“Je vais bien, merci.” Nick Cruickshank now tries to wriggle free from this excess of maternal attention because he still hasn’t completely recovered from what happened out there in the olive grove. Come to think of it, the other paradox (once more) is that he’s been able to find that warm and caring femininity more in the women who take care of him as a job than in the women with whom he’s had serious relationships. Really: almost all of the latter have been from his mother’s category, rather than Aunt Maeve’s. Intellectually acute, maybe artistically gifted, but emotionally unstable and limited in their affections, if not frigid. And to think that, from the age of twenty on, he certainly hasn’t lacked for choice: he must have met thousands of them on tour alone, on three or four different continents. But he’s never been drawn to idolizing fans, or the poor, damaged mannequins always hanging around the postconcert parties or record industry events, or the models or actresses his colleagues like so much, drugged out of their minds by the transient gleam of fame and its connected material advantages. Okay, maybe he has been attracted a few times, but the attraction has lasted a few hours or days at most, and inevitably left him in a state of desperate solitude, staring down into the abyss. Sure, he’s met a couple of women capable of bringing a little serenity into his life, but by some perverse mechanism he’s always ended up ruining things with them: just look at how it went with his first wife. It’s like he’s condemned to rediscovering in his life partners the same characteristics that made him miserable with his mother: it’s crazy, really. Several years ago he read a book by an American psychologist that talked about this very thing, the unconscious return to the causes of primary distress; but being conscious of the problem obviously hasn’t been of much use, judging by his sentimental choices before Aileen. With her it’s as if for the first time he’s discovered the existence of an intelligent, energetic, and creative woman who also wants and is able to take care of him, and it’s seemed like a sort of miracle. Not that she has ever baked a cake for him either (with the diet he’s been on for years, he wouldn’t eat it anyway), but she’s dedicated herself with the utmost intensity to every aspect of his life, from his stage attire to his song lyrics, to his houses; she’s even established good relationships with his kids, even with his ex-wives. Intuitive, reactive, ready to offer advice and suggestions anytime they’re needed, helping him and when necessary urging him on, convincing him, for example, to rid himself of the objects and people keeping him chained to his previous lives with the shackles of nostalgia and guilt.
Fortunately, the substitution of Madame Jeanne has not been among the many changes that Aileen has demanded here at Les Vieux Oliviers. Not that she hasn’t broached the subject, truth be told, but she eventually realized how important she is to him, and decided to put up with her at least temporarily, despite the territorial tensions and questions of form that arise between them at regular intervals.
“Est-ce que tu veux deux oeufs battus?” Madame Jeanne is firmly convinced that a well-fed man is a happy man: her first reaction when she sees him a little out of sorts is to offer him a couple of scrambled eggs, maybe with a little drop of rum.
“Non, merci.” With one long swallow he drains the third glass of apple juice, goes to set it in the sink. He’s always liked thick glass; this too must be something he gets from his childhood, from the memory of the bottles the milkman used to leave on the doorstep in Manchester. Is it possible that he’s repeatedly gotten himself into situations of emotional unhappiness for fear that serenity and stability would make him lose his inspiration? Has it been the emotional equivalent of limiting himself to a diet of rice cakes and water for days on end to try to revive the desperate creative energy of the early days?
“Un peu de guacamole, peut-être?” Madame Jeanne continues scrutinizing him protectively. When he hired her ten years ago she had a marked mistrust of avocados, almost didn’t consider them edible; it’s wonderful how in order to make him happy she’s been able to overcome her own preconceptions, expand her repertoire.
“Can I have a fucking pint of coffee, now?” Wally Thompson has entered the kitchen: thinning grizzled-blond hair scattered across his head, eyelids swollen from last night’s drinking and smoking, tattoos on his arms and legs revealed by gray gym shorts and a black cutoff T-shirt with the Guinness logo, white terrycloth slippers with the golden initials of the Paris Ritz.
