He looked down into her face.
“Not this time. This time, I’ll make sure she wants to stay with me, stay by my side. I’ll love her as hard as I can and then some more. I’ll love her day and night with every breath I take, and I’ll see to it that she’ll never regret it. And the longer she’s there in my dressing room, the greater the urge becomes to touch her, to feel her in my arms and make all those lonely nights vanish. So…” His lips pursed in thought. “So I reach for you, and your body is warm and soft, and you smell so good, and you permit the kiss, you let me kiss you, just like you did when I found you in Halmar. You are back in my arms, and I want you, God, I want you so much I’m reeling from it. I want you right away, want you like crazy, want the kind of loving I’ve only ever had with you, yes, Baby.”
She toyed with the embroidery on his shirt, listening to his heartbeat and his breathing while he held her, lost in his thoughts.
“Go on. Don’t stop now just when it’s getting interesting.”
He laughed. “Greedy. Really, little beast? Here, in my mom’s attic, with all the dust and old stuff? Okay, well then. But I warn you, we will have to go down soon, and I don’t want you panting at me. It will be a while before we are alone and I can do something about it.”
It was nearly enough already.
“If that had really happened,” Jon picked up his narration, “I guess I would have hesitated. It would have been nearly civilized.”
They could hear Helen’s voice from below, asking in irritation where they had gone off to.
“There’s only the couch,” Jon went on. “Are you willing, little beast? What happens when I touch you? Do you retreat, do you refuse me?”
She bit her lip.
“Yeah, that’s what you say now.” Drawled out to perfection, picking up her mood and playing with it, using his verbal power on her.
“So I kiss you some more, and I can feel your blood heating up there in my arms, I can feel you come alive under my touch, responding to me, and now it’s too late to stop anyway. We don’t even need to speak, it’s only building passion and the growing urgency.”
Her hips moved invitingly.
“Stop that. Don’t tempt me like that. Oh God, I don’t want this quick number in the dressing room at all. I want you on a big bed, naked, feeling your body against mine. But it will have to do, just a brief reclaiming, and maybe a promise of what is to come. And yes, that’s how it used to be. This is how it always felt. I reclaim you, put my mark on you in such a way that you will not want to run again.”
With another brief kiss he put her back on her feet and slapped her rump playfully. “No more talk. I’m all talked out anyway. I wonder, what would happen afterward? What would you do or say after that number?”
Naomi thought for a moment, then gave him her best insolent shrug.
“I know exactly what. You would not have gone on stage in that shirt for sure. I would have seen to that.”
Incredibly, it was Naomi who complained about the cold.
It was, she stated, different from the cold in Norway. Here, it was dark, wet and dirty. The wind howled through the canyons of Manhattan and brought out the really ugly side of winter. There was nothing of the grandeur or the meditative stillness the bay offered when frost and ice turned the water into a slate-grey sheet and fog and snow shrouded the mountains.
The dense, evil-smelling clouds of fog drifting up from the grates above the subway were an endless source of fascination to her. She made up stories about monsters and fairy creatures living in the darkness beneath the city streets until Jon told her there were indeed people living in the tunnels.
He had, he said a few days after Christmas, an appointment, just this one business appointment, and he wanted her to come along. Naomi was still in bed and didn’t feel like going out in the cold again. She pulled the covers up over her head and grumbled.
“Come on, Baby,” he coaxed. “I’ll buy you breakfast. I’ll buy you scrambled eggs and smoked salmon and fresh scones.”
The blanket flew back. “Scones?”
Jon threw up his hands. “Why do I have a wife I can bribe with food and not with jewelry, I want to know?”
Wherever they were going, it wasn’t far. The car took them past the park and then onto Broadway, south toward Times Square.
“The Shubert?” Naomi asked in bewilderment when they stopped.
Jon shrugged, but she could see the glee on his face.
They were welcomed by a fair-haired, elderly, but extremely agile man who introduced himself as Stan and gripped her arm while he talked in a seemingly endless stream about the theater and the current show. He was the manager of the place, he informed her, and extremely pleased by their plans.
Right now they were in a rehearsal session, and would she care to take a look? Would she like to see the backstage area? And when did they think they wanted to start their production?
Naomi looked at Jon in confusion. “But you don’t even know what we’re going to write.”
Stan laughed at her. “Are you crazy? The world has been waiting for this! After so many years of wasting his talent on love songs, Jonathan Stone has finally come around to writing real music.” He stopped in his tracks. “It’s like this. He is lazy. Somewhere down under all that pop music is a really great composer. Yeah, he can sing, too.” A deprecating wave toward Jon. “But honestly, there are so many good singers out there. Composers? A handful. The music he wrote during the last fifteen years or so never sounded right. It was either too big, or too country, or too jazz, or too whatever else, never really great. And you know why, my dear?” Stan pushed his face toward Naomi until she shook her head.
“Because, in effect, he writes musicals all the time.”
“But…” Naomi tried to say, and he shook his finger at her.
“Ah, no buts!”
She was so confused by his breathless lecturing she hardly appreciated the huge auditorium when he led her into it.
