“Hmm, not one of my, erm, gentler creations.”
“But one of your most vigorous.”
“So you like nihilism?”
“I've been living it.”
“Not easy.”
“No.”
“And?”
“The thought of meeting you has lessened my torment.”
“What torment might that be, dear Lady from Atlanta?”
“You should use that tone of voice when you perform. Even more women will love you.”
“And do you?”
“Yes, I do. It's why I'm here.”
“Then you are lucky, as I have absolutely no idea why I am here. I sometimes feel as if this life of mine is not mine, that someone else is living through me, that I have no say in any of this, whatever this is.”
“Do any of us have any say in things, in how we feel?”
“I never wanted any of this.”
“What?”
“This!”
“What? Being the poet you are?”
“Yes. I hate it.”
“Why?”
Good though she was, she could not hide the merest tremble in her lips. Not that I was in any shape to rally. My surrender was total. And she knew it. I went on, posturing ungallantly to test her resolve.
“Because the words have driven me from myself,” I whined. “I live to serve them and they demand more of me than I can ever give them.”
“You make me smile, Mr. Savage.”
“You were sobbing a moment ago.”
“My past makes me sob. You make me smile.”
“You intrigue me, Lady from Atlanta.”
“What would you say were I to tell you that your verses have kept me sane, given me hope, a reason to live?”
“I would be humbled.”
“You have a beautiful voice.”
“Let's see if I can put it to good use. I wrote this two hours ago. Here we go, Lady from Atlanta, exclusively for you, that you may smile, ‘Be you the versing of my dreams? My beauty with a beating-heart? My fully formed up fall of words? My piece of poetry alive? My sonnet with a set of eyes? My primal verse of smiling verb? My kiss of English language live? O you! O you! O you! O you! I be your Jack O. Savage true. Born to receive your poetry. Your soul, your heart, your moving grace. I be your kernel-serving man. My heart-beat of the universe! You are my nothingness inverse.’ The title being: ‘RECEPTOR ON.’”
“You do know I am going to make love to you, don't you?”
“I rather believe I do, my Lady from Atlanta.”
“Kismet.”
“Kismet, it is.”
“Have you finished up here?”
“Well, I have finished my performance. One has to say goodbye to one's hosts, of course.”
“Oh, does one? How about saying hello to one's lover first? May I kiss you?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“You know you don't.”
“I do believe you're right.”
“Heel, poet.”
Her exact words, 'Heel, poet.' I was hers. We kissed.
“There is an urgency in you.”
“If you knew what I've just lived through, poet man. The thought of meeting you.”
“Should I be alarmed?”
“Yes, I bite.”
“I was rather hoping you might.”
“'I know. How could you not? I'm staying in Kensington, across the Thames.”
I told her I was staying in a converted Wren church, also across the water. Or rather, the tower of a Wren church. The Luftwaffe erased the rest of the church in 1941. I told her she was startlingly blond. I blabbed on like a tourist guide about how the tower of said church had been very tastefully converted into the most beautiful apartment in London, worth absolute squillions. All mine for a week. I joked that I was tower sitting, while the owner, a friend of a friend, attended to business in Moscow. Would she care to join me for hour or two? I liked to unwind to Monteverdi's madrigals, I told her. “Do you like Monteverdi's madrigals?” I asked her. We could be there in about twelve minutes. I suggested that she might like to tell me her name, as we were to be lovers.
“Liz, Elizabeth Snow. And yes, I love Monteverdi. You mentioned him when you were in Atlanta. I've been listening to him ever since. Have you ever made love to Monteverdi?”
“Not as yet.”
“Shall we go, poet?”
“My, you're a live one.”
“It's standing so close to you and wanting to carefully remove that ever so expensive-looking linen shirt from your back.”
“Damn, I was rather hoping for a frenzy of ripping in which my shirt buttons ping from the walls of my love tower.”
Okay, I couldn't believe I actually said that, but say it I did. Not that it fazed her, not that I wanted to.
