Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy)

by Mariam Kobras

  “Don’t care for Winnie,” she mumbled, and he laughed.

  “Yeah, it’s Winnie all right. You’re pulling him down to hide your skin, and he looks like a yellow giraffe when you do that. And me, lyrics forgotten, jet lag forgotten, I want to touch that smooth stretch of belly and run my hand along your waist; and I want to kiss you right there in that posh hallway, and to hell with who might see us.” His lips were close to hers, close enough to feel the caress of her breath on them. “I take your hand and pull you into my arms, and there is no resistance. You just come into my arms, just like that. As if you’d been waiting for that to happen. As if, opening the door to me, you knew exactly what the outcome would be, flu or not.”

  “And you catch the flu from me, and there goes the tour. No more singing.” She kissed him lightly.

  “Yeah, who cares? Why would I want to sing when I can make love to you instead? Which, of course, I’d want to, after that first embrace. Oh yeah, that’s what I want. And so I whisk you away to the hotel, and you’re mine, no excuses, no delay. It’s all that matters, you and me.”

  Jon wanted to drown in that embrace, over and over again, feel the shape of her body against his, her fingers playing in his hair. For a blessed moment, all the worries and fears dropped away and they were once again young lovers, enchanted by each other, locking the world out of their intimacy.

  “You have the worst timing,” Naomi whispered. “You know you have to be at the venue, and do the sound check. You know there’s a concert in a couple of hours. Again.”

  “Yeah, baby, let the Germans wait. I want to be here with you now.” His hand slid under the blouse.

  “They won’t give you marzipan if you’re late. They love things to be on time here,” Naomi said, laughter in her voice.

  “To hell with the bloody marzipan,” Jon replied.

  Standing behind Sal, she watched the meeting with the fan club just before the concert, grinned at the huge package of sweets he was given, lovingly decorated with a white bow, and the stuffed animals. There was a pink elephant, and, of all things, a crocodile.

  “I think it’s a hint,” Sal mumbled toward Art; “they want us to go on a tour in Africa,” to which Art snickered and replied, “Only over my dead body. I’m not good with lions and snakes.”

  Naomi was fascinated by the rapture in the women’s faces, as if they were not facing a real person at all, not a normal man, but something more, as if he had come down from some kind of Olympus to hold court among his mortal followers. She wished they could see him, just once, early in the morning before his first cup of coffee, unshaven, grumpy, not a star at all.

  There was a rigid protocol for these events, one she always observed with a mix of relief and melancholy. The army of security men, the careful screening of the fans, the rope that separated them from Jon—these all were necessary, she knew, but they also felt like a border between real life and theirs.

  Jon was all graciousness and charm, accepting the smiles and adoration with kind words and small jokes that sent ripples of giggles through the group. He allowed one of them, and Naomi was sure she had been carefully selected by Sal before, to kiss his cheek and stand beside him for a few photos before he autographed tour books, CD covers, shirts, and even one bare shoulder.

  “You may not want to take a shower too soon,” he drawled at the blond, blushing girl, “or all your lovely memories will wash away.”

  Naomi had gone up on the stage during a break in the sound check and stared out at the huge, empty hall—the round cupola and the iron rafters like the ribs of a large animal, the many rows of seats—and wondered how it would feel to stand up there when it was packed with people, their attention directed at Jon and his musicians, singing with him, cheering. It had to be the headiest feeling, to look down at all those faces and see the adoration in them.

  “It’s like sex,” Jon had told her when she’d asked. “It’s just like that. Only it’s over as soon as you leave the stage, and the silence and emptiness afterward are like the worst hangover in the world. There’s nothing worse than sitting alone in the dressing room after a really good show; you know the audience has floated back home, and all you have is a sweaty back and a sore throat. There is no loneliness like that. It’s the loudest, most silent, loneliness you can imagine.”

  He had handed her his guitar to hold and added, “And no, it’s not like sex with you. After loving you I feel whole, and entranced, and terribly hungry for more.”

  Sal stirred. “All right, enough smooching and fondling, Art. Let’s get him out of there.”

  The concert was sold out, as always, and it went as well, as always. This time Naomi did sit in the front row, right among his biggest fans, LaGasse beside her and Alan, his back to the stage, right in front of her, in a row with the other guards. She could see Sal and Art looking her way every so often, anxious, but she wasn’t recognized. The people around her were too busy listening to Jon to even look at her.

  There were some reporters around, mostly to the side and under close observation by security, but a couple of them had made their way to the edge of the stage where they could shoot some close-ups. One of them turned around and pointed his camera at her. Alan was beside him instantly, nearly slapping it out of his hands, while LaGasse stood in front of her, shielding her.

  Barely anyone else reacted. From the corner of her eye Naomi could see Jon move closer to see what was going on, guitar held tightly, and relax again when he saw Sal rush forward.

