Ghost Music

by Graham Masterton

  I half raised my hand and gave Kate a wave, but she didn’t wave back. I didn’t even know if she had seen me. I thought about going across to her, but she seemed so lost in thought, and after the rumpus I had heard last night I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to her. “Have a good evening, did you—you and Victor and whatever-her-name-was?” I waited for a moment longer, and then I went down the steps and started to walk east, toward Seventh Avenue. I was heading for The Two Brothers seafood market on Carmine Street for fresh tuna. Before I went around the bend in St. Luke’s Place, however, I turned back, to see if Kate was still there, standing by the tree, but she had gone.

  A ragged cloud passed over the sun, and the day suddenly turned chilly.

  Five

  I opened the front door just as my wall clock chimed 10:30. I went through to the kitchenette and unwrapped the two inch-thick steaks of yellowfin tuna. I rinsed them under the faucet, patted them dry, and then laid them in a shallow white dish.

  I hummed a new theme I was writing for Eagle’s Pass, a new TV series about a pioneering family in Oregon. Half adventure, half comedy and half mushy-sentimental Waltons-type weepie.

  From another shopping bag, I took out a Chinese cabbage, two bunches of scallions, a knobbly piece of ginger and a clear cellophane envelope filled with hijiki seaweed. I emptied the seaweed into a bowl and covered it with warm water to soak.

  I was grating the ginger when I heard the most timorous of knocks at my door. Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I went to answer it. Standing on the landing was an elderly woman with wild white hair, wrapped in a soiled pink satin bathrobe.

  “I’m very sorry if I’m being a nuisance,” she said, almost in a whisper. “But I was wondering if Jonathan was with you.”

  I shook my head. “He’s not, no.”

  The woman craned her head to one side, trying to see past me, into my living room. “You’re quite sure? He was only going to Blick’s to buy some new brushes. He said he’d be back in twenty minutes.”

  “No, I’m sorry. There’s nobody here but me.”

  She stared at me, her mouth pursed like an Egyptian mummy. I could see that, decades ago, she must have been beautiful. Her bone structure was perfect. Wide forehead, high cheekbones, finely delineated jaw. But now her skin had withered and her green eyes had faded. She was barefoot, underneath her bathrobe, and her feet were like claws.

  “You’re not Jonathan, are you?”

  “No, I’m not Jonathan. But if I see him, I’ll tell him that you were looking for him.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she frowned at me again, and said, “I do live here, don’t I? I’m not just visiting? This isn’t a hotel?”

  “No . . . you live here. Do you want me to take you back up to your apartment?”

  “Yes, that would be very noble of you. Whatever happened to nobility? I used to know Claude Rains, you know. I knew him very well. Now he was nobility.”

  “Claude Rains? Didn’t he play the Invisible Man?”

  “That’s right. The Invisible Man. But they used a double, most of the time, when he was wearing his bandages. It was only the real him in the inn scene.”

  I stepped out of my apartment and took hold of the woman’s elbow. “Come on, let me show you back upstairs. You must be Pearl. Mr. Solway downstairs, he was telling me all about you.”

  “Mr. Solway? Never heard of him. The people who live downstairs, their name is Huxtable. George and Doris Huxtable. They have an awful dog, but don’t tell them I said so, will you? Never stops barking. I heard it this morning. Yap, yap, yap!”

  I steered Pearl toward the stairs, and helped her up to the next landing. The door to her apartment was wide-open, and I could smell age and airlessness and cauliflower that was long past its sell-by date. But as I guided her inside, I smelled something else, too. The pungent aroma of fresh oil paint. Unmistakable.

  Her apartment was chaotic. Although it was such a sunny morning, the living room was in semidarkness because the drapes were drawn—heavy brown velvet curtains that were thick with dust. An ottoman stood in one corner of the room, its green brocade covering burst open, so that its horsehair stuffing bulged out. In the opposite corner, there was an armchair, upholstered in cracked brown leather, and a folding Turkish stool. Against the walls, dozens of canvases were stacked, as well as portfolios filled with drawings, and sketchbooks, and unframed watercolors.

