Back Up

by Paul Colize

  Happily, the dozens of pills I had swallowed shattered my natural reserve and defused my stage fright. I soon rediscovered the old sensations. I told myself I was Keith Moon and got to work.

  We played until 8:00a.m. By the time we finished, a crowd of a hundred or so had crammed into the cellar, from God knows where. Brian had thrown on some clothes, brushed back his hair and taken control of the bar. He emptied the fridges and took a decent pile of cash.

  The most frenetic time of my life began that night, and ended a few weeks later, when I met Mary.

  They were wild weeks. We rushed like crazy, all day long, spending in an hour what we had earned in a week, going to gigs and hurrying down to the cellar to play what we had heard.

  We spent our days playing rock, talking rock, drinking, smoking and swallowing quantities of pills.

  It was pointless and destructive. But looking back, I think of that time as the moment I became my true self.

  Sonny and I were a mad, mismatched, unassailable pair. He was one of my rare gifts from heaven. He taught me the beauty and richness of friendship.

  When the time came, he sacrificed himself to rescue me from hell. When I think of him, my vision blurs and my heart races.

  40: MY WHOLE LIFE

  She walked in.

  The walls swayed and the room closed in around her.

  My muscles froze. I skipped my beat.

  Plato says that in the beginning were androgynous creatures with four arms, four legs, one head and two faces. Zeus, fearing their power, decided to cut them in two, condemning them to a lifetime in search of their other half.

  She was called Mary. She was my whole life.

  41: LIKE AN OYSTER

  Dominique arrived early at the clinic. He parked his car, opened the boot and took out a portable CD player. He carried it into the clinic on his shoulder, greeted the team and headed for X Midi’s room.

  Just outside the door, he launched into his habitual imaginary dialogue.

  ‘Ah, Dominique! Good morning! But tell me, who are all these people you’ve brought with you today?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t recognise them!’

  ‘They look kind of familiar.’

  ‘You bet they do – you saw them yesterday on TV. That’s Bono, there, and this is The Edge.’

  ‘Really? U2?’

  ‘Yes, they’re in Brussels for tonight’s concert. And since they were passing, I asked them to come and play for you.’

  He dived into the room, glancing towards the bed with an ironic grin. X Midi was watching for him out of the corner of his eye.

  Dominique switched off the television.

  ‘So, Baudouin! You’re a rock fan?’

  He stood beside the bed.

  ‘The name’s Baudouin, isn’t it? Blink once for Baudouin, twice if I’m wrong.’

  No reaction.

  ‘Do you like swing? We’re going to work to music. Feel the beat. I’ve brought a few decent rock tracks with me.’

  He pulled the tray table over to the bed and set up the CD player. Then he chose a CD and inserted it into the deck.

  The opening chords of ‘One’ echoed in the room.

  Dominique caught hold of the edges of his white coat, opened his arms wide and spun around.

  ‘Do you know this song? It’s U2. Voted their all-time favourite by listeners to Belgium’s premier rock radio Classic 21! That your favourite, too, Baudouin?’

  He bent over X Midi, eyebrows raised in enquiry.

  ‘So, do you like that one?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Would you rather I put the TV back on?’

  The man stared at him, unblinking.

  ‘I can put another one on if you want, try and find out what you like.’

  He inserted another disc and left it for a few moments.

  ‘“With or Without You”. Bet you like that one, don’t you?’

  He repeated the process with other discs, to no avail.

  Then changed tactics.

  ‘Of course, I’m so stupid. You prefer the older groups, am I right?’

  He took ten CDs and passed their covers in front of X Midi’s eyes.

  ‘If you see anything you’d like to hear, blink once, OK?’

  He held up the CDs one by one, reciting the names of the artists.

  ‘The Cure? The Clash? Like punk, do you, Baudouin? Bon Jovi? Phil Collins? I love Phil Collins! The Eagles? Santana? Supertramp? Queen? Freddie Mercury, what a voice! Simple Minds? No, not Simple Minds, you’re quite right.’

