by Tina Amiri
Applause followed every successive response. It served as the final ovation for Frederick, and the band’s welcome, as he ushered them onto the stage.
Morgen’s friends, Aden, Sean, and Doris, found their respective stations on the platform where their equipment, already assembled and sound-checked, had waited since the afternoon.
Beth followed Night, even onto the stage, prepared to buffer any awkward communication between Morgen’s longtime friends and their new Morgen. Night had been briefed on the music schedule, but there had been no time for voice prep. He cleared his throat compulsively while the others fidgeted with the precise positioning of their monitors. When he glanced over the room, his sight collided with many inquisitive faces. He felt like he had just taken his seat at the Emerald Shore piano, and suddenly he wished he could stop relating everything to the restaurant—or any other aspect of his wretched past.
“I’m starting to miss you, Morgen,” Doris’s voice lilted as Beth left the stage. “I still exist outside of the band… Is something wrong?”
“No, I can do it. I’m ready.”
“Then, why am I hearing doubt?” Sean snapped. “At least you showed up this time.” He struck the cymbals, forcing Aden to take his eyes off the imposter and contribute some bass.
They’d agreed to open with an upbeat tune, but nothing “too hard” as per Frederick’s instructions. Night’s fingers on Morgen’s electric guitar jumped into action as Doris’s fingers struck the keyboard, and following their short, catchy intro, his voice took off strong.
Within seconds, guests turned to the stage. The A&R people, who Beth had identified earlier, abandoned their conversations and emerged from the crowd to get closer to the band. The music attorney, already in the forefront, whispered excitedly to one of his A&R associates in his vicinity. Even Frederick, who appeared unreachable only a moment ago, now gaped over his shoulder while a supporter continued to speak at him.
“They’re ours,” said Sean at the end of the first song. “You were kind of awesome, buddy…different…but awesome. I’m actually starting to forget what you did to us.”
Unexpected applause bridged their previous beat to the slower and steadier one that opened their next song. Night put down his electric guitar, picked up the acoustic one, and released the opening lyrics in perfect time with his breath. Nobody spoke during this softer number. The other band members noticed the change in their leader’s style tonight, but they also appeared more than willing to accommodate his new technique.
Night noticed Brigitte gazing at him quizzically as she clutched a bundle of Frederick’s campaign brochures against her gemstone necklace. She eventually blew him a kiss, as though she’d been prompted to do so, and Beth gave him a wink.
Erin Chandler, the music attorney, leaned toward his associate again. “They look great up there. They sound great—and look at him. He’s already got everything we usually break our backs to infuse into some new guy with only half his potential. Do you see the way he’s connecting with the audience?”
“Yeah…”
Through his singing, Night still managed to smile at the other band members, at the audience, and even at himself whenever his eyes squeezed shut over the microphone, but in the next interlude, Aden ousted his bliss with a suggestion.
“I think we should do a cover, now.”
Night replied with a stutter. “What do you mean?”
“What’s your problem? You know how it is. People also want to hear songs they know. You pick the song.”
Sean stood up behind his drums as Night placed his acoustic guitar beside the electric. “What the hell are you doing, Morgen?”
Night ignored Sean, then Aden. He only had a handful of songs memorized to the standard of Morgen’s originals. Panic, mixed with euphoria, left him somewhat delirious and unable to recall a single song title. He clumsily bumped Doris away from her keyboard and replaced her hands with his. A light on her synthesizer flashed under the word “piano” and it reassured him in his decision. He addressed the room through the PA that turned his fretful, hushed voice into breathy little sparks.
“Here’s something people should know…”
People chuckled as they recognized the complicated classical piece as Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turca, but the laughter petered off as he continued to play beyond any effort that could be construed as a joke. Frederick watched him for the duration of the piece, clearly paralyzed by pleasure and pride. Beth held her hand in front of her mouth, at first in shock, and then to hide her amusement. Brigitte beamed with a triumphant smile, and Morgen’s confounded friends stood back on the stage staring like they were witnessing a manifestation from their fantasies—a music god. Even the most conservative of tonight’s guests applauded him genuinely, and Erin Chandler, who had been tossing out favorable remarks ever since they started, still hadn’t run out of praise.
“He’s brilliant. Look at the crowd. Pop, progressive rock, classical… Is there anything this kid can’t do?”
Night noticed how Doris flicked her head toward Aden to see his reaction, which prompted a secretive conversation between them. Meanwhile, Night tried hard to listen to the action on his other side, off stage.
“Bring him, and the others, in on Wednesday,” Erin persisted. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get him signed fast.”
The record label rep peered at Erin. “I have a feeling this is going to be a big year for this family. Are you sure that Dahlsi expressly stated that his kid’s still unsigned?”
“Do you think he invited us here for a tease?”
The rep shook his head. “He’s going to be a phenomenon. So, does his band have a name?”
Night clutched the microphone stand in his fist and pulled it near. “Thank you,” he said smiling again at the group of friends he’d adopted from Morgen. “If you don’t know us already…we’re Morning’s Desire.”
