Someone took a photograph of us. Someone else took another. This really pissed him off. It riled me up, too. “Please make them stop taking pictures,” I whispered to Jack, placing my hand on his forearm. “The last thing I want is publicity.”
Jack was intrigued. “Cameras away, or you can leave now,” he said firmly to everyone in the room. No one dared take another photo. The laughter stopped and he guided me further into the gallery. No one followed us.
He said he fancied a pint and would I join him. I said yes. And that was it. We were on the move. He guided me through the gallery. The crowd parted. He whispered to me that he loved my cowboy boots. I was in Heaven. We were in the lift, as they call it in England. I remarked that we call it an elevator in the States. And then we were in a pub, The George Inn. He said that it was a famous old coaching inn, that once upon a time they used to bait bears there, and that Shakespeare's troupe of King's Men players performed in the courtyard.
I told him he had lost puppy dog eyes. He told me I was very cheeky and he ordered more drinks. I asked him if he was trying to get me drunk. No, but did I want him to? he asked. No, I said, because I wanted to be sober when I kissed him. He smiled and some deep sadness welled up within him. He fell silent. I wondered if he was going to weep. But he held it together. He thanked me.
“What for?” I asked.
“For making me smile,” he said.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“What else is there?” he said. I leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek. He did not resist. Nor did he respond. Not at first. He licked his lips, seemed to think, took a sip of his beer, and smiled.
I asked him if I'd blown it.
“Yes,” he said. “Totally.”
I was confused. I asked him if he wanted me to go. Now he was confused.
“No, the opposite,” he said.
“So I didn't do badly?” I asked.
“No,” said he. “The opposite.” I thanked him for the charity band. He smiled.
He asked me who I was with. I said I didn't know what he meant.
He said, “Magazine, media, publisher?” I must have looked hurt because he instantly apologized.
I told him I was with a wonderful poet whose work I had read and loved. I told him his DYING ASHES turned my life around after a disastrous love affair with a man at home, and that I was trying to restart my life in London.
He was deeply embarrassed by his question.
I told him it was all right. I touched his hand. He looked straight into my eyes. I told him everything was all right now. He said he believed it was and took a drink of his pint. He tilted his head back and blinked at the ceiling. He sighed. He let his head sink. He sighed again and made a noise in his throat. And then he was okay; the haze lifted from his eyes and he returned to the moment, our moment.
He smiled at me. I smiled back. It was as if we both knew something might be happening, yet neither of us could believe it. We had a connection. I told him I had studied English as a kid, that I was from Atlanta, and that I loved literature. I told him which poems were my favorite poems in DYING ASHES. He was fascinated. He asked why. I told him. I asked him about the poems. He told me so much. Each poem had a story behind it. I was amazed. I told him I was in love with his mind. He stood up after I said this, and I thought he was going to run away. But he just went to get another pint. I studied him as he stood at the bar. He was the scruffiest, smelliest man I had ever spent any time with, yet here I was, having the time of my life.
Someone spotted him at the bar. They asked him for his autograph. He peeled a beermat in half and signed it. And then he was back with me. I asked him if that happened all the time. Yes, he said. I caught him looking at my boots. I crossed my legs so he could have a better look. My legs were long, tanned, and toned. He smiled, this time to himself. I knew why. He couldn't hide it from me. Nor did I want him to.
Why had I not introduced myself yet? Where were my manners? I told him my name and offered him my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Liz Snow,” he said, bowing without taking his eyes off mine.
I felt like there were grappling hooks in my eyes, that there were ropes pulling us together, that his emotions were swarming into me, that there was nothing I could do to stop this happening. I looked away. I had to. The intensity of his gaze was just too much.
He asked me what was wrong. “Nothing,” I said, when in fact it was just the opposite. Everything was wrong because nothing was wrong.