The stage was crowded with dancers warming up for the rehearsal, musicians were tuning their instruments, lighting technicians were busy in the rafters, climbing amid the rigging like monkeys and shouting to each other. In the first row a small group was deep in discussion, their heads close together over a couple of clipboards, while a girl with dense red curls was using the time to practice a song.
Naomi stood next to Stan. The hall lay before her in half-light. Above them, the balconies rose into the dark of the ceiling.
“But,” she tried again, “you don’t know anything about me.”
Stan’s shout of laughter echoed through the space. “Not know you? It is my job to know people like you, my dear! You are the one who wrote the lyrics for the movie album, right? Of course I know you. Everyone knows you.”
Stan led them down to the edge of the stage and introduced them, chased off one of the young men to get coffee, and then began to quiz Naomi about their plans again. She answered hesitatingly, unsure of herself and the situation, casting beseeching glances at Jon, but he had settled down in the fifth row to watch the proceedings onstage with great interest.
“You could have your pick of musical composers,” Stan was saying, “but I’m sure you are aware of that. What a pity you chose to marry Jon, I bet he insists on exclusivity. Otherwise I would introduce you to some interesting people with, I am certain, interesting results. There are too many who aspire to singing as it is. The creation of the music, that’s a different thing. And creating a musical, that’s true art. It’s contemporary opera! The culmination of music and stage performance, it demands many talents in one performer! Singing is nothing!”
Jon laughed out loud. “Yeah, Stan, tell me all about it! The next thing you’ll ask me to do is swing from a branch while I sing and wear nothing but a loincloth!”
Stan regarded him critically. “No. No Tarzan for you, even though I am sure the ladies would swoon to see you nearly naked. Phantom of the Opera, though, that I can visualize. Or Dracula? A pity th
ere’s no James Bond musical yet, that would be the ideal role for you.”
“He’s too nice for that,” one of the others interjected. “No cynical edge.”
“But he looks grand in a tux,” Stan contradicted. “And I’m sure he’s really good at ordering martinis.”
“Nah,” Jon called. “I hate driving English cars! Have you ever seen Bond in a Porsche? Won’t work, guys! And really, all those girls! Too much bother.”
Of course, Stan stated, she knew which play they were preparing, and she nodded.
“Soundcheck, Baby, nothing else!” came Jon’s voice from behind. “Only they have to dance, as well. God, I’m glad I only need to sing.”
“Your man is ridiculous,” Stan said sternly. “He could never compete with any of them on the stage now!”
“I can too, as long as we talk about performing and not jumping across the stage.” Jon came to stand with them. “And I don’t even need your orchestra to do it, Stanley Farmer! Don’t mess with me!”
“Well then, I dare you!” Stan stared at him belligerently. “Get up there and show us what you can do without your band and all your electronics!”
“Boys,” said the red-haired girl, “we are trying to work.” She eyed Jon dubiously. “Are you someone we should know?”
“Good grief!” Stan slapped her back and shoved her toward the stage. “Janet, don’t talk if only trash comes out of your mouth. You’re ruining your career with your ignorance!”
Naomi sank down into a seat and folded her hands in her lap to watch the scene unfold. It felt almost like being with the band before a concert again. There was the same kind of excitement and exhilaration, the nervous agitation and hectic pace, the all-pervading scent of coffee and the hint of illicit cigarettes in some dark corner, the dust in the beams when the engineers tested the spotlights, snatches of music from one instrument or another, and the one voice that made all others fall silent when it was raised.
He did not even go to the center of the stage but sat down at the piano that stood at the side for practicing and began to play and sing along, effortless and quite strong enough to fill the space without a microphone.
The troupe had stepped aside and stood listening quietly.
Naomi saw the wide grin on Stan’s face and the satisfaction among the others who stood around him. But when Jon stopped and tried to rise from the bench, Stan yelled, “That wasn’t even your own song! You cheated! I thought you were here to impress us with your newest compositions, and you serve us that old Broadway crap? Come on, Jon!”
“Stan.” Jon’s voice was modulated so well he didn’t have to raise it at all to be understood. “You are a piece of shit and a manipulative asshole. If you want to hear me sing, buy a ticket to my next concert. I’m done playing the performer for you. Let your dancers practice and come to lunch with us.”
Silence greeted his words, but a wide grin was spreading across Stan’s face as he raised his arms in a gesture of benediction.
“Yes, my friend! Say it out loud! Listen up, my striving children, here you have the voice of heaven! A good thing, Jon, you did not decide to become a preacher. You could convince nuns to pray to the devil if you put your mind to it.”
“You will never forgive me for that poker game, will you?” Jon came back to them, a feral grin on his face.
“Never, my friend,” Stan agreed. “Come on, buy me lunch at the Russian Tea Room and tell me all about your great idea. Don’t forget the lovely lyricist.”
They settled into one of the niches of the restaurant and ordered lunch. Naomi felt like a schoolgirl as they gossiped about other Broadway shows. She could imagine herself in this setting; she could see herself living and working here, and Jon, too.
“What poker game?” she asked during a lull, and Stan laughed.
Jon’s arm came around her shoulder.
