by Heather Rose
He began considering which orchestra, the pros and cons of recording in New York or possibly Chicago. Maybe even Tokyo. This was what he loved, when the process began to escalate and the outcome began to appear.
Lydia had been the same about architecture. He had stood in her buildings and been in awe of her. Floors played music, ceilings rained and rooms were divided by live fish, butterflies, crickets. Holographic symbols were pinned to the night sky, a pedestrian bridge rolled up like a caterpillar, filaments of light made an ever-changing ceiling of rainbows, corridors rippled with laughter. In her buildings there was no separation between the interior and the exterior worlds. The private homes she designed had Japanese maples inside the front door, waterfalls on rooftops, fragrant vertical interior gardens and streams running through bathrooms.
By her mid-thirties she was so in demand that she could choose one or two commercial projects and a house or two to do each year. She liked to be there when Alice came home from school. She had a waiting list two years ahead. Invitations to travel and speak piled up on her desk. Awards and citations cluttered her shelves. Some days Levin wondered how to reach out and touch her. She seemed to belong to other people. Was he even visible when she had flown in from Shanghai or Madrid? She kissed him, hugged him, was gone into the bathroom, dressing, asking him how he was, how Alice was, and all the time she was watching the clock, considering how long his answer was taking in relation to the traffic that would catch them at 51st on their way downtown to see the Philharmonic and the things she had yet to prepare for the next day.
When they made love it felt like the only time he could really hold her. When she woke in the night, she would reach out and curl herself around him, and he felt as if he was the luckiest man in the world. When he woke she was often gone to her desk. In her pale blue hooded dressing-gown she had the look of a nun at prayer.
Washington Square had been her dream. He didn’t know why she wanted to live on Washington Square. She just liked it. Of course it had to be the right building, have the right bones. So they had thrown themselves into the New York real estate Olympics. For every co-op they had to provide his work history, her work history, their financials for the last five years, everything that captured them on paper: references, qualifications, memberships. Their personal details laid bare for strangers to assess, compare and pass judgement.
‘There are new apartments on the river over in the Meatpacking District,’ Anastasia, the Russian realtor, advised them. ‘They’re very sizeable. Views over the Hudson. Near the High Line. They’re also in your price range.’
‘Lydia wants Washington Square,’ Levin said.
‘Okay,’ Anastasia said, picking up the red leather folder. ‘Some very nice places on offer just now, plenty of movement and good prices.’
Several times they missed out. And then this apartment had come up.
A gracious (approx. 3382 sq. ft.) home. Rarely does a home come on the market with such a large interior space and vast, luxurious outdoor space . . . parallel and herringbone-laid hardwood flooring . . . huge master suite bathed in sunlight with eastern and southern exposures . . . marble, granite . . . large private study also opening to balcony, two additional bedrooms . . . storage . . . magical view over Washington Square Park.
Lydia saw the possibilities the balcony and the southern light afforded them. They had talked of ideas to reconfigure it at some point in the future. She had gone back and forth across town. Produced endless paperwork for him to sign and complete. And then they got the call. It was theirs.
Lydia had been looking drawn as fall faded and winter wrapped the city. She’d been back and forth to London all year, working on an interactive installation for children commissioned after the launch of her Rain Room in Cairo. Because no English child needed an education in varieties of rain, it was to be a horizontal and vertical flower and fruit garden within a vast bee house. She called it the Pollen Project. It was meant to be ready for the London Olympics in 2012.
He was used to her translucence by the end of a project, as if she had poured the substance of herself into it. She had flown to London for final meetings ten days before Christmas. Two days before they were due to move into the new apartment, she had rung from London to say she had to stay another day. She was so sorry. There was a new hurdle with the Department of Agriculture.
‘We’ll have to cancel the move,’ he’d said.
