They say that you will never fly
They say that you’re too young
They say that you must always listen
To all their rules and strictures
But if you have wings you’ll fly…
It was a good song. Actually, it was a really good song. The production was crap and the lyrics needed a bit of work, but the melody was immediately appealing and of course Tora sang perfectly. By the time he heard the first chorus, Max Hansen had already decided that he could perhaps save on the cost of a songwriter. This song showed off Tora’s vocal range and potential beautifully.
He had to keep up the pretence. Before the song came to an end he pulled out the earphones and shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose it might do. It might be OK with decent production. We can probably work with what we’ve got here.’ Max Hansen took out the contract and placed it in front of Tora along with a pen. ‘Right, I need your paw mark on this piece of paper.’ He turned to the last page and pointed to the line at the bottom. ‘Just here.’
Tora looked at the line, then at the pen. Then she said, ‘How do I make a paw mark?’ She turned to Teresa. ‘Can you do it?’
Max forced a smile and slipped his left hand into his jacket pocket, where he rubbed his thumb over Robbie’s face. ‘A signature, I mean. You need to sign here. If I’m going to carry on working with you so that you can make a CD.’
Teresa pushed the contract back across the table. ‘We can’t do that.’ Robbie found his way back into Max’s palm, pressing against the skin until it was almost punctured. Max closed his eyes, concentrated on the pain, and managed to remain calm.
‘Listen, my dear,’ he said to Tora. ‘This is your chance. Trust me, I’m going to make you a star, you’re going to earn money and have fans, the whole shooting match. But you have to sign this piece of paper, or that’s the end of it.’
‘I don’t want money,’ said Tora. ‘I want to make a CD.’
‘And you will make a…’ Max Hansen broke off. ‘What do you mean, you don’t want money?’
‘She means what she says,’ said Teresa.
After some negotiation it emerged that what Tora wanted was a deal where Max Hansen gave her cash in hand. There was no need for paperwork or registration or the allocation of rights. Max Hansen was to act as if he were her guardian, but without any written proof.
It was risky. Max Hansen would never even have considered it if it hadn’t been for his plan: take the money and run. He could cash in bigtime here before it came to light that he had no right to. After all, everyone would just assume the paperwork was in order.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘we’re agreed,’ as if it was perfectly normal not to have a signed contract between artist and agent.
So Max Hansen put his papers away, forbore from rubbing his hands and explained how things would work over the next few weeks. The biggest fly in the ointment was that Tora refused to do anything unless Teresa came along, which meant he would have to book studio time at the weekends. He hoped the girls’ irritating symbiosis would wear away as time went by; Tora was too talented to drag a troll on a chain along behind her. But for now he would just have to live with it.
All communication was to be via email, and he had no problem with that. He was quite happy to avoid the hassle of trying to explain himself to parents or brothers or whoever.
When they had said goodbye and talk soon, Max sat there for a long time staring straight ahead. Then he took out Robbie and pressed him to his lips, whispering, ‘Well done, buddy.’ When a waiter came to ask if there would be anything else, Max ordered a small bottle of champagne. Well, sparkling wine. The same thing for half the price. That was his theme tune.
The following weekend they recorded the demo in a studio on Götgatan. A series of emails had criss-crossed between Theres, Teresa and Max Hansen. A background tape to the song ‘Fly’ had been prepared, and the decision had been made to cover Abba’s ‘Thank You for the Music’.
Teresa felt small and lost in the soundproofed basement rooms. She didn’t know what Max Hansen had said to the studio technicians and the producer, but it was obvious that everyone regarded her as an irritating hanger-on and barely tolerated her.
This was partly down to Theres. Even when she was due to go in and record her vocal track, she refused to do anything unless Teresa went in with her. Teresa was told not to make a sound. Not to rustle, not to move, not to breathe audibly. Preferably not to exist.
Theres was familiar with the technology involving headphones and the microphone from her home recordings, and as far as Teresa could judge she sang perfectly on the very first take. The warnings about audible breathing were superfluous, since Teresa was holding her breath most of the time in any case.
The producer’s voice came over the speakers, asking Theres to put a little more emphasis on this phrase, hold back in the first verse and so on. Theres did as she was asked, and after two more takes the producer was happy.
After another hour or so they played the raw mix. Teresa couldn’t understand this business of a ‘raw mix’. It already sounded like something you might hear on the radio, and a shiver ran down her arms when she heard the first lines and thought: That’s my song. I wrote that.
Faced with a result, something similar seemed to occur to the studio people, and they looked on her with a slightly kinder expression. A guy in his twenties turned to her and said, ‘Good lyrics, kid,’ and Teresa had to stare at the floor because she was blushing. She could handle nastiness; kindness and praise were tricky.
The song continued, and even though it sounded much more like a real song than it had before, Teresa felt something was missing; it had lost something from the simple version they had recorded in Svedmyra. She couldn’t for the life of her put her finger on what it was, and didn’t dare to say anything because she knew she would be waved away. Presumably they knew what they were doing.
Then they moved on to ‘Thank You for the Music’, and when Theres had sung the last line, ‘For giving it to me…’, the people on the mixer desk were sitting motionless and open-mouthed. Then the producer switched on the speakers so that Theres and Teresa could hear the spontaneous applause.