In Las Vegas, he said, one New Year’s Eve, he had given one of those notorious concerts that had become a tradition over the years, and afterward, just before midnight when the audience had dispersed into the various clubs and bars to celebrate, he sat in his dressing room by himself and took a break before he went to join the others.
Even though he didn’t say it, she heard the meaning in his words quite clearly. Loneliness.
There had been a knock on his door, and “this funny bird stuck his head in. A pale, blond guy in a pink shirt and a blue tie, and asked if we really played poker all the time, and were we as good as the rumors said. I was so surprised to see a stranger walk into my dressing room, I couldn’t come up with a reply right away. It took me a moment to even ask him how he had managed to get past the security and into the backstage area.”
“Yes, well,” Stan interrupted. “He’s not the brightest bulb, is he? He should have known who I was.”
Unfazed, Jon went on, “At that time, he was the show manager for one of the big hotels, and he could go where he pleased in Las Vegas. And that night, he decided what he pleased was to come over and play cards with a singer.”
Naomi had the distinct impression that there had been more to that meeting than a round of poker, but she kept silent and waited for the two men to unfold their tale.
“Of course,” Jon said, “he couldn’t play at all. Sean had stripped him before I lit my second cigarette.”
“I had come, you see…” Stan said as he stuffed a blini heaped with caviar into his mouth, washing it down with champagne, “to tell him what a nerd he was. Wasting his time on ridiculous shows in Las Vegas, prostituting himself to a raucous crowd instead of working seriously.”
She could hardly believe her ears.
“He was selling himself so far under worth, and please, dear girl! Those shirts! Why did you never stop him?”
“When was this?” Naomi asked.
“When? Oh, five years ago or so.” Stan signaled to the waiter for coffee.
“I had watched him for quite a while by then, and it seemed to me he was drifting off, spiraling away from his true potential. It had been going on for some time, but that New Year’s Eve my patience ended. I could not just stand by and let him slide any longer.” He pushed his plate aside and snatched the last piece of blini from the silver platter. “We played some poker that night and I offered him a story that had come to my desk a few days earlier. It would make a nice basis for a musical, but he refused, saying something like he didn’t have a writer anymore, and his own lyrics were only good enough for little songs. Pathetic.”
Jon listened silently, his eyes wandering through the curtained windows out onto the street, as if the conversation did not concern him at all. Naomi looked at his profile. Here was another glimpse into that long stretch of dead time.
“The inspiration was gone,” he said softly. “The urge to do great things wasn’t there. My voice was somewhere else. My thoughts were somewhere else, and I could not hear them.” He took a deep breath and seemed to shake off his melancholy with it. “But not any longer. Now, everything is as it should be.”
“Well, then,” Stan said as he stirred his mocha, “no more excuses, and no more dithering with trash.”
“That trash, Stan,” Jon growled, “has made me richer than you will ever be. So it can’t be all that bad. Anyway, you should decide: is it trash, or are my songs musical hits out of context? Make up your mind, you crazy man! They can’t be both.”
She wanted a new dress. There would be a ball on New Year’s Eve at her uncle’s house, with many people, important people, so they went shopping together. “That one,” Jon suggested, pointing, outside Dior, “the one with the pearls.” He could see her in that blue satin dress with the wide neckline and tiny sleeves, its skirt nearly as wide as one Scarlett O’Hara would have worn. And, he promised, he would not allow her to fuss this time. If he was going to show her off as his wife to Canadian society, she was going to sparkle and gleam. They were going to see that he kept her in style.
She didn’t protest, but let him do as he wished.
He play
ed outrageously with her, trying on one evening suit after another, asking her which one she wanted him to take off for her later, much later, after the party was over and he had her alone again.
Reluctantly and still not convinced it was what she truly wanted, Naomi bought herself a new riding habit for the hunt on New Year’s Day, while Jon watched the proceedings with much interest and a steady stream of comments. The riding boots fascinated him, and while she tried them on with the help of a shop assistant, he asked if they had to be that tight, that high, made of that kind of leather, and how was she supposed to get into them later on her own?
Naomi stood before him in breeches, a brown blazer, and those boots and explained rather absentmindedly that the groom would attend her.
“You have your own stables.” It was more of a statement than a question. Jon found there was very little she could surprise him with anymore. Maybe, he thought, if she told him her family owned the London Eye, maybe that…
“Well, in a way. There is the hotel, you see, in Kleinburg, at the other side of the park, with the golf course, tennis courts, and the stables…it’s kind of a resort.”
“But the CN Tower,” he asked, “that’s not yours yet?” He decided he needed a drink very badly when she said, “Well, no, but I think my uncle did think about the restaurant for a while. It was too much trouble. The elevators, you see, the upkeep…” Her mind was not in the discussion or, he knew, she would have reacted differently.
“And London? Which hotel in London is yours?”
Live Monopoly. It was the craziest thing, marrying a dreamy-eyed girl for love, and then finding out she was a princess of Canadian society.
“None,” he heard her say. “In London, truly none.”
She eyed him speculatively. “But the idea is not bad. I wonder why we don’t have one there? I’ll have to ask Carl.”
The Distant Shore (Stone Trilogy) Page 28