“That can be arranged, poet.”
The lift whisked us to the foot of The Shard, where, a moment later, we were sitting in the back of a black London cab heading across London Bridge and into the heart of the City, where the bell-tower of Sir Christopher Wren's St. James-by-Pageantmasters Court awaited. The bells of St Paul’s tolled sonorously as we stepped from the cab and disappeared behind the heavy oak door in Invisible Green, with a heavy brass dolphin knocker.
THAT! was how it was.
Liz’s Version
You want to know how it really was? I'll tell you. Jack saved me. Period. That's how it was. I owed him everything. He renewed me in a way that saved me from myself. Period.
I woke up one morning with this in my head: when you no longer need to win, you've won. I kissed Jack's face and woke him up. “What's all that about?” I asked him.
“You make me smile,” was all he said. “You make me smile.”
When I landed in London, I landed with a weight of pain. I'd screwed up. People were dead. Pete had lied to me and ruined everything. I was at fault. It was all my stupid fault. I went for the hunk, the dream, the swim team god, the lawyer with a feel for literature. God, was I blind. Any idiot would have seen through Pete. Anyone could see that he was capital-M-Married. But not me.
I didn't deserve Charles to die in that smash. I didn't deserve to be on anti-depressants half my life. I didn't deserve to be messed up. But I was, big time.
The pills dulled me. I once worked out I must have taken five thousand. They tore the heart out of me. I was a bright kid, creative. The pills turned off a part of my soul.
I never understood when kids said they were not into what they were studying. I loved being an English major, everything about it. I never told anyone but, yes, I wanted to write one day.
BP = Before Pills, not Before Pete, as I had once thought.
That was why I was hooked when Pete introduced me to The Poet, Jack O. Savage, and I read his PILL HILL. Strange how I had Pete to thank for meeting Jack.
Kismet.
So I found myself in London, a city I loved; alone, lost, depressed, jet lagged, life lagged, in pain, pain, pain. Every morning, the same: my pillow wet with tears, crying myself asleep, crying myself awake.
I stayed in my flat for days, curtains closed. Kensington. Eye-candy houses worth squillions all around me, closing in on me. I even cried when I was out running.
I ran from the disaster that Pete Hendrix proved to be with his lies and his train wreck. How ironic; the one thing that kept me sane, running. My running shoes kept me alive.
I imagined the faces of the people who died in the train wreck. I imagined how their relatives felt. I imagined the injured. I went running. The days morphed into weeks and the weeks morphed into months. I was deeply depressed.
The house sitting never happened. Jihad, my orthodontist Lebanese landlord, pressed me for rent. We argued. He let me stay because he wanted me to pay in another way. I got hit on every time I left my flat. I must have looked distressed. I was distressed. I was hit on in twenty different languages. I even got spit on when I politely declined. Where have all the English gone? I wonder. They weren't in Lon
don, at least not where I was trapped. Can't go up, can't go down.
I called in a favor from an Atlanta CEO. He gave me some work. He paid me, hinted he would be in London in a couple of months. I took his money. I was desperate. I paid Jihad six months’ rent. He looked disappointed and left me alone. I was sick.
Doctor Ng wanted me to go back onto anti-depressants. He gave me a prescription. I got the meds. I opened the packet. I fingered the pills in their little silver packet. If I took them, I knew I would crawl back to LaFayette in defeat. My life would be over.
I read Gone with the Wind. Again. Over and over. I must have read it five times. It kept me off the pills. I went running. I met Helle, a Swiss woman. We ran together. She was escaping from an abusive Russian husband. Then she vanished.
I changed my running routes. I found myself lost in Notting Hill, of all places. And yes, there was a shop, a charity bookshop for some charity called Oxfam. I went in. An elderly woman asked if I'd come about the job. I didn't know why, but I said yes. She asked me if I was sure. I said yes.