Max Hansen was satisfied, and announced they were ‘onto a surefire winner’. When Teresa asked if they could have a copy of the raw mix on CD, he said it was impossible because they didn’t want to risk it getting out before the whole thing was finished. It would also be a good idea if they deleted the version they had at home, to make sure there couldn’t be any unnecessary leaks. Teresa said of course, without the slightest intention of doing so. Max Hansen gave Theres a five-hundred-kronor note. He would be in touch as soon as things started moving.
After the comparative calm of the studio it was something of a shock, in spite of everything, to emerge onto Götgatan, which was busy with Sunday shoppers and people out for a stroll. Teresa breathed in the cold air and tried to clear her brain. Then she felt a hand come down heavily on her shoulder; she caught a movement at the corner of her eye and turned around just in time to catch Theres, who was on the point of falling over.
People gave them odd looks as they stood there clinging tightly to one another, with Theres’ face pressed into Teresa’s chest. Teresa whispered, ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
Theres’ body shuddered as she let out a single long breath of air that went right through Teresa’s top and spread warmth across her skin. She held Theres more tightly and they stood there without moving for a long time. Then Theres straightened up just enough for her mouth to come away from the fabric, and said, ‘They eat.’
‘Who? The people in the studio?’
‘They take. They eat.’
Teresa groped for Theres’ hand to support her, and found that the hand was clutching the note Max Hansen had given her. When Teresa touched her she opened her hand and the crumpled note fell to the ground. Teresa looked at it, lying there in the wet and the dirt, and a fierce rage flared up in her stomach as she saw how it all
worked.
They take. They eat.
In an email Max Hansen had indicated that he would very much like to see the film Teresa had taken from his camera destroyed. Teresa had replied that she had thrown it away. But she still had it, and she remembered exactly what she had seen. How he had wanted to exploit Theres, take something from her, eat her, swallow her, documenting the whole thing so that he could relive it all over again.
The same thing had happened in the studio, only in a way that was deemed generally acceptable. Theres had something they wanted. They would suck it out of her, package it up and sell the result to the highest bidder, and the only thing Theres got was that bit of paper lying in the slush.
They take. They eat.
Teresa hadn’t seen it. She had been misled by the way the people at the studio had behaved as if it were all a matter of course, and the simplicity with which Theres seemed able to sing just about anything.
She hadn’t understood. That it cost. From Theres’ behaviour in public places she had realised that Theres found it difficult to be surrounded by adults. Now she had spent a whole day in that situation. In cramped, silent rooms.
When Teresa tried to hug Theres again, she made a feeble attempt to pull away. Teresa let go, and caught her eye instead. Theres’ eyes were a pale, transparent blue, not unlike the zombies in Dawn of the Dead. As if someone had stuck needles in them and sucked out the colour.
They take. They eat.
Teresa bent down and picked up the five-hundred-kronor note. She ignored Theres’ half-hearted resistance and led her towards Medborgarplatsen.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’re taking a taxi.’
Teresa had never hailed a taxi before, but the driver seemed to find it perfectly natural as she waved at him, and stopped to let them climb into the back seat. Teresa told him the address and showed him the crumpled five-hundred-kronor note, just to be on the safe side.
Theres shuffled as far into the corner as she could, wrapped her arms around her body and closed her eyes. She looked so small and pitiful that Teresa was overcome by a new feeling: tenderness. She wanted Theres to rest her head on her knee, she wanted to stroke her hair and whisper: everything’s fine, you’re safe, I’m here.
Instead she simply sat there with her hands clamped between her thighs watching Theres, who appeared to have fallen asleep. An enormous, tranquil happiness came into her body. Grew. And grew. When they passed the Globe Arena she felt as if she might disintegrate with happiness. She had never seen the Globe before. She had never been in a taxi before. She had never sat beside the sleeping form of someone she loved before. She had been living in the shadows.
For the want of any other chance of contact with Theres, she took out her MP3 player and listened to ‘Fly’ at full volume, their version. It wasn’t that it was better than the one that had been recorded in the studio. It was infinitely better.
Theres had recovered somewhat by the time they got back to Svedmyra, and was able to make her way up to the apartment without help. Outside the door she stopped, turned to Teresa and said in a weak voice, ‘I’m not going to make a CD.’ Then she opened the door.
Jerry was home. When he asked what they’d been doing, Theres just shook her head and disappeared into her room, where she flopped down on the bed and fell asleep again.
As Teresa headed for the door of the apartment, Jerry blocked her way. He folded his arms and said with a menacing air of calm, ‘I want to know what you two are up to.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Teresa. If you want to come here to visit Theres again, then I want to know what you’re up to. Whatever it is. Just don’t lie.’
‘My train leaves soon.’
‘I noticed you turned up in a taxi. Take another taxi. Otherwise you’re not welcome here anymore.’
‘That’s not your decision.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Teresa had to tip her head back so that she could see Jerry’s face. It wasn’t as closed and harsh as his voice suggested. More troubled. She asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Why do you think? Because I care about Theres, of course.’
