by Vina Jackson
Noah arranged a meeting with Susan.
‘She just disappeared. Haven’t heard from her in ages. Had a private gig with some organisation I’d never come across before, but who made an offer she couldn’t refuse, Summer told me. But when that engagement came to an end, she said she needed time off, turned down all further touring offers and just buzzed off somewhere without a word of warning. Sad,’ the business-suited woman who had once managed Summer Zahova’s musical activities informed Noah.
‘So you have no idea how to contact her?’
‘No. Not even had a postcard, let alone a courtesy phone call to say how she is getting on, wherever she might be. Could be she returned to New Zealand. It’s where she came from. And in the meantime, what’s left of her career is going downhill fast. People forget so quickly, you know.’
‘Sometimes, there’s a mystique in being invisible,’ Noah mused. ‘Could be a deliberate move. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that . . .’
‘Not with Summer,’ Susan said. ‘She was never a planner. Her emotions ruled her. A somewhat tempestuous private life, if I might be indiscreet.’
‘Tell me more,’ Noah said.
‘I’d rather not, but I’m sure you’ll come across many rumours. I wouldn’t even disbelieve all of them,’ the agent remarked with a wry, resigned smile.
‘Artists live in their own world, different standards. In the rock ’n’ roll world a touch of madness has always proven productive, I’ve found.’
‘Depends what your standards are. Anyway, your label has never been into the classical business, Noah, so why the sudden interest?’
‘Just curious. Had a listen to the album she recorded with Viggo Franck and his band. Found it unexpectedly moving . . .’
‘Maybe you should be in touch with him. He might have heard from Summer?’
‘You’re right. Although maybe a bit awkward as he’s also taking a break from music. Could there be a connection?’
That night, Noah kept perusing the images of Summer he had found on the internet.
She captivated him. There was no denying the fact.
The way her face now fitted the sounds of her music.
And the fire splash of her hair.
All of a sudden, he recalled again with terrible sharpness those crude photographs of the gangbang in the sauna he had stumbled across on his screen that night in New York.
The same unforgettable shade of hair.
The same pale skin.
The similarity in the shape of the woman’s chin, from the little he could now remember of it.
Noah shivered.
‘Why all the curiosity over our red-haired friend, Noah?’ Viggo’s live-in partner asked.
Viggo had been happy enough to discuss his musical dealings and friendship with Summer Zahova, but Lauralynn, who was stomping towards Noah to refill his cup from the filter jug she held in one hand, was obviously suspicious. ‘Is there something that you haven’t told us?’
Her fingernails were filed long and sharp, and painted a glossy blue-black. Noah found himself practically cowering back in the profusely cushioned bucket seat that he was ensconced in as she gazed at him, her Amazonian form cased in a pair of high-cut, wet-look leggings with a long, industrial-style exposed zip that ran provocatively from the top of her waistband down to the base of her crotch and a plain white, cropped T-shirt that exposed an inch of her flat torso and was tight enough to indicate that she was not wearing a bra. She was pure rock chick; he’d seen the style often enough on young groupies at concerts, or new front-of-band singers, usually still struggling to define their branding through their wardrobes and evince a suitable degree of sex appeal and fuck-you attitude in a Debbie Harry way that few managed to pull off.
Lauralynn was undeniably both sexy and sexual, and her sharp, calculating stare made Noah feel as though he’d gone back in time fifteen years or so and was being interrogated for teenage misdemeanours by his erstwhile headmistress, a domineering woman named Ms Abbott, whose no-nonsense attitude was made all the more terrifying by the nipped-in pencil dresses that she wore, which made no secret of her long, shapely legs and ample cleavage and gave every boy in the school a hard-on when she called him into her office to be simultaneously aroused and berated.
Noah squirmed in his chair, hoping that Viggo would return quickly from the errand that Lauralynn had sent him on, to search for any further demo tapes that might never have been passed along to his management and were likely to be tucked away in his studio from the occasions on which he and Summer had jammed together.
