually number seven became ours. I could not have imagined a more ideal spot in Toronto. The house was built on five half-levels, with large picture windows that looked over a sloping lawn leading to a cliff where stairs descended to a sandy beach. Before us, like a Tom Thomson painting, stretched the blue waters of Lake Ontario, which were often sprinkled with sailing boats, kayaks, and canoes. For both of us, playing homemaker, exploring the cheerful Beaches neighbourhood, and frequenting auctions for objets d’art were novel and exciting. Joel bought me an antique ruby-and-diamond ring in September 1986, and we threw a combination engagement and house-warming party for two hundred people, hiring a yacht to offer excursions on the lake and even carpeting part of the beach for the convenience of our high-heeled guests! A touch of finesse was added by John Duncan, who performed Debussy on his gift to me: a golden Dalveau harp.
In many ways, Joel and I were a good partnership — our contrasting interests and specialties tended to expand both of our horizons. I had little in common with many of the wives of his corporate associates; but because Joel showed such tolerance for some of the offbeat characters from my world of music, I did my best to assimilate into his gregarious circle of friends. Together we attended business and social functions, at which our two symbiotic worlds often overlapped. At fundraising, musical, or theatrical events, I knew the artists, whereas Joel knew the sponsoring corporations. We were each proud of the other’s level of accomplishment, and gave total support to the other’s career. When Joel spoke eloquently and spontaneously at the Canadian International Air Show, my admiration was evident; when he sat in my audience during the guitar festival, I was told he exuded pride. We found ourselves swept into the Toronto social scene: dinners at the home of friends Conrad Black, the press baron, and Mario Bernardi, the conductor; cocktail parties with impresario Gino Empry; invitations to the Royal Winter Fair, Tennis Canada tournaments, political fundraisers, and Rosedale soirées.
In spite of my previous experience with luxury ships, Gurtman and Murtha, my New York concert agency, persuaded me to accept a cruise booking for September 1985. As Joel was tied up with business, I availed myself of my mother’s company and flew to Athens to board the Royal Viking Sky. Trailing through the ruins of Ephesus on the coast of Turkey, we paused in the ancient marketplace and brazenly bargained for leather goods in the bustling Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. On the island of Mykonos, which stood stark and white against a cerulean blue sky like a huge Constructivist painting, we wandered through narrow alleys in the claustrophobic heat of the afternoon and scaled breezy hillsides to reach the famous windmills. History books came alive in the ancient ruins of Knossos on the island of Crete, where I recalled the Minotaur of Greek mythology while negotiating dark, labyrinthine passages. Our friendly Norwegian crew joined the passengers in listening to my concerts, the first of which took place on the one evening of rough waters, as we sailed past the Blue Mosque through the Bosphorus and into the Black Sea. My poor mother was hit by mal de mer, but luckily the only things that came rushing back to me were my memories of performing on the Massalia. Why do these ships always decide to pitch around in perfect synchronization with my concerts? Tárrega’s music had enough slurs and slides without help from the ocean.
Under a starlit Aegean night, dancing with the ship’s handsome Norwegian doctor, I understood why so many romantic liaisons develop during cruises. There is something magical about sailing into unknown waters — a sense of suspended time, of being at one with the oceans and history — that is nourishing to the soul. My mother, who was experienced at roughing it on the campsite and had been disparaging of people pampering themselves on cruises, readily succumbed to the luxuries of life aboard the Royal Viking Sky.
Stopping over in the Soviet cities of Yalta and Odessa, we shuffled in coarse woolen slippers like obedient children through the white summer palace of the czars, where Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin had held the Yalta Conference.
After a day lazing on deck watching the mountains and inlets of the spectacular Dalmatian coastline, we glided dreamlike into the celestial city of Venice. Out of the morning mists appeared the shapes of Renaissance architecture as we cut our pathway through the rippling green waters. Having spent a week in the “City of Canals” with Nadine ten years earlier, Venice felt familiar to me, so I eagerly guided my mother to the Piazza San Marco and the Bridge of Sighs. Reluctantly leaving behind the security of our floating home, we dragged our suitcases to a sparsely furnished room in the Hotel Rialto, overlooking the famous bridge that spans the picturesque Grand Canal. From our high, open windows, we listened to the strains of “Santa Lucia” as striped-shirted gondoliers skimmed the waters of the canals singing in full-throated abandon.