‘No, no,’ she’d protested. ‘We can’t. The settlement is done. Everything is booked. It will take weeks to reschedule. Everything is ready to go. They’ll pack and unpack. I’ve fully briefed them. I’ve told them it has to be done by the end of the day. You just need to let them in uptown and welcome them downtown, okay? You shouldn’t even have to wrap or unwrap a cup. But if you want to do your studio, you just need to let them know.’
He wanted to do his studio. And he told her so.
‘If they put stuff in the wrong places, we’ll sort it out in the new year,’ she said. ‘We can do that together. What matters is getting it all moved. I’m so looking forward to two whole weeks off to just enjoy our new home. I’m not even going to check my email.’
For two days the packers had been in their old apartment and he had made himself scarce packing albums and equipment in his studio. When he was done, and the reality of leaving their home of twenty years, the chaos and the effort of strangers in every room, was all too much, he had taken a room at the Algonquin and drunk a bottle of good French wine while watching Inglourious Basterds.
He’d thought it an unnecessary expense, hiring unpackers, but when he saw the scale of the boxes that were arriving at Washington Square, he’d been relieved. He had all the boxes marked Arky’s Studio sorted first. Then he’d taken a Stanley knife and, slitting open the packing tape, he’d begun untangling the leads and considering how he was going to set it all up. From time to time he’d listened out for a plate lowered too heavily on a stack, or wineglasses being irreverently handled. He’d wondered if he’d find a favourite jacket was missing. Or a box of CDs. But no such thing seemed to have occurred.
When he went to inspect the work, the wardrobes looked like a Benetton shop. Everything was colour coordinated and folded. There was the familiar linen on their bed and the liquid soap Lydia liked in the bathroom. He did not know the smell of this place, the noise the water made refilling the toilet cistern, the snap of the light switches, the sound of his shoes on the parquetry or the door to the bedroom closing behind him. But it now housed their furniture, their art.
He spent the day determining the exact position of the iMacs and the speakers, reconnecting cables and plugs. By mid-afternoon he had settled on the best location for the Kurzweil keyboard in relation to his main Mac keyboard and the angle of his chair to the door. He had even placed a few photographs. His music collection remained in boxes but he thought he could unpack that over the coming weeks. The packers had asked his advice on arranging books and he had explained Lydia’s system. Every book in the house was marked on the spine—A for architecture, H for history, M for music, N for novel, P for poetry. Then they were arranged alphabetically within subject or type. Lydia would do that bit. If they could just put them in groupings according to letter . . .
By the time the unpackers left at 5.45 pm there were only three boxes left in the living area. They were all marked Treasures—Fragile—Lydia Only—DO NOT UNPACK—written in Lydia’s sharp square letters. He had always liked her handwriting. It had buildings within it.
Out on the deck, snow had begun falling in the darkness. The city disappeared. The neighbouring apartments were gone along with the trees fringing the square. The swell and push of traffic was muted and distant. He had Veuve in the fridge, glasses waiting on the counter with a bowl of fresh strawberries. He had been ridiculously happy it was snowing, as if it indicated some kind of good omen for their future. He’d been trying to get the television programmed when she had called.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I’ve had
a tough twenty-four hours. I’m going to go straight to the hospital. See if they can sort me out.’
She had never seen it, everything he had done to make this their home.
THE PHONE RANG AT 9.15 the following Sunday morning. He’d turned it back on the day before and decided to see what happened. Hal happened.
‘Just checking you’re still alive, Arky,’ he said. ‘Have you remembered?’
Levin thought quickly. Was there a meeting he’d missed? Had Isoda or his people wanted something he’d forgotten?
‘Tennis?’ prompted Hal with his normal irony.
Tennis! Levin laughed, relieved. ‘Oh, yes. Of course. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.’
‘So you did forget,’ said Hal. ‘Okay. See you on the corner.’
They took the Williamsburg Bridge accompanied by Ella Fitzgerald singing the Gershwin songbook. The roof was off the convertible and the day was fine.
‘So, what gives?’ Hal said.
‘I’m making progress,’ Levin said. ‘It’s coming along.’