  The photographer was Parker, a contrite grin on his face and a shrug in her direction when Alan let go of him to hand him over to the local guards. He looked slightly scruffy, his dark blond hair a wild mess, the shirt hanging out of his jeans. He didn’t seem too concerned; but, she had to admit, he was still a handsome devil with a charming smile.

  Naomi took a step in his direction, and he stopped to wait for her.

  “Why?” she asked against the noise of the music. “Why do you keep following me?”

  “You’re beautiful,” Parker shouted back, and walked away with the hovering guards.

  “What was that all about?” Sal was there, his hand on her arm, ready to take her backstage to safety. “Is he stalking you? Do we have a problem here?”

  “No, no. Everything’s okay.” She had no idea why she was saying that. Jon, guitar laid aside, was about to launch into Secret Garden, his voice soft and mellow, pouring over her shoulders like warm maple syrup. She turned to see him standing right above her, singing down at her, a small smile on his face. She smiled back, threw him a kiss, and fled to the safety of the backstage area.

  chapter 10

  It was raining.

  Parker stood outside the concert hall, the red sandstone walls rising up behind him like a fortress from the Middle Ages, all alone in the open space. There were a couple of taxis lined up, waiting for the show to end and for people wanting a ride. On the street outside the compound, the evening traffic went by as if nothing at all had happened, the cars mindless of his turmoil and loneliness.

  They had not taken the camera from him, nor checked for pictures—a mistake, an oversight—and he cradled it to his chest gleefully, impatient to see what he had gotten.

  There she was, in a couple of snapshots he had managed to take before they’d noticed him. She was looking up at the stage, her hands raised to applaud, a soft smile on her face, caught in a blue spotlight. He could not get enough of looking at her, at the fine profile and the curve of her neck, that braid, the slender shape of her shoulder. Everything about her screamed class and breeding, and for the life of him he couldn’t understand why she would be married to someone like Jon Stone, a rock star, a cheap self-taught songwriter, famous for his many affairs and, earlier, even drugs. Now he might run around in silk shirts and hand-tailored suits, but Parker rememb
ered only too well the photos of him at one or another LA party, a girl in one arm and a bottle of whiskey in the other, drunk, laughing, not giving a damn about anything.

  And her, by now he knew everything about her, about her wealthy family and their hotel empire; her old, European ancestry and the role she had refused for Jon’s sake. Parker couldn’t understand why she had left that huge inheritance behind just to play groupie to this man and his band, how she preferred to travel with him when she had that incredible family estate waiting for her in Toronto and the ownership of all those hotels at her fingertips.

  Jon Stone—Parker shook himself in disgust. So famous, so celebrated, so good-looking and successful, and as powerful as a Mafia boss. He had managed to lure her away from her life, drag her down into his sordid Hollywood existence, and she seemed happy about it.

  There was their son; he had used all his influence to find out about him. So well had they hidden the boy, tucked him away with his grandmother in Brooklyn, and yet Parker now knew everything about Joshua. Their love child from long ago, from when Jon had only just started his career and Naomi had been barely more than a teenager. Supposedly, he was even more talented than his notorious father.

  Parker had been about to go to New York and find him and then stopped. He didn’t want to risk being found out and thrown into jail at the wave of Jon Stone’s finger.

  With a sigh and a shudder, Parker made his way toward the line of cabs. They would be going to Geneva next, and he wouldn’t follow her there. But he would wait for her in Hamburg, and then he’d try to get her alone.

  “You don’t have to come,” Jon said at the last minute, just before they were about to leave for the airport. “If you don’t want to go to Geneva, you don’t have to come. You could always go ahead to New York and wait there for me. It’s only a few more stops here in Europe. I’d be with you in a couple of weeks.” And added, with a mischievous grin, “You could get the house ready for us. Do all the shopping you want, baby, right there in your dream city.”

  She just shook her head and finished packing her few belongings.

  “Your parents will be in Geneva, your father.” He said it gently, as if he was breaking some dire news to her, and it made her look up.

  “You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to,” Jon went on. “It’s no big deal. Security will keep him away.”

  He saw her touch her side where the scar was and fell silent.

  The hotel suite they were in was nothing like what he was used to; everything seemed just a bit shabby, worn by time, though the furniture must have been nice when it was first placed here. Always, through all the years he had been traveling the world, he had hated the German feather pillows and the too-warm duvets. There was something terribly provincial about the beds.

  “I liked the sheets at the Seaside, in Halmar.”

  Confused by this remark, so completely out of context, Naomi stared at him.

  Jon shrugged. “Yeah, I did. Nothing fancy or colorful.” He gestured at the bed with disgust. “I hate patterned sheets and covers. I want my bed white, or cream, or if you’re in it, rose for all I care. But that’s the limit of my color endurance.”

  “I’m going with you to Geneva,” she replied.

  This was different, and for the first time Naomi felt the excitement of being on a tour.

  They were all in the lobby to check out and get on the bus, the entire band, Sal, and Art. Security was heavy, the entrance blocked off, and from where she stood by the counter, she could see the fans on both sides of the roped-off path. They were shouting for Jon, brandishing posters with his name on them, waving scarves and shirts bought at the concert.

