I ended up with an executive suite featuring solid wood furniture, either mahogany or walnut, draperies, living room and bedroom, one and a half baths. I had money, so I might as well spend it.
I threw my bag onto the bed and sat down on the floor. I used my phone to look up a place nearby where I could buy a laptop. I had research to do, time to kill and money to burn.
Seeing the city covered in snow made me want to cry. There’s a tricky sort of happiness that comes from being idle. When we have nowhere to go and almost no hope, we leave ourselves less open to sweeping disappointments and violent despair. We swim around in a kind of twilight zone of highs and lows.
I bought a laptop and new boots, which I wore out of the store. I gave the salesperson the pleasure of throwing out my old pair, which were full of holes, shot to pieces, not far from being considered a UNESCO world heritage site. I walked into a fusion restaurant and took the computer out of its packaging at the table. I plugged it in and connected to the first unsecured wireless network I could find.
I went to the Union des artistes website and looked up Gia Kasapi in the online directory. It didn’t take long to find the agency representing her. I also learned quite a bit about her: a stint with the Modern Company of the Brookline Academy of Dance in Boston; one year at Canada’s National Ballet School in Toronto; a few productions in Toronto, Montreal and New York as part of the corps de ballet; graduated from the English program of the National Theatre School of Canada in Montreal five years later; a handful of stage roles across Canada and the United States: Ottawa, Montreal, Victoria, Calgary, Philadelphia, New York; a black and white photo dated 2010; a list of nominations and awards; most significant role: Blanche DuBois in Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, produced in 2009 by the Centaur Theatre.
With my plate of Thai noodles in front of me, I called her agent: hello, I’d like to speak to Gia Kasapi, one of your artists. Would it be possible to make an appointment with her in the next few days? The agent said no: Gia’s on tour right now. Give me your phone number and I’ll pass it on.
On the way back to my room, I went on a bit of a shopping spree. In the end, I came back with a bottle of scotch, a tweed blazer with brown leather elbow patches, a frozen lasagna, a loaf of sunflower bread and a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen for my migraine. Before leaving for Toronto I’d taken Antony’s advice and thrown out all of the meds I’d stockpiled at home. The withdrawal was giving me a splitting headache; it remained to be seen if I’d be able to get to sleep without my pills—and manage it night after night.
Xavier
Notebook #2, entry IV
Night falls, with no pills to help me sleep. So it’s impossible to nod off. Which means I didn’t dream, because I didn’t sleep.
I’m still not tired.
I’m seated in front of the window and I darken the notebook’s pages, trying to reproduce what I see: the city lights reflected on the snow, the magnificent contrast between the buildings’ dark shades and the almost pastel tones of the illuminated powder.
This whole time, the TV is on and a stupid movie is playing. I don’t pay too much attention; I’m just reassured by the sound and the impression that my solitude is filled by the larger-than-life imaginary heroes with whom I share my room.
I keep checking my phone: no missed calls. Gia hasn’t tried to get in touch.
I’d give anything for a sleeping pill. But I don’t give in. Slowly, morning arrives. It’s still snowing. And then it hits me: my life is looking more and more like this notebook. What I mean is: reality is merging into my own perceptions of it.
Hollywood
“Will you explain what this is really all about?”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning why we’re actually here. You told me how you brought me here and all, but that’s not what I want to know. Don’t you think this is completely absurd—the three of us, here, now?”
Saké took a bite of the cucumber she was holding.
“I don’t know, Holly. If you think everything in life needs to have a point, a meaning, you’re in for a bumpy ride, my friend.”
She was right. I snatched the cucumber from her and took a big bite. It was juicy and crunchy. It calmed me down. She might be on to something with that funny diet of hers, I thought to myself.
It wasn’t fear keeping me awake, I explained. I was physically incapable of falling asleep.
“Another of my body’s eccentricities,” I added. “Next thing you know, I’ll grow a horn or something and I’ll be off to join a circus or a band of gypsies.”
“You moron!” she said, standing up. “What you need is a job. Come with me to work this afternoon: it’ll take your mind off things.”
So I went along to the ballpark. I was dying to see—and hear—her sing the US national anthem anyway. Saké was never the flag-waving type, not even back home.
Chokichi had left early in the morning, also looking for a job. Since I’d finally regained consciousness, and didn’t seem likely to fall back into a coma any time soon, he was free to do whatever he pleased. This involved, and I quote, “making some moolah” so we could “have a good time.” Whatever that meant.
I went to the softball game with Saké, only to discover that she wasn’t really getting paid to sing the national anthem: they were giving her free hotdogs. I brought this up, because it went against just about everything I’d learned about her since I’d woken up.
“You really thought I could make it through the day on cucumbers and rum? Hell no! But franks and buns don’t come cheap, you know, and if you want your hotdog to have some punch, you need a little sauerkraut, mustard, mayo, ketchup and a bunch of other toppings way beyond my budget. I told Chokichi I was getting paid so he wouldn’t ask me where the rent money’s coming from…”
“So… where is it coming from?”
