The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  Lunch over, we decided to climb to the top of Primrose Hill, our hands clasped round heavy cones of icecream. It was a sweet ascent to the summit. We sat in silence enjoying the view. Every so often it seems to me that we two are synchronised, tuned to perfection.

  My father had fondly recounted Max’s reaction over how he’d cope without me. ‘So do you think you’ll be okay?’ he’d asked Max during one of their phone conversations.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not sure about Mum.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked my dad.

  ‘I think she’ll really miss me.’

  We played Kick Rock on the homeward journey, the object of the game being simple but effective: to kick a stone all the way back to the apartment. Max won. After I put him to bed, I wrote three letters for ‘emergency missing-Mummy moments’, wrapped up a couple more surprise presents, another game for his PlayStation, a couple of books, puzzles and a treasure box full of sweets.

  READY OR NOT

  ‘You all packed?’ My mum’s shaven head poked round the door of my room. She’d already made herself at home, having hung up her windchimes and laid out the meditation mat.

  ‘Yeah, just about.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Shit scared,’ I replied.

  FINAL PARTING WORDS

  Me to Trisha:

  ‘What do you mean you didn’t get the notes on Arthur Penn?’ Detecting: A Way of Life, Rule Number 248, Article D, Subsection II: Always act dumb.

  ‘There’s no notes here.’ Trisha sounded peeved.

  ‘I emailed them to you yesterday,’ I protested.

  ‘They’re not here and I can’t find them on your computer. You did print out a hard copy, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh no …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have a really bad feeling.’

  ‘What, Brodsky?’

  ‘Massive computer crash yesterday, just my luck the files will have suffered.’

  ‘What do you mean suffered?’

  ‘You know, deletion.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake …’

  ‘Anyhow, must dash, have a plane to catch.’

  ‘Brodsky!’

  ‘Gotta go, don’t you know.’

  ‘Brodsky!’

  ‘Must run, have fun.’

  ‘Brodsky!’

  ‘Oh damn, you’re breaking up.’

  Me to my dad:

  ‘What do you mean, you’re on your way over?’

  ‘I told you, I was coming for the first two weeks.’

  ‘No Dad, you specifically requested the last two weeks.’

  ‘It’s too late to change my plans now.’

  ‘Dad!’

  Me to Nads:

  ‘You won’t believe this Nads …’

  ‘Issy, you won’t believe this either.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Arthur Penn didn’t die.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He didn’t just pass away.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His heart didn’t just seize up and it was bye-bye world, hello heaven.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Issy, this is quite a peculiar case.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s more to this case than meets the eye.’

  ‘Get to the point, Nadia!’

  ‘Arthur Penn was murdered.’

  ‘Oh my God, so you mean … I really was following a ghost.’

  ‘A ghost?’

  And all this before 10am. Next up …

  Me to Scarface through his letterbox:

  ‘Open up, Scarface! I’ve come to say goodbye. Look, about the other night, it was really stupid of me and …’

  I knew he was in from the amount of noise he’d made the night before.

  ‘Hey Scarface, I know you’re in there. Come out, come out or I’ll huff and I’ll puff …’

  ‘Coming.’ He didn’t sound too pleased, or that hung over. Then I heard a giggle. A giggle belonging to a member of the female gender. ‘This is a bad time, Issy.’

  ‘Yeah, obviously.’ Tears started streaming down my cheeks. ‘Shit. I just thought you’d like to wish me good luck.’

  ‘Sorry Issy, I …’

  ‘It’s over, Scarface. O.V.E.R.’

  For the first time in our relationship I felt total hatred toward Scarface. Okay, so maybe not for the first time. It was just that now I could put a name to the feeling. He was such an arrogant, self-centred man whose real name was Derek and not Scarface at all. I’d never much liked the name, hence the nickname. Put side by side our names didn’t seem to hang well. I should have taken it as an omen right from the start.

  Me to my mother:

  ‘I can’t believe I was so stupid.’

