Tango Lessons
By: Ethiwen
Disclaimer: Don't sue me, I don't own it.
Summary: This chapter takes place on a friday in Roger's life. It includes Clara's first guitar lesson and Roger's first gig at Kelsey's bar.
Ships: RogerKelsey one-sided
Warnings: Ummm…foreign language. I will have translations in (parentheses). Swearing, innuendos, etc.
Author's Notes: Time for a little more subplot! Speaking of plots, I finally figured this one out! Hooray! My writing now has a purpose! There will be a grand total of 15 chapters, and I know what is going in each and how my story ends! -Is insanely happy-.
So a huge thank you goes out to The Versatile Scarf for allowing me to steal her horse and AngstyRebel for allowing me to steal her armour in pursuit of a plot. (See chapter 9's A/N at the bottom of the chapter if you don't remember) My quest has been successful. I have finally found one.
Hopefully with less homework I'll have more time to write…
Though my writing is still babbling, it is no longer senseless. Enjoy!
--------------------------
Chapter 10: Music is its own language
--------------------------
"Bonjour Roger!" Mauvaise entered the loft looking around haughtily. "Zis is where you are to teach Clara?"
Roger shrugged his shoulders. He knew the loft was dirty and broken, but it was home after all. "Yeah." came his gruff reply. "So, where is she?"
"Why she is right behind Agnes. Sorti, Clara. (Come out, Clara.)"
"Mais, ma tante, J'ai peur. Je ne veux pas à. (But, Aunt, I'm afraid. I don't want to.)
"Sorti, maintenant, Clara! Devenu au courant de votre instructeur. (Come out, now, Clara! Become acquainted with your instructor.)"
Clara obeyed the power of Agnes's voice. Within a second a dark-haired girl came from behind Mauvaise's back. She was fidgeting with her hands as she stared at the floor. She had pale skin, and her eyes were bright and sharp, though Roger could not tell as they were downcast. "Bonjour, Monsieur Davis." she said quietly.
She's twenty-two? She acts like she's thirteen. Roger thought. The last thing Roger wanted to do was teach a girl who acted like a teenager. Actually, the last thing roger wanted to do was teach -anybody-, but he could not let Mark know that he had failed to tango, and he certainly could not disappoint Agnes now. The continuation of the Tango Studio and yes, their survival, was all depending on these guitar lessons.
"Well, Agnes 'ates to be leaving you, but she has an appointment with 'er Marky at the Ambiguous. Sois gentile, Clara. Á cinq heures. Au revoir. (Be nice, Clara. See you at 5:00. Goodbye.)"
"So…Clara. You want to learn the guitar, huh?"
Clara responded only with silence and a quizzical look. Good Job, Davis. Great way to start. Of course she wants to learn the guitar, that's why she's here.
"Uh…well, the guitar is a difficult instrument, but I'm sure if you apply yourself, you'll be able to learn. I'll do my best to teach you. Are you familiar with anything about the instrument?"
More silence. Clara was beginning to look worried. Don't screw this up now, Davis. "You don't have to know," he clarified quickly, "I was just wondering if you did. But you play piano right? So you know how to read music. That's a start."
Clara looked as though she was ready to burst into tears. She still had not spoken a single word.
"Look, Clara. I don't mean to be harsh or anything, but if I'm going to teach you I kind of have to know."
That did it. Clara began to cry. Shit. Now you've done it. You've screwed everything up. You've failed Mark. No. What kind of thoughts are these? You are Roger, god damnit! You will make things work! You -have- to make things work! If not for your sake, then for Mark's.
Roger walked over to Clara's sobbing form and placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. "Uhhh…Clara? Listen, I...um…I didn't mean what I said. I was being impatient, and I apologize. Is there anything I can help you with?"
She looked up at him, eyes glistening, and asked "Parlez-vous Français? (Do you speak French?)"
It was Roger's turn to give Clara a quizzical look. "What?" he inquired
"Parlez-vous Français? Vous pas, vous? Mais, je ne parle pas anglais! Ma tante me vous a dit Français de rai! Quest-ce que je suis à faire maintenant? Je ne comprends pas un mot que vous dites! (Do you speak French? You don't, do you? But, I don't speak any English! My Aunt told me you spoke French! What am I to do now? I don't understand a word you're saying!)"
