“Because you are, you are, you are!” Kimberly comes out with another loop, seeing as she has such a talent for them. “And then you gave those god-awful so-called creations of yours to the dregs of society, but to me not even a motherfucking purse!”
“I simply didn’t want to be associated in any way with a poor embarrassing cow like you!” Trembling, Aileen is white in the face with rage.
Aldino bursts into the living room ready to clobber someone, attracted by all the yelling; his expression turns to dismay as soon as he realizes that the enemy is internal.
“Biiitch! I’ll tell you what I’d do with your fucking purses!” Kimberly’s voice is literally able to shake the glass of the sliding doors. “Besides, if I want something in leather I buy it in leather, certainly not in that horrible cheap plastic of yours!”
“Anti-leather is made entirely from plants!” Aileen is almost able to match her in terms of decibels, but a lack of training strains her vocal cords. “But clearly someone like you isn’t capable of understanding such things!”
“She understands them much better than you, bitch!” Now Wally intervenes in defense of his wife, though he’s unable to gesticulate freely due to the pain in his shoulder, and the fear his towel will fall down again.
“You’re a half-wit, you’re a troglodyte!” Aileen is so upset she doesn’t realize that the photographer and cameraman from Star Life have come into the living room with their equipment, accompanied and guided by the editor in chief and the writer.
Nick Cruickshank wonders whether he should alert her, or intervene himself, but he turns the other way, because the massage therapist is trying to drag Milena away by the arm.
“Do you mind telling me what you did out there in the woods with him?!” It’s not clear how much she knows, but she’s very aggressive, trying to push her into a corner of the living room.
Milena backs up, twists free: agile, flexible, even in this free-for-all she’s able to maintain an enchanting natural grace.
Nick Cruickshank would love to take her hand and whisk her away from here, jump into the first car they find, just keep driving; but he’s barely able to catch her eye from a distance.
“Excuse me, no photos or filming!” Aileen has finally realized that the photographer and cameraman from Star Life are recording everything. She tries to stop them with gestures that are super-determined, though slightly imprecise.
The photographer and the cameraman continue unabated, as if they haven’t even heard her.
Aileen goes toward the writer and editor, with uneven steps. “You tell them to stop it immediately!”
“I’m sorry, but they’re only doing their jobs!” The editor, who until a short time ago was gushing with feigned courtesy, now reacts in a decidedly discourteous fashion.
“This is not their job!” For that matter Aileen too has almost completely abandoned her usual elegance. “This is a private situation!”
“I’m sorry, but I’ll be the one to decide that, thank you!” The editor becomes increasingly aggressive.
“No, my dear! I decide, because this is my fucking house!” Aileen seems on the verge of a total loss of control, something Nick Cruickshank never thought possible.
Aldino moves toward the photographer and cameraman, clearly intent on blocking them physically, but the writer steps in. “If this guy lays a finger on them, we’ll cancel the contract and sue you!”
“The contract specifies that private situations are excluded from photos and filming!” Aileen worked for weeks to define every aspect of the agreement; she seemed so sure she hadn’t left any room for misunderstandings or ambiguities.
“Private situations are those in the bedroom and in the bathroom!” Seeing herself challenged, the editor’s tone turns nasty. “The terms are absolutely clear, and even your lawyers approved them! You’ve all signed!”
“It’s not a question of rooms, but of what happens in them!” Aileen refuses to accept the idea that the contract might have an interpretative hole precisely at its most crucial point. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m calling our lawyer immediately, but there isn’t the slightest doubt that this is a private situation!”
“This situation is all too terribly public!” The Star Life editor switches to an authentically cannibalistic register. “You could hear the yelling all the way out there, for God’s sake!”
“So you’re implying that a conversation’s volume determines whether it’s public or private, not its content? Do you realize the extent of your legal ignorance?!” Aileen’s tone is decidedly ferocious as well, but she’s frantic; she turns to look at Nick Cruickshank, as if to plead with him to intervene.
