by Michel Faber
They breakfasted in bed, basking in the warmth of the sun streaming through the balcony window. Jennifer’s laptop played Coltrane’s Stellar Regions through its inbuilt speaker, at quite robust volume and with decent sound quality. Every now and then there was a slight stutter in the reproduction but, given the semi-abstract nature of the material, nothing to spoil Theo’s enjoyment.
‘You better be careful around me,’ said Jennifer, her eyes twinkling in the shadow of her teased and tousled fringe. ‘Whatever you mention is on your mind, I might just make it happen.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ he said. The room, large though it was, smelled of sex, and there were two squishy condoms discarded at the side of the bed, one from last night and one from earlier this morning. Jennifer had provided the condoms as well.
‘This is very thoughtful of you,’ he said.
‘Oh, I love this album too,’ she said. ‘I was so in the mood to hear it again.’
She wiped her buttery fingers on the bedsheet and picked up the CD case. It was a Digipak, so she could hold it open like a miniature book as she sipped her coffee. Coltrane, immaculately dressed as always in his purple suit, gazed up from the chiaroscuro depths, poised to blow his saxophone.
‘You’re still number one,’ she said.
Theo wasn’t sure if she was addressing Coltrane or himself.
‘In the New York Times,’ she added. ‘Second week running.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I checked emails as I was loading in the CD.’
‘I didn’t notice. You must have done it when I blinked.’
‘Yeah, I’m quick.’ She said it matter-of-factly, as if it was part of her job.
Theo read the two messages that the hotel reception staff had deposited on his breakfast tray. They were both from literary agents. One greeted him with a bit of modern Aramaic – Šlama ‘loxun! – before making her pitch. He had to give her points for trying. Her name was Zarah Obatunde and she sounded terribly young.
‘Sounds terribly young, doesn’t she?’ remarked Jennifer. Her eyes were pointed elsewhere and he couldn’t understand how she’d managed to read Ms Obatunde’s message.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You’ll get a lot of those,’ she said.
Theo read the other message, which was from Martin F. Salati, an agent who’d written to him three times before, at various intervals on this tour.
‘This guy is kind of my stalker,’ said Theo.
‘I know him,’ said Jennifer. ‘Marty Salati. He’s good. A pro.’
‘Maybe I need an agent.’
‘It’s a bit late now.’ She made a motion in the air with her slender hand, like a priest issuing a blessing. After a moment, he realised she’d mimed the signing of a contract.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘it hardly matters. You’ve done very well, Theo. I don’t think it’s hit you yet what’s happened with this book. You are, shall we say, on a level very few authors ever get to. You are . . .’ words failed her, for a moment, ‘way up there.’ And she threw her arm up at the ceiling. The bedclothes slipped off her breasts again.
Theo mopped up the last of the egg yolk with a scrap of toast. Coltrane’s sax and Rashied Ali’s drums skittered around the bridal suite, chasing each other up the walls, along the ceiling, under the curtains, and out onto the balcony, where they leapt into the humid sky of Baltimore.
Theo liked Baltimore. It was supposed to be very dangerous, but he liked it. And he liked the Harborfront Hotel particularly. It had been a rat-infested banana warehouse right up until the 1970s, then been transformed into a gleaming citadel of luxury accommodation. Yet the staff weren’t snooty; everyone was very nice to him, very laid-back. Well, everyone except that crazy Filipina cleaning lady, who had reproached him in broken English yesterday, weeping and shaking her mop. He hoped she hadn’t lost her job over it. Disliking a book shouldn’t be a crime, and anyway, with The Fifth Gospel at number one on the bestseller list for the second week in a row, he could afford to be forgiving.
‘When do I have to get on the train for Philadelphia?’ he asked Jennifer.
‘Twelve thirty-five,’ she said without hesitation. ‘But we can change it for a plane leaving at three p.m., if you like. Your gig at Borders isn’t until eight thirty.’
‘I thought I might like to have a wander around the city.’
‘I can get you anything you want, delivered here,’ she said.
‘Thanks, but I feel like stretching my legs.’
She stroked his thigh through the bedsheets. ‘Mmm, you’re good at that.’
