Yok

by Tim Davys

  “Sir, from the impressions you’ve had of me,” the genie had asked the ape as they had a late breakfast together yesterday, “even if perhaps they aren’t the best, I realize of course that I nag and so on, I wonder, do you see any potential evil in me? Don’t I seem like a decent chap?”

  “A decent chap?” Mike Chimpanzee seemed to think about it, and after a long silence he answered, “You seem obsessed with stuff.”

  “Hm, meaning?”

  “You seem fixated on things, very preoccupied by money and objects. But if that makes you into a cloud, I don’t know.”

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me ‘Cloud,’ ” the genie pointed out. “If there’s no objection, can you please say ‘Fredrik’?”

  “Fredrik, there’s more to life than material things,” said Mike.

  9.

  When the full moon became half and the night entered its last quarter, Mike took out the guitar. The genie sighed heavily and meaningfully. They had made a pact: Between midnight and dawn the genie promised to keep quiet. The chimp’s service in return was to really listen and make a decision on the suggestions the genie would present the following morning. Maybe, thought Fredrik, this was playing to the gallery, but that was better than no play at all.

  To make sure that this night’s songwriting session would not be yet another in a long series of repeated failures, Mike had changed the prerequisites. He used a different desk chair—a baroque-inspired variation on wheels that was inside the office, originally bought by the shop’s first owner—and he turned on a couple of the antique floor lamps at the back of the store. Their warm light was now reflected in the reddish yellow lacquer of the guitar as he started to play. He had passed the limits of fatigue and physical autopilot took over.

  But do you believe what they’re saying?

  (Every thought has an end)

  Do you believe what they’re saying?

  (Every life its outer limit)

  Do you believe what they’re saying?

  (There’s no way out again)

  Do you believe what they’re saying?

  (Do you know how it feels?)

  ’Cause freedom is / freedom is / freedom isn’t here.

  He played the usual chord progression again. The experiment in F was over. He pulled out a G major, D major, E minor, and C major. His long fingers danced over the neck of the guitar. He sang the melody he had given the lyrics yesterday, but it didn’t take off. He lit a joint, letting it hang from his lips while he hummed the notes that followed one another in a far too predictable sequence. It was too docile, not interesting enough.

  He exchanged D for B minor, and finally something happened. He tempered the C chord by letting the bass notes go down, through B and Bb to A minor. This progression was too depressing, and he saved himself by returning up to D before tying the loop together with his original G.

  In the meantime he continued humming, changing, and improving. He put out the cigarette. Was this really a chorus? Did it have the needed lift? If he transposed the verse to F sharp, would it take off thanks to the lower key? To further leave his secure base, the ape threw in an A major and broke the harmony. Sang his way to a partially new melody. Was this the cursed hook Gavin was harping about?

  After another half hour Mike set aside the guitar and retrieved the tape recorder from the bottom drawer in the sofa bed where he stored valuables. Turned it on, set it on the desk, and played and sang. Turned it off, went into the office, got a cold beer from the fridge. Every time a sound was heard from the genie’s direction—sighs or moans—Mike raised a finger ominously. Not a word. The genie’s frustration soon became too much for him, and before the chimpanzee’s eyes he dissolved and disappeared. Where he went did not interest Mike.

  When Mike Chimpanzee thought sufficient time had passed he returned to the desk, sat down, and placed his index finger on the tape recorder’s play button. But he did not start the machine. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly what would happen when he played what he had just recorded.

  He felt the shiny, cold metal under his finger, and remembered how it had been yesterday. And the day before and countless nights before that. He closed his eyes, and saw in his mind how he would listen and feel pride and joy. How he would rewind and play the chorus again, over and over. Every time the melody would sound better and better. And when at last he went to bed just as the sun was rising, he would be certain that now, now he had finally done what Gavin Toad always harped about.

  The next morning he woke up with the memory of his nighttime success, but still hesitated before calling the record company. He avoided the tape player until noon, when he could no longer withstand the need of a final confirmation. But then, when at last he listened to what he had accomplished the night before, it was his own mediocrity he heard.

  The little tape player represented self-deception and false pretenses.

  Mike Chimpanzee swallowed a few times, lit another joint, and pressed the play button.

  Do you believe what they’re saying?

  (Do you know how it feels?)

  ’Cause freedom is / freedom is / freedom isn’t here.

  He turned it off. Closed his eyes. Got up from the chair, took the tape player, and threw it with all his might against the wall. It struck against the brick with a sharp crack, after which electronic parts rained down over the floor.

  Mike screamed.

  He collapsed on the floor next to the desk. The tears flowed, a howl that soon changed into a painful whimper forced up through his throat. His head was bursting, thoughts refused to appear: The truth was dangerously near, and it would first destroy his ego and then his life.

  “Moon Over Lanceheim” on the first album was—even though it was his only recorded song so far—not much to brag about. Even then he had been aware of that. But when he recorded it, its mediocrity had not worried him; the song had been a starting point, and you have to start somewhere.

  But it also ends somewhere.

  An anxious whimpering filled the room. The sound of capitulation. The thought was formulated, and with that he could never deceive himself again.