Madame Jeanne glares at him: with the sole exception of the master of the house she doesn’t like having the sacred space of the kitchen violated, particularly by someone such as Wally, who represents the very type of rude and debauched friend she’d prefer to see him avoid.
“Madame Jeanne will make it for you now.” Nick Cruickshank heads him off, pushing him back out of the kitchen. He turns around to motion at Madame Jeanne. “Du café pour ce baudet, s’il vous plaît.”
She nods, the faintest hint of a smile: she understood perfectly, but her expression remains disapproving.
Wally reluctantly allows himself to be pushed out into the hallway, dragging the rubber soles of his slippers over the ceramic tiles; he stinks of alcohol, smoke, sweat, the expensive cologne that on him still smells out of place, even after decades. Wally looks at him, with those annoying eyes of his. “Already up and about from the break of day, eh?”
“It’s almost half past noon, Mr. Thompson,” Nick Cruickshank responds drily, because it’s how things have always been between them, and because he considers him largely responsible for the earlier accident among the olive trees: if he hadn’t made him drink so much last night and hadn’t given him that supercharged weed it’s almost certain he would have been able to see the three workers for what they were.
“Oh, my apologies, Mr. Clean.” Wally gives him a couple of jabs in the ribs, tries to rile him up. He has always been the jackass of the band, ever since the beginning, and certainly hasn’t improved with age: he’s merely become less funny, greedier for money, more bitter that in all these years the Bebonkers have only recorded three of his songs, thus depriving him of the constant flow of royalties that Nick Cruickshank and Rodney Ainsworth enjoy. But between records and concerts he has still earned infinitely more than if he had ended up in any other band or done any other type of work within his capabilities. And it isn’t true that they’ve all ganged up on him, as he claims: he simply doesn’t have any real talent as a composer. He’s a good bassist and that’s it. An amazing bassist, they might as well admit it, who never misses a beat, never lets their rhythm slacken. If he were capable of writing good songs, they would have taken them on the fly, at least in leaner years. But all he’s been able to come up with are some good bass lines (even some memorable ones, sure): that’s his comfort zone, his natural limit. When he tried to put together a band of his own in the nineties, that embarrassing calamity known as the Blues Angels, it was plain to see just what type of masterpieces he was capable of. But try telling him that: they’ve nearly come to blows several times, because of the veiled hostility he carries inside him. How many times has he wanted to get rid of Wally, substitute him with a session man to call in for recording and tours, as the Stones did, eliminate once and for all the torture of having to deal with someone convinced that their amazing talent is being thwarted.
But Wally Thompson is also one of the people whom Nick Cruickshank has known the longest, with whom he’s spent the most time. Adding together rehearsals, recording sessions, concerts, car, bus, and plane rides, days in hotels, lunches, dinners, smoking, drinking, waiting in dressing rooms, they’ve spent decades together, and this creates the same type of inevitable familiarity you have with a relative. But a relative whom you’ve gone to battle with, with whom you’ve been through the best and worst adventures imaginable, from being completely down in the dumps to being over the moon to plummeting back down to earth again, and so on. This is why it was simply unthinkable not to invite him here; just like it would make no sense to expect him to behave any differently than usual.
“So?” Wally scratc
hes his rear end, looks blearily around the living room: slovenly, the protruding belly of a beer drinker (and any other alcoholic substance he can get his hands on). “What’s the program for this afternoon?”
“The program is that everyone does whatever the hell they want.” Nick Cruickshank thinks that inevitable familiarity at least has the advantage of not needing to be overly concerned with politeness. If he’d had the choice he would have much preferred to take it easy for an extra day, maybe read a book or watch a few episodes of one of his favorite television series, but oh well. The fact is that after decades of chaos and continuous noise, in the studio, at home, onstage, offstage, he’s developed an immense appreciation for silence and solitude, for not having anyone around to disturb his thoughts and bombard his eardrums.