Before Morgen’s friends left the house, he botched a high-five with Sean, only vaguely familiar with the custom. But Sean’s manner confused him more as he watched the drummer stumble and nearly miss the door on his way out.
Doris lingered in the foyer until the others had left before she kissed Night zealously.
“You were amazing tonight,” she said, stepping back to drink him in. “And I’ve never meant it quite like this. Our duet…I don’t know why you’ve never done it like that before, but it was so right. And I never knew you could play classical—or keyboard, for that matter. I can’t believe it.” She clasped her hands with a resurgence of wonder. “Did you notice Sean at the end, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s high, Morgen. I know he deals, but in the last while, I think he’s been dealing mostly to himself.” She shrugged. “I guess he has an excuse to celebrate tonight. As for you, Morgen…next time you call me to rehearse, you better want to rehearse with me, and only me.”
****
But the reality was harsh when Night returned to his brother’s suite. Morgen had landed himself in the middle of the floor with one gaunt cheek against the rich carpet fibers that his fingers clutched onto as though for dear life. Night dropped to his knees and shook him.
“Are you okay, Morgen? Are you alive?”
“Don’t touch me,” Morgen groaned, alive if nothing else. It took a painfully long time for him to wriggle into a dilapidated sitting position, but nothing about him, or his greeting fazed Night.
“Morgen, it was wonderful! Everything went fine. The music people really liked us. Your father also really liked us, and I know for sure now that I can do it and that everything will turn out great.”
“That’s just great. Wonderful. Great.”
“Well…aren’t you pleased?”
“Pleased? Oh sure I’m pleased,” Morgen mimicked, gaining more poise with every syllable. “I’m pleased that my clueless, moronic brother is taking the glory for what I’ve worked my whole life to get. I’m pleased that I’m being erased, day by day. I’m p
leased that I’m in so much goddamned pain that I have to fly higher than the freaking sound barrier to achieve a state that’s anywhere near tolerable!”
“I’m sorry!” Night fired back. “You wanted me to do this. You were excited for me when I left, and now I tell you that I did well and you’re angry…”
“You don’t understand anything.” Morgen struggled to stand up before he stumbled toward his bedroom, while Night followed.
“I understand a lot more now than I used to. And I know what your pain feels like. I’ve felt it…over and over again.”
Morgen turned and gripped one of Night’s wrists as if for blood. “And what if it never let go?”
Night’s eyes burrowed deeper inside his head. “Morgen, this is stupid. Why don’t you let the doctors try to help you?”
Morgen’s shove luckily didn’t have the power of his words. “How could you go there again—especially after tonight?” his voice strained and cracked. “You’re the one living it now. Can’t you understand my dream? Can’t you honor it?”
Night’s eyes filled with tears. He could understand it, but it wasn’t only about that.
Morgen staggered off again. “Doctors… There is no cure for me, stupid. How many times do I have to tell you?”
With that, his knees failed beneath the weight of his medication and Night scowled at the bony heap in the middle of the floor. He turned to the guestroom, but on second thought, he laid down beside Morgen to stare at his face like a mirror. Morgen remained unaware, never opening his eyes. Night had felt him this close a thousand times…felt his breath, felt his thoughts…but now, with Morgen physically present, day in and day out, he understood him much less.
Chapter Sixteen
Lila’s funeral spawned as much sympathy for Andrew as it did for Lila’s friends, family, and colleagues. People couldn’t express enough condolences for the man who had lost his son, his business, and the woman who he called his fiancée, all in the latter half of a year.
“I’ll always cherish the time we had,” Andrew said again, this time to Margaret, Lila’s older sister and beneficiary who shared that she’d flown in from “across the pond.” “If it isn’t too much of an imposition, perhaps I could come by the house, later. I still have some personal items there that I should take out of your way.”
She accepted Andrew’s hand and squeezed it inside both of hers as she regained her composure to speak. “I’ll be going there after…after the burial.” Although more pronounced than Lila’s, Margaret’s accent generated some nostalgia that caused Andrew to genuinely miss Lila, for a minute.
Sitting amongst a whole crew of her friends and coworkers, Andrew continued to be impressed at how Lila had obviously kept her grievances about him to herself. He didn’t observe one shifty eye throughout the ceremony, or at any point before or after.
****
“I’d like to hear that power ballad, Wingless Angel, that blew my scouts away at your party.”
This demand came from the band’s prospective manager, Gin Corbin, following their formal introduction at the music studio. Morgen moved his microphone back beside Doris and wondered how Night had managed to pull off a duet with someone he’d never met. He only knew that, today, he would showcase it properly and finally see his dream fulfilled, or he would see it crash and burn for the very last time. Sean, striking the cymbals, broke his muse and shunted him, full-force, into his atypical masterpiece.
“Wait a second,” one of Gin’s scouts interrupted. “Sorry, Morgen…but do it like the other night.”
They started from the beginning, but this time Erin Chandler, the music attorney, halted the performance. “Do you need like a large crowd to really open up? I mean, the other night you were magic. The other night you were singing to the audience, you were singing to your band members, you were all over the room without ever taking a step, but now you’re just singing to the microphone. It’s all sounding a bit…labored.”