Wandering through the maze of streets and bridges, I stumbled across the home of Albinoni and the music school where Vivaldi had once taught his orphan girls. Looking at the Renaissance palazzos and their reflections dancing in the viridian canals, I understood why such exquisite music flowed from the pens of those eighteenth-century Venetians. In this ephemeral city, they were surrounded at every turn by harmony and beauty.
We sat in outdoor cafés, savouring frothy cappuccinos, and jumped on and off the vaporetto like two schoolgirls on a merry-go-round. I insisted we take an evening ride in a gondola through the narrow backwaters that flow off the main arteries of the city. Here the lights were dim and the faded pastel walls of old houses reminded us of facades from stage productions of Rigoletto and Don Giovanni. Gliding through these waterways with an Italian gondolier singing operatic arias was surely one of the most seductive experiences imaginable. My mother and I sat facing each other on velvet cushions, commiserating that we did not have more romantic company!
I hoped one day to play in Venice’s famous theatres, and to perform the music born in this remarkable city created by man, hundreds of years ago, from the swamps of the Mediterranean. We had come from the bouzoukis of Greece through the balalaikas of Russia to the tenors of Venice. I mused to myself about the universality of music, this sound-making that is such an integral part of our psyches, and with my six simple strings, I felt happy to be one of its humble creators.
To raise money for African famine relief in 1985, a group of well-known Canadian musicians, including me, came together to sing “Tears Are Not Enough” by Bryan Adams and David Foster. Hearing all those great voices made me wish my vocal skills could equal a fraction of my talents on the guitar. Teaming up with Chet Atkins, I played “Sunrise” at the National Hockey League Awards, which were hosted by Rich Little; staged a benefit concert for tornado victims in Orangeville, Ontario; played at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., for the American Cancer Society; was honoured with the keys to the city in South Bend, Indiana; and survived a rainy outdoor concert in New York City. After I performed in Montreal, Pierre Trudeau invited me over to his house the next day for breakfast. “The Russian ambassador was here last night and left this box of chocolates. Here, Liona, take them,” he said magnanimously. I thanked him, smiling at the recollections of Pierre’s generosity with unwanted edibles.
Although I had vowed never again to climb aboard a Concorde after my last supersonic experience, it was the only mode of travel available to connect between two Michigan concerts and a Royal Command Performance in Edinburgh, Scotland, where I had been given star billing along with Robert Goulet, Juliet Prowse, Kirk Douglas, George Segal, Linda Evans, and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Linda Evans and I were asked to share a dressing room in the basement of the Playhouse Theatre, but Scotland Yard’s security forbade us to leave after our 9:00 a.m. rehearsal. Being locked up for thirteen hours in a small room with a scantily clad Linda Evans would have been the fantasy of most men! Indeed, Bernie, who had flown in from Toronto, ran around checking his face in every mirror and trying to get photos of himself with the buxom star of Dynasty, who sat meditating to the accompaniment of my guitar.
The show was to be televised throughout Britain; I prayed that the lights and sound system in the three-thousand-seat hall would prove adequate, and that the toupée tape holding the shoulders of my diaphanous Wayne Clark gown would not dissolve under the lights. “Recuerdos” and “Granada” went off without a hitch, and I smiled up at the Queen, Prince Philip, and Princess Anne in their royal box. Later, one of the producers told me that the only time Prince Philip put on his glasses was during my playing. At the conclusion of this Royal Gala, we were presented in a lineup and I curtsied to Her Majesty. Prince Philip lingered momentarily to talk, remembering my private concert in Ottawa with Pierre Trudeau. “How ever do you get all those sounds with just two hands? It sounded exactly like two instruments were playing at once,” he commented, smiling at me. The prince obviously liked tremolo. “Do you pluck the lute like Julian Bream?” he inquired. The following day, the Evening Standard ran a photo of me standing beside the Queen and the celebrity interviewer Terry Wogan. After I chatted with Andrew Lloyd Webber at the post-concert reception, he handed me his private phone number in London, which I entrusted to Bernie. Who knows what beautiful guitar themes might have been composed had my dear manager not lost the number from his tuxedo pocket!