“Ah.” Wally looks at him with the expression of someone who, for lack of his own resources, is always hunting for invitations, suggestions, instructions, which he’s likely to bitch about later.
“Where’s Kimberly?” Nick Cruickshank gestures toward the room he and Aileen assigned to the Thompsons.
Wally’s expression conveys a generalized neglect; he scratches himself between the legs. “Fuck do I know. In the can, or on the phone, or rubbing some shit on her face.”
Nick Cruickshank would like to tell him to try to make an effort to better himself, even a small one, even for five minutes, just to surprise other people, if not himself; but it would be like asking a donkey to run the Kentucky Derby, so terribly useless. And then you might as well be up front about it: it’s not like the world of rock music is populated by people of extraordinary intelligence, let alone culture. The most widespread characteristic is a lack of precise thinking due to the lifestyle, the continuous interaction with a fundamentally infantile public, the use of immature attitudes and language as authentic tools of the trade. Wally Thompson doesn’t particularly stand out among their colleagues for stupidity or ignorance; in fact, he falls more or less in the norm. Indeed, it’s those who have aspirations of betterment that are looked on with suspicion, if not open hostility; getting caught reading a novel that isn’t pure trash can be sufficient to be branded a pretentious know-it-all. He still remembers Rodney’s reaction on seeing him reading Madame Bovary on an airplane, or Joyce’s Ulysses in a hotel suite (“Oh, pardon me, Mr. Professor!”). He has to admit that in this regard, his mother was right: the world of rock is founded on permanent regression. Better to conceal any attempt at personal growth, if there is one, or at least compensate for it with the occasional relapse into vulgarity and mental haziness.
Suddenly the stereo, the floor lamps, the signal on the modem all turn on simultaneously. They hear Aldino’s voice coming from the hallway. “The power’s back on!”
“So no plans?” Wally doesn’t register the information: it’s absolutely possible that in his state of morning opacity he wasn’t even aware of the blackout. He stares at him with those watery irises, his lips in that ugly half smile. “You make people come here from halfway around the world and you can’t be bothered to organize fucking anything?”
Nick Cruickshank feels the urge to tell him that he should be grateful he was invited to stay in this house with that slutty wife of his, but he restrains himself, for hospitality’s sake. He gestures toward the windows, quite brusquely. “If you want, maybe tomorrow we can take a little horseback ride.”
Wally looks at him as though he’s extremely disappointed by the proposal, but emits a grunt, nods.
Nick Cruickshank rotates his index finger in the air to say catch you later, heads for the door. He thinks that maybe he should call Aileen to see how her photographic expedition with the local derelicts in Lorgues is going, or alert René to prepare the horses for tomorrow morning, or find any occupation that keeps him away from useless attempts at nontrivial conversation with Wally “The Wall” Thompson.
FIVE
MILENA MIGLIARI DRIVES her orange Renault Kangoo on the road that runs through the plain beneath the foothills where the villages are perched, past construction material depots and swimming pool retailers and parking lots for diggers and so-called Neo-Provençal-style houses built on every available lot. Every so often she has doubts about having coming here of all places to live and work; but then she thinks that all she has done is to follow an inescapable current, beginning when she met Viviane at the yoga center in the hills of Le Marche, and continuing with her decision to come join her in France, their increasingly structured living arrangement, the purchase at rock-bottom price of the house with the glass-covered patio from the eccentric notary/amateur painter, the leasing of the ex-bar for the gelateria when it no longer seemed possible to find a suitable space. She has never been one to make long-term plans; not even medium-term ones; not even short-term. She has always lived in the here and now, with the idea of leaving room for things to happen when they have to happen, adapting in consequence. She’s always had a pretty fatalistic attitude toward events, and a tendency not to give either too little or too much weight to them based on preconceived scales of importance. For example, this story of the phone call from the super-nice and super-agitated English lady who wants twenty pounds of gelato today, of all days: it doesn’t radically change her economic situation, but it is a message from the universe telling her to keep her chin up, that pleasant surprises are always possible. Unless of course it’s a terrible joke by someone who enjoys toying with other people’s lives. It will be clear soon enough; she’s already rounding the curves that lead up to Callian, and the plateau just above the village where Chemin de la Forêt is located.