His friends eyed him with the same query.
Morgen suddenly loathed the sound of his brother’s name that, disguised as a word, mocked him from all sides. “What do you guys want? I don’t see how I could have been that much better. Maybe the stage helps—I don’t know—but I couldn’t have been that much better the other night.”
“Well, anyway…” said Gin. “There’s no question about whether I’m going to represent you and your band. I loved your demos, and I’m positive that every aspect of you is going to sell big. I would like to hear the rest, but later, go get some sleep. That’s likely your problem. And we can understand why,” he added, smiling. “Congratulations, Morning’s Desire. You’re going to be big.”
The attorney signaled for Morgen’s attention. “I’d like to meet with you later, so you can take a look at a preliminary contract.”
“We want to move quickly,” Gin continued on the tail of the attorney’s thoughts. “If we wait too long, we’ll end up on the heels of two other major tours and I want to start the hype about Morning’s Desire well before that time. We can probably pull off an album before March, but we’ll get the obvious hit songs recorded and released as videos ASAP. I want a photo shoot done, right away, so we can hit up the teen magazines at the same time as their début release. We’ll just publicize the hell out of these guys, and when they’re all up and buzzing, we’ll announce our own national tour.”
Morgen’s head tipped back in a rare display of exultation and his friends linked themselves around him, blissfully unaware that they were saying farewell to the mighty but dwindling force that had, at long last, delivered them into fame.
****
While Margaret sorted through some papers in Lila’s office, Andrew poked around the bedroom, until he spotted her purse beside a dresser. He flipped past the credit cards in her wallet, searching for anything that might offer him a clue about her short time with Night.
He took a moment to examine an old receipt for men’s apparel that blatantly mocked him with a purchase date of one day after the fire, but then a more interesting piece of paper tripped between his fingers. The name on it made his heart plunge and his hand tense as he brought the paper closer to his face. The phone number of Brigitte and Frederick Dahlsi glared off the page, and he didn’t believe in any astronomical coincidence that had Lila corresponding with another Brigitte in recent times. The paper had been ripped in half under the phone number and the peaks of uneven letters still showed above the tear line: “Address”. As he strolled into the hallway, he shoved the paper into his shirt pocket, beneath his tailored black coat.
“I must not be thinking clearly,” he stated as he reached the office doorway. “There wasn’t a lot here after all, so I’ll be on my way unless you need me for anything.” But Margaret only wanted to be alone.
His mind grew stormy as he drove home from Lila’s house for the last time. How did Lila come up with the idea to contact his former wife? What else was in Night’s sickly twin’s hospital file that had sent her ranting at him about Aileen Coleman? An explanation came to him, instantly. His ex-wife’s name, Brigitte, had now surfaced one too many times, and his jaw dropped.
****
1985 demanded much more glam from the already physically stunning group, and Gin Corbin, now officially Morning’s Desire’s manager, introduced the band to a highly recommended image consultant and stylist.
“This is Brandt,” he announced in a roundtable setting, two days after their first meeting at Detonic Records. “He’s going to be the one who sells your image.”
Brandt spoke with all of them for part of the morning and later announced that he wanted to meet with each of them individually, starting with their lead singer-guitarist.
In the video department, Brandt’s favorite arena, Night was instantly drawn to the effervescent personality of this green-eyed, scarlet-haired, thirty-two-year-old with the style to match.
“This is a dye-job,” Brandt stated, grappling like a pirate at the promise of gold through Night’s bleached
hair. “And not a very good one. I can try something to put the shine back into it, but from now on, consult with me before you do anything else to yourself—in fact, hands off. Are those your real eyes?”
Night pulled away from Brandt. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I just think they’re great. I wouldn’t dream of changing them. I just wondered if you were wearing some kind of freaky tinted lenses as part of your look.”
“No,” Night answered apologetically. He didn’t need any help to be freaky. “This is just how I look.”
“That’s fascinating. I love your pale eyes, but I don’t like your pale skin. Get some sun. We have enough of it here, but not to worry. I can fix that for now with a lot of make-up. It’ll just make your eyes stand out that much more. They’re very powerful, very wild. Look… I was studying the pictures in your press kit, yesterday, and I came up with a great emblem for your band.” Brandt reached for the counter and then showed him the face of a big roaring beast that Night couldn’t identify. “A white tiger,” Brandt obliged. “Now, if we transpose your image—of course, picture yourself with a choppy, gravity-defying do…” He slid a set of photos of Morgen beside the white cat. “It’s spectacular. What do you think?”
Night stared at the array of images in front of him and nodded guardedly.
“I thought you’d agree. This animal looks like he’s absolutely screaming with desire—like people will be screaming for you.” He enacted a silent impression of a roar, stooping beside Night to be at the same level. “Just wait until I’m finished with you, Morgen Dahlsi. You’re going to be hot.”
Brandt’s hands were in perpetual motion as though already sculpting Night into the perfection he envisioned in his head. He talked about people and groups that Night had never heard of, even though Morgen had tried to educate him about the major personalities in music. He also talked about Morgen’s friends, which provided Night with invaluable details.