Stellar Regions had reached the title track, and encountered a digital hiccup. Coltrane’s sax repeated the same note in rapid-fire succession, then moved on.
‘This is my favourite cut,’ Jennifer said. ‘Awesome.’
‘Yes, but now that Alice Coltrane is dead, they should correct the title, don’t you think?’ He couldn’t believe he was testing her like this; it was the sort of question Meredith would have rolled her eyes at. But the circumstances of his life had changed so much in the last couple of weeks that he felt a little mistrustful of his marvellous fortune. Jennifer was kind of a final straw, fortune-wise. You get introduced to your latest Elysium representative in your latest city, and she’s not the usual author escort or uninformed underling, but a Senior Editor, and she’s beautiful and smart and she loves jazz, and within a few hours she’s in bed with you. The notion that, on top of all that, she should be genuinely au fait with the controversial provenance of John Coltrane’s Stellar Regions seemed too good to be true.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Does it make all that much difference whether it’s called “Stellar Regions” or “Venus”? Who knows what John would have called it if he’d lived?’
‘“Venus”, I bet,’ he said. ‘And maybe he wouldn’t even have put the album out.’
‘So we have Alice to thank,’ said Jennifer. ‘She released it, you love it, I love it, so everyone’s happy, right?’
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been sure about the string overdubs.’ (It wasn’t true: he’d always loved the strings. Why the hell was he playing devil’s advocate now?) ‘Putting strings and Indian instruments all over a track that was originally recorded just by the four guys . . . I dunno.’
‘John and Alice were partners,’ Jennifer reminded him. ‘In love and in art. He was behind her one hundred per cent of the way.’
Theo slumped back against his pillow. He had lost his will to spar with her, or maybe she’d just passed the test. ‘Yeah. I suppose the best solution would be to put the undoctored recordings on an expanded issue of the CD, as bonus tracks. Then everybody could make up their own minds.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Maximum choice. Always good.’ He slipped out of bed and walked over to the jacuzzi, considered it, then passed on to the shower cubicle, where he shut himself in and turned the dial.
The torrent of hot water was just what he needed. He let it flow over his face for a couple of minutes. He tore open the complimentary sachet of shampoo and lathered his hair, noting, as always, the bald area of scalp under his soapy fingers. He rubbed cleansing froth onto his hairy abdomen, noting, as always, the total lack of what lifestyle magazines called ‘abs’. He was an average guy with average defects. Jennifer was an alpha female, even more streamlined and perfect naked than when she was clothed. This was what a number one bestseller did for you. This was what you earned along with the money.
‘There’s no need to upgrade to a plane,’ he told her a few minutes later when he was towelling himself dry. ‘I just want a short walk, is all. A half hour, maybe. Just to get some sun, look at the people on the streets. I’ll be ready for the Philadelphia train by midday.’
She had made good use of his time in the shower. Her hair was neatly reshaped, her lipstick glossy, her body tightly wrapped in a pencil skirt, fresh white blouse and chamois jacket. A list of emails glowed on her laptop screen, and Stellar Regions had c
ome to an end.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to, honestly.’
‘Indulge me, please. I like you, but I like my job too, and my job is to make sure you get to your gig in Philadelphia safe and sound.’
He hitched up his underpants, embarrassed at the way the waistband seemed to underline his protuberant gut.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Surely my public appearances are less and less important with each day that goes by? I mean, the book is a huge success. Everybody knows about it, and the ones that don’t will hear about it regardless of what I do. So . . . let’s pretend – I mean, I wouldn’t do this, but let’s pretend I went to a bar in Baltimore and got plastered and missed my reading in Philadelphia. Would it make any difference?’
Jennifer leaned over and kissed him on the cheek with her luscious little lips.
‘Go easy on the hubris, lover,’ she cooed.
Theo strolled along Baltimore’s harbour, licking an ice cream. Jennifer walked beside him, carrying his plastic bag of purchases (a glossy photography tome about the city’s past, which he planned to send to his mother for her birthday; several Rahsaan Roland Kirk CDs; a shirt). The bag was heavy on her thin wrists and she switched it from hand to hand as she walked, transferring her cellphone from ear to ear as she took calls from various colleagues.