  In the center of the room, however, stood an artist’s easel, with a large canvas on it, and as I assisted Pearl toward the armchair, I could see that it was still wet, and gleaming.

  “You’re such a good fellow,” said Pearl. “Have I ever met you before? You’re not Walter Montmorency, by any chance?”

  “Gideon Lake,” I told her. “I just moved in downstairs.”

  But at the same time I was staring at the half-finished oil painting on the easel. It was a life study of Pearl, sitting on the end of the ottoman. She was smoking a cigarette in an elegant, almost arrogant pose, her chin tilted upward. So far the artist had painted only her basic flesh tones, but I could see that it was going to be a strikingly strong portrait.

  “Gideon Lake,” Pearl repeated. She thought for a while, muttering to herself, and then she said, “You’re not related to the New Rochelle Lakes, by any chance? What a sad lot they were, if you don’t mind my saying so. Especially that Matilda Lake. My goodness. What a mess she was.”

  “Who’s painting this?” I asked her.

  “Who’s painting what, dear?”

  “This picture of you. Who’s painting it?”

  Pearl frowned at me as if I had asked her a question in Chinese. “Who do you think, dear?”

  “I really don’t know. I’m a musician. I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to artists.”

  “Well, it’s my beloved Jonathan, of course. Who else would it be?”

  I said nothing. Some old friend of hers must be using her as a model, and she was simply confused. I had to admit, though, that even in her old age she had a very passable figure. Slim hips, long legs, tiny breasts with faint pink nipples.

  “I have to get back downstairs now,” I told her. “I have a lunch guest.”

  “If you see Jonathan, you will tell him to hurry up, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do be warned,” she said, lowering her voice back down to a whisper. “The people in this house . . . they’re not always what they seem to be.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Pearl raised her hand to her face and stroked her cheek, as if she were making sure that she were still there.

  “They tell you one thing, but they do another. That’s their trouble. And they watch you, all the time. They covet your possessions, that’s why. They want everything that’s yours, and not theirs. They covet every breath that you take. They even covet the sunlight that shines into your eyes. They want it, like Gollum wanted the ring.”

  “Well . . . I’ll be careful,” I assured her.

  Pearl stood up. I thought for one alarming moment that she was going to drop her bathrobe, but she simply came up to me and took hold of my left hand.

  “One door opens and another door closes,” she told me. “But don’t forget that doors never open and close by themselves. There are people walking through them, even if there aren’t always people to be seen.”

  With that, she closed her eyes and lifted her face toward me, as if she expected me to kiss her. I hesitated for a moment, and then I gave her the lightest kiss on her forehead.

  “You’re such a good fellow, Gideon Lake,” she said. “I think I might be able to remember you.”

  Six

  Kate came up about twenty minutes later, while I was chopping up the Chinese cabbage. I had left the door on the latch, so that she could walk straight in.

  “So sorry I’m late.” she smiled. She was wearing narrow black jeans and a yellow scoop-neck T-shirt, and she was holding up a bottle of Cuvée Napa sparkling wine. She kissed me as if she
had known me for years.

  “Hey, no problem. Glad you could make it.”

  “Something strange happened to a friend of mine this morning, and I had to go see her.”

  “Something strange?”

  “Somebody broke into her apartment and broke all of her flower vases. They didn’t steal anything, just broke all of her vases, and threw her flowers all around the room. She’s very distressed about it.”

  “Does she have any idea who did it?”

  Kate shook her head.

  “Does she have any idea why they did it?”

  “No. But there are so many psychos around these days.”

  I took the wine bottle from her. It was intensely cold, and beaded with dew, as if she had just taken it out of the fridge. “I don’t have any champagne glasses,” I admitted. “You don’t mind slumming it with a regular wineglass, do you?”

  “Of course not. I’ve drunk it straight out of the bottle before now.”

  I took two glasses out of the cupboard and opened the Cuvée Napa with a sharp, suppressed hiss.