‘So do I.’
‘I believe you. But I want to know what you’re doing.’
Teresa wasn’t capable of making up a story, that had never been her strong point. So she told him. She left out the part with Max Hansen in the hotel room, and gave a brief account of their songwriting and today’s studio session. How exhausted Theres had become.
When she had finished she looked Jerry in the eye. There was neither displeasure nor pleasure there. They stood like that until Teresa just had to look away. Then Jerry gave a brief nod and said, ‘OK. So now I know. Shall I ring for a taxi?’
‘Yes…please.’
While Jerry was making the call Teresa went over to the bedroom and stood for a while, resting her head on the doorpost, watching the sleeping Theres. A cold, slimy unease writhed in her belly, where happiness had bubbled such a short time ago.
Never to see you again.
Jerry could make that decision, as easily as taking a breath. He could lock the door, unplug the phone or move away with Theres, and they wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. They had no power over themselves.
‘I think it’s probably time you made a move,’ Jerry said behind her.
Teresa detached herself from the doorpost like a piece of ivy being ripped off a wall. She went towards the front door with her head lowered; she wanted to ask, ‘Can I come again next weekend?’ but her pride made it impossible. Instead she straightened her back, looked at Jerry and said, ‘I’ll be back next weekend, OK?’
Jerry shook his head and grinned. ‘Of course. What else would you do?’
Teresa didn’t really understand what was behind his remark. There was something odd about it. But she grasped the fact that she could come back. Since she was about to burst into tears of relief, she quickly turned away, opened the door and ran down the stairs.
When she got home she locked her bedroom door, took out Max Hansen’s DVD and watched it. She had expected—had been afraid, to some extent—that the sight of Theres’ naked body would have some effect on her. That was partly why she hadn’t watched the film apart from the glimpses while it was still in the camera.
But it didn’t happen. She thought Theres was beautiful with and without clothes, and that was all there was to it. When Max Hansen’s bare backside came into view, Teresa began to wonder whether she might be asexual. The whole business of sex just seemed unnecessary and ugly. Max Hansen down on his knees, Theres backing away, Hansen grabbing hold of her, pushing his face into her crotch. So undignified.
However, she watched what followed with keen interest. Theres picking up the glass and snapping the stem. Then beginning to hack at Max Hansen’s back with the spike of glass, as devoid of emotion as a carpenter hammering in a nail. It was something that needed to be done, and she did it without even spilling the contents of the glass in her other hand. When Max Hansen realised what had happened and began to scream, she didn’t even look at him as she went to open the door.
You’re totally sick, Theres. You are the wolf above all other wolves.
She played the sequence over and over again.
At the beginning of December Teresa walked into the classroom and saw that five of the girls had gathered around her desk. In the middle sat Jenny, showing them something on her mobile. No. Teresa felt in her pockets. She’d left her phone behind when she went out at break time. It was her mobile Jenny had in her hand.
When the girls caught sight of Teresa, Jenny held up the mobile. The display was showing one of the photos of Theres.
‘Who’s this, Teresa? Is she your girlfriend?’
Jenny turned the mobile back to face her and scrolled through the photos. Caroline said, ‘She’s really pretty. How did you get such a pretty girlfriend?’
Teresa didn’t respond, and made no move to take the phone, because she knew exactly what would
happen. Jenny would run off, throw it to someone else, and Teresa would just end up feeling worse than she already did. She didn’t give a damn what they said, but she didn’t like them talking about Theres. She didn’t like it at all.
‘Hang on a minute!’ Johanna said suddenly, pointing at Teresa’s mobile. ‘It’s her! The girl who was on Idol! Do you know her?’
Teresa nodded, and Jenny, aware that the situation was slipping out of her hands, said, ‘Of course she doesn’t. And in any case she was useless. Absolutely fucking useless. Worst thing I’ve ever seen.’
Teresa went and stood on the opposite side of the desk. Then she cleared her throat and spat straight in Jenny’s face. Jenny squealed in disgust and wiped Teresa’s spit out of her eye. Then she did something Teresa wouldn’t have expected of her. Her eyes narrowed; she hissed, ‘You disgusting little bitch, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ and jumped over the desk and scratched Teresa’s face with her long nails.
It didn’t really hurt, and Teresa kept her head. In her mind’s eye she saw Theres with the spike of glass. How calm she had been. It was all about calmness. Calmness and ruthlessness. When Jenny went for her again, hands scrabbling wildly, Teresa leaned back a fraction to gather her strength, clenched her fist and punched Jenny in the face as hard as she could.
So simple. Jenny fell backwards with blood pouring from her smashed nose. The other girls were frozen to the spot, and Teresa picked up her mobile and put it in her pocket. So simple. Everything is actually very simple.
After Jenny had been carted off to the hospital, Teresa had to have a long conversation with the Principal and the school counsellor. In many ways the conversation was like the lesson on the Democrats and Republicans, except that Teresa was unfortunately unable to make notes. She had already begun to transform her experience with Jenny into a song with the working title ‘Mush’. It was about things that had a solid form in everyday life, but which had to be turned into mush if you wanted to live.
Little Star Page 32