It was a brilliant day. Families with children were out in force, not just in the shopping areas but even on the surface of the water, floating happily to and fro in dinghies shaped like Disneyland sea serpents. A one-man band paraded up and down the jetty, fingering his accordion, tooting on his trumpet contraption, clashing the cymbals tied to his knees. Theo pointed to a flurry of movement under a nearby garbage can: a duck and duckling, huddled together, wings interleaved.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘They’re real.’
‘You were expecting . . . ?’ she said.
‘I mean, they’ve managed to survive in amongst all this hustle-bustle. You’d think it would freak them out.’
‘They’re highly motivated, I’m sure.’ As if to prove her point, the over-filled garbage can spontaneously jettisoned some of its topmost contents: several bucks’ worth of crab.
‘Wow,’ Theo said again. Even when he’d been led past the scene, he kept turning around to check whether the ducks were still there.
‘If they can’t get their ca-ca together, I think we should just go elsewhere,’ said Jennifer. She was talking to somebody on the phone. ‘There are other distributors working 24/7. They’ll guarantee fulfilment even if it means FedEx planes. So why do we let these clowns keep crying on our shoulder about trucks stuck in traffic jams? I mean, God, this is books we’re talking about, not steel girders.’
Theo had finished his ice cream. His lips were sticky with chocolate. Jennifer, still talking, jammed her cellphone between her jaw and shoulder, and extracted a small item from her jacket pocket. She handed him what at first appeared to be a condom foil but proved, when torn open, to contain a moist towelette.
‘Baum?’ said Jennifer into her cellphone. ‘Don’t worry about Baum. He’s a sweetie but he’s . . .’ She reached over to Theo and helped him wipe a smudge of chocolate he’d missed, on his cheek. ‘Things are moving out of Mr Baum’s . . . ah . . . sphere. He knows it too; it’s no secret. How can I put this? I think you’ll find that when the Ocean deal takes proper effect, these sorts of . . . ah . . . consultations will no longer be necessary. Does that . . .? Good. Good. Any time. That’s what I’m here for.’
A few minutes later, on the East Pratt Street pier, Jennifer and Theo stood admiring the magnificent old power plant which had been converted into a Barnes & Noble superstore. Theo had performed there last night but it had been dark and Jennifer had ushered him straight from the taxi into the building. He’d noted the splendid aquarium with its giant-sized angel fish, and the clever way some of the smoke stacks had been converted into bookshelves, but only a small part of his mind had been open to these things; the demands of the gig had preoccupied him. He was not a natural performer, which made the pressure of reading aloud more onerous, especially since audience response to Malchus tended to include gasps, mutterings and exclamations. After the question-and-answer session and the signing, he’d been so emotionally drained that he wanted nothing more than for Jennifer to take him back to his hotel.
Today, observing the book emporium-cum-power station from a distance, he appreciated what an impressive piece of architecture it was. Although built for no more exalted purpose than to generate electricity, it had the dark grandeur of a cathedral. A giant phallic guitar, in honour of a Hard Rock Cafe franchise within, penetrated the azure sky like a steeple.
‘Excuse me,’ said a voice from below. ‘You’re Theo Grippin, aren’t you?’
He looked down. A black woman in a wheelchair was smiling up at him. She was fat and ugly and dressed in bright yellow sportswear, with foreshortened legs that ended in sheepskin booties. Her eyes were likewise bright yellow.
‘You did a reading in there last night,’ she said, jerking her head towards Barnes & Noble.
‘That’s right,’ said Theo. ‘Were you there, ma’am? I didn’t see you.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ she said. ‘I wanted to be, but I got this here wheelchair, and that building is too difficult.’ She pronounced the final syllable with a definite ‘kult’ emphasis, the way lower-class Americans often do.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Theo.
‘Can we help you, ma’am?’ said Jennifer.
‘I read your book, Mr Grippin,’ said the black woman, eyes fixed unswervingly on Theo. ‘The Fifth Gospel.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ he said.
‘No need to thank me, Mr Grippin,’ said the black woman. ‘God told me to read it. It was very innaresting.’
‘Uh . . . I’m glad you thought so.’
‘I would appreciate it so much if I could have your autograph. I got a special autograph book.’
‘Uh . . . I’d be happy to.’
