“But you do it anyway, even if you think you’ll never be as good as he was?” I ask Ilídio. He shrugs and takes a slug of his beer.
“Most of us will never be the best at anything we do. It isn’t a reason not to do it.”
“We need some music, it isn’t a party without music!” yells a tall South African man called Ian. He picks up a guitar and passes it around the circle. “Send it around to Ted.”
Ted shakes his head and waves the guitar away.
“Come on!” says Sandy, fluffing up the back of her short blond hair with one hand, and sloshing a bit of her sangria onto the sand with the other. “Give us a tune.”
People start clapping a rhythmic encouragement. Ted takes the guitar but carries on passing it around the circle, reluctant to be left holding it.
“Edward Palmerston,” says Gerry firmly, and everyone stops talking so that Gerry’s quiet voice can be heard, “indulge your old man on his last night of freedom, will you? If I could play for my friends, I would.”
“You know, you can’t play the Parkinson’s card every time, Dad,” Ted says, taking back the guitar and giving Gerry a friendly scowl across the fire. “He tried to tell me he was entitled to the toast I was about to eat yesterday, because it was such an effort to butter his own.”
Gerry makes a comical shrug, and a few people laugh. I’m sitting a few places around the circle from Ted, but I can see his face in the firelight. From what I know of him, I can’t imagine he’d enjoy performing to a crowd.
“Any requests?” Ted asks, his eyes flitting around the circle and then landing on me.
“？‘Shake It Off’ by Taylor Swift,” says Gerry, waving his cane in the air.
“？‘Hippy, Hippy Shake,’？” shouts Raymond.
“？‘Shake Your Body,’？” says Ruth.
“？‘Shake, Rattle and Roll,’？” says Sandy, laughing.
“I’m seeing a theme here,” says Ted, tilting his head in amused disapproval.
People fall silent as he strums a chord, and then launches into a simplified version of “Shake It Off.” His voice is not perfect, but there’s something about his performance—it’s full of soul and I cannot take my eyes off him.
Sandy whispers in my ear, “Didn’t I tell you he was talented? More sangria?”
Gerry and his friend Ruth are now standing in the sand, dancing hand in hand. Gerry looks like he’s having a wonderful time. I glance back at Ted, who’s looking across at me, his eyes glinting gold in the firelight. He comes to the end of the song, and I put my cup in the sand so I can clap properly. Ted spends the next twenty minutes taking requests, and I drink and dance and bask in the warmth of the occasion.
“OK, last song,” says Ted, in a mock croaky voice, “or I won’t be able to speak tomorrow.”
“That was my plan,” says Gerry.
“Can I make a request?” I ask, moving around the circle to squeeze in next to Ted.
“Let me guess, your friend Phil?” he says in a low voice.
I nod eagerly, and then stop because my head is beginning to spin.
“I don’t know the words to any of his horrible songs,” says Ted, with a challenging look.
“He’s lying,” says Sandy, who’s eavesdropping.
Ted sighs in mock resignation, looks down at the guitar, and plays a chord. I know straightaway what it is. He plays “You Can’t Hurry Love,” and he knows plenty of the words. More people stand up to dance, but I suddenly feel too drunk to stand so I just stay seated and sway gently to the music. The song makes me think of my dad, of all those Phil Collins LPs he kept for me. It makes me think of all the times in my life this music has brought me back to myself. I think of the sheet music in the suitcase and feel more certain than ever that it must mean something; there is a Phil Collins–shaped trail of breadcrumbs leading me out of the woods toward something important.
Then out of nowhere, I feel a flood of emotions rising up behind my eyelids and I realize I’m about to burst into tears. Where did that come from? Oh no, I’m going to drunk cry. Drunk crying is the worst because you don’t even really know why you’re crying, and everyone assumes you must be upset about something, when really, you’re just drunk and all the alcohol pushes unexplained emotions out of your eyes. I quickly turn away from the group, pretending to look for my drink, then quietly take myself away up the beach.
I bite the inside of my cheek again, trying to suppress that morose part of myself, which always rears its head at the worst moments. I turn to look at the water and take a few long inhales of sea air. Part of me just wants to walk into the waves and wash off the curdling brain fog. I haven’t drunk much in the last few years, partly for fear of finding myself vulnerable, without the mental agility to steer myself back.