It was unbearable. The auditions had ended twenty minutes earlier, but there still hadn’t been any word. As they paced around the patio like inmates in a prison yard, the soothing trickle of the fountain long since having become an intrusive irritation, Pablo and Andrés made a failed attempt at conversation. They were too on edge. Instead, they and the other auditioners kept to themselves. Waiting.
A small eternity later, one of the organizers came out.
“Pablo,” she said.
A jolt shot through his body.
“Yeah?”
“Could you please come with me?”
Why, he wondered, as he made yet another march down the empty hall. Was this good news or bad? Was it news at all? Maybe they hadn’t decided yet, and he was going to have to come back for another round of auditions. Or, perhaps he was about to be thanked for coming and shown the door. As excited as mortified, he had no idea what to expect. The walk to the audition room was even longer than the interminable wait on the patio.
“Welcome back,” said Lorena. “Take a seat.”
He noticed it right away. Once again, the room had changed. Although it took him a second, he quickly realized that this time around the difference wasn’t physical. It was how it felt. There was no question the atmosphere was lighter.
Lorena, who both previously and presently acted as the band’s spokesperson, started things off, beginning with a lengthy critique of Pablo’s auditions. Pablo hung onto his seat as tightly as he did to Lorena’s every word, not moving a muscle. Everything she said was incredibly complimentary; yet she wasn’t saying he had been chosen. He still wasn’t sure what was happening, and it was agonizing.
Once she ran out of kudos, Lorena finally got around to broaching the subject foremost on everyone’s mind.
“You obviously know that Joaquín is—or was—our lead singer, right?” she began.
“Right,” said Pablo.
“Do you know why he’s not singing with us now?”
Pablo hesitated, unsure whether to admit what his friends had told him.
“I heard a few different things . . .”
“I’m sure you did!” Lorena laughed. “It’s amazing the rumors that get out there! And, of course, it doesn’t really matter what you heard. All that matters is what actually happened and why we need a singer. Despite all the trouble it’s caused, it’s simple really.”
Lorena paused for a drink from her water bottle, leaving Pablo hanging, a sustained drum roll rumbling in his head.
“And?” he couldn’t help but ask, unable to bear the suspense.
“And,” she said, setting down the bottle and picking up where she had left off, “well, like I said, it’s simple: we need a singer because Joaquín has nodes.”
“Nodes?”
The secret may have been out, but it was still a mystery to him.
“Yeah, nodes,” Lorena repeated. “Growths on the vocal chords that can develop from oversinging. Joaquín has an amazing voice—and a very strong one at that. But from what the doctors say, he’s been seriously overdoing it. So, they’ve ordered him to rest his voice for a few months and do some other things to see if the nodes go away on their own. If they don’t, he’ll have to have an operation. Then he won’t be able to sing for at least a few more months after that while he recovers.”
“Assuming,” Jesús added, “that he does recover.”
“Right,” Lorena soberly acknowledged, without elaborating.
“And,” deduced Pablo, “you feel like you can’t wait to see if he does?”
“We don’t have time,” Leo interjected.
“This is one case where the rumors you might have heard are probably true,” Lorena added.
“Which rumors?” Pablo suspected he knew what Lorena was about to say, but he figured it was better to let her say it.
“We’re not ready to announce it yet, so we’re hoping we can trust you to keep it under wraps—regardless of what happens,” she began, lowering her voice, as though out of concern for any eavesdroppers.
“Of course,” Pablo assured them, flattered they were ready to place any trust in him at all.
“In about three months we’re going to be opening for La Mano de Picasso on the Spanish leg of their European tour,” Lorena revealed, a huge smile on her face.
“No way!” Pablo exclaimed, his disbelief getting the better of him, obliterating the level-headed cool he had so convincingly exhibited until then. He didn’t care—he was too excited. He may not have known anything about Gato Negro, but he definitely knew La Mano de Picasso. At least two songs from their last album had climbed to noteworthy heights on the charts. Rumor had it that their next album, which was about to be released and in support of which they were organizing their upcoming tour, was going to be an even bigger success, both critically and commercially.
“The opportunity came up before we knew about Joaquín’s condition,” Lorena explained. “Once he found out, we all did a lot of soul-searching. In the end, we decided—Joaquín included, before he went home to Cádiz, where he’s seeing a specialist and, basically, trying not to talk—that it was in the band’s best interest not to miss out on such an incredible opportunity. We just couldn’t—I mean, we can’t. If we don’t jump on it now, we might never get another chance like this.”
“So, it’s sort of a strange situation,” Leo concluded. “It’ll be months before we can say when—or even if—Joaquín is coming back. All we know for sure is that right now we need someone to head out with us on the tour.”
“And we’d like that person to be you,” added Lorena.
“Right,” Leo agreed, a smile acknowledging his failure to state the obvious.
Finally.
They had said it.
He was the one.
What he also was was euphoric, the bare walls that until then had felt so oppressive suddenly seeming as though they might buckle, threatened by the explosive force of his elation.
Perhaps he should have been troubled by the question mark punctuating the band’s proposition. He didn’t care. He was too relieved. He was too overcome with disbelief. The band wanted him to sing for them. Whether for only a few months or years to come, the opportunity truly was his for the taking.
Victor had once cautioned him to be careful what he wished for. Now, given that he found himself presented with an opportunity that wildly exceeded his expectations, it occurred to him that perhaps he hadn’t allowed himself to wish for nearly enough.
“So, what do you think?” Lorena asked, as though honestly unsure how Pablo might respond, she and the others now the ones left hanging.
Pablo’s reply was short and to the point.
“Even if it is just for this tour, yes. I definitely want to do it.”
“Excellent!” Lorena exclaimed, lifting her water bottle high into the air, Pablo’s decision coming as both relief and cause for celebration. “Here’s to our new lead singer!”
“And to Gato Negro!” Pablo added, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. In reality, the implications of what was happening hadn't even remotely begun to sink in.
“So,” asked Jesús, “can you start tomorrow?”