  She tried out some more healing on me. ‘It’s okay, Issy, let it out, it’s fine.’

  Blubber, blubber till I reached a decent state of mental recovery and Terminal One at Heathrow.

  ‘I’m trusting you with Max’s life. His life. I swear to God, Mum, if anything happens, if anything happens …’

  ‘Issy, stop it.’

  ‘Okay, sorry. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you – Dad is coming over tomorrow.’

  ‘I thought he was doing the last two weeks.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘Issy.’ My mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘A couple of hours ago. Believe me, Mum, I had no idea and I may as well warn you, I think he’s in one of his moods.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Randy.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake …’

  Me to the main man:

  ‘Max, I’m going to call you every day, write letters to you. I love you so, so, so, so much …’ A torrent of kisses rained down on him and I suppressed the urge to run away with my own child. ‘Maxers, have the best time ever.’

  ‘You too, Mum.’ He was holding my mother’s hand and blowing kisses to me while I walked backwards in the general direction of the departure lounge. It was all very romantic until I hit a wall.

  Me to Fiona:

  ‘Fiona, what’s up? My flight has just been called.’

  ‘Merely checking up on you, don’t want you forgetting you have a mission to accomplish.’ Her voice was terse and officious.

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘ ’Cause I’ll be keeping tabs.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I want hard evidence, got it? Salacious dirt. Proper notes, Brodsky.’

  ‘I’m reading you, boss, loud and clear.’

  I suspected Trisha must have said something.

  Row twelve, window seat. Having boarded the plane I turned off my mobile, fastened my seatbelt and contemplated the spiritual. Well, when sky-bound one’s thoughts tend to turn celestial.

  Me to God:

  Hey Old Man, it’s finally beginning to happen for me. My moment has come. The opportunity I’ve chased for so long, like a balloon afloat finally within my grasp. Lord, I’m feeling so excited, apprehensive, nervous, anxious … Christ, I think I’m about to have a panic attack.

  In an emergency, press the overhead button for attention.

  Me to hostess:

  ‘Can I have a glass of water please?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘A bit of a panic attack.’

  ‘Would you like some oxygen?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have a Valium?’

  ‘No.’ But the mother with the three screaming kids further down the aisle did.

  Sorry about that, G, where were we?

  God, I sure hope I’m doing the right thing. There’s this feeling in the pit of my belly I can only describe as a teeny, bolshy American baseball trainer, jumping up and down, hooting and screaming, ‘You can do it, you can do it,’ punching his own palm with excitement. He’s so enthusiastic and for a moment I believe it. Yeah, I can do it. Go for it. Then suddenly there’s this lady, terribly well groomed with great legs and she’s g
azing at me with disdain, looking down her nose at me – she doesn’t even have to say a thing. I know exactly what she’s thinking from her expression. God, I’m scared. I am so very scared of failing, of letting everyone down, of what people will think of me, of being one of the few thirty-recurring people performing at the fringe, of everyone being ten years younger than me and childless, of Max suffering due to my selfishness, of the evolving spooky case of Arthur Penn, of not collating the evidence required for Fiona to expose Lisa. Of never getting the chance to fall in love again, or always falling for the same old bastards. (I know the last two fears aren’t directly connected to Edinburgh, just thought I’d purge myself of the lot of them.) Oh yeah, and lastly, of not being funny.

  The seatbelt lights were flashing.

  Our descent into Edinburgh had begun.

  God, here goes everything and hey, I’m trusting you are keeping an eye on me from up there.

  And finally:

  ‘See you on the other side.’

  Me, to myself, catching sight of my reflection in the aeroplane window. Which in retrospect turned out to be incredibly prescient.

  LIVING THE DREAM

  This Athens of the north

  A walkers’ paradise

  Her beauty

  Shrouded in a sea mist, Har

  As if the heavens lapped street-level

  How apt then the circumstance

  For setting free dreams

  Tread softly.6

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  The cabby took the scenic route from the airport to a residential street just north of the Meadows, a park area lying south of the castle, which dominates the city landscape, all of which is an architectural visual treat, with an old town–new town divide, and can inspire even the most non-poetic person to verse. (Ahem, ahem, see above.)