The lanky rock star had meekly acquiesced to Lauralynn’s suggestion without so much as a sigh of irritation, even though he had already mentioned that all of his files had been put away into storage since he had decided to take a break from recording, while he worked on getting his mojo back and figured out what direction to move in next. Making Noah wonder what exactly was the status of Lauralynn and Viggo’s relationship. Viggo wasn’t what he knew some would crudely term ‘pussy whipped’, and neither did his blonde girlfriend have that tired and resigned attitude about her that he recognised in women who proclaimed to be exhausted from browbeating their other halves. They were playful with each other and seemed to revel in their respective roles.
Noah had been engaged in conversation with the two of them at the gated mansion they shared in Belsize Park for the past hour, sipping coffee and snacking on a plate of peanut brittle that Viggo had prepared, after proudly informing him that baking patisserie had become a new hobby over the past few months during his sabbatical away from music. The fact didn’t show on either of their figures. Viggo was as thin as a rake, and Lauralynn certainly voluptuous in shape but not even close to Rubenesque. Over-indulging on the bowl full of sweet confection had caused Noah to feel faintly sick. He had still not managed to glean any particularly useful information from either of them about Summer, since Lauralynn kept cutting Viggo off short before he had a chance to reveal any interesting nuggets of gossip, leading Noah to suspect that the whole trip to meet them would prove to be a waste of time. Then Lauralynn ordered Viggo out of the room, an orchestrated move to speak with Noah alone, he was certain.
‘I assure you,’ Noah repeated, ‘it’s just about the music.’
Lauralynn paused. Assessed him with that shrewd stare of hers, as if she was absorbing every inch of him and then formulating a judgement on his character.
‘Well,’ she said at last, filling his mug to the top and stepping away, ‘I don’t believe you in the slightest, frankly, but that aside, you seem like a decent enough person.’
Noah was unsure whether or not she meant him to be flattered. He wished that she would sit down.
‘You’ll forgive my reticence,’ she continued, ‘to provide you with much in the way of details. Summer is my friend. One of my closest friends.’ A wave of sadness swept over her features.
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘I fully understand. And you must know, my position being entirely mercantile, that I have absolutely no interest in harming her reputation in any way, or god forbid, actually harming her. I run a record label, and just investigating left-of-field possibilities.’
Lauralynn nodded. An affirmation of some modicum of trust in him, at last.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘the damage to her reputation was done long ago, but I’m sure you know that already. You cannot have come this far in researching Summer Zahova without stumbling across some of the rumours. Mind you, any publicity is good publicity, as they say. I’m not sure that any of the stories circulating ever did her career any harm. Probably quite the opposite. Perhaps even part of her appeal.’
Noah remained impassive, politely waiting for her to continue.
‘I really don’t know where she is,’ Lauralynn explained. ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Summer has had a hard time over the past few years, she lost someone close to her . . .’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’ He waited for her to elaborate on the
circumstances, but she didn’t.
‘She’s always had a tendency to be self-destructive, passionate. You must have seen it before, working in the industry.’
Noah nodded. ‘Stereotypes about creative sorts and musicians abound,’ he agreed, ‘but there’s some truth to them.’
‘Well, Summer’s wild side always led her to seek out men. She found some solace in sex in the way that others drink or take drugs. Not an addict as such. At least, I don’t think so, but she always had very specific cravings in that regard that some would consider unsavoury.’
Lauralynn’s features had now taken on a definite leer. She almost winked at him.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged.
‘She attracts others to her who seek out the same extremes, albeit on the opposite end of the spectrum. Always has done. Now, there’s no shame in any of that; I’m partial myself to the sort of activities that would make some people faint in shock, probably, but the problem with Summer was that she never had the sense to exercise her demons in the confines of a healthy, mutually enjoyable kinky relationship. Or a one-nighter, whatever. There’s plenty of clubs around, groups, where people indulge, you know.’
Noah was aware of such places, of course, but had never considered attending one or entertained any thought about the goings on there in a serious kind of way.