He apologized and said it was how he was, that he was far too intense for most people. I told him that I was not most people. “Oh, you must be that STRONG AMERICAN WOMAN everyone’s so fond of in books,” he joked and ran his hands through his long, stringy hair. I locked eyes with him and smiled. It was his turn to look away. We both laughed. Then he tried to kiss me.
A wave of panic washed over me. I was sure he sensed it because he squeezed my hand. He was no longer The Poet. Jack had become a man, a total stranger, even though I knew so much about him from his poetry. What, oh what, was I doing with this man?
Our conversation faltered under the strain of my panic. Was this Pete all over again? I almost got up and left. But I didn't. He knew I was in turmoil. Our conversation became pleasant exchanges just to pass time. He told me about the charity that lured him back onto a public stage, at how nervous he had been. I told him that I couldn't believe that someone who'd performed live with Muse in front of millions could possibly be fazed by a room with sixty people in it.
Then, the conversation went bizarre. He asked me which football team I supported. I said, “Atlanta Falcons.” Neither of us knew what we were talking about, much less what we were doing. We were total strangers. He seemed so familiar to me, yet he was a stranger. And he knew nothing at all about me.
He told me he was a poor lover. That he had lost the will since her. He couldn't tell me. I told him it was all right, that I’d followed his blog for quite some time. I told him what a shock it must have been. His eyes filled with tears. He apologized. He controlled himself.
I put my hand on his. A woman at a neighboring table caught my eye. She could see what was going on. Was she jealous?
What is going on?
He smiled and asked me about Atlanta. I nervously chattered on and on about Atlanta and Georgia. How green the countryside is and how blue the sky gets on some days, just as if you could reach out and touch it, as if it’s an ethereal mirror. The flowers and how lush it becomes in the summer with all the greens and purples and whites and pinks of the flowers and trees. Cherokee Roses and magnolias and mimosas. I told him of the Cherokee Nation and my Cherokee heritage. He loved the stories, legends and the beauty they found in the balance of nature. He especially loved the story of the Above World. I told him about the Raven Mocker firebird. He loved it. He wanted to know more about “The South,” as he called it. We talked for what seemed like hours. There was a desperation about him, as if he just wanted to be normal. I started to wonder, Am I boring him? Does he really want to know?
Then, he could take no more, apparently. He leaned his face onto his hand and said he was very tired. He apologized again. I told him, “There is no need, I understand.” He gave me a fierce look as he placed tobacco in a paper, rolled up a cigarette, and lit it. No words. I clearly did not understand and felt my words during our conversation were meaningless. He drew a deep breath and studied me closely. I felt like a little girl. But I didn't look away.
“What do you think about Jacob's Sheep?” he asked me.
“Pardon me?” I said. “I know they are black and white and have sweet tempers and that my Uncle Leighton used to keep a few on his farm.”
And then he chatted away again, telling me about his herd of Jacobs down in Cornwall. He got his phone out and showed me a picture of his favorite ewe. I was astonished. I mean sheep? What the hell? And then it was clear. He was just as lost in London as I was. We decided to leave before the pub closed.
He fell asleep in the taxi o
n the way back to the place he was staying. It was a tower house that was once the bell tower of a Sir Christopher Wren church. It now belonged to a rich friend of his.
He seemed surprised when he woke up and saw that I was still with him when the taxi squealed to a stop outside the tower. He invited me in. I asked him if he meant it. He said he needed me to make him smile when he woke up in the morning.
We went inside.
The tower house blew me away. Lights came on as we entered. The house seemed to welcome us. Soft music followed us from room to room. Jack fell onto a sofa and fell asleep. What was a girl to do but stay a while?
I fixed myself a coffee. And let the house seduce me with its shifting lights and music. I placed a throw over The now-snoring Poet. He was really just a mortal man. This was not what I had imagined. He hiccoughed in his sleep. His breathing deepened. And then it started. First a little moan, and then he started to call her name. “Indie, Indie, NO! INDIE, NO!”
I held his hand. It seemed to comfort him, even in his sleep. But not for long. The nightmare rocked him again and again.
