The Artist

by Mark Tiro

  THE ARTIST

  Into the Night: Book Two

  Mark Tiro

  THE ARTIST

  INTO THE NIGHT: Book Two

  By Mark Tiro

  First Edition

  Published by Second Dharma Books

  Copyright © 2019 Mark Tiro.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-948037-09-9

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express, written permission of the author or the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  I. THE ARTIST

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  I

  THE ARTIST

  For Mike Levine

  1

  One

  “Why look who it is. If it isn’t the King of Queens.”

  “Very funny. It’s great to see you too, Joe. How’s my favorite bartender tonight?”

  “Better if all sorts of riff-raff wouldn’t keep straggling in just when I’m trying to close down the place.”

  “I can close it up for you, Joe. Don’t worry. Just me and the piano here. That was always the arrangement I had with Kevin. After my shows were done, I’d come over here, pull in some post-show business to fill the bar up for him. In exchange, at the end of the night, once everyone was gone and the place was closed up, he’d let me stay as long as I wanted. Just me and the piano, the quiet of the night. And the crickets…”

  “There ain’t no crickets in Vegas. Not on the Strip, and definitely not in this hotel. We’re four stars, even here in this town. Five stars in Dubai, and in Singapore, too. It’s not many top-notch hotels here that don’t got no casino in it. Makes this the most-classy, out-of-the way place on the Strip.”

  “That’s why I always come back here whenever I’m in town. And because it’s quiet. Like I told you, I just can’t get enough of those crickets.”

  “Shut up. And anyways, I know what your arrangement was. But Kevin’s not managing the place anymore. I am.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know. I mean, congratulations on your… promotion? It’s just—I’ve been… away for a while.”

  “You’ve been in rehab. I know. What, you don’t think my wife doesn’t have the TV on like 24/7, every second I’m home? Everybody with a TV knows where you’ve been for the last three months.”

  I looked around the bar. There was only one other customer left by then, a woman sitting down at the other end of the bar, nursing a gin and tonic.

  “How about if I pick up a round of drinks for everyone in the bar,” I said, looking in her direction.

  She didn’t look up.

  “Everyone? You mean you and her?”

  “And you too, Joe. I’m feeling generous tonight.”

  “Fine, sure. So, what’s the occasion?”

  “The occasion? I got out of rehab. If ever there was a reason to drink—that’s it. Come on Joe, what do you say? Drinks are on me.”

  “Sure, fine, whatever.”

  He glanced down at the woman… the only other person in the bar. “Listen, I have no problem letting you stay after I close up. Honestly, it’s almost shocking, but in all these years that Kevin’s let you have the run of the place at night, the worst that’s ever happened is when the morning person would get here to open up, and they’d have to shuffle your sorry ass off into a cab to get you home.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I really appreciate—”

  “Oh, shut up. It’s not like I’m doing you any favors, anyway. I want to get out of here as soon as I can. My girl’s waiting up for me at home tonight, so…”

  “I do know what that means, Joe.”

  He grinned.

  “So she wants a baby, does she Joe? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, so am I,” he said, deflated now. “And I don’t know what I can do to change her mind either. So I figure the only thing left for me to do is to enjoy the “trying” part of the baby-making… at least until the hammer falls.”

  With that, he turned and walked down to the other end of the bar to take the drink order of the only other person here. Then he walked back over to me.

  “Do you want me to let her stay in here with you,” he started to ask me once he’d walked back to make her another gin and tonic, “or should I ‘last call’ her out?”

  “Here’s fine. She can stay, if she wants. I won’t bother her, if she doesn’t bother me. I’ll make sure she gets out safe. And who knows, maybe she’s my muse of music, here in disguise, you know—so I can finally write something new.”

  “I thought you stopped writing new stuff. Isn’t that what I read? They said you were still touring to packed stadiums, but you’d decided to just play the old stuff because that’s what the people wanted to hear.”

  “That’s true, but it’s not by choice. I needed to do something to keep my sanity, and stopping creating the new music was instead of drinking to do it. Do you know what it does to me to create something from nothing? When I make art? When the music flows through me? Why do you think I was in rehab?”

  “Uh, you know I’ve only ever worked here. I don’t know what you artist-types do—”

  “Why do you think Van Gogh cut off his own ear, Joe?”

  “I don’t know, but…”

  “The same reason I stopped writing new music, and just decided to tour by playing the old stuff.”

  “You couldn’t hear out of one ear?”

