by Heather Rose
‘If I buy you dinner will you tell me about it?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps another time.’
She walked away, tingling, knowing he was watching her go. Somehow they had got in deeper than they’d planned. Sex did that. The drug of skin and lust. But she kept walking.
SNOW HAD BEEN FALLING AT record levels. It was February and Lydia had been in the Hamptons for a month. Levin had received only the barest reports from Alice after Lydia’s stroke. There was no good news. The city was slick with ice and everything felt hunkered down. The days barely became light and the nights were whipped and chastened by Atlantic storms. That day everyone had been braced for a blizzard born in Canada. The weather stations were calling it a Category 1 hurricane. But New York, despite snowdrifts up and down the city, was dauntless. The lights were still on and he’d received an email from Hal.
Where are you? Can’t reach you. Call me. Work.
‘Arky, hi,’ said Hal. No one ever sounded like Hal on the phone. Hal had constructed a New York drawl from a Kansas twang (his father) and a New Zealand clip (his mother). His vowels were organic. ‘Where have you been? Did your phone get stolen by reindeer? I’ve been calling you for weeks.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Okay,’ said Hal. ‘So how are you? How was your weekend?’
His weekend? Levin’s one trip out had consisted of a brief foray to eat breakfast at the Grey Dog. The city was dirty with trampled snow and bitterly cold. Tourists were in for the winter sales, filling up the Village, flocking into Bloomingdales, congesting Spring and Canal and everything in between, trawling the little boutiques selling Swiss Army knives and designer satchels, tea towels and shirts, moving from one warm retail cell to the next. Every cafe and restaurant within a two-kilometre radius of NYU was filled with students back after the holidays. But this was what Lydia had wanted. She had wanted to live on the square a stone’s throw from the campus.
Without Lydia, Levin had lost the rhythm of the week—the certainty of Monday to Friday, the habit of Saturday, the reprieve of Sunday. It was all gone. The day could be any day. If he wanted, he could take three Sundays in a row and wander through the city, take in a gallery, walk for hours along Riverside. Without Lydia coming and going from her office, the structures of the working week were abandoned like stone walls where the grass had won out and the whole edifice had fallen into disrepair. But wasn’t creativity the grass that did just that? Worked away at structures. What sort of brainwashing, he had wondered, had created a world in which people worked fifty or sixty hours a week, every week, no matter how beautiful the day outside, no matter what thoughts they were having? Where would the paintings come from? The novels and sculptures? The music?
Levin had been thinking of ideas for his next album. He’d retrieved something he’d begun a few years before, a suite for orchestra—almost a little symphony—of four movements. He had an idea for an opera too, one drawn from an early film score he’d done for Tom.
‘I have an offer for you. It’s not cars and guns.’ Hal’s voice was too loud in his ear. ‘As your agent, I need to remind you that people move on fast in this game. Two years is a long time between drinks. Time to jump, Arky.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Levin. If it had been a director he’d worked with before, they wouldn’t have come to Hal first. And if it had been a big money deal, Hal wouldn’t have called, he’d have come to see him. So he waited, half irritated he’d bothered to respond to the email.
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Hal. ‘You know how Disney teamed up with the Japanese company—Studio Ghibli?’
‘A disaster in my mind. Why would Ghibli allow that? Watch how clichéd everything will get.’
‘Well . . .’ Hal paused, as if he was about to argue, but instead he continued. ‘Now Warner is quietly undertaking a few explorative projects with a company called Izumi. The one they want to talk to you about is an adult fairy story.’
‘Ah.’
‘Turns out Seiji Isoda, the director, is a fan of your work. He thinks you’re the man for the job. He’s been working for years to get the project up and then, voila, Warner comes along.’
‘It’s an animation?’
‘Yep. But Warner, Levin! And it’s for adults, not kids.’
‘So is it more like Ghost in the Shell?’
‘Not really. It’s a myth. It’s pretty unusual. I’m sending you the script over now. It could be good. They’re certainly keen to have you. Call me when you’ve read it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Arky, that means call me tomorrow. And turn your phone on. This isn’t the Dark Ages.’