‘I’ve got another job you might like to look at. It’s a new TV series. Some kind of medieval sci-fi thing, like Henry the Eighth meets Twilight.’
‘When would it have to be done?’
‘I could push for end of June.’
‘Hal . . .’
‘I know. You want to focus on Kawa. Sometimes a little multitasking helps. I keep telling you, it saves those expensive gaps between jobs. If I only had you as my client, I’d have been back in Kansas long ago. Hey, by the way, several people have asked about you of late. Did you get on Facebook or something?’
‘No,’ Levin said.
‘Well, stranger things have happened. Did you see Obama gave us the right to make medical decisions for our loved ones? We can now be by the bedside of our partners when they’re dying.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Good!’ Hal said. ‘It’s appalling. We vote him in and that’s the best he can do? He’s got the Senate. I’m still waiting for something meaningful. Get out of Iraq.’
Hal had a square face and a body that was steadily getting squarer. He wore large yellow-framed glasses and his face was very lined now, much more since 2001. He had been right in the thick of it, covered in ash, one block away, on his way to a meeting on the forty-third floor. He had once said to Levin: ‘Only missed being a jumper, or dying in the collapse, by five minutes. That ash on me, later I thought about it. That was people. Probably people I knew.’
Hal continued on, talking about a new judge for the Supreme Court, fiscal reform. From time to time his hands did star-jumps off the steering wheel to emphasise a point. Lydia always said how good Hal would have been in office, a good politician, and how frustrated she was that being gay was a hindrance. Hal was never going to pretend. He was never going to hide Craig or find a rent-a-blonde wife to see him into office. Hal and Craig had been together for twenty-seven years, longer than almost any couple Levin knew. But America wasn’t ready for gay politicians, let alone a gay president. Or an atheist. Hal and Lydia loved talking politics. Levin just poured the wine and turned on the football.
Breakfast on hope, dine on fear. It had been a line on a poster for one of Tom’s early movies. And since the crash that sentiment had got a whole lot worse.
‘So, you want to tell me how it’s really going?’ Hal said.
‘Well, Seiji says the production time’s getting blown out of the water. They’re using his illustrators on other projects that have priority. I think he’s just hoping if he sits tight, it will get done without anyone really noticing, and he’ll get a release. Some days I get three scenes and then a week goes by and I get nothing. And then I get revisions.’
‘Anything I can listen to? You using some of those Japanese wooden flutes?’ Hal said.
‘Shakuhachi,’ said Levin.
‘Yes! Good!’
‘No. No shakuhachi.’ Levin laughed. ‘So far it’s mostly piano. Violins and a little percussion. I thought I really had it but then I look at the latest scenes and it’s awkward, clichéd. Like everyone has heard it before.’
‘This is not the time to lose confidence, Arky.’
‘Annie Lennox singing “Into the West”—you know, from Lord of the Rings? Perfect. In fact, almost anything from Lord of the Rings would do right now. Howard Shore just got it right. Ludovico Einaudi’s Nightbook? That too. How about Marianelli’s soundtrack to Atonement?’
‘Am I meant to be getting worried?’ Hal asked. ‘You know, Arky, you’re not going to like me saying it, but think about the music you’d write for Lydia right now, the way things are.’
‘Wow.’ Levin felt as if he had been winded.
‘Just think about it.’
‘Hal . . .’
‘We love you both. I don’t want you to wake up and realise you let the best thing in your life go, Arky.’
The car had become ridiculously small and Levin felt as if he was suffocating. But Hal went on. ‘I know you. You love one another. I know she’s the most independent person in the world, and she pretends she doesn’t need anything, but she needs you, Arky. I walk into hospital and you’re asleep with your head on her lap. She’s just sitting there looking like death warmed up stroking your head. It’s not meant to be that way.’
‘But hospitals always make me tired.’
‘But you’re not the one who needs looking after. No, that’s not true, you’re old enough to be the one doing some looking after.’
Levin had nothing to say.