  He raised his arms and dropped them again to his sides.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got, Baudouin. Want me to bring some other stuff tomorrow?’

  The man looked away.

  Dominique admitted defeat: yesterday’s nascent hopes had been short-lived. X Midi had shut tight, like an oyster.

  42: I DID ALL RIGHT

  We played every night, and every night, more and more people joined us. Brian’s cellar was the hip place to be, the private, post-concert party to which everyone who was anyone was invited.

  Sonny and I had established a fine reputation as the nightbirds of the moment. The creatures of London clubland looked out for us, greeted us, offered us drinks, sought our opinion, in hopes of being invited back to Brian’s.

  Some nights, there were dozens waiting for us outside on the pavement.

  The noisy gatherings angered the neighbours. More than once, the police were called but found nothing untoward. There was no law against invited guests, even if they showed up every night of the week. Typically, the cops would leave with a general warning to keep the peace and respect the neighbours’ sleep.

  When we arrived with our guests, we would go downstairs and take possession of the place. Brian would hand-pick the hopefuls waiting outside, the chief criterion being the size of the bank note proffered by the would-be revellers. Then he would come down to the cellar and instal himself behind the bar until dawn.

  That autumn, Sonny and I went to Klooks Kleek, a small club located upstairs at the Railway Hotel in West Hampstead, not far from Brian’s place. Eric Clapton’s new group Cream were playing a show.

  I had heard talk about the drummer, Ginger Baker, but had never seen him at work. When we arrived, his silver Ludwig kit was waiting on stage. The word ‘Ginger’ was inscribed in huge letters on one of the bass drums; the word ‘Baker’ was written just as large on the other.

  I was intrigued by the number of accessories and percussion pieces he had added: congas, chimes, bells, but also things I had never seen on a drum kit before – like an empty whisky bottle.

  The trio arrived an hour late. They walked slowly through the crowd and got up on stage.

  Excitement in the room was at fever pitch. Jack Bruce and Eric Clapton wore moustaches from a past century. Ginger Baker was red-headed with long hair and a beard, and looked as if he was in the final stages of a long illness. All three wore loose-fitting, brightly coloured shirts – a new look just in from California that was sweeping everything in its path. America was taking its revenge: soon, the happening place would be San Francisco.

  We expected them to play blues, and they played blues. But theirs was a brilliant combination of blues, rock, country and jazz. Their virtuoso playing did the rest.

  Clapton deserved his nickname; he played like a god. Hunched over his guitar, he seemed absent, absorbed in his complex constructions. The room hung on his every note. His speed of execution was phenomenal, his solos dizzying. From time to time, his guitar would soar in lyrical flight, ending on a sustained note that sent shivers down the spine.

  Ginger Baker’s playing was breathtaking. With his gaunt features, chalk-white complexion and shocking teeth, he was the archetypal drummer of genius. He played as if he had only hours to live, as if he could still save his own skin if he thrashed hard enough to see off the evil eye. Open-mouthed, eyes popping, he immersed himself in endless rolls that swept the whole world along with them.

&nb
sp; By the end of the concert, my arms and legs were shaking. I wanted to be Cream. I would grow my hair and beard. Later, I even bleached them to look more like Ginger.

  We went to the Speakeasy. We knew Clapton was likely to stop by. He showed up an hour later, accompanied by his clique of hangers-on. No sign of Bruce or Baker. They installed themselves at the back of the club, indifferent to what was happening onstage or in the rest of the room.

  When we left the club, fifteen or so guys followed us, habitués of Brian’s for the most part. To our astonishment, Clapton came too, with a portion of his clique at his heels.

  The whole illustrious crowd packed in to the cellar, and Brian almost passed out when he recognised Clapton. I froze in his presence, too. A few guys picked up guitars, I got behind the drums and we began to play.

