A Simple Scale
Seren is the book imprint of
Poetry Wales Press Ltd
57 Nolton Street, Bridgend, Wales, CF31 3AE
www.serenbooks.com
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Twitter: @SerenBooks
© David Llewellyn 2018
The right of David Llewellyn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
ISBNs
Paperback – 978-1-78172-470-5
Ebook – 978-1-78172-471-2
Kindle – 978-1-78172-472-9
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.
The publisher acknowledges the financial assistance of the Welsh Books Council.
Cover photograph: ‘The Best Pianist in the World’ is by Noah E. Morrison, an American photographer from New York City, currently based in Los Angeles. He can be found online at noahemorrison.com
Printed in Bembo by TJ International, Cornwall.
A Simple Scale
People say there is no justice on Earth,
But there is no more justice on High. To me
This is as clear as a simple scale.
Alexander Pushkin – Mozart & Salieri
Chapter 1:
MANHATTAN, OCTOBER 2001
To begin with, this wasn’t her bed, nor anyone else’s; it was a sofa. The last thing she remembered: Everyone standing around a piano. Carol playing Pour, Oh Pour, the Pirate Sherry and everyone else singing. Typical for one of Carol and Louise’s parties. Food, wine, a quasi-highbrow singalong. Except for the chorus, Natalie hadn’t known the words, but she sang along regardless.
She opened one eye. Sure enough, this was Carol and Louise’s lounge. The bottles and glasses of the night before had been cleared away; the only evidence of a party the dull after-scent of weed smoke. Two black-and-white Boston terriers were staring at her from the centre of the room. From the kitchen: Louise singing along with the radio, the rattle of dry dogfood landing in separate bowls. The terriers bolted for the kitchen, and a moment later Louise appeared in the doorway.
“You’re awake,” she said.
Natalie sat up. A wave of dizziness, like the sensation of movement hours after swimming.
“What time is it?”
“Eight. Carol had to go in early. Breakfast meeting with students. Coffee?”
Natalie nodded and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She pulled her t-shirt away from her chest and sniffed. Boozy sweat and smoke. Nice.
“Here, I’ll put on the TV,” said Louise, thumbing the remote until the television buzzed and pinged to life. Theirs was an old set, the kind owned by those who make a point of telling you how little TV they watch. On the curved screen, another jetfighter was being launched into another clear blue sky.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” said Louise.
Natalie concurred with a painful nod. Louise went to the kitchen and began making coffee.
“We would have put you in a cab,” she said, her voice raised. “But you were asleep, and it’s so far. Besides, if you’d had an accident…”
“An accident?”
“If you’d puked.”
“Oh.”
“Someone told me they fine you, like, a hundred dollars. So we thought it was better if you stayed here. And some of those drivers. I don’t trust them.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you slept okay.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
Other details of the party were coming back to her. Trying to get one of Louise’s colleagues, a cellist, to dance, and him demurely turning her down. Knocking a woman’s wineglass into her handbag. Standing on a chair shouting, “Toast! Toast!” And then the toast itself. Oh God.
“To those of us who didn’t die!”
Awkward faces. Nervous laughter. Carol helping her to get down off the chair and asking Natalie if she would like a glass of water. Then, nothing. She must have passed out on the sofa. But had she really slept, or was she simply unconscious? Probably the latter. She felt exhausted.
This wasn’t her. Or, at least, it hadn’t been her. Not before. Before September she would never have done a thing like that. There had been parties before and she had got drunk before, but the memory of that “toast” made her want to implode with shame. She was only glad no-one present had lost anyone.
It was 8:15, and she had to get from Harlem to the Upper East Side by 9am. She thought about the subway. Going down, sliding her Metrocard through the reader; that trapped feeling as she passed through the turnstile. A crowded platform, a crowded carriage. She couldn’t do it. The walk would take an hour. She was going to be late.
In the bathroom she carried out a routine inspection. Minimal damage to her make-up. Hair kind of shabby, though she could always pretend it was the look she was aiming for. She opened her mouth wide, poked out her wine-blackened tongue, pulled the flesh taut around her eyes. Her face felt like an unconvincing mask. This can’t be me. She applied lip-liner, dabbed away the smudges of mascara, tamed the worst excesses of her hair and went back to the lounge.
“Here’s your coffee. Black, one sugar, right?”
How did Louise remember a thing like that? How was she so organised, so alert after a late night? Typical. Natalie had always been a little envious of Carol and Louise, of everything they had, but lately it was getting worse. It was her problem, not theirs, but they were the light behind a window, and Natalie was the moth bashing its head against the glass. When she’d drunk only half of her coffee, she began preparing her exit.
“I feel like I should stick around, help you to tidy up…”
She had no intention of doing so.
“It’s fine,” said Louise. “You have work, and besides… I’ve got this.”
The hallway was lined with framed photographs: Carol and Louise in Paris, Carol and Louise in Rome, Carol and Louise in Machu Picchu and in Marrakech and next to the Great Wall of China. Louise and the dogs followed Natalie to the door.