The roads in this area are mostly narrow, and you have to be careful because the locals drive as if they’re absolutely convinced no one will ever be coming in the other direction. She frequently has to slam on the brakes at the last second or veer off to one side, to avoid a frontal collision with some recklessly speeding idiot. And with each passing curve her anxiety grows, as it does before every appointment. It doesn’t matter if it’s with the dentist, a friend, or a client, as in this case: the idea of having to meet a specific person in a specific place for a specific reason makes her nervous, there’s nothing she can do. And this road is even narrower than the others, with a low stone wall on one side and the woods on the other, and longer than it first appeared.
But then the road suddenly ends, in front of an unduly imposing gate: on the right is a section of tree trunk with Les Vieux Oliviers burned into it, like the lady on the phone said. Visible through the dark-green iron bars are meticulously kept lawns and hedges and trees, for the enjoyment of the rich owners who almost certainly come here very rarely. Around here the use of houses is inversely proportional to their dimensions: the smaller ones are used intensively during the summer and on every holiday, the larger ones remain empty the vast majority of the time. It’s not even clear who the owners of the bigger houses are, surrounded as they are by quasi-legendary rumors about tycoons of finance, and soccer, music and movie stars. Some of the names are probably circulated intentionally by restaurateurs and real estate agents, trying to extend to these small towns the mystique of the Côte d’Azur and the more authentic Provence to the west. To avoid them being seen for what they are: completely parceled out, frequented by the Germans and Dutch who like the artificial lake, and by a few wealthy oddballs hoping for some privacy.
Milena Migliari gets out of the van, studies the small brass panel of the intercom on the gate’s left-hand column: no name. She hesitates for a moment, then pushes the button, uncertain. No one answers. She looks around, looks up: on top of the column is a blinker and the loudspeaker of an alarm system. She wonders if she should move her face closer to the camera’s little glass eye, prove she’s not a thief or gossip journalist or whatever else. She presses the button again, looks through the bars again: the house is invisible from here, not a sign of life.
Finally from the grill of the intercom comes a woman’s voice, decidedly suspicious. “Who’s there?”
Milena Migliari bring
s her face up to the camera, puts on a smile, which under the circumstances comes out terribly. “I’m here with the gelato.”
“What gelato?” The voice on the intercom becomes even more unfriendly; and what’s more, it doesn’t at all resemble the one that called her at the store, there isn’t the slightest trace of an English accent.
“La Merveille Imparfaite, in Fayence? You called me half an hour ago telling me to bring you twenty pounds of it?” Suddenly she feels incredibly stupid for having taken such an unusual order at face value, without even calling back to verify. It’s another perfect example of bitter disappointment due to her always hoping for pleasant surprises; it’s certainly not the first time she’s been played for a fool. When she was a little girl, she fell for it every time her father called promising to come pick her up to spend a wonderful weekend together and then didn’t even call back to cancel, infuriating her mother almost more with her than with him. Even Viviane is always telling her that she should try to get her head out of the clouds a little bit, establish a more realistic relationship with life. But if she didn’t have her head up in the clouds at least a little she wouldn’t be who she is, and she certainly wouldn’t have opened a gelateria like hers; she would settle for prepacked mixes and produce standard gelato. Which would probably be much more realistic than what she does, but would certainly give her much less joy. And anyhow she’s long since concluded that people are never really able to change, not deep down and permanently.
“Twenty pounds of gelato?” Now the voice on the intercom sounds incredulous. She hears another voice just beneath the first one, then both of them in an incomprehensible exchange; then neither.
Imperfect Delight Page 3