  “That’s good,” said Kate. “La pette d’une ange.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “An angel’s fart. That’s the way you’re supposed to open champagne. Not like Victor. Every time he opens a bottle of champagne you’d think he just won the Indy 500. It sprays everywhere.”

  “I met Victor this morning.”

  Kate looked away, and said nothing.

  “He was telling me about Pearl, upstairs,” I persisted.

  “Pearl? Yes, she’s something else, isn’t she? She didn’t drop her robe?”

  “No. She was very ladylike. Kind of forgetful. I mean, her mind wanders, doesn’t it? She asked me a couple of times if I was Jonathan Lugard.”

  Kate smiled, although she still didn’t turn around to look at me. “Her mind’s unraveling, yes. But she isn’t stupid. She can see things that nobody else can see.”

  “Like what, for instance?”

  But Kate didn’t answer me. Instead, she leaned over the dish with the tuna steaks in it, and sniffed them. “Are these what we’re having for lunch? They smell wonderfully fresh. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring Malkin.”

  “I bought them this morning, from The Two Brothers on Carmine Street. I saw you in the park.”

  Again, she didn’t answer, but walked into the living room, and started to look through my CD collection. I followed her, with my glass of Cuvée Napa in my hand, and watched her. I loved her profile, the tilt of her nose, and her very long eyelashes.

  “You like Van Morrison?” she asked me. “‘Days Like This,’ that’s a really great song.”

  “I like just about everybody, almost. Classical, rock, you name it. All except for Tony Bennett.”

  She turned to me. “Why did you say that?”

  “Because I don’t like Tony Bennett, that’s all. He brings me out in hives.”

  “Victor hero-worships Tony Bennett. Sometimes I used to think that Victor would like to be Tony Bennett. He’s always singing along.”

  I said nothing for nearly a minute, still watching Kate sort through my music. But then she held up a copy of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 and said, “I used to have this. I love it.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked her.

  “What do you mean, what’s going on?”

  “I mean, why are you here?”

  Kate looked bewildered. “Because you invited me for lunch. Did you think that I wasn’t going to come? Did you not want me to come?”

  “Of course I wanted you to come. It’s just that—I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Last night. I couldn’t help hearing what was going on downstairs.”

  “Oh. That. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I’m not. I mean, whatever you want to get up to, that’s your business. Here—let me make us some lunch.”

  She came up to me, very close. “You do like me?” she asked.

  “Of course I like you. I like you very much. I mean, I hardly know you, but somehow—”

  “Do you think that matters? That you hardly know me? I could come up here for lunch every day for a year, and the chances are that you still wouldn’t know me very much better. Victor and I, we got married in April 2002. He still doesn’t know what music I like or what perfume I wear or how much I love sunflowers.”

  I looked closely into her eyes. It was like looking out of a window on an overcast day.

  “Sunflowers,” I repeated, and I laid my hand on her shoulder and kissed her. I had kissed women like that before, just because I felt like it, but I felt that Kate had been expecting me to do it. We kept our lips pressed together only for a moment, and neither of us closed our eyes, but when I stood up straight again, Kate was smiling at me with obvious pleasure.

  “Tuna,” I told her.

  “My God, Gideon Lake. You say the most romantic things.”

  “Don’t I just? But I have to sear the tuna. Otherwise lunch won’t be ready till suppertime.”

  She followed me into the kitchenette and stood close beside me as I took down my cast-iron skillet and put it onto the gas to heat up.

  “Sing me something else you’ve written,” she urged me.

  “I’ll play you some more of my TV themes after lunch. You ever watch Laurel Canyon? I wrote the theme for Laurel Canyon. And Foznick & Son . . . you know that comedy with Sean MacReady? ‘Are you ready for this, Mr. Foznick, s-i-rr?’”

  “Yes, but I want to hear you sing.”

  I licked the tip of my finger and dabbed it into the skillet, to test how hot it was. “Ouch. Almost ready.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows, to show me that she was still waiting.