Nick Cruickshank shrugs; ever since she came out with the Star Life idea he’s tried to explain in every way possible that there was no reason in the world they needed to have their party paid for by a magazine, let alone a magazine that caters to despicable voyeurs. He ended up caving out of pure exhaustion, after she repeated time and again with unshakable conviction that supervised coverage would be infinitely preferable to the inevitably uncontrolled infiltrations of paparazzi, in addition to helping out the cause of Anti-leather and reviving the Bebonkers’ image. In other words, they willingly put their personal life up for sale to the highest bidder, and it’s absolutely pointless to complain about it now.
“Sorry, Nick, can you explain to me when the hell we’re going to find time to rehearse for the concert Sunday?” Rodney couldn’t choose a worse moment to present his demands, nor a more petulant tone.
Nick Cruickshank opens his arms out wide; to him Sunday seems so infinitely far away. “I don’t know. Ask Baz.”
“I’m asking you!” Rodney immediately gets upset, showing how irritated he already was. “Because after the party tomorrow half the band is going to be in far from ideal shape, and without a decent rehearsal it’ll be even worse!”
Nick Cruickshank looks at him thoughtfully and can’t understand how he managed to write dozens of songs (on the first three albums, after which everyone wrote their own, even if they’ve continued taking joint credit for them) and play thousands of concerts for decades with someone he now dislikes so strongly. “We did decide on the concert Sunday together, did we not?”
“Yeah, but until last week no one thought to tell me that your wedding party was the day before!” Rodney too has countless reasons for feeling bitter, starting with the fact that the fans consider him a phenomenal guitarist but not exactly the soul of the group. No one’s ever dreamed, for instance, of talking about “Ainsworth cool.” His fault, naturally, a result of his pedantry, his obsession with technique, the way he’s become more and more wrapped up in the virtuoso spirals of his solos, but just try telling him that.
“We didn’t tell you before in order to maintain a minimum of privacy, okay?” Aileen retorts, her voice hoarse. As always, she’s able to divide her attention over various channels simultaneously, even in her current state of agitation.
“Some privacy, with Star Life running around!” Sadie points to the cameraman and photographer, who continue recording every exchange, the writer and editor right behind them.
“This from someone who would never dream of putting her life on public display, nor that of her dear ones!” Aileen can’t bear another attack on this front.
“Meaning what?!” Unlike Aileen, Sadie still has untapped stores of vocal power at her disposal, and she certainly doesn’t intend to let them go to waste. “No, you’re going to explain this to me now! What do you mean?!”
“Even Todd says that we can’t play if there isn’t any time to rehearse!” Rodney continues down the same blind alley, obsessively unperturbed, pointing to the center of the room with his chin.
Todd is there, it’s unclear since when; he looks at Wally, who is half naked and slightly curled up on his side, hands gripping his exceedingly small towel. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m doing great. Isn’t it obvious, shithead?” Wally rips into him, despite the fact that To
dd is the only Bebonker with whom he’s maintained quasi-amicable relations. (It really is difficult to argue with Todd.)
In confirmation of his amiable nature Todd doesn’t reply, he turns toward Rodney. “Then who’s playing bass on Sunday?”
Rodney turns immediately toward Nick Cruickshank, as if to get an answer from him.
“Are you going to tell me what you meant?! Eh, are you?!” Meanwhile, Sadie continues shouting at Aileen.
“I don’t need to tell you anything at all!” Aileen puts all the disdain she has left into her voice. “All you have to do is go on any gossip website to find a few dozen photos of you with your tits and ass on display beside some pool, husband and children a few steps away!”
“At least I can!” Sadie hits back savagely but smoothly. “You maybe not, seeing as you’re practically anorexic!”
“You’re embarrassing! You’re embarrassing! You’re embarrassing!” Aileen throws herself into a loop as well, not knowing she doesn’t have the slightest chance of competing with an ex-pro on her own ground.