I flew to Jamaica for a few days, in the company of Bernie and my mother, to perform two concerts at Jamfest in April 1985. The celebrations for the music festival commenced when Prime Minister Edward Seaga hosted a cocktail party on the lawns of his Kingston residence, where I strolled through the motley crowd of politicians, journalists, dancers, and musicians from many nations. Gregory Alliston, my Jamaican duet partner from my University of Toronto days, drove my mother and me around Kingston, steering us through the dangerous streets of Trench Town and accompanying us to Bellevue Hospital, the mental institution. I had heard through the grapevine that Anthony, my Jamaican friend from Acapulco, had been committed years ago when psychedelic drugs had driven him into psychosis. My mother, Gregory, and I sat in the hot wooden shed that served as a waiting room while a demented young man screaming obscenities was restrained by his relatives. The heavy-set black custodian finally capitulated to our pleas, granting our request to search through the wards in hope of locating my friend. I was transported back to the Middle Ages as we passed men and women confined to huts with barred windows. “’Ey man, we hose ’em down some days for de heat,” the cheery male nurse assured us as we walked timidly past rows of caged humanity.
Once inside the main complex, we were allowed to enter the communal courtyards where groups of men were idling away their days under the supervision of one staunch, seated, Buddha-like nurse. Some of the men were mumbling or wailing unintelligibly to the walls, fighting their own private demons, but others appeared quite normal. Defusing the tension, Gregory asserted in the vernacular, “’Ey man, ever’ting cool — no problem ’ere, man.” He repeated the phrase mantra-like as he passed through the inmates, who trailed us with curiosity. Noting the wild, crazed eyes that betrayed abnormal mental states, I only relaxed when a set of keys turned in the heavy metal doors and returned us to the safety of the admitting shed. Anthony was not to be found among Bellevue’s population — leading me to breathe a sigh of relief. Still, wanting to pursue the rumours of his committal, I asked to be shown a thick, tattered book of hospital admissions. There, on a smudged page, I finally came across the faded name of my friend. Although he had once been detained at Bellevue, he had apparently been transferred to a hospital in England.
A year later, I tracked him down and discovered that he had made a good recovery. I don’t know what compelled me to trace the life of an acquaintance from twenty years past — perhaps a mixture of curiosity and compassion. Or was it a lingering memory of a summer night in Mexico, when my fertile imagination listened to him talk of family feuds, suspected poisonings, fierce inheritance battles, sibling rivalries, and predictions that “they’ll probably lock me up to get rid of me”? Those images of the caged inmates at Bellevue were the most poignant memories of my visit to the island of dreadlocks and reggae. Easter Sunday in Kingston had been a window on the world of wounded humanity.
A few years later, my guitar-playing friend Gregory was killed in Kingston by a head-on collision with a drunken driver, just as his new album was soaring to the top of the Jamaican music charts. “Farewell My Friends,” from my record Dancing on the Edge, was dedicated in part to his memory. Whenever I think of Gregory, I hear that boyish voice with the soft Caribbean lilt saying gently, “‘Ey man, ever’ting cool — no problem ’ere, man.”
Back in Toronto, Joel offered me legal assistance in my contractual dealings with CBS Records and helped untangle the web of the haphazard investments I had been making over the years. How wonderfully secure it felt, after having been on my own for so long, to have the benefit of Joel’s adroit thinking to analyse and solve these various financial and career problems. I admired his logical thinking and savoir faire, and enjoyed observing the complex strategic negotiations of his own business dealings.
On the dance floor, Joel was an exceptional partner; whenever the opportunity arose, he would fling me around the ballroom deftly executing waltzes, two-step, tango, or jive. Exercise had assumed great importance, and he insisted upon running several miles a day along lakeside trails while I often accompanied him on my bicycle. When spring returned, we bought two canoes, which Joel hauled on his back down the steps to the beach so we could paddle along the rocky shoreline in the company of ducks and seagulls. September was our favourite month — the serene lake waters turned blue as lapis lazuli and the air smelled sweet with drying autumn leaves from the golden and russet maple trees. I knew of no other Torontonians fortunate enough to canoe out of their back gardens.
Occasional trips to Florida, Washington, Montreal, and New York often combined social visits with meetings for either Joel’s business deals or my career. Paul Desmarais lent us his New York apartment, invited us to dine with Governor General Jeanne Sauvé at his Palm Beach home, and flew us by Challenger jet to his forty-thousand-acre Murray Bay estate for tennis, trout fishing, and skeet shooting. A dinner party with my former heartthrob Rudolf Nureyev, a ballet gala with Lord Thomson of Fleet, slow dancing with Plácido Domingo, who amused me with his imitation of Julio Iglesias’s Castilian accent, and a brunch with Neil Diamond were some unusual highlights of a home life that was settling me into a routine of quiescent days and peaceful evenings. My parents were happy that I had decided to fold my wings and settle down in Toronto. Liona Boyd, the intrepid world traveller, had finally flown home to nest beside the familiar shores of Lake Ontario.