‘It just breaks my heart to see you guys apart . . . And look at you—you’re looking terrible. I don’t mind saying it. You look like a wreck.’
‘I’m okay. Really. I’m . . . and she needs to be there.’
‘Yes, but not alone. Not without you ever visiting. And don’t talk about the legals. God, if there was ever a case for challenging a legal document . . . I know you’re going to say that she wanted you to do this; she wanted you to make music. But is that enough?’
Music. It sounded feeble suddenly in the face of the yawning gap between life before Christmas and life these past four months.
He’d always known music as an electrical circuit running through every pathway in his body. When music came to him, the world grew calm and clear and silent. It was why he loved New York. The pavement, the streetlights, the subway, it was all a kind of circuitry fuelled with energy. It wasn’t that anyone could be great here, but everyone could try, and so he had kept trying, and felt that the city, sometimes the city alone, believed in him. It would all have been worth it. How else was the Brooklyn Bridge built? The Empire State? The certainty of a vision.
Marina was doing it every day and hundreds and thousands of people were sweeping their lives in her direction to feel the dream she held inside her. He must look into her eyes. He felt a cold flush of electricity up his arms. It had to be done.
Hal paused. ‘So, what else have you been doing, apart from convincing yourself you’re a terrible composer?’
‘I’ve been going to MoMA. To the Abramović thing.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Hal said. ‘Have you sat?’
‘No.’
‘Craig and I went. It’s fascinating. The queue was huge so we went upstairs and wandered around for ages. I came home exhausted. What a life! I literally collapsed on the couch and didn’t move until Craig brought me a Bellini. I was so in awe. I mean, she is the canvas, isn’t she? And she’s a kind of muse or oracle. I want to take Abramović vitamins. I just love that intensity in everything she does.
‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘we had a night at the Standard bar. You know—the one with the hot tub. They sell bathing costumes from a vending machine! Of course, after midnight no one cares. I don’t think there was a single real New Yorker there. The place was full of twenty-year-olds speaking crazy German, girls in micro-skirts and boys with unbelievable form. It was great fun. I think we’ve become the new Silicon Valley. A geographically contained focus group for every n
ew app developer. It’s really the end of the shabby. At breakfast this morning they asked me if I wanted my grapefruit brûléed. I mean, really?’
At the Tennis Center they played three sets on an outdoor court. Levin lost 4–6, 5–7, 3–6. He hated to lose. And he was disturbed by how out of shape he was.
‘I think we should get back on the squash court,’ he said to Hal as they made their way back to Manhattan for lunch.
‘You know more men our age die on the squash court from heart attacks than any other sport?’ asked Hal.
‘Maybe not, then . . . I have started back at Pilates.’
‘I don’t mind winning,’ said Hal. ‘Don’t get me wrong.’
He surveyed the skyline ahead. ‘I never get over that Lego-block sky, as Craig’s nephew calls it. He has this passion for the water towers and tells me they’re tin men all asleep and at night they get up and walk about. They’d make fabulous little studios if we drained them and did them up. We’d have to change the fire regulations, of course, but . . . perhaps that’s where the artists of New York could start again. In fact, keep the water towers and start dropping trailer homes on the rooftops. Make them rentsubsidised, just for creatives. Kind of like a grant. Where will New York be in twenty years if creative people, who have always been the lifeblood of this town, can’t afford to live here any more? It will all be about money and the Chinese. Who wants that?’ ‘You want to live somewhere else?’ ‘Are you kidding?’
Over penne all’arrabbiata Hal said, ‘You really going to stay in the new apartment? It must be pretty lonely.’
Levin grimaced.
‘Maybe you should go to Tokyo and meet up with Isoda’s team there,’ Hal suggested. ‘It might speed things up a little.’
‘Maybe next month.’
‘Well, okay. I’m counting on you to pull this thing off.’
As Hal dropped him off at the square, he asked Levin, ‘Do you ever wonder what your life might have been if you hadn’t loved music?’