  He struggled up from the floor and sat down on the bed. His head in his hands, his back bent, and his eyes closed. Emptiness. He was an artist, unable to create art. He was a poet without poetry. He was not who he had always believed himself to be. But then . . . who was he?

  The haze of the Morning Weather concealed the dawn with a white fog that lay heavy and damp over the city’s still empty streets. Mike was sitting on the edge of the sofa bed with his head heavy in his hands when he made his decision.

  “Fredrik!” the ape called.

  “Sometime has to be the first, sir,” replied the genie, who had materialized out of nothingness without delay. “In no way should you be ashamed that you called on me.”

  “Why should I be ashamed?” Mike asked.

  “No, that’s my point, sir.”

  “Which?”

  “That you shouldn’t be ashamed.”

  “About what?”

  The genie sighed. This conversation was going nowhere. Had Mike Chimpanzee called him there to tease him? Or was the ape once again so high that nothing more reasonable could be expected? The genie was about to give up and leave, when Mike said the liberating words.

  “Genie, I have a wish. A second wish.”

  “A wish?”

  The genie stopped short. Bewildered and surprised. He realized when he heard the words that unconsciously he must have written off the possibility that Mike Chimpanzee would ever wish for anything at all. Without wanting to, he dissolved into atoms and rained down over the astonished Mike Chimpanzee and his antique store.

  “Pull yourself together, Genie,” said Mike. “We’re leaving.”

  10.

  Cancelled?”

  The word ech
oed in the boutique. The dozen or so stuffed animals fingering shirts and sweaters turned toward the entry, where a furious crocodile in a thin red coat with a shawl collar was coming in.

  Mike Chimpanzee, who was in a fitting room about to pull on a pair of jeans and a pale rose-checked piqué sweater, recognized the voice. For a fraction of a second he considered staying in there, out of reach of Mom, but gave up the idea. She would find him anyway. Here or somewhere else. He pulled the heavy drapery to the side and came out. From the outdoor clothing department she was on her way through the store right toward him.

  “How,” he mumbled to himself, “did she know I was here?”

  But Ilja Crocodile had built up a fine-meshed network of informers around Corbod, and Mike had resigned himself long ago—escaping from Mom was impossible.

  The crocodile rushed through row upon row of tightly packed racks of clothes. Vechado was a boutique chain that specialized in vintage clothing. They donated a quarter of the profits to the charity A Helping Hand, and in exchange got the majority of their garments from them.

  “Cancelled!” Crocodile shouted again.

  Mike stood paralyzed outside the fitting room watching his mom rush toward him, like a torpedo through a launching tube.

  “Cancelled!” she shouted a third time, but now added, “What have you done, you good-for-nothing!”

  And when she reached the fitting room she smacked him across the head with her handbag. Surprised and unprepared he was thrown sideways, landing on the armrest of an overstuffed armchair where a customer or bored companion could wait during the clothes fitting.

  “So you didn’t intend to say anything about it?” she screamed.

  Mike pulled himself up so that he was half reclining on the armchair, staring up at the green monster that was his mother. He tried the pleading, helpless look that most often appeased her.

  “What?!” she screamed, unaffected. “Didn’t you think we should talk about it?”

  “Mom,” said Mike quietly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Cancelled!” Ilja repeated desperately, staring ominously down at her son. “After we’ve invited all our friends, the neighbors, your father’s chattering aunts, the Rosenthals, everyone! And then you cancel! Do you understand what I’ve gone through? Do you understand what you’ve subjected me to? The shame that’s awaiting—”

  “Mom, I don’t know,” said Mike. “Cancelled? I’m sorry, but—”

  “Sorry!” Ilja Crocodile exploded. “Sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry, Mike. I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry about not having done better with you. It’s my fault, of course, everything is always my fault. That you never mature. You can’t take responsibility, Mike, you refuse to grow up. And it’s my fault. I’ve been there for you all the time. I’ve cared too much about you. My love has been too great for us both. You’re not the one who’s done this to me, I’m the one who’s hurt myself!”

  During this harangue Mike had crawled up in the armchair and was now sitting normally. He still didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “But, Mom,” said Mike, “you shouldn’t take it all on yourself—”

  “When you arrived, I was so happy,” Ilja continued; her tone was high and shrill, everyone in the store listened to her. “I couldn’t have been happier. Of course your father didn’t understand a thing, but I knew. You were chosen, Mike, you were special. Your musicality, your charisma, even when you started school it was clear that you would become something special. At the same time I knew you had a heavy disposition. You didn’t get that from me; this constant questioning and brooding comes from your father’s side of the family. What good has that done, tell me that? Why can’t you ever be content? Was the Rozenblatt family not fine enough for you?”

  “But, Mom, the Rozenblatt family . . . I love Cocker Spaniel, and . . .”

  “With all your prospects,” Ilja Crocodile went on. “You could have anyone, Mike, anyone at all. There isn’t a female who wouldn’t run to the altar if she knew you wanted her. And then you can’t even make this happen!”