She wouldn’t answer right away, instead shoving a huge bite of hotdog into her mouth.
“Have one—they’re free,” she said with her mouth full.
I was hungry, so I made myself a hotdog. But I insisted that she answer my question.
“My folks send me money. I got an envelope in Stockholm, one in Chicago and another in Madison. I must have a GPS under my skin or something for them to be able to track me like that. In fact, that’s why I left without you in the first place: I wanted to see if I could shake them off and disappear, just like they did. I don’t know where they are, but they always seem to know where I am. I swear, it’s driving me nuts.”
Saké sat down in the bleachers and buried her face in her hands; she was human after all. I mean, I was worried and a bit annoyed with how little she seemed to care about her parents’ disappearance, and with her lack of curiosity over where they might be. If I were her, I’d want to figure out why they left, where they were and how they always managed to know where she was.
I sat down next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. We stayed like that for about a minute, in silence. Then she got up, wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and smiled at me.
“OK, I’m all good now. Let’s forget about it.” She walked over to the grill. “Want another one?”
“No thanks, I’m OK.”
By the time Chokichi came home, the sun had completely disappeared below the horizon.
“It’s far from glamourous, but it’s better than nothing,” he said, laying his orange uniform on the kitchen table.
He sat down with us, grabbed an empty glass and filled it with rum. Saké and I had already finished one bottle and started on another.
“I don’t have a visa or a work permit, so they’ll pay me cash. But apart from that, it’s a regular job, almost legit. That should make you happy,” he said, turning to Saké.
“It does,” she said. “Better selling junkfood to fat people than scoring dope for junkies. At least… I guess.”
/> She burst out laughing and hit her head on the table, so I started laughing too.
“I think I’m drunk.”
“You think?”
Chokichi poured himself a second glass.
“You guys started early, by the look of things.” He turned to check the clock on the microwave. “It’s not even 10 yet… How much do I still have to drink to catch up?”
I paused before I answered.
“To catch up to me, only three more. I had four. But I don’t know about Saké. She finished the bottle, so…”
“Yeah, I’m really drunk,” she said between hiccups. “In fact, I think I better go to bed now if I don’t want to be sick. Goodnight, guys!”
We wished her goodnight. She had a hard time getting up and made for the living room, leaning against the furniture and walls to keep her balance. We heard her crash on the couch; she was snoring minutes later.
Chokichi and I had a couple of drinks together and chatted about our day. So this was what ‘living in society’ was all about! I told him the truth about Saké: the money, the hotdogs and how she’d fallen apart on me at the softball game… He talked about his day, his new job, his lack of enthusiasm.
“Did you sleep last night?” he asked.
“No. Not a wink.”
“Can you tell? Are you tired?”
“No.”
We stayed up talking for a long time and managed to finish the second bottle. I was becoming more incoherent by the minute. Unable to stand, I crawled to the living room on my hands and knees to see if we’d woken Saké with our laughter. She was sleeping on her back, her mouth wide open. I guffawed, but she didn’t budge.
“We’re good, she’s out cold!” I yelled towards the kitchen. Chokichi came in.
“What are you doing on the floor?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s more comfortable down here.”
He took my hands and tried to pull me up.
“Hop on, I’ll take you to bed.”
He crouched down so that I could climb on his back. He stood up, and I held on to his neck. Chokichi was hammered too, which meant that he wasn’t very steady on his feet. We crashed straight into a wall and stayed on the floor for a while, laughing our asses off, unable to speak. Our downstairs neighbour banged on the ceiling again, which made us laugh twice as hard. Then I managed to make my way to the bedroom on all fours, followed by Chokichi. We threw ourselves onto the bed. I wanted to listen to loud, heart-pounding music. I picked one of the albums my dad gave me. I put it on the turntable Saké had picked up at an antique store, and set the needle down right where Black Velvet started. It wasn’t my first time listening to it, which wasn’t lost on Chokichi.
“Is this Joni Mitchell, too?”
“Alannah Myles. This song rocks. Listen.”
We sat on the bed, our backs to the wall. I pressed my leg against his. And neither of us moved.
When I closed my eyes, I could see the stars as if they’d been tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.
Hollywood
Underground poem #31
I wish I could tell you
the effulgence on these lips
Xavier
Absolutely nothing was happening. The phone hadn’t rung once. Someone from housekeeping came each morning to change the towels and fill the little bottle of shampoo. I lazed about in bed until noon, even if I wasn’t sleeping. I visited Pittsburgh, its bookstores and restaurants.
I bought clothes, but didn’t indulge as far as to send them to the hotel laundry. From time to time, I’d take them to the Korean laundromat downtown.
While my clothes were in the machine, I sat down on a metal bench and pretended to read a collection of poetry I’d picked up second-hand. It was incredibly dull. I listened in on conversations and watched people, and it made me feel like I was taking part in something, that my existence wasn’t entirely pointless because it was part of a universal program; I was part of the community.