‘No, Summer liked to take things one step further. To play with risk more than she ought to. Especially when she was feeling down. I had hoped she’d grow out of this kind of behaviour, but I suspect she hasn’t and maybe she never will. We all have shadows,’ Lauralynn explained, ‘some of them are more powerful than others, I guess.’
Again, that calculating stare, as if she could see right through him, read his thoughts, knew exactly the kind of things he fantasised about. Understood his desire and his shame.
‘And you think she’s on some kind of . . . sex binge?’ he asked. ‘Now? That’s what has led her to disappear?’
‘No,’ Lauralynn said. ‘I think that she’s battling with staying away from going down that road again, and that’s why she’s taking some time out, particularly from music.’
‘Her playing caused this? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?’
‘You’ve heard her music. Felt the extreme level of emotion, the fire that she puts into her bow, how she lets it take over her whole psyche and how that comes through on the recordings. You wouldn’t be here, otherwise.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s true I suppose.’ He had to agree that there was an element of fire in her recordings that intrigued even him – no particular fan of classical music – to the point of a minor obsession.
‘She used to tell me sometimes that she couldn’t separate the two things. Her ability to play like that and her desire for rough sex. I’ve seen her channel it, both, in a positive way. But she needs an outlet. A safe place to let go. She lost her safe place. Now, I think she’s disappeared to try to find that again somehow, and she’s possibly hung up her violin as a way of avoiding temptation. I can’t say, honestly, that I think it’s a bad thing.’
He nodded. The woman that Lauralynn spoke of fascinated him more and more, but he wished that all of this wasn’t so vague. He was a practical kind of person, a doer, and wanted concrete details. The person he had spoken to at her label who had given him Susan’s contact details had mentioned a play that Summer was involved in right before she disappeared, and some controversy surrounding the reviews.
Noah cut in. ‘She was the musical director, I believe, on a theatre piece. I found some sparse reviews online, and heard mention of it through her former record company, but I can’t find any indication of the play’s backers, as if the whole thing was organised by ghosts. Very unusual. Do you know anything about that?’
Viggo waltzed through the doorway and approached them with his customary swagger. His hands were empty.
‘Couldn’t find a thing, sorry mate,’ he said. He refrained from telling Lauralynn ‘I told you so’. ‘That play . . .’ he added. ‘More of an orgy, really. Good fun though.’ His mouth spread into a wide grin which quickly vanished when Lauralynn shot him a ‘shut up’ glare.
‘No, we can’t tell you anything more about the play,’ Lauralynn responded firmly. ‘We were there, sure, but just as ignorant as you of the origins of the whole thing.’
Noah was convinced that she was lying.
Lauralynn made it clear that she had imparted as much information as she was prepared to, and that whatever other knowledge Viggo might possess, she would not allow the rocker to share it.
He thanked them for their time, made his excuses and left, promising to keep in touch with Viggo about any further move he might decide to make to return to the music industry. ‘Any time. Just call me.’
The repercussions of the new information about Summer Zahova, those heavy hints of a world beyond his ken and how little one could fathom of other people, strangers, women beyond the familiar but deceptive veil of normalcy, bothered Noah more than he wished.
He’d attempted in vain to retrieve the link where he had initially located the photographs he now increasingly suspected featured her in some sordid gangbang in a sauna, but it was like hunting for a needle in a haystack, artfully concealed behind the billion layers of porn that populated the interweb. The impact had proven so shuddering he hadn’t had the presence of mind to bookmark it and it now seemed forever lost. Could have been anyone with red hair, he reasoned. A coincidence, surely.
In his mind, he could picture Summer. At odd times of day, waking mid-night, his mouth biting into a sandwich at lunchtime while working at his desk and countersigning contracts, more often caught in daydreaming. Summer in a distant, exotic city, like a ghost passing through a bustling market, her face always studiously out of focus, unseizable, unfocused, walking along a beach, palm trees fluttering in the breeze, fleeing from him around the next corner.