  “Mom, we’re getting married in just a few—”

  “Nothing will come of that, Mike,” Crocodile howled unhappily. “I get sad when I think about it. You have made your mother sad. Are you happy now? Are you proud of that? Seeing me like this, in tears?”

  “Mom, why are you saying that nothing will come of—”

  “But I’m angry, too!” Ilja shouted, almost surprised. “Really furious!”

  She raised her handbag to give her son another beating, but he jumped up from the chair and took a few steps away.

  “Mom, what are you talking about?”

  “Don’t put on airs,” Crocodile hissed. “Mrs. Rosenthal called. They’re cancelling the wedding. You good-for-nothing. What have you done?”

  Mike Chimpanzee stood outside the Rozenblatt family’s well-maintained town house in Amberville and pounded on the door. The narrow gravel walk up to the house from the gate was neatly raked, the sun was shining from a clear blue sky, yellow hollyhocks stood at attention in the flower beds on each side of the stairway, and the neighborhood rested in deep harmony. Mike’s panting disturbed the calm. He had already terrorized the doorbell for a few minutes, without success. He knew someone was at home; he’d seen a movement behind the curtains in the kitchen just as he arrived.

  What had happened? On the way from Vechado to Amberville Mike could not make heads or tails of what his mom had said. Had she been drinking? Was it the start of dementia? It seemed completely crazy that the wedding was cancelled and no one told the groom?

  “Open up!” he shouted at Cocker Spaniel’s closed door. “I see you’re in there!”

  Being noisy ought to be effective. If Mike knew the Rozenblatt family, there was nothing they feared more than being scandalized in front of the neighbors.

  “Open up!”

  Behind Mike Chimpanzee, a car pulled in with screeching tires. When the ape turned around, he saw that it was Mr. Rozenblatt parking his dark green Volga. His face beet red, Rozenblatt threw open the car door and ran up the well-raked path to the steps, where the chimpanzee was shouting.

  “Now you shut up!” Mr. Rozenblatt yelled.

  Mike realized what had happened. Someone inside the house—Mrs. Rozenblatt or Cocker Spaniel—had called Mr. Rozenblatt at work and asked him to come. Averting the conflict with the chimpanzee was a task for the head of the family, and here he was now, Mr. Rozenblatt, the knight in shining armor who would rescue his daughter from the wicked rock star.

  “What are you up to?” an indignant Mr. Rozenblatt thundered, taking a few steps up the stairway. “Are you out of your mind? Get out of here!”

  Mike proceeded carefully.

  “My mom told me you called and said the wedding is cancelled,” he said calmly. “That sounds completely crazy, but I wanted to—”

  “Everything is cancelled!” Mr. Rozenblatt confirmed.

  Rozenblatt took the last step up to the top of the landing, and without thinking about it Mike took a step down. This reversed their positions, and Mr. Rozenblatt felt more comfortable.

  “But—”

  “And it’s not even because of me,” Rozenblatt added ironically. “Cocker Spaniel is crushed. And even so . . . even so I can’t help feeling satisfied! I knew it, Chimpanzee. That you would break her heart! You’re a wretch!”

  “Break her . . . but what happened?”

  “My wife, Mrs. Rozenblatt, gets her claws painted once a week, do you understand, Chimpanzee? Does that ring any bells?”

  Mike didn’t know what Mr. Rozenblatt was talking about, and admitted so.

  “Mrs. Rozenblatt has gone to the same claw sculptress for many years,” said the satisfied Mr. Rozenblatt. “A charming little stuffed animal. But yesterday she was sad.”

  Mike shook his head.
Everyone seemed to be talking in riddles, as if there was an agreement among the parents.

  “Yesterday she was sad, Chimpanzee, my wife’s claw sculptress, because a ruffian had broken her heart. Can you imagine that, Chimpanzee, breaking such a sweet deer’s heart? It turned out that the ruffian . . . he’d had several relationships at the same time, and one of the females he was seeing he intended to marry!”

  Mike’s heart stopped beating.

  “But we can make the deer happy about that, at least. That there won’t be any wedding. Get out of here, Chimpanzee, and don’t ever, ever come back!”

  Voices conversing, dishes clinking, the stuffy warmth that smelled of nicotine, grilled meat, and heavy perfume. Through the loudspeakers Larry “Car Crash” Hyena howled to the painful climax of the warped guitar. The HateLites rocked on to the best of their ability; the drums rattled out a rolling rhythm that the bass transformed into a tightly wound carpet of sound. Plopping and dripping synth sounds dotted the carpet and above it all was Larry’s scratchy voice.

  Mike nodded gloomily to himself. Lancelot Lemur must despise the HateLites, he thought; they were much too intellectual for a hit machine.

  “Another?”

  Mike nodded. Tom-Tom Crow filled the glass to the brim. The whiskey smelled smoky, the joint tasted sweet, and life was bitter.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Crow. “So it’s all over now, huh?”

  It was the third time in as many minutes that Crow had said just those words. Mike nodded. Even he had a hard time believing it. Yesterday he was engaged, today he had been dumped. Yesterday life had been mapped out, today it was unpredictable again.