I wondered if I should awaken him, but I didn't. I didn’t dare.
I lay on the sofa next to him. This seemed to comfort him a bit more. The house went quiet. I listened to the bells of St. Paul’s tolling the quarter hours. Jack put an arm around me and sighed. His breathing deepened and he slept soundly. I lay there, watching him all night long. I lay awake and watched him breathe and prayed that his nightmares would become dreams.
In the morning, it was he who awakened me with the broadest of smiles and a steaming cup of coffee.
That was exactly how we met.
Chapter 14
Tower of Love
Jack O. Savage returned from his run along the Thames to Canary Wharf and back, dripping with sweat poetic. The door to The Tower glided open at his approach. It knew in its electronic soul exactly who he was. It shut silently behind him.
Would she still be curled up on the sofa? Or would she have gone with the wind? Was she ever really there, this Liz Snow from Atlanta, Georgia?
He stole up the stairs of his borrowed tower in the heart of London, the mercenary pulse of The City beating all around as it had for centuries. Big Tom, the St. Paul's Cathedral clock, tolled 9 a.m. The Tower's smoked glass and brushed steel interior irritated him with its prosaic perfectionism. He tried to hide his thoughts lest said tower read them and disapproved. Nice tower, phallic tower, power tower, woman wower, dour tower.
He smiled to find her still there, still asleep, her Botticelli yellow hair in Venus riot all around her anti-steel, anti-glass face. She raised her hands to her lips, sighed. He bent his face towards hers as if to kiss her awake, hesitated as a bead of sweat poetic splashed onto the black sofa's skin of super soft Italian leather. “Perchance I have a reason to shave,” he thought, straightening up to his full height and stepping back to admire her the more.
The Tower set his shower running at his approach. It knew, programmed to perfection. Shaving cream streamed down his plank of a body. His thoughts wandered. “Gimme a thousand syllables, on your knuckles, boy.” He faced his swinging nakedness in the mirrors all around, his thousand-word stare disturbing him with its primal intensity. He smiled. But his smile was fake. He shook his head and smiled at his idiocy.
“How do you do it, Jack, old pal, my ace of fakes?”
He snapped his fingers at The Tower. Sweet music seeped softly into the air, nourishing his soul with aural vitamins.
He dressed. White T-shirt. Royal blue vintage suit. Single-breasted. No vents. Italian.
“Thirty-two inch waist, dude. Ridiculous. But true.”
Brown suede loafers. No socks. Two squirts of something in a satisfyingly heavy smoked-glass bottle of cologne shaped like a grenade.
“See, Tower, we scrubs up when we wants to, we does. Shall we to Liz Snow? Shall we see if she can make us smile anew?”
Liz stretched, sighed, and opened her eyes to see Mr. Poet Man standing before her with a tray of fresh coffee.
“Good morning, Lady from Atlanta. Coffee?”
“Why, thank you, kind sir. I am charmed.”
“Tis Black Ivory, the world's most exotic coffee, absurdly expensive.”
“Black Ivory?”
She watched as he got to his knees before her and poured, sorely tempted to run her hands through his glossy black hair.
“Picture the scene,” he said, locking eyes. “Northern Thailand. Babu the elephant hoovers up his beloved arabica beans from the palm of his mahout's hand, the tastiest of pachyderm treats. Then Babu's magical stomach gets to work. A rumbling, a churning as said beans work their way through Babu's digestive tract. Fifty hours later, amid a gale of elephantine flatulence, the job's done. Said beans emerge to be carefully harvested a short time later. The resultant coffee - as smooth as a baby's bottom, with n'er a trace of bitterness - retails for a small fortune. Try it. I swear to you, it's special.”
“Eww!”
“Try it, try it.”
“Are you always this intense?”
“Dear lady, this is calm.”
She sipped. “I've had better at Starbucks, to be honest with you. But I approve of your effort to impress me, dear sir. I love the suit. The coffee? Not so much.”
Jack bowed.
“And you've washed your hair.”