  Watching other drummers had enhanced my own playing. Most rock drummers played in four-four time on the hi-hat. But I kept the cymbals open on the second and fourth beats, the ones forming the backbeat, and let the snare drum take the lead. I was a little slow on the snare, but spot-on with the hi-hat. Each drummer’s style is defined by the infinitesimal lapse between the two. That way of drawing out the bar a little longer was characteristic of my playing, and the musicians I played with liked it.

  Clapton smoked and chatted, girls hanging on his every word. From time to time, he cast an eye in our direction, mechanically, like glancing at a TV tuned to a football match, with the sound turned off.

  Between numbers, I swallowed pills by the handful. A few glasses later, the talk was livelier and Clapton came over to where we were playing. He picked up a guitar, tuned it, adjusted the sound and issued some instructions to the bass player. The guy winked at me, leaned in to the mic and counted four.

  We played for an hour and a half. Rock and blues standards. I don’t remember any of the titles, or how I interpreted them. I lost all notion of time and space.

  At the end of the last number, the room went wild. Clapton turned to me, gave a thumbs-up and said I did all right.

  Nothing else. But for me, there could be no higher praise.

  I did all right.

  Later, Sonny said I had played like a king.

  I still wasn’t the best drummer in the world, but I had played with Clapton and I did all right.

  43: YOUR BETRAYAL

  Mary appeared the day after that legendary night. If I hadn’t felt encouraged by Clapton’s words, I would probably have stayed tonguetied, as usual.

  Mary was born on New Year’s Eve, in the last hour of the last day of 1946.

  Her parents were high-minded, principled petits bourgeois, and fervent Anglicans. Despite this, they had divorced when she was ten years old. Mary had left London to live with her mother, and settled on the outskirts of a small Berkshire town. Her mother had found work in a bookshop on the high street.

  Mary had signed up for drama lessons at school, where she discovered her talent for music and singing. At fourteen, she was singing on Saturday evenings in the town’s cafés. Her repertoire consisted of popular folk songs. Her mother chaperoned her, and collected the tips.

  Her performances were appreciated, and she began to sing on Fridays and Sundays, and then on weekdays, too. Her mother encouraged her to take singing lessons and develop her technique. Her range extended over three octaves.

  She walked into the cellar with a crowd I had never seen before. I was busy playing with a few regulars. Our eyes met and I lost the beat. The guitarist shot me a questioning glance. We played on, but I wasn’t with them.

  Mary said her chin stuck out and her eyes were too far apart. She said so every time she looked in the mirror.

  I replied that Jackie Kennedy thought the same thing about herself. She would look at me and shrug her right shoulder, always just the one, always the same way. I would add that Jackie Kennedy was one of the most beautiful women in the world. She’d laugh and tell me I was a terrible liar, but she would pretend to believe me.

  They gathered at one end of the bar and ordered beers. Mary took hers and drank it straight from the bottle.

  From time to time, she shot me a glance out of the corner of her eye. She could see I was floundering, and knew she was the cause.

  At eighteen, she had married the son of the owner of the bookshop where her mother worked. A wild, thoughtless impulse, almost a selfish whim. She wanted to get out from under her mother’s yoke. The marriage lasted less than a year. She left him and headed for London.

  She began hanging out in the capital’s clubs, looking for a guitarist to accompany her.

  And that was how she had come across a group of rock musicians, the Frames, talented amateurs who played when they felt like it. Fascinated by her voice, and her musical skill, they had written a few songs that exploited her vocal range, and convinced her to join them. Encouraged by the success of their gigs, she had begun to write her own lyrics to rock, blues and jazz settings.

  The guys she was with treated her as an equal, like one of the boys. None seemed to be paying her more attention than the others.

  I watched her as I played. She talked, gesticulated and drank beer after beer. I was racked with jealousy whenever one of them spoke to her. She had been there less than an hour, but already she was mine.