  “You could,” Sal said from behind her, “walk with the band. Or we could smuggle you out the back entrance and pick you up there. You don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, Sal, isn’t it?” There was a bowl of apples right beside her, and she took one. It was a beautiful apple, red and shiny, as if it had been grown as a decoration piece. “I’ll deal. It’s time I did.”

  “No, you don’t have to, ever again.”

  Surprised, she tilted her head at him.

  “You don’t have to walk into public ever again, darling. I’ll see to it, and protect you in every way.” His voice was as gentle as she had ever heard it and the words so strange, coming from Sal, that she couldn’t reply.

  “I’ll see to it you have a private and protected life, Naomi, as private and secluded as I can manage.”

  Jon, standing with Sean and Art at the other end of the lobby, smoking a cigarette with them and idly chatting, had his back turned to her.

  “I’ll never forget that moment when you fell, shot down, and I unable to help you, afraid you would die. It was my fault, and I’ll do anything I can to keep harm away from you.”

  She listened, her head bowed, fighting tears, again drawn back to that day in her life, and to the pain. Once more she felt the needles in her body, the tube down her throat, and the burning of her wounds, and heard the remorseless beeping of the monitors beside her hospital bed. It was almost as if it was a parallel world waiting just a breath away, and any little trigger pushed her over the brink into it. It was a world where her body was always hurting and she choked on blood again; and always, always she felt the lure of that peaceful, silent shore she had seen in her coma dreams.

  “Naomi.” Jon was there, his arm around her waist, supporting her, glaring at Sal. “What did you say; what did you do, Sal?”

  “He didn’t do anything, Jon.” She leaned into him, shaking. “Everything is okay, don’t yell at Sal again. It’s not his fault when I feel faint, for crying out loud.”

  Jon saw how she pressed her hand against her side where the bullet had hit her and how she struggled to breathe, her tongue brushing over her lips as if she was trying to lick something off them, and it broke his heart.

  “Come, baby,” he said gently. “I’ll take you the back way. Let them wait out there until tonight.” He couldn’t understand why that offer put the hint of a smile on her face and made her glance at Sal.

  Sal came to her in the bus, and, leaning on the back of the seat in front of her, asked, “Are you okay? For a moment I thought you were going to faint.”

  Jon looked up from his newspaper but said nothing.

  Naomi pulled the jacket she was wearing tighter around her body. “I’m fine, Sal. I just felt sick for a moment. It was…” She gazed out at the highway, for a moment lost in thought. “I guess I’m just tired. The past few days were a little bit much.”

  Sal rubbed his forehead. “I know. It’s always like that at the start of a tour. The routine will settle in once we’re back in the States, don’t worry. Europe is always a hassle. The languages and everything. Strange food, strange customs.” He waved at the road outside. “Even different traffic. You’ll feel better once you’re back on home ground.”

  That made her smile. “But I’m not American, Sal. I’ve lived all over the world.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be all right, don’t worry. Thanks.” She closed her eyes and rested her head against the window, and Sal left her to return to his seat behind the driver.

  The plane was waiting for them in a hangar, in an obscure corner of the airport well away from the regular traffic. It was a larger one this time to accommodate all of them: the band, Jon and herself, and the rest of the entourage that had not gone ahead with the trucks during the night.

  Someone had provided coffee for them while they waited for their luggage to be loaded. There was even a tray of sandwiches—not the American kind with soft, white bread, but crisp rolls liberally spread with butter and good German sausage and ham, cheeses Naomi had badly missed in Canada and the US, even some pickled herring. S
he let the raw, tender fish melt on her tongue, savoring the salt and the flavor of dill and juniper, trying to knit it into her memory so she wouldn’t forget it once they were gone. Some things she missed terribly. This was the taste of Norway, of the North, and she had never yet found it in LA.

  It made her recall how much of it she had eaten during her pregnancy, how she had crept upstairs to the kitchen at night to steal a couple of jars, together with other sour stuff, and then sat on her couch in the dark, watching the beam from the lighthouse pass over the Halmar bay as she picked out the morsels with her fingers, dripping the brine on her nightgown. Once Joshua had been born her appetite had changed radically, and she had wanted sweets, bread, sugar, all the useless carbohydrates, and most of all, Andrea’s cinnamon rolls.

  “What’s this?” Sal had come up beside her and was eyeing one of the rolls critically.

  “It’s raw meat,” she replied, and picked it up. So German, so European. “Not tartare, but pork, finely chopped, seasoned, with raw onion. It’s delicious. Try it!”

  He walked off again, tossing a disgusted curse at no one in particular. Naomi took a big bite, again thrown back in time. Pastrami was all good and well, but some things could not be replaced.

  Jon joined her, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Sal is pacing across the tarmac like a tiger, telling everybody who wants to hear that you’re behaving like a cannibal, eating raw flesh. What’s this all about?”