When he switched off his phone again, it occurred to him that Hal hadn’t mentioned Lydia. That must have taken something. Hal was very fond of Lydia and Alice. The day Lydia had her stroke, he’d called Hal and cried on the phone. Hal had come over, brought wine and cheese, and listened to the whole saga. Levin didn’t remember the detail of the night, but he did remember Hal hugging him at the door. The next day the legalities were made clear, and Levin cut himself off. Yet today they had spoken as if everything was normal. There was something reassuring in this pretence. The Hollywood adage of fake it until you make it. He and Hal had faked it, and it had been okay.
They met in Hal’s office. There were blizzard warnings from Washington to Long Island. Schools were closed, airports too. Hal had sent a town car to pick him up. It was 11 am and already the day was concrete, the sky ash above the Chrysler Building beyond the boardroom windows.
Two twenty-something women and a thirty-something man in a blue pinstripe accompanied the young director. Levin felt unbearably old. This was partly to do with having watched The Who do the half-time entertainment at the Super Bowl the day before and thinking that being an ageing muso looked like hard work.
Isoda himself looked all of seventeen, with straight shoulder-length hair and sculptural Japanese features. Levin immediately felt like they’d met before. Tom had been like that. An instant connection.
Isoda spoke careful English with a captivating catch in the vowels. Hal hadn’t been exaggerating. He did, it appeared, know all Levin’s work. Had every album—even Light Water, which must have taken quite some doing. And he’d seen every film.
The young director smiled and said without apparent guile, ‘I think the work you did with Mr Washington was intriguing. Very interesting scores. It must have been a great loss. I admire the partnership you created. And I admire your composition very much. If you give me this opportunity, perhaps we might take a first step in collaboration together.’
The woman in a blouse patterned with cartoon apples looked at Levin and said, ‘Joe Hisaishi wasn’t available, so Mr Isoda thought of you.’
Levin blanched. Joe Hisaishi? It was like not being able to get Howard Shore and thinking on who would do next. Nobody came after Howard Shore and nobody came after Joe Hisaishi. Like Clint Eastwood or Ennio Morricone. John Williams. Randy Newman. As composers, they lived in their own stratospheres. Levin had always wanted to be in that league. Believed he was good enough to be and was surprised that it hadn’t happened by now. Maybe he was that good and nobody realised it. Like Van Gogh or Prokofiev. Or maybe he wasn’t. That troubled him so much he refused to think about it. Now someone wanted him to score a fairytale?
‘As you know from the script, it’s a myth, a fable. We want you to evoke an ancient forest removed from time, and yet bordered by a world that threatens it.’
‘I’ve read the script.’
‘Yes. Did you ever see a fish become a woman?’ Isoda asked gently. ‘When you were a child?’
‘No,’ said Levin.
‘I think I did, once. It’s what made me love this story. I felt like it was my story. I have spent a lot of time in forests and it feels as if time does really begin there. Maybe stories too. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, through the wave that runs for ever . . .’
What sort of Japanese child read Tennyson? Levin wondered. The
world had got very mixed up.
Levin sifted through the sketches they had placed in front of him. A slender raven-haired woman standing by a river. The woman leaping into the river transforming into a fish. A white bear holding a child tenderly.
‘These illustrations, they’re amazing,’ said Levin.
‘Thank you,’ said Isoda.
‘They’re yours?’ Levin asked.
Isoda nodded.
‘You know I haven’t done an animation before.‘
Isoda’s eyes, dark as wet stone rested on Levin. ‘And I have not made a feature film before. Spirited Away is also an animation. Not really for children. You know this movie?’
‘I have a daughter,’ said Levin. ‘She was a Studio Ghibli fan.’
‘So what’s our timeframe?’ Hal interjected, glancing at Levin and motioning with his head encouragingly.
‘As you can see, Mr Isoda is at work on the animations now,’ said Apple Shirt. Her small perfect mouth was painted with mauve lipstick. ‘Mr Isoda will do all the key drawings for the animation team to develop. He has also written the adaptation from the book.’