  She started to watch me too, with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

  I remembered Clapton’s words. I held her gaze. I did all right.

  After an hour of cat-and-mouse, she spoke to one of her crowd, a skinny, bearded guy who scratched the top of his head constantly.

  They came over. The bearded guy asked the guitarist if he could borrow his instrument, then went over to the bassist, to give him the chords. Mary would sing a song she had written herself, a slow four-four, kind of a Latin jazz, like a rumba. That was all I had to go on.

  Mary took the mic, closed her eyes and began to sing. It was a jazzy ballad, with a catchy rhythm. Her voice was grainy, melodious, powerful.

  When she sang the refrain, the back of my neck tingled. In just a few seconds, I was covered in goosebumps. Around the room, conversations paused and everyone held their breath.

  She stood with her back to me, dancing lazily on the spot. From time to time, she would freeze in an alluring pose.

  At the end of the song, she turned her back on the audience, looked into my eyes and dedicated the last lines to me.

  I did what the words of the song asked me to do, and more. I gave her all the love I had in my heart, I emptied it down to the very last drop, like a philanthropist pouring his fortune into a lost cause.

  Besides my mother, I think she was the only woman who ever loved me.

  In the small hours of the morning, the cellar gradually emptied.

  Mary’s friends said goodbye and left. Apart from Brian, we were the only two left. Brian emptied the cash box and put the money in a small safe concealed behind the bar. He asked me to switch everything off before coming up.

  We had hardly spoken.

  She stroked my face with her hand. She told me she wanted me, and asked if I wanted her, too.

  We went up to my room. She undressed, and undressed me in silence. I got into bed and she lay on top of me. She placed her hands on my chest, closed her eyes and threw her head back, gently moving her hips.

  She waited.

  I asked her permission to let myself go.

  It was an idiotic question, but she appreciated it. I was the first man who had ever asked her. She took it as a mark of respect.

  I wish you were beside me now. I want you to know I forgive your betrayal.

  44: HIS FIELD OF VISION

  On one of his daily visits, the occupational therapist noticed a slight trembling in the fingers of X Midi’s right hand, and more extensive facial movements.

  She noted the observations in her report and added that these promising signs confirmed X Midi was making progress. Slowly and gradually, he was coming out of LIS and entering the recovery phase.

  The notes concluded t
hat a partial reversal of X Midi’s condition was possible.

  Dominique was one of the first to be informed, by virtue of his rapport with the patient.

  He hurried to X Midi’s bedside to give him the good news.

  ‘Hey, Casper – I spoke to your occupational therapist this morning. She’s noted some encouraging signs. We’re going to get you out of there.’

  His smile broadened as he showed X Midi a small pot of jellied liquid and a plastic spoon.

  ‘Allow me to serve you your first meal.’

  He stood motionless for a moment, holding the bowl level with the man’s eyes, watching for a reaction.

  ‘Surely you’re not going to let yourself be fed like a baby? Haven’t you had enough of that catheter? You’ll have to learn to eat again sometime, sooner or later, so you might as well start with me.’

  X Midi’s eyes filled with tears.

  Dominique bent forward and examined the man’s face.

  ‘What’s up Casper? Are you crying? Are you sad or crying for joy?’

  He sat on the bed, took X Midi’s hand and examined it.

  X Midi was in acute distress.

  ‘I’m your friend. I’d like to help you.’

  He wiped the man’s eyes and ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘I’m your friend. Me too, I’m sad. You don’t seem to want to be friends. I think you’ve been through something terrible. I understand that you don’t want to confide. People have hurt you badly, I can feel it. But I’m your friend. You can talk to me. You can trust me.’

  The man stared at him without blinking.

  Dominique bent closer and adopted a confidential tone.

  ‘I’ll cut you a deal. I can see you don’t want to talk and I won’t try and make you any more. I’ll carry on talking to you, but I won’t ask questions.’