“Listen,” Louise said. “You’re Carol’s friend, so it’s probably not my place to say anything, but are you okay?”
This had all the makings of something heartfelt. Natalie cringed.
“Of course,” she said, hoping it would end there.
“It’s just. Last night… you seemed a little…”
Crazed? Desperate? Lacking in all sense of decorum?
“We’re just worried about you, that’s all.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m fine.”
“Because… you know… these last few weeks have been crazy for everyone, and with Gino being away and you being home all by yourself –”
“I’m fine.”
“– we just thought, you know, if you want to talk with anyone. I mean, it doesn’t have to be Carol. If you’d find it easier to talk with someone a little removed, I’d be more than happy to –”
“No, I’m fine. Really, I am.”
“That’s so English of you.”
New Yorkers never missed an opportunity to tell her just how English she was, or compare her with some actress who was either ten years younger or twenty years older than her.
“I’m fine,” Natalie said. “Honestly.”
“Okay. Well. You know where we are.”
It was a sunny morning, but it had been raining throughout the night, and the wet streets’ glare was blinding. Natalie had a $5 umbrella in
her bag but hadn’t brought a pair of shades. She squinted her way down 121st Street and stuck to the shaded side of Frederick Douglass Boulevard until she reached the park.
It was almost a month since she had last used the subway. A childhood phobia of enclosed spaces had returned. Understandable, really. But was she the only one? There were faces she remembered from her old commute; the Korean woman with two small kids, the skinny guy with the pronounced Adam’s apple, the old man who wore a cashmere coat even in summer. She’d passed none of them walking along Third Avenue each day, so perhaps it was just her. Perhaps everyone else was fine.
She reached the house on East 73rd Street an hour after setting out. Jamilah, Sol’s carer, was leaving just as Natalie arrived. She paused at the bottom of the stoop to light a cigarette, saw Natalie and murmured a good morning. Jamilah never had much to say to her, and Natalie had the impression that the carer didn’t like her. She had that impression with a lot of people.
There were four women in Sol Conrad’s life, four women who tended to him daily: Natalie, Jamilah and the sisters, Rosa and Dolly De Leon. Their responsibilities often overlapped, but the De Leons kept the house clean and homely; no small task in a place this big. Rosa handled things most days, but that morning it was Dolly who leaned out into the hall, waving a soapy yellow glove at her, and calling out, “Good morning, Miss Natalie.”
“Morning, Dolly. Where’s Rosa?”
“Hospital. An operation. Her face.”
“Her face?”
“She has a mole, here.”
Dolly pointed to the place where her left nostril met her cheek and she slipped off the rubber gloves with a snap.
“You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I stayed at a friend’s last night…”
“Boyfriend?”
Every time. Every single time. They were like the elderly neighbours where Natalie had grown up, an English village where her mother still lived. Always asking if she was “courting”, from the second she’d hit puberty. Courting!
“A friend,” Natalie said. “I slept late. How’s Mr C.? Is he okay?”
“Not so bad. He thought I was Rosa, but, you know…”
If Sol could remember Rosa’s name, it was one of his better days. She would give anything for one of his better days.
“Where is he now?”
“In his study.”
For a moment Dolly carried on putting away the plates and cutlery from breakfast.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “There was a call. Eight o’clock, eight thirty. A man wanted to speak with Mr Conrad. He had a accent. I told him Mr Conrad was busy, so then he asked to speak to his secretary. So I told him Mr Conrad doesn’t have a secretary, he has a per-so-nal ass-is-tant. Then he asked if he could speak to you, so I told him I would pass on his message.”
“Which was?”
“Just to say he called.”
“Did he leave a name?”
“I wrote it down.”
Dolly shuffled out into the hallway, her plimsolled feet slapping against the parquet floor. She was wider in the hips than her sister and already had a fat woman’s waddle. Rosa would have finished cleaning the house by now. Dolly had barely made a start.
She came back with a scrap of yellow notepaper on which she’d written “PAVEL GREKOV” and the address of a hotel on West 32nd.
“He’s staying here?”
“No,” Dolly huffed. “He’s staying at Four Seasons in Jersey. Course he’s staying here. Why you think I write it down?”
“Did he say what he was calling about?”
Dolly shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell me. Very rude.”
Chances are this Grekov was a fan. Unusual for a fan to get hold of Sol’s telephone number, but stranger things had happened. Fans had been known to turn up on the stoop, asking for autographs, before now.
Natalie left the kitchen and went down the hall. The study door was open, and she heard music; one of the Fischer-Dieskau recordings of Schwanengesang. Sol was seated in the wing-backed chair nearest the window, awake but with his eyes closed; a copy of today’s Wall Street Journal folded and unread in his lap. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him actually reading the paper. It was probably for the best.
“Good morning.”
The old man stirred, snuffled and opened his eyes. That morning they looked more grey than blue.