Bowed again.
“And is that Chanel La Nuit de l'Homme I detect?”
“Au du Tour, mademoiselle.”
“Hey, this elephant crap coffee's not bad, though. I would never pay more than three dollars a cup.”
“Not bad! It's something. Uh.”
“I do believe you're lost for words, Mr. Savage.”
“It's happened again.”
“What?”
“You've made me smile.”
“Is that bad?”
“Bad cubed to the power of ten.”
“You fell asleep in the taxi back here last night. Then you fell asleep on me here. What is a girl to think, Mr. Savage?”
“Humblest, sincerest, most grovellingest apols.”
“And you talked in your sleep.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed. I thought I was fucked up, but you? I have a lot to learn.”
“What did I say?”
“Indie.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want to tell me about her, Jack? I'm a good listener. Get it off your chest.”
“Yes, but first we must have breakfast. Care to join me for the full English? Lashings of bacon, eggs, mushrooms, sort of thing.”
“I'd love to, but first, I should maybe freshen up.”
“Ach, yes, you need to freshen up. The guest bathroom is at your disposal in the guestroom. Voila. I will wait below for you.”
“This place is amazing. Do you own it?”
“Noooooooooooo, a friend in the hedge fund game owns it. He's rarely here. I use it more than he does, when I am in London, which is infrequently these days. No, this tower just stands here, appreciating effortlessly.”
“So where do you hang?”
“On my farm.”
“Hey, I'm a farm girl.”
“Really? I keep a few sheep in Cornwall.”
“So, Jack O. Savage is really a farmer, huh? Mother Nature’s Son? Or, is it just a hobby for you?”
“You make me smile.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep doing it.”
“Is that so bad?”
“The full catastrophe, as Zorba used to say.”
“Zorba?”
“The Greek.”
“Honestly, Jack, you're the craziest man I've ever met.”
“Is that bad?”
“A true catastrophe.”
“I'm probably the tiredest man you've ever met.”
“I know. I could see how you were last night at The Shard.”
“Was it that bad?”
“No, you gave everything to the audien
ce. They were stunned. I was stunned. Your voice is, it is Black Ivory. You are something else. You were awesome. Excuse me.”
He clicked his fingers and the music changed to Alice in Chains. The Tower rocked as Liz disappeared into the guest suite and the door shut behind her.
An hour later, they were tucked in a cozy corner in an all-day breakfast cafe in Covent Garden. Three hours later, she knew all about his recent life, while he knew nothing about hers. They caught a tourist boat down the Thames to Greenwich and walked up the hill to the observatory where Liz stood with one foot on either side of the meridian line.
He took her to The Savoy for lunch. But neither was really hungry, so they shared a club sandwich in the bar. He fell asleep in a movie in Leicester Square. They went back to The Tower. He slept for eighteen hours. She watched his eyelids twitching. He didn't call out in his sleep this time. She sat in a chair with the lights on. The Tower dimmed the lights, as if it knew. She gazed out over the streets of London below. All was quiet. It rained softly outside, and a mist covered their part of London. She saw a fox sit in the middle of the empty road. She fell asleep, finally, at four a.m.
The next day, he took her to a studio where he passed a couple of hours with a sound engineer, editing recordings from DYING ASHES. She listened in rapt astonishment. And then he asked her what she thought. She was speechless. He asked again. She panicked. He held her hand. She couldn't believe she was there, that any of this was happening. He kissed her on the cheek and got the sound engineer to play his DJ set. They, all three of them, danced. She had never been happier. Her hair flew. A hung over illustrator turned up with a portfolio full of artwork for Jack to look at. The work was not right. An argument erupted. The illustrator lost it. A guy stepped from the shadows and led the irate illustrator quietly away. She gave Jack a quizzical look.
“That was Spider,” he said.
“Who?”
“Micky 'Spider' Webb.”
“Does he do the shopping?”
“He does if I ask him. But I'd never ask him.”
September Ends Page 12