  Index finger pressing down on Flat 8, 62 Lemming Terrace, I inhaled a deep breath of the unknown. Set free from my little anchorman, it occurred to one that I, as newcomer in this world of comedy, could be anyone. For an entire month I would be childless, responsible only for myself. Hypothetically I could stay out all night, sleep all day and do exactly as I wanted. Of course, I had the nightly show and to keep a private eye on Lisa but, having come from the constraints of mummydom, it felt liberating, exhilarating, unnerving. I was freefalling without parachute, safety net, landing pad, ground even. I was by then hauling my luggage up four flights of stone stairs with Adrian huffing and puffing in front of me. I’d envisaged the apartment as similar to the one in the film Shallow Grave, ie, large, funky, high-ceilinged rooms with wood floors throughout. Unfortunately I had to deflate these expectations. Once over the threshold we passed through decades and entered a dwelling firmly entrenched in the 1980s, that period being the last time the property was cleaned, never mind refurbished. The smell of filth was all-pervasive.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Adrian.

  My cavernous jaw and horror-struck eyes must have subtly hinted at my given mind-set. I nodded dumbly in shock. The place was a dump. I had not been in an environment like this since my student days.

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ Adrian grinned. He showed me around. One of the bedrooms had no windows, the kitchen had no door. The décor was a mish-mash of hideousness: purple walls, peeling paper, woodchip, threadbare carpet, cork floor-tiles well worn through. Though scuzzy, it was at least large. There were four bedrooms, the remaining two waiting to be filled by the Mingers and Lisa. The former touched down with a raucous cheer of, ‘Oh my God … like … Jesus … this place is rank, mingin’ like …’

  Lisa arrived shortly after and once again straws were pulled, only this time for the rooms. Metaphorically, of course, as Lisa deemed that rooms should be allotted in accordance with comedy experience. So Adrian got the huge room, Lisa the bright room, the Mingers the room with a view and I got the one without the window, ie, the cell.

  ‘HOW IS IT, DARLING?’

  The first night spent, the bed bugs’ war commenced, the early-morning trip to Argos to get a blow-up mattress undertaken, and the small fortune for household detergents exchanged. I wanted to cry, but told my father everything was okay and demanded to speak to Max, whether he wanted to or not, never mind that he was watching cartoons and had to be dragged away.

  ‘Hi Mum,’ he groaned, annoyed I’d disturbed his viewing pleasure.

  ‘How’s it going, Maxy?’

  ‘Good, I’m going horse riding today.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘For real, Mum.’

  Placated by his joy, I let his words soothe me, centre me and I told him about my awful room and the castle on the hill and the mountain in the shape of a seat.

  ‘Mum, d’you wanna speak to Grandma now?’ This was Max’s way of ending the conversation and me realising all was fine. Before I had a chance to reply he’d passed over the receiver. My mother was less enthusiastic, as father’s arrival had somewhat thrown her emotional equilibrium askance.

  ‘Rationally, Issy, I know it’s not your fault, but I feel that indirectly it is.’

  ‘Mother,’ I pressed her, ‘how could that possibly be?’

  ‘Your father said you changed the dates, or something about the dates and you …’

  ‘Mum, I swear on your life, this was all of Dad’s contriving.’

  ‘Well, we were joking last night that you were attempting to bring us back together.’

  ‘Oh pur-lease. As if. Actually, how are you two getting on?’

  ‘MORE THAN WELL – I’D SAY WE WERE HITTING IT OFF …’

  ‘Fiona, it’s early days, but really you don’t have to check up on me the whole time.’

  ‘Remember, Issy, I’m the client and as such the client is always …’

  ‘Right, speak to you later.’ I’d spotted Lisa walking into the crowded café and was enthusiastically waving at her.