The second woman, in a yellow silk shirt, nodded and spoke. ‘Studio Izumi has placed great trust in Mr Isoda.’
‘I am a great fan of Hayao Miyazaki,’ Isoda said. ‘Who of course writes, draws and directs all his own films. This time I am taking something from literature, but if it is successful perhaps I will be lucky enough to direct one of my own scripts.’
‘So, the timeframe,’ said Apple Shirt in response to Hal’s question.
‘I think the expression is that you either have time or money. It’s a small budget. So we would like to give you time, Mr Levin,’ said Isoda seriously. ‘I imagine that is usually quite rare.’
Levin nodded.
Yellow Silk said, ‘The studio is developing several projects consecutively, and quite truthfully, Kawa is the one Warner is least interested in. But Mr Isoda intends to prove them wrong.’
Apple Shirt slid a DVD across to Levin. ‘This is some of Mr Isoda’s previous work. Music clips. Some shorts. His work on several games. These are for you.’
‘That being said,’ began the man in the pinstripe suit. Until then he had been silent but now he spoke in an unexpected Bronx accent. ‘It’s February ninth. We’re scheduled to have animations completed by the thirtieth of April and we would like the initial score by the twentieth of May. When Mr Isoda is happy, we’ll discuss with you how the thing is going to be orchestrated.’
Isoda nodded and smiled at Levin. ‘I would like us to build the music and pictures together.’
‘And if it gets a release date?’ Hal asked.
‘That depends on Warner,’ said Isoda. ‘I’m hoping next February, when people are ready for something a little more . . . thoughtful after the Christmas blockbusters.’
‘And you would prefer to record in New York?’
‘If that is your preference. Or you could come to Tokyo.’ Isoda smiled. ‘I would very much like to record in Tokyo, but of course that will create some difficulties for you, Mr Levin. Maybe I can take you to our forests. Let’s discuss this as we proceed.’
Levin considered the album he’d begun toying with. But maybe, just maybe, he could still do it around the edges. It would be good to work. It might bring some sort of structure.
Isoda said, ‘Mr Levin, if you will agree to do the soundtrack, I’ll do everything I can to make you proud.’
Levin stared at the young man with his eager face.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, and left the room. He found the bathroom, closed the door of the cubicle and leaned his head against the tiled wall. He couldn’t say why he began weeping, only that he thought this was possibly the saddest moment of his life.
There was something so ridiculously innocent about Isoda and his hopefulness. Levin thought of the first film score he’d ever worked on, and how he, too, had done it with so much hope. Did he still have hope? How could he do this without Lydia? He wanted her home. But if he had her home, he’d never be able to say yes to this film or the next. That was the decision she had made for him. Now he had to make something of that. Otherwise the price was too great.
The wall was cold and white against his cheek. He gripped it as if he was floating on a plank in a wild sea, and wailed silently.
After a short while, he gathered himself, opened the cubicle, washed his face at the sink, paper towelled his face and hands, pushed back his hair. He looked bad, he realised. But suddenly it didn’t matter. If they thought he was a little unhinged, they were right. He walked down the empty corridor and went back into the meeting room.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said.
‘MY LAST DAY,’ JANE SAID, pulling a face.
‘What time is your flight?’ Levin enquired.
‘Five pm. I’ll stay as long as I can.’
Levin thought to tell Jane that he could hear, just beyond the strain of human ears, music playing inside the square. The sort of music that happens when children run through water, or a flock of birds takes off above a lake into an evening sky, or when sunshine strikes the petals of flowers. Sometimes he thought he heard a sitar or the clear melody of the oud, with its half-pear back and its broken neck. He had once been a boy in Seattle trying to catch the music of the wind. Now he was a man stretching his fingers towards his potential before it slipped from his grasp.
‘I would have liked to see Frida Kahlo paint her,’ Jane said. ‘I wonder what implements of pain she might assign Marina as she sits in the chair? Do you remember when the Pool of Reflection froze solid last winter and people walked on water, there on Capitol Hill? Did you see the pictures? It struck me as biblical, I guess. And here . . . here, they come and sit with her and it’s a little bit biblical too.’