Then, just like that, during the rinse cycle, my heart started to race. Normally, I would have taken a few pills to prevent it from going full throttle in my chest and tearing through my ribcage. But I didn’t have anything on me and I’d promised Antony I’d stay clean and kick my many addictions. I took slow breaths, inhaled perhaps a little too deeply; I felt very strange, lightheaded, like I was about to pass out. I lay down on the bench. I was hot. I undid the top buttons of my shirt to let in some air. A boy came over to see me.
“Are you all right, sir?”
I said yes, then got up and left.
∷
Ti je e bukur. But there is someone else in my life, as I’ve said. And beyond that, there is something more crucial preventing us from being together—and it’s better this way. Go back to Montauk right away, Xavier, otherwise it will be too late: the storm’s only going to get worse where you are and you’ll be trapped in Pittsburgh.
Your friend,
Gia
P.S. My little boy’s name is Zarik. He looks a lot like you, in a way—even if that’s impossible. Unfortunately he died when he was ten days old. His little heart stopped beating. Just like that. Because these things happen.
∷
Montauk, then. In the middle of a storm, in May. I’m fed up with the snow, but I’ll drive there anyway, just for the experience. Nine hours and thirty-seven minutes, five hundred and three miles on Interstate 80, according to the Internet. We’ll see how the trip goes.
Am I the only one not writing little toxic letters?
Xavier
Notebook #2, entry VIII
I haven’t slept a wink in two weeks. I decided to leave in three days, a Wednesday, for no particular reason. To have time to sketch the beach house from memory, in pencil. To be able to find it once I get there and compare my memories to reality. Maybe Hollywood is still there. I sure hope so.
When I’m tired of drawing, I watch the snow fall. On rare nights when the sky is clear, I watch the shooting stars. The Lyrids, Pi Puppis, Alpha Bootids, Mu Virginids and Omega Capricornids. I watch them all with fierce intensity.
May. It’s still snowing.
I watch a bunch of films in my hotel room. To pass the time. I decided to devote myself to the filmography of Zooey Deschanel; I have the leisure of choosing some of my obsessions. I don’t watch them in order. It all started when I caught The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy on a sci-fi channel. Next I watched Almost Famous and The Good Girl, which I ordered off the hotel TV. Then I saw Yes Man and (500) Days of Summer and Winter Passing and I found out that she sings, too, so I bought three She & Him albums. I’ve been listening to them over and over ever since, especially the Christmas one because it won’t stop snowing and because Zooey Deschanel’s voice makes me want to cry.
I’m trying to understand the things that escape me.
Hollywood
“Don’t you get bored?”
“Sure, sometimes. Especially at night.”
We were both lying on the unmade bed. Neither of us had bothered to shake the sheets, pull up the duvet or arrange the pillows properly since we’d moved in. A few weeks ago already. Here in Madison, Alabama, the sun had been blazing hot throughout the month of May. I was slowly getting used to the value of a Fahrenheit degree. It was almost always ninety-nine degrees outside. In January, when near-zero temperatures were recorded in the past (that would be thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, if I understood correctly), the daily average had been seventy-eight degrees. I managed to glean these figures from the daily news on TV and the newspapers Chokichi brought back after his shift at the fast-food place.
“I mean, during the day I’m all alone in here, and at night you guys are asleep, so I’m alone then too… it shouldn’t change much, right? But the fact that you’re right there, that I can see you and all… it bothers me a bit more.”
“H
mm. I get it… I think.”
“You know, I’ve always had trouble sleeping. I used to think that, in the end, sleep was a waste of time. You could find much more interesting things to do with your time. But now that I can make the most of my 24 hours a day, I’m starting to miss it. Sleeping puts your mind at rest. Otherwise, you just keep thinking the same thoughts over and over, and you can’t take a break from yourself.”
The album we were listening to came to an end. I got up to turn it over and put the needle back in place. Mahler’s Symphony No. 5, performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and conducted by Georg Solti, an old, very rare, 1970 live recording Chokichi had found at a community yard sale.
I lay back in bed. Chokichi took my hand. We stayed like that for a while, in silence, immersed in the music.
We listened to the fourth movement, Adagietto. I was focusing on nothing but the music: the violins, the harp, a discreet cough from time to time. I had tears running down my cheeks. I cried like that, quietly, throughout the piece. In my whole life, I’d never heard anything so sublime.
Then the last movement ended, and there was an endless pause before the audience clapped. A long silence during which neither of us dared to move; it felt like time had stopped. One of those moments that exist only to give you the chance to reenter your body and go back to reality.
I wiped my cheeks. Chokichi sniffled. I didn’t turn to look at him. I didn’t want to know if he was crying too, or just bored to death. Mahler was mine, and mine only. Then he spoke to me.
“I hope you’re not mad that I read your poems.”
I turned and looked him in the eye. There was a disarmingly honest look about him, and something else I couldn’t quite make out.
“No, I don’t mind. But to tell you the truth, it makes me feel a little self-conscious.”
Listening for Jupiter Page 11