She fumbled inside her polyester garments with her stubby fingers. Instinctively, Theo bent down towards her, ready to oblige when she pulled her autograph book to light.
Instead, she pulled out a handgun. It loomed into the space between her and Theo, so potent and frightening it might as well have been fired already. She lifted the grey metal barrel towards his forehead.
‘You done an evil thing, Mr Grippin,’ she said, more in sadness than in anger. ‘You goin’ straight to Hell.’
Theo’s vision blurred; his heart beat too loud and too hard to spare much blood for his brain. I’m not ready, he wanted to say, but there would be no time for words.
‘Put it down, ma’am.’ Jennifer’s voice, echoing in the void.
Theo swayed on his feet, and the black woman’s face swam back into focus. A second gun had materialised in the space between them. One was pointing at his chest, but wavering. The other was pointing at the black woman’s face, the tip of its barrel jammed against the bridge of her nose, nudged into the hollow of her eye. A delicate white hand held this gun; an elegantly manicured finger was wrapped round the trigger; a slim wrist kept the weapon steady.
‘Put it away, ma’am,’ said Jennifer.
The black woman did as she was told.
‘Now get moving.’
The black woman took one last look at Theo, immolating him with a glower of hate. Then, in silence, she clamped her hands on the tyres of her wheelchair, swivelled roughly around, and rode away. Her wheels squeaked along the waterfront.
Theo dropped to his knees, coughed a couple of times, then spewed a soupy mixture of Pepsi and chocolate ice cream. He felt Jennifer’s hand on his back.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he moaned.
‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ she said.
He looked up at her. She was amazingly, horribly calm.
‘I . . . I guess I’m not used to guns,’ he said.
‘This is Maryland,’
she said. ‘Everybody’s got one here.’
She had already returned her weapon to wherever she’d concealed it before. Theo couldn’t imagine a cavity in her snugly tailored clothing where a hunk of steel could be stashed away without causing a bulge, but it was done.
He shuddered, retched again. It was extraordinary how visceral an effect it could have on you, being threatened with a gadget you’d seen a million times for entertainment. In the movies, heroes under fire were always galvanised into action, leaping around athletically or standing firm, as though bullets were tennis balls to be fielded or ignored. Theo felt like he’d been blasted open. The vomit on his chest felt like blood. He wiped at it ineffectually.
‘Hey,’ said Jennifer, waggling his bag of purchases. ‘It’s a good thing you bought a new shirt.’
He hung his head. Her self-possession was not in the least reassuring; it made him feel worse. She should be on her knees sobbing, or having hysterics, and he should be comforting her, or snapping her out of it with a slap to the face.
‘Doesn’t anything faze you?’ he asked.
‘Sure I’m fazed,’ she said. ‘I’m only human. But we’ve all got to perform, haven’t we?’ She ran one hand through her hair, in a slightly trembly gesture that might have been a stress reaction, except that she managed to take a quick peek at her wristwatch while doing so. ‘We’ve both had a shock. Let’s go back to the hotel and get over it together.’
He nodded. But the nod wasn’t really assent, it was just a reflex. He didn’t want to be in a hotel room with Jennifer. Ever again. He wanted to get the hell out of Baltimore, which was a bad place full of bad people. He wanted to be on a train, in an otherwise empty compartment, watching a blurry landscape through the window, on a wonderfully slow journey that took hours and days and weeks and never arrived in Philadelphia.
‘Tell you what,’ said Jennifer. ‘Let’s get you there fast. I’ll make one call, and you can fly.’
The Multitudes
‘I hope Jennifer took good care of you,’ said Tomoko Steinberg, with a hint of a smile, as she led him from Arrivals towards the John F. Kennedy car park. She was a petite Japanese, the epitome of ironic-chic in her vintage 1980s T-shirt emblazoned with FRANKIE SAY: RELAX. It was about four sizes too big for her, fulfilling the function of a dress, and the white cotton contrasted nicely with her brocaded red pantyhose. Her calf-length boots were pure white, but supple and wrinkled as if she’d worn them day and night for years. She was in her late forties and looked twenty-five; the search engine Theo had consulted yesterday had identified her as the widow of a famous sculptor.