“Sorry. What? Yes. Good morning. Good morning.”
“Schwanengesang,” she said, adding hopefully: “Because of Sunday?”
Two days ago they’d heard Christian Gerhaher perform the same pieces at the Frick; its first concert since the attacks. Lower Manhattan was still smouldering, and the mood in the concert hall that night was charged, bristling with something unsaid. Natalie saw more than one person crying, but Sol looked happier and more serene than she had seen him in months. Now, his expression was blank. He remembered nothing.
For a moment more they sat without speaking. The sunlight made constellations of the house dust and a corona of the stubble on his cheeks and chin. Later, in what was bound to be another brief exchange, she would ask Jamilah to shave him. From the kitchen, Dolly called out, asking Natalie if she would like more coffee, and she left Sol to his music and his unread paper.
When Dolly had finished for the day, Natalie called the hotel and asked for Pavel Grekov. There was a pause, hold music, and the receptionist told her Mr Grekov wasn’t answering. Fine. At least she’d tried. Maybe this would be the end of it. Maybe he was just another fan of Battle Station Alpha, Thunder Squad or The Man from Lamar, trying his luck. Maybe, when all he got was a confused Filipino housemaid, he’d decided to quit. This suited Natalie just fine.
These hours, between the De Leons’ exit and Jamilah’s return, were her favourite part of the day, and each day at Sol’s was much like any other. She spent her mornings going through whatever mail had arrived. On occasion, there would be fan mail, forwarded on by the network.
Dear Mr Conrad,
I am writing to tell you that I am an enormous fan of your work, and especially the theme from Battle Station Alpha. I bought it on vinyl record when it was first released in 1979. I was 14 years of age and I still have that very copy in my collection, and in excellent condition. I had hoped to get it signed at Alpha-Con in 1995 but I was unable to attend. Perhaps, if you appear at another convention you would be so kind as to sign it for me.
Yours gratefully,
Steven McGregor, Des Moines
She had saved a template reply to Sol’s computer that she could then customise.
Dear Steven,
Thank you so much for your kind words. Though I have been retired for some time and make very few public appearances it gives me great pleasure knowing my work still brings joy to people. You have made an old man very happy!
Yours sincerely,
Sol Conrad, New York City
There were no fan letters that day; just a bill, two circulars and a notification from the Department of Planning, concerning a building on East 74th. She saw the words “rooftop bar” before she fed it, along with the circulars, into the shredder.
The fan convention invites were few and far between. Not that she minded. Going away provided a change from her daily routine, but little else. Sol had never much enjoyed them. The last he attended was at San Diego, two years ago. He appeared on a panel with some of the stars from Battle Station Alpha. Natalie hardly recognised them, with their toupees, girdled bellies, fake boobs and facelifts – familiar faces rendered strange by time and too much effort – and Sol remembered few of their names without prompting.
His dementia was referenced in the job description; she knew what she’d signed up for. Even so, they shouldn’t have gone to San Diego. It was all too much for him. All that traipsing around a convention centre the size of an airport, an endless maze of walkways and escalators. There was a question, during the panel, about Sol’s testimony before the HUAC. Fat guy, glasses, balding. His stretche
d grey t-shirt based on the Alpha Crew uniform. A living, heavy-breathing archetype. The room was full of them.
“Sir. Do you think your testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee is why your movie career dried up? Is that why you moved into writing music for television?”
Either Sol didn’t understand the question or he pretended not to. The panel’s chair looked to Natalie for his cue. She shook her head, and the chair said they should stick to questions about Battle Station Alpha. In better days, Sol might have preferred a few questions about the hearing. He had never had much time for Battle Station Alpha or its fans. She hadn’t told him that as a child she had watched all of its twenty-four episodes and watched them again, a decade later, when they were repeated on British television.
Like the radio signal on a long car journey, Sol came and went throughout the day, but after lunch she sensed that he was there, that he was with her, and so she asked if the name Pavel Grekov meant anything to him. It was a long shot.
“Who?”
“Grekov. Pavel Grekov.”
He shook his head. It didn’t mean anything to him right now; but then, he could have worked with Pavel Grekov for decades and still not recall his name.
Mid-afternoon, the phone rang. She picked it up instinctively. Occasionally, it might be an old friend of Sol’s. Sometimes, it might be Dolly, Rosa or Jamilah. She answered and before she’d even finished saying her own name she guessed who it was.
“You are Mr Conrad’s assistant?” he asked.
The accent Dolly had mentioned sounded Russian.
“That’s right,” Natalie said. “Is this Pavel Grekov?”
“I want to speak with him.”
Didn’t even answer her question. So Dolly was also right about him being rude.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“Mr Conrad is old and a little frail. But I’m sure I can answer any questions you have.”
“We will meet.”
Neither a question nor a request. What was this guy after? He didn’t sound like a fan. A part of her wanted to hang up. The other part needed to know.
A Simple Scale Page 1