I was a strong woman. I would find a way. I said yes. She smiled and asked when I wanted to start. Her name was Dianna. I said I would start today. She got me to sort through a giant pile of books people had donated. The dust in the bookroom made me sneeze. I laughed. My life was insane. It always had been. I threw the pills away when I got home. I went back to the charity shop the next day. I did some more work for them.
So many books. I checked out the poetry section and there it was: DYING ASHES by Jack O Savage. I lifted it from the shelf. I bought it. I took it home and put it on my kitchen table, on my bedside table, by my bath. But I didn't read it. It was a message to me. But what was it saying? It reminded me of Pete. But I was a strong woman. A strong American woman in London. I willed myself to forget Pete Hendrix. I had to. Was this why I was in London, to forget? No. I could not forget any of it. I had to learn from it. AND MOVE ON. I thought of taking DYING ASHES back to the bookshop. But I couldn’t even afford to be afraid. It was Pete Hendrix who lied to me, not Jack O Savage. I opened the book and read.
Jack knew nothing of all this. He knew I was damaged goods when I rocked into his life. But he also knew not to ask, just to accept, and to receive without needing to know.
I entered his life as a broken verse that made him smile. What more was there?
I never set out intending to meet him.
I read his stuff over and over. I read about him, the rumors. Where was he? What was he doing? The trash, so much garbage about Jack O. Savage and his dysfunctional life. He just drew me on.
I caught a glimpse of him on some arts program on TV. He looked more haunted than I was. The bags under his eyes said it all. He was still not over the death of his girlfriend. I just knew it. He was wounded. I was mesmerized.
The Oxfam shop said they didn't need me anymore. I was okay about it. I was surprised at how okay I was, actually. Perhaps I really was a strong American woman, after all. I learned that Pete was to go on trial in Atlanta for the crash. I was okay about it. He lied to me. He should not have been in that car driving while he was drunk. He should not have lied to me. The guy who killed my brother Charles had been drinking. So sorry, Pete, but you deserve what comes your way. Perhaps I had better stay in London, I reasoned. The press would crucify me as the other woman. I wondered if Pete would take me down with him? No, not if he couldn’t find me. No one knew where I was except a special few friends and family.
I stopped reading Gone with the Wind and couldn't stop reading DYING ASHES. I also read John Donne because he was Jack's favorite poet. I went to Westminster Abbey, to Poet's Corner.
For the first time since I had been in London, I breathed. I felt sorry for the next guy who would hit on me. But I was left alone. I must have been projecting my “STRONG AMERICAN WOMAN, KEEP OFF” vibes. Whatever it was, I was happy for...me! When was I last happy? Maybe I could live in England. I took a trip to Oxford. I saw an old poster in a student bar with Jack's face on it. For the first time, I wondered what I would do if he were to walk into the bar. I thought of stealing the poster, but didn't.
I went to the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden. I loved listening to English accents. I began to feel at home. I blended in. For once, no one bothered me. I chatted to a nervous Goth teen. She wanted to read at the open mic. I told her she would regret it for the rest of her life if she didn't just do it. She did it. She started nervously, but then her confidence grew. I led the applause for her. I was so proud of her. I caught sight of myself in a mirror. I was smiling. I looked at myself and smiled. I was happy. Finally.
I didn't recall deciding to try and see Jack. He was famously retired anyway. But I did find myself thinking about him, the enigma. And then I learned that he was going to perform - a one-night only gig for some charity in a private gallery in The Shard, London's tallest building. I had missed the one he did previously. This time would be different. I would find a way to get in there and see him.
I fantasized about meeting him, about what I might wear, what I would say, how it would be. I told myself to stop. But I didn't. I went to The Shard. I paid a huge sum to go up the building just to see what it was like. The views over London were spectacular in a routine sort of way for some, but to me it was the perfect blend of the ancient and the new.
I called my CEO friend. His wife was into the international literary circuit. I pulled every string I knew until I wrangled an invitation. He agreed it would be excellent publicity for his company to support such an event. My charm still worked, it seemed.
I wore my fedora.