He had printed out all the images he had found of her on Google, and in each photograph he could see something new, something different, as if the essence of Summer Zahova was teasing him, refusing to conform to any expectation, malleable, impossible to pin down.
The constant, her red hair, loose, flowing, wild. Like a stain on snow or a flower obscuring a distant sun. Taking root on a perpetually lit screen across the back of his vision.
Where in the world could she be?
How can one just disappear off the face of the earth, Noah wondered.
Rhonda marched into his office to pick up the paperwork he’d been working on for a few hours now; not his favourite part of the job. She was wearing a pinstriped trouser suit with a white silk blouse, a shiny amber broach pinned to her left lapel. Her light brown hair was tightened into a chignon.
‘I have a courier waiting in reception. Are the contracts for the option renewals of the Holy Criminals all fully executed? Their management would like to have everything ticked off by the weekend.’
Noah had finally come to a decision to give the Viggo-less band a new contract, in view of Viggo’s hints that he might eventually go back to recording with them, an opportunity he couldn’t afford to ignore.
‘Yes, all done. Have signed my life and the company’s away. In triplicate and again. Not that I always understand all the legalese, but if the contracts boffins are happy, so am I . . .’ He handed the blue and purple folders over to his PA. She turned on her heels and prepared to walk out when she suddenly stopped.
‘Oh . . . by the way . . . you know that violin player you’ve been looking into so much. Summer something . . . There was a small piece in today’s Metro about her . . .’
‘Really?’
‘One of her instruments is being auctioned, it seems.’
‘Can I see the newspaper? Do you still have it?’ It was a freebie given out at every Tube station. But Noah normally walked from Maida Vale to Portobello Road or took the bus or a cab if the weather was unfavourable.
‘Of course. Let me put all the contracts in a jiffy bag a
nd I’ll retrieve it from the bin.’
‘I’ll come and get it.’ Noah left his chair.
But the newspaper had little information; barely a few paragraphs. A violin known as the ‘Christiansen’ was being auctioned tomorrow. Once owned by famed classical ace Summer Zahova, it had a fabled history, it appeared, and had once been featured heavily in a bestselling novel he hadn’t heard of.
He rang Susan.
‘Did you know about this?’ he asked her.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed.
‘Why didn’t you bother to inform me?’
‘I didn’t think it would interest you. She’s not planning to return to performing, you know . . .’
‘She’s been in touch with you? Since we met?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she?’
‘No idea,’ the agent answered. ‘She sent me an email and we arranged to Skype. She gave me access to her things in storage and requested I put the violin on sale and then transfer the proceeds to her bank account. She needs the funds, she said. She could have been anywhere in the world.’
Noah’s mind was racing with questions.
‘Did you inform her I was interested in making contact with her?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘She didn’t react, I fear.’ From the tone of the agent’s voice, Noah was convinced she hadn’t even mentioned his enquiry, or at least not with any enthusiasm.
‘Anything else I should know?’
‘I’m afraid not, Noah. Summer is my client and I have to respect her wishes as well as her privacy.’
‘I understand.’
At least he now knew she was still alive.
He fell asleep that night with his headphones still on, Summer’s fiery escapade through Vivaldi’s music echoing through his head. Her violin sounded like the devil’s fiddle, leading him a merry dance.
The walls of the New Bond Street auction house’s main room were wood-panelled in soothing but sturdy shades of light brown and Noah felt out of place.
Sitting at the back, he had to wait for a whole hour until the violin came up. By which time Noah was beginning to wonder why he had even come along. It was just an old instrument Summer had once played. She was not likely to be present, surely? To pass the time, he had begun to read the novel which was said to be about the violin. He’d found a copy online as it was out of print and he’d paid extra for overnight delivery. It made for uncomfortable reading, gave him a sense of unease, its story’s opening pages like an overture to something both horrible and overwhelming, as if, as he rushed along, he was about to meet Summer and her spirit on the page at some stage. He’d not previously heard of the author, who had only written a couple of books and had since passed away.