Nick Cruickshank is amazed how little he cares about the people getting upset and yelling in the living room of what’s supposed to be his home. The only person that matters to him is Milena: each time he looks at her it’s like he sees a halo of thoughts, gestures, and words suspended all around her and waiting to be set free. But each time he tries to get closer she moves to avoid the grasp of the massage therapist, or someone else gets between them. If he were more lucid he’d certainly be able to reach her; but he isn’t, not at all.
“What do you mean, who’s playing bass?!” The mere idea of being excluded makes Wally start shouting even louder than before.
“And you, do you mind telling me what you think you were doing?” Aileen abandons Sadie and goes back to interrogating Milena, at a lower volume, as if she could manage not to be heard by the others, Star Life team included.
Milena looks at her: it’s clear she doesn’t understand the question, or the reasons behind the question.
Aileen turns toward Nick Cruickshank, her face upset; her hair, incredibly, disheveled. “Well, can you explain it to me, Nick? What did you think you were doing?”
“We weren’t doing anything.” Nick Cruickshank shakes his head, and at least in this he feels like he’s being perfectly sincere. “It happened.”
“Ah, sure.” Aileen kind of hops in place, employing more nerves than muscle. “You’ve followed your instincts, naturally! Isn’t that just marvelous?!”
“We can call anyone on bass! That’s the least of our problems!” Rodney has never loved Wally, but in the past ten years it’s quite possible he’s developed an authentic desire to kill him.
Todd nods, his head of curls looking slightly frizzy. “We can ask Jack, or Tim.”
“Or Ronan.” Nick Cruickshank throws out a name, purely as a reflex.
“Excuse me, but we were talking about something completely different, it seems to me!” Aileen takes him by the arm, her voice so beleaguered it’s painful to the ear. “Could you forget about your stupid band nonsense for a moment?”
“It’s actually not nonsense, Aileen,” Todd intervenes, in that impartial way of his. “Without the bass we can’t do the concert on Sunday.”
“The bass is the least of our problems, compared to not being able to have a decent rehearsal!” Rodney is right, because time really is short, and after the party they’ll be in the worst possible condition for playing; but that doesn’t make his attitude any less annoying. But then he’s always been this way, ever since he was still a maniacal, aspiring solo guitarist spending his days locked in a room playing scales after scales until his fingers hurt. He had a brief period of creative glory during the Bebonkers’ first two years, then his obsessiveness swallowed it whole.
Nick Cruickshank is totally incapable of taking any real interest in the matter; in truth he doesn’t even try, keeping his eyes trained on Milena.
“Either I’m on bass, or there are no Bebonkers! That clear?!” Wally shouts himself hoarse, gesticulates with his good arm, lets his towel fall again, struggles to pick it up, pushes Kimberly away gruffly when she tries to cover him up.
“It’s certainly not our fault you’re in this state, you slob!” Rodney dumps on him a portion of the anger accumulated during decades of exasperating arguments over questions of principle, countless hours waiting for the night owl to wake up, continuous competition for visibility.
“Son of a bitch!” Wally takes a Walter Kottke ceramic duck off the coffee table and throws it at him with his left hand. Naturally, he misses—the duck crashes into the awful Stephan Muchensky bronze cone that Aileen bought at Christie’s for a price that’s best forgotten, shatters into a thousand pieces. Wally turns immediately toward the Star Life cameraman who has filmed this episode as well, tries to take the camera away from him. The cameraman retreats, still filming; his photographer colleague takes advantage to get a sequence of rapid-fire shots of the clumsy attempted assault. Wally yells, grunts, kicks out, flails with his good arm: he’s not aware of it, but this is a sort of pathetic replay of when all four of them used to devastate hotel suites just for the fun of it, because they had nothing better to do, because ultimately it was what was expected of them.
Todd shakes his head, with that unnerving calmness that over time has become just as much of a role to play as the poses of the others. “Anyway I’ve said right from the start that I didn’t like the idea of the party before the concert.”