  I burst out laughing. He stood there, smiling politely. I guess it wasn’t meant as a joke. He didn’t say anything, actually—the way bartenders have probably been doing ever since they invented beer way back in Mesopotamia. Making art and creating music was probably outside any experience he’d ever had, or would have, in this lifetime at least. And even though I was blessed/cursed with this creative energy that had flowed through me of its own fierce accord ever since I could remember—whether I wanted it to or not—I knew very well that he had a completely different life experience.

  I also knew that he had a wife, or maybe girlfriend, waiting at home for him to come try to make a baby with, and so I didn’t push the explanation.

  “You should get going home, Joe. I’ll be okay here.”

  “Seriously? You don’t have to get back to rehab or something, like before they discover you’re missing?”

  “Nah,” I said. “I’m done with all that. I guess it’s not out yet, but I just signed on to do a four year residency show here in Vegas.”

  “So, I guess you’ll be here every night, then.”

  “I guess so. Oh, hey, one more thing—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you, Joe. For everything. And good luck on your family. There’s like a 100% chance you’ll be a better dad than I ever was.”

  “Don’t say that, Mr.—”

  “No, it’s true. I’ve always only been good at one thing.”

  “Music?”

  “Yeah. That’s all I really am. First, last, and middle. Making music—being the artist at work—it’s all I’ve ever been good at.”

  “Don’t say that. I’m sure you’re a great dad.”

  “Nah. I’m not. The music—this art—it’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to do without everything turning to shit in the end. I’m too old not to b
e honest with myself, Joe. But thank you for the compliment, anyway.”

  “Sure.”

  “God help me—I never could help but be brutally honest and say whatever thought comes into my head. Always gotten me in trouble, my whole life.”

  “I’m with you there.”

  “And it’s true, too. I was never a good dad, but I can tell from having failed at it that you’re going to be a great one.”

  “Aawww, thanks.”

  “Anyway, goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And with that, he turned around and went home, leaving me alone in the bar with just the other woman, the piano, and the non-existent crickets.

  I cupped my drink with both hands, looking deep into the glass. I took a deep breath, trying to breath in the secrets that only the bottle could tell me.

  Silence.

  I finished off my drink, then turned to head towards the piano.

  That’s when I felt a hand reach over my shoulder.

  Her hand.

  2

  Two

  Her hand on my shoulder was strong but gentle. Her fingers were manicured—classy and delicate—a tell-tale giveaway this girl was from uptown. Somewhere beyond a flitting pink, but far enough away from a stern, matronly red—all I could think of was, “perfect.”

  They were the last thing I remember before a flash of memory and light—lightheadedness—overwhelmed me. It was as if her touch had taken me back to some time, some place, far away, long ago… I don’t know. But it felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I staggered back.

  I was no kid anymore, and one of the perks about doing as well as I have in the music world is that the touch of a woman’s hand in a bar wouldn’t make me swoon like a schoolboy.

  At least I hadn’t thought it would. But I was thrown off by this woman’s touch. This momentary, blinding flash of light, it was like… time stood still.

  Until it didn’t.

  After an interminably long few seconds—at least I think it was a few seconds—I finally managed to catch my breath.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” I stammered, still trying to catch my bearings. “Have we met before? Do I… know you?”

  A tiny smile formed around the corners of her lips.

  That’s when I got my first good look at her. She was luminous in a way I can’t explain. I can’t even quite pin what it is that she looked like. It was like I was blinded by some unseen energy emanating from somewhere way underneath her outer shell.

  “A long time ago. We met before, yes. I know you very well, but by your question, I take it you don’t remember me at all.”

  “I’m sorry, I meet a lot of people. Last year alone—well, even though it was an easy touring year, because of the…”

  “Rehab?”

  “The rehab, yes. Even though it was a light year, we still played full Europe and North American tours to eighty-something arenas and maybe twenty stadiums on top of that. And in every city I go, there are a lot of people I have to meet. Now that I’m older… I mean, now that I’m in this business for the long haul—I have to shake more hands and make more small talk than you would believe. Sometimes it feels like I just never get to stop smiling…”

  I chuckled to myself, remembering something the last drummer who had toured with us had said to me.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked.

  “Just something my last drummer once said.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “That I smile so much it looks like I just got out of a mental institution.”

  She laughed, then added, “Or a rehab.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. Now, I laughed.

  “That’s funny,” I said, really, genuinely laughing, as I walked slowly over towards the piano.

  “Anything you’d like to hear?” I said, as soon as I’d sat down. “This is how I got my start, you know. Playing in piano bars like this when I was still in high school. Whenever they’d have me, at least.”

  “You got your start playing in piano bars hidden away in the back of empty and closed Las Vegas hotel bars?”

  I laughed. “New York, actually. Queens. It’s where I grew up. And there were people in the bars. A few, at least.”