  “Okay,” I relented, lifting both hands in surrender. I cleared my throat, and then I sang, to a Sound of Music–style melody, “‘When it’s spring across the meadows . . . when the wildflowers smell so sweet . . . when the air is fine like sparkling wine . . . then you know you’ve chosen Zweet.’”

  Kate stared at me. “Zweet? Zweet? That’s one of those things you hang in the toilet bowl, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “What did I tell you? I write music for anything.”

  She laughed. “You’re incredible. It’s such a romantic melody. And it’s for Zweet!”

  “I’ve written music for frankfurters, too. And for adult-size diapers.”

  The skillet was good and hot now, so I sizzled the tuna steaks for two minutes on each side, and then tossed the salad with lemon-juice dressing. The kitchenette filled up with tuna smoke.

  We sat at the small antique table in the corner of the living room. Kate said, “This is really good. The last time I had seared tuna it was like shoe leather.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “The secret is, cook it hot but don’t cook it long.” I watched her while she ate. Then I said, “How did you and Victor first meet?”

  “Oh . . . I was working for Perfect Home magazine, and we were doing a layout on remodeled apartments in TriBeCa. Victor owned one of the apartments, and that’s how we met. We finished late one evening, and he invited me out for dinner. I was hungry, and it was the end of the month, so I didn’t have any money. So I said yes.

  I didn’t say anything, but waited until she had finished her next mouthful of fish.

  “Victor . . .” she said. “I know he doesn’t seem like my type. He’s self-made, he’s brash, but he used to be very funny sometimes, and he never took no for an answer. Up until then, all of my boyfriends were very serious and academic, and when something upset them, all they did was clear their throat. So Victor came into my life like a hurricane.”

  She paused, and sipped a little wine. “Five weeks after we met, he asked me to marry him. I couldn’t think of any reason why not. He made me happy. He made me laugh. He had plenty of money. So I did.”

  “So how long have you been living in St. Luke’s Place?”

  “Sometimes it seems like forever. Other times, it se
ems like the blink of an eye.”

  For some reason, she didn’t want to give me a straight answer. But I didn’t press her. I didn’t really care, to tell you the truth, although I should have. If I had only known then what it took me seven more months to find out.

  “How about you?” she asked me. “Anybody special in your life?”

  “Nope, not at the moment. There was, up until recently. But, you know. She wanted more attention than I could give her, what with work and everything.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  I looked at her narrowly. Why did she want to know that?

  “Yes, she was pretty. She was very pretty. She was half-Czech, as matter of fact. Her name was Milka. It means ‘hard-working’ in Czech, but she was one of the laziest girls I ever dated. It was ‘peek up my nail polish for me, Geedeon, I kent quite reach eet.’”

  Kate laughed. “I can’t see you putting up with that. You’re too—” She circled her hand around, trying to think of the right word.

  “Too chauvinistic? Too self-important? Too goddamned stubborn?”

  “I don’t know. Too sure of yourself. Quiet, yes. But sure of yourself. I guess you have to be, to write music. I mean, you’re revealing yourself, aren’t you, when you write music? You’re exposing your emotions. Even in a Zweet commercial.”

  “You’re very perceptive,” I told her.

  “Really?”

  “I wrote that music just after Milka and I broke up. I have to admit I still miss her, in a way. She was lazy, for sure, but she was lots of fun.”

  “It’s a lovely song. I know it’s for toilet freshener, but you could always change the words, couldn’t you?”

  “I guess so. Let’s try it.”

  I sang it again, soft and off-key. “When it’s lunchtime in Manhattan . . . and there’s tuna on your plate . . . when the sparkling wine makes you feel just fine . . . then you know you’ve chosen Kate.”

  She put down her fork, reached across the table and laid her hand on top of mine.

  “What’s this?” I asked her. The moment was charged with such erotic electricity that I felt as if my hair were standing on end.

  “You know what it is,” she said, and her eyelids were very heavy, almost as if she were falling asleep. “It doesn’t happen very often. But when it does, you always know. I turned around, and I saw you looking out of your window, and I knew right away that you were the one. And you knew it, too, didn’t you?”