“I didn’t like it either, if you really want to know.” Nick Cruickshank looks at the spot where Milena was two minutes ago but doesn’t see her anymore. A vein of misery wells inside him, unstoppable.
“Is that so?!!” Aileen’s tone and manner, which she’s honed for so long, with such care and intelligence, have deteriorated in impressive fashion. “You might have told me! I certainly didn’t force you! You’re being totally unfair!”
“Come on.” Nick Cruickshank thinks that he certainly has the vocal capabilities to yell much louder, but he’s too despondent, his sense of foreignness too intense. “The pressure of your expectations happens to be worse than any obligation.”
“Then find yourself a woman completely devoid of expectations, and devoid of the qualities allowing her to have expectations, and then tell me if you’re happy!” Aileen no longer seems to care that she’s being targeted by both the cameraman and the photographer from Star Life; in fact, she seems to be turning her face to give them a better angle. “Unless you’d rather flee again in that damn glider of yours!”
“It’s not for fleeing, it’s for flying.” But Nick Cruickshank wonders if there’s really a difference, since in reality glider flying is hardly as graceful and poetic as people say, or as it might seem from the outside: it’s mechanically complex and anything but natural, as yesterday demonstrated. And even if not every flight ends in a crash, it does inevitably bring you back down to earth; even the greatest combination of updrafts can’t keep you in the air forever.
“Sorry, but these are your issues, resolve them between the two of you!” Rodney yells, in that donkey-like register of his that half the Bebonkers’ fans incredibly seem to like, maybe for the simple fact that it’s been buzzing in their ears for so long. “I want an answer right now about the bass and the rehearsals, or else I’m not doing the concert!”
“How exceptionally loyal of you.” Nick Cruickshank can’t resist giving him a little bow complete with mimed hat removal, though he knows he’s exacerbating the situation.
“You’re the one who’s mixed your personal affairs with those of the band, as usual!” Rodney brays with asinine vehemence; all he needs to do now is start flapping his ears.
“Yeah, you’re the one who created this situation!” Sadie immediately supports him, with a perfect blend of malice and stupidity.
“I think the situation created itself by itself. Like every situation, right?” Nick Cruickshank wonders if that’s really true: in the present case, as
well as in the other situation he’s thinking about.
“You created the situation, asshole!” Wally spits up some more wild fury: he sprays saliva, turns toward Rodney and Todd, as if he wants to attack them. “And you two as well, you little shits, saying that the bass is the least of your problems!”
“Only as far as replacing you is concerned!” Rodney raises his voice, so out of character for him; his beef with Wally is long-standing as well, though it’s never come to the surface. “In the sense that anyone would be better than you, both personally and musically!”
“You’re a little shit, Mr. fucking Quick Hands! Your solos are about as exciting as a fucking Japanese porno, but you don’t even realize it because you’re so convinced you’re a god of the guitar!” Wally is screaming like a beast, foaming at the mouth, gesticulating; the towel comes and goes. “If you even think of getting up on that fucking stage without me on Sunday, you’re dead! I mean it, I’ll go and get a shotgun and you’re dead!”
“Which would be appropriate at a benefit concert for the victims of an act of terrorism.” Nick Cruickshank can’t help himself, again.
“We can cancel Sunday as far as I’m concerned!” Rodney doesn’t budge from his line, braying like never before. “Without some decent rehearsals and a guarantee on the bass, I’m going back to the coast!”
“On Sunday you will do me the huge favor of respecting the commitments I’ve made with the sponsors, TV, radio, as well as the mayors of four towns!” Baz Bennett has arrived in the living room as well, immediately adopting the attitude halfway between grammar school teacher and big-money drug dealer that’s allowed him to keep them together until now. “I’m talking about money already paid, having nothing to do with the proceeds going to charity! And if you don’t give a damn about the money, at least think of your responsibility toward your fans! And to those who work for you!”
Imperfect Delight Page 26