  “Oh, I’ve been there,” she said, “but not for a while. You were just a kid then. You were sixteen at the time, if I recall.”

  “Funny! Even if you’re trying to flatter me, I’m sure I haven’t aged that well. There’s no way you were even alive when I was that young.”

  “You really don’t remember, I see. It’s okay. As I remember, you were going through a lot at the time.”

  “I’m always going through a lot. I’m still going through a lot,” I said, sitting down to the piano. “Now, what can I play for you?”

  “Whatever you’re working on now, that’s what I’d like to hear.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. Late at night like this, when no one’s around, you want to know what I’m working on? It’s the same thing I’m always working on—well, off and on, at least—for the last twenty years.”

  “Slow learner?”

  “I wish. No, but my day job takes up a lot of time.”

  “Pop music?”

  “Pop, or maybe rock—I don’t know. They always said my stuff transcends all genres. But now, I’ve been doing this so long—I just call it music. And this… music I’m working on—I will get it by the time I die.”

  “Rachmaninoff?”

  “No, Beethoven. Rachmaninoff was schizophrenic. Beethoven was… enlightened. Well, at least by the end of his life. I’m sure of that.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “It’s in the music—the music he wrote at end of his life. It’s obvious, no? Or it should be—at least to anyone with two good ears to hear.”

  “Like Beethoven?” she shot back.

  “Or Van Gogh.”

  “That one definitely didn’t have two good ears…”

  “No, he didn’t. But if you listen hard enough, slow down your thoughts, calm your mind—if you just, actually listen—you can hear it. Anyone can.”

  “Hear what?”

  “The light. It’s all right there. Definitely in his late string quartets. And some of his later piano sonatas, too.”

  “And how do you hear light?”

  “The same way you see silence. You listen for it, with your eyes wide shut. Listen with your mind… and see with it, too. It’s in the silence between the notes. And once you really listen, it’s all very obvious, right there, in plain sight.”

  “I see.”

  “Now you’re getting it—great! So anyway, that’s what I’m working on. Beethoven’s late piano sonatas. All of them.”

  “Enlightened? Beethoven? Did you mean like Buddha or Jesus or…”

  “Or Abraham Lincoln? Yeah, like that. Like I said, you just have to listen to the music he wrote at the end. It’s all right there.”

  “In the silence?”

  “Exactly. So here I am twenty years in, still trying to get these sonatas just right.”

  “Still trying to hear the light, eh? Well, maybe tonight’s your lucky night.”

  “It’s funny, we’re living in a golden age of creativity here. Anyone can make whatever art, or music, or books or anything they can imagine—unrestrained. And then put it out to the world in an instant. And no publisher or record label or anyone else can tell them no.”

  “Okay. And so?”

  “It’s just a thought. Here I am, living in this golden age of creativity here, and all I can think of is that just once before I die, I am determined to play this 300 year-old deaf guy’s piano sonatas perfectly.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want, then that’s what I want. Play it for me, then. Would you, please?”

  And that’s what I did. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.

  And then I played.

  Some weight in me, in my mind, just dissolved as I started. This happens sometimes even when I’m playing my own st
uff, too. But that’s mostly pop, or maybe rock—or whatever they’re calling it these days. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard my songs on the radio. Everyone has.

  Sometimes, when I’m at the end of a long show that’s gone well, I’ll sit down at the piano just before the first round of encores and right in the middle of the bridge, I’ll just play for the crowd whatever moves me. That’s usually when I get closest to the feeling of transcendence. Close, but never quite there. But close enough that I think I’ll always play until the day I die, even if it’s just in a small, out of the way piano bar like this. Just so I can keep trying to get to that feeling…

  I had just started playing when something in me dissolved. Some weight that I didn’t even realize was there lifted. I closed my eyes and played his sonatas like I’d never quite been able to play them before. By the end, I was floating—like I’d become a part of the music itself. He was playing through me; Beethoven was listening through my ears.

  I closed my eyes and let the music flow out.

  And then I floated. In pure joy, I floated until time itself stopped.

  “You must be exhausted,” she said once I was done, resting her hand on my shoulder again.

  “Normally after playing like that, I would be. You’re right. But it’s weird. Now, after that—I feel… great. Lighter, like a weight’s been released and I’m just floating now.”

  “Well, you don’t sound like you’re grappling with anything you can’t handle. That was the most perfect performance of those pieces—you played them exactly like he heard them when he wrote them down. You’ve come a long way. It’s quite impressive, actually.”

  “So, you know music, eh? Do you play?”

  “Music?” she asked, with just the hint of a smile on the corners of her lips. “Do I play? Oh no, I don’t play. I am.”