Levin nodded, still listening to the music in his head.
‘You know Brittika, the PhD student I introduced you to in the queue? The Chinese girl from Amsterdam with the pink hair? We were talking about how people give the Pollock on the fourth floor a minute or two and move on. But they stop and stare at Marina for hours. Lots of us come back again and again. And look!’ She indicated the crowd about the square and the long queue of people waiting to take their place at the table. ‘They’re from everywhere. London, Ireland, France, Portugal, Egypt, Israel, Vienna, Australia. They’re spending their precious days in New York coming back here again and again. I’ve never seen anyone spend this much time staring at an artwork.’
Levin nodded.
‘She looks tired, doesn’t she?’ said Jane. ‘I imagine that hundreds of pairs of eyes staring into yours might do that.’
Marina was looking particularly pale, her eyes red rimmed as if she was on the edge of an infection. Her skin was the colour of candle wax. A lunch crowd was filling the atrium. Another person sat. He had a shaved head and a broad, keen face.
Jane said, ‘What am I here for? I think this is still the question we want answered. Maybe that’s why we come here. Maybe we think she knows.’
Levin looked at her. He was about to reply when a young woman on the other side of him, voluptuous in a stretch paisley shirt, asked, as if requiring him to solve a minor argument for her, ‘What do you see in it?’
He shrugged. ‘Lots of things.’
The girl said, ‘I think she’s like a tree that has rooted herself to this place. A silver princess gum.’
‘That is such a girl thing to say,’ the young man beside her said, grinning at Levin.
‘Well, what tree do you think she is?’ she asked her companion. ‘I don’t know. A baobab. Something exotic.’
‘And you two?’ the girl persisted.
‘Oh, maybe a monkey-puzzle tree,’ said Jane, laughing. ‘Arky?’
‘I don’t really know trees,’ he said.
The young people went back to their own conversation. Jane fell silent as she continued watching the two people in the centre of the room regarding one other. Regard was too distant a term for it. It was
as if they were drinking each other in.
Levin smothered a yawn. He had slept badly. He’d woken at 1.05 am and hadn’t been able to fall asleep again. He’d gotten up and watched an episode of The Sopranos. He’d tried listlessly to masturbate as he sat on the couch then gave it up. It seemed too much of an effort and he didn’t want to conjure Lydia for such purposes. Eventually he’d put on his headphones and worked away in his studio. He played over old compositions, thinking of a show he might give one day that featured all his best work. He considered the club he’d hire and the guest list.
The city had buzzed on regardless of the hour. The tribe of New York burning through life. He felt the curve of the world and, standing at the window, he rather hoped someone would drop a line and haul him up.
He had been to the doctor the week before and been given cream for the rash on his hand. It hadn’t been their regular doctor, but a locum while Dr Kapelus was on leave. The doctor had suggested some routine blood and urine tests, just to see if there was anything amiss. When they came back, it turned out Levin’s cholesterol was up, but nothing serious for his age. No medication required. Kidney function good. Blood pressure one thirty over eighty and heart rate seventy-four. Everything was fine. ‘Exercise would be good,’ said the doctor, ‘for the insomnia. The sweats may be caffeine-related. But life has a whole bundle of things lurking about for men over fifty. Stress is the most insidious. Exercise is your best friend. And it keeps the weight down. That and not too much Ben & Jerry’s. Do you swim, play tennis, cycle?’
‘Yes, tennis,’ he had said, remembering Hal’s invitation to resume their summer games.
The doctor had advised him to slow down on the coffee. Even stop altogether for six weeks and see if it helped his sleep cycle. What was he eating that might be stimulating his metabolism? the doctor had asked. ‘Too much red meat? Not enough water during the day?’
Levin had gone four days without coffee but nothing had changed. Not even a headache. And still he’d woken in the night.
He said to Jane, ‘Last night on the TV there was a news pull-through I kept seeing. It said: A man who went for a late-night swim was found by tourists. It was only later that I realised I had missed the first few words. In fact, the pull-through read: The body of a man who went for a late-night swim was found by tourists. Three words made such a difference.’