I was more nervous than I had ever been in my life. The ice in my drink rattled against the side of my glass as my hand shook. And then he was there, on a small stage, murmuring about something and nothing. He looked tired. I was shocked at how tired he looked. But then, he started. Everything changed. He came alive. The room gasped. We all felt it.
A shrink I saw as a kid called it “synesthesia.” Your senses get all mixed up. You start to “see” sounds and “see” words as colors. That was how it was with me when I heard Jack read his poetry. I felt and saw all the colors of the rainbow in Jack’s spoken words. My nerves went away. I was totally calm, totally in the zone. I'd never witnessed such a talent in motion. He was spinning emotional and intellectual plates all at once. Time stopped.
And then it was over. He bowed and made his exit. All the big wigs went nuts. It was like they were kids again, stamping and whistling. I was amazed. I checked my watch. Twenty-two minutes of pure genius. We got him back on stage due to all the applause and he recited three more verses. He was smiling and seemed relaxed. We were all happy for him. I know I was.
Some BBC radio guy took him for an interview. The room broke up into networking cliques. Apart from me, that is. I sneaked out of the main room and into a room next to where the interview was taking place. I was shocked to see the poet reach over and pointedly turn the reporter's recorder off. He looked tired again. I worried for him. The reporter headed off with his tail between his legs.
What right had I to break in on whatever was bothering him? I was torn. When would I ever get to meet him if not at that moment? I watched him. He slumped onto a leather armchair. He looked distressed.
A security guard stopped other people from spilling into the gallery. He missed me in the dimness. Would I do any better than the reporter?
It was now or never. I walked into the spotlight and stood in front of some landscape, my back to him. I felt naked. What the hell am I doing? I started to sob. I couldn't help it. I was, literally, helpless. What had I done?
I sensed him get up and come over to me.
I felt like a trespasser. I had no right to be here. He was the most English of writers. I was not from his tradition. He was of London. I was not. I could sense the city snarling at me outside. I had no right, no right to be there. But I was right there in the same room with him.
I wished I’d had a glass of champagne in my hand. My cow
boy boots felt like deep sea diver boots. I was lost. I felt like I felt when I had spoken to Pete's wife. I felt like I was going to black out. But I didn't. I'd changed. I had a right to be there on the inside of its soul. I had something to lose. Pain.
I turned round and he was there. Scruffy and tired. He needed me more than I needed him. We both knew this, instinctively. I smiled at him. My pain left me. It was over. I knew in that instant that everything was going to be all right. I didn't know why or how, just that it was.
I told him I needed a glass of champagne. He smiled at me.
“You make me smile,” he said. Those were his first words to me. “You make me smile.”
I told him he'd better get me some champagne, then, to ensure that I make him smile again. He laughed, ran his hands through his long dark hair, and left the room. I wondered if I would see him again. My heart was racing. He returned with a tray of champagne, about twenty glasses.
“I pinched it from a waiter,” he said, winking at me as I took a glass and shook my head at him.
“You’re a naughty boy,” I replied, without thinking before saying it, and we both laughed. At the same time, at the same moment. We had a connection.
I told him his performance was brilliant. He bowed. I told him he looked tired. He will tell you I said he looked tired as hell and that he needed some new clothes. I’m not certain if I’m that open with people when we first meet; I’m generally a bit guarded at first. I did think both things about him. I will admit to that.
He might not have had a bath for a while either. He took some scruffy pink charity band from his wrist and offered it to me. I took it and slipped it on my wrist. We sipped champagne. A group of people walked in and surrounded us. They tried to get his attention. One was the event organizer.
They had no chance. To him, they were simply not there. I was in awe. No man had ever made me feel like this. His attention was total. I told him his hair needed brushing, that his jeans had stains on them. He smiled at me. And then the most wonderful thing happened. He laughed again. He just stood there and laughed. I smiled and tipped my fedora to hide my eyes. People around us started to laugh. He lifted my hat and peeped at me. His face was about a foot away from mine. He had gorgeous brown eyes. “Hello, who are you?” he asked.
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