"You don't speak English, do you? Oh fuck…" Roger ran his hands through his hair and began to pace. He was to teach guitar to a girl who didn't speak any English. "Well…damn...I …I don't know what to tell you…I…" Roger sighed heavily. He had picked up some "How to Play Guitar" books for beginners at the 99 cent store, but they weren't in French. How was he going to tell her how to place her fingers? How does E-string translate into French? Roger had to come up with a plan.
Music is a language of its own…you don't need words, they come after. So show her! Physically show her. Move her fingers; let her hear the sound of the guitar. Have her replicate through muscle memory.
It wasn't the most brilliant plan he had ever come up with, but it would have to do for now.
"Okay, Clara. Come here." He grabbed his acoustic and sat on the metal table. Then he remembered that Clara couldn't understand what he said. "Come here." he said again, this time incorporating a beckoning hand gesture. She understood and followed him to the table. He patted the table beside him, asking her to seat herself. She did, and he placed the guitar in her hands. After a few moments of readjusting, Roger had her holding it properly.
"Ok, now. This," he said, readjusting her fingers to the correct fret, "is your first note. You are going to play this string." He plucked the string of the guitar lightly, emitting the first note to his belovéd Musetta's Waltz. "Now you try." he made a circular motion with his hand, opening the strings to her.
Clara looked at him questioningly, before removing her hand from the frets and plucking the same string. Needless to say, it produced a much different sound. She looked up at him, waiting for instructions.
"No no no, Clara." He replaced her hand on the frets where they were before, and took her other hand and plucked the string with her. "You have to keep your fingers -on- the frets." At the contact of his hand on hers, Clara blushed. He looked at the clock. 4:30. Only a half an hour left. Now he changed her fingers positions on the frets, and plucked another string with her. "Now put them together, like this." He took the guitar from her and played the first two notes in sequence. Then he handed it back to her to try. It took her five minutes to remember how to play the first note, and another five to remember how to play the second.
"Good." Roger nodded. "Now try a little faster." He pantomimed the guitar in his hand, showing Clara the proper pace in which to play the notes. She played them again, taking less time in the transition. Again, and the transition was even faster. Roger motioned for her to continue. She played the two notes again, this time at the proper pace. 4:50. Roger showed her how to play the third note. After she picked up how to play the note, he was able to show her the rhythm between the three notes. Daaa. Da da. Half, quarter quarter. She imitated the three notes perfectly.
"Very good, Clara!"
Knock knock, knock.
" 'ello, Roger. I trust that the lesson 'as been successful."
"Well, it may have been better, Madame, if you had told me that Clara doesn't speak English!"
"Oh, did Agnes forget to tell you? Oh well, it is no matter. You better 'ave made it work. Clara, viennent ici. Montrez-moi ce que vous avez appris. (Clara, come here. Show me what you've learned.)"
Clara played the three notes in succession.
"That's all you 'ave taught 'er?" Madame question icily.
"Well, -Madame-, I did have a language barrier." Roger said pointedly.
She shot Roger a glare of loathing. "Next time, you had better improve your teaching." And with that she whisked Clara away, and out of the loft, slamming the door behind her.
---------------------------------------
"Sorry I'm late, Kelsey."
"Roger, it's your first gig here. Usually, even slackers are on time to their first gig. I hope this won't become a habit." she chuckled.
"I know, Kels. I just…" he took a deep breath before plunging in. "I have to teach Mark's client's niece the guitar and she doesn't speak any English. You should -see- Mark's client. She's huge and speaks with this horrid French accent, and her niece speaks only French, so you can imagine the trouble I had trying to tea--"
"Roger that is the lamest excuse I have ever heard. If you're going to be late at least have the spine to back it up with. Or invent a decent story." Kelsey turned away to go get a customer's drink.
"I…I..." Roger stammered, blushing like a school boy. And Roger Davis -never- blushed. He was always calm, smooth. He could sweet-talk any girl within a twenty mile radius. But not Kelsey. She didn't seem to be affected in the slightest by any of Roger's charms. She just laughed him off, and went about her business.
And there was just something about her that made Roger act thirteen again, something that made him ignorant and silly, like before AIDS and drugs and April.
And he loved that about her.
"Get your chin off the floor, Davis, and move your ass. You're already late and you have a gig to do."
He grinned goofily and began to prepare for his performance.