  Having spent the morning scrubbing my cell, I fled the chemically infused flat to the safety of Café Blunt and was flicking through the events programme. The first thing to strike home was the scale of the Edinburgh Festival. To be succinct, it’s the daddy of all arts festivals, incorporating film, theatre, fringe, comedy, books, opera, jazz, blues, pop and dance. Try to imagine London and a large percentage of the international arts community descending on a city for a month to showcase their wares and, well, that’s Edinburgh in August. There are literally thousands of shows running twenty-four hours a day in hundreds of places. It had taken me two large cappuccinos to work out that the main Fringe venues were the Assembly Rooms, the Pleasance and the Gilded Balloon, though they were merely blanket terms covering loads of different spaces. It was completely overwhelming, mesmerising and totally flabbergasting.

  I sat meekly sipping my coffee, paralysed by choice and filling in the time before our first technical run. Lisa plonked herself down beside me. Scrubbed of make-up she looked ridiculously fresh faced and apple-blossom pretty, ‘Found any interesting shows?’ she enquired.

  ‘I’m overawed by the choice.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon …’ her mobile interrupted our burgeoning conversation. ‘Hello, my darling,’ she cooed, overly affectionate. ‘Yes I remember. Yes, we’re doing a technical run today. Don’t worry. Yes, Adrian is picking up the boxes of flyers. Yes, and the posters. You are such an old fusspot.’ Her tone was nauseously endearing and she was giggling. ‘Stop it. Issy is staring at me like I have two heads … Okay. I promise, love you.’ The conversation ended and abruptly Lisa switched attitude. ‘Geraldine is so insecure,’ she remarked, then asked, ‘Are you with anyone, Issy?’

  I enlightened Lisa as to the whys and wherefores of my single status, spilled my soul on to the table, and told her the whole sorry Scarface saga from A–Z.

  ‘What a complete tosser,’ she replied frankly. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll have a lot of fun here. Edinburgh is a shagfest.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Even the Mingers’ll get lucky, it’s guaranteed.’

  In consideration of my opennes
s, I hoped Lisa would reciprocate.

  ‘You and Geraldine seem really in love,’ began my opening gambit. I wanted to try to work out where Lisa was coming from and how much she was in love with Geraldine.

  ‘Do we?’ she considered.

  Guess I was going to have to try harder. ‘Been together long?’

  ‘Not very.’

  I wondered who wore the pants in their relationship and what sort of pants they were. I returned her bluntness with some of my own.

  ‘Have you always been a lesbian?’

  ‘Why, do you fancy me?’ jested Lisa. She was giving me the Look. You know the one, the ‘come hither’, ‘green light’, ‘you’re on to a winner’, ‘the night is full of promise’, ‘seduce me now, big boy’ look. I remembered it well – used to give it to guys in my former heyday.

  ‘God, no,’ I yelped way too shrilly, drawing attention from the table beside us. ‘I’m not that way inclined.’

  ‘Have you ever tried it?’

  ‘Never,’ I protested. As far as I was concerned there’s a big difference between general lady-pant curiosity and trying to get into someone’s.

  ‘Issy, maybe you should broaden your horizons?’ She was teasing me and it was working. If I’d been wearing a collar I surely would have been hot beneath it.

  ‘I like my horizons just how they are, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘You’re scared, you’re in denial.’

  ‘Listen, Lisa, try as hard as you like, I shan’t succumb.’ She raised her eyes at me, so for good measure I added, ‘That’s not a challenge.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she replied and, taking me by the hand, she led me over to our venue, the Caves, for our first technical run.

  ‘When Geraldine said the Caves, I …’

  ‘Didn’t believe her?’ Adrian staggered in, weighed down with boxes of posters. It hadn’t seemed important to me where I would be performing, only that I would be performing. The Caves II, Cowgate, was part of Edinburgh’s underground city, where it was said that in times past the healthy citizens of Edinburgh left the disease-ridden to fester and die a cruel, agonising death.