‘Among other things,’ says Max. ‘And that’s the guy I’ve been carrying around. Why’d he hop it all of a sudden?’
‘He knew you’d recognise him if you looked at the bronze Apasmara and he was hoping to delay it,’ says his mind. ‘That’s why he made us miss South Ken three times. He’s not all that clever, actually.’
‘He’s not coming from you or me,’ says Max. ‘He’s from somewhere else. Somebody put him on to me. Who?’
‘What was that on the doormat?’ says his mind.
‘It was a CD,’ says Max. ‘The recordable kind.’
‘From where? From whom?’
‘Don’t know,’ says Max. ‘No writing on it. Somebody’d pushed it through the letterbox.’
‘We listened to it, didn’t we?’ says his mind. ‘That’s how this whole thing started.’
‘You’re right,’ says Max.
‘What was it?’ says his mind.
Max closes his eyes, trying to remember. Almost he can hear it coming through the raga the musicians are playing but not quite. ‘It was a raga,’ he says.
‘Let’s go home,’ says his mind.
2
Amazing Grace
November 2001. Max knows a little bit about a lot of things. He’s read enough Hindu mythology to recall that Apasmara is Forgetfulness, Heedlessness, Selfishness, Ignorance, and Materialism. Those are some of his names but he could also be called Pain-in-the-Arse or Whatever-You-Don’t-Want or The-One-Who-Doesn’t-Return-Your-Calls or any other hard name you can think of. Somebody’s got to be under Shiva’s right foot and he’s it. Maybe he likes it there, who knows? In bronze he’ll stay under Shiva’s foot, but in reality he’s a freelance demon and he’ll go wherever he’s sent. So who sent him to Max?
Nothing bad happens on the way home from the V & A but Max keeps looking around like a hunted man and people give him plenty of space in the tube. Several men are watching him closely, ready to jump him if he turns out to be a suicide bomber.
‘Everybody can see there’s something wrong with me,’ says Max to his mind.
‘Steady, boy,’ says his mind. ‘Stay with me, I’ll get you through this.’
Max gets home safely and pours himself a large Glenfiddich. ‘What we should do now,’ says his mind, ‘is get some expert advice.’
‘Where?’ says Max.
‘Remember Istvan Fallok, Hermes Soundways?’
‘What a good idea,’ says Max. He knocks back another large Glenfiddich, puts the CD in his pocket and a fresh bottle in his shoulder bag, and he’s off.
By the time he comes out of the Bakerloo Line at Oxford Circus it’s night-time. The sky that was clear over South Kensington has clouded up and is gently raining. The glistening streets are alive with reflected lights of all colours, even words and names. The hiss of tyres on the wet whispers that you never know what might happen next. Feeling like a doomed hero in his own movie, Max goes by way of Argyll Street, Great Marlborough, Carnaby and Marshall to Broadwick, then to an enclave of small businesses and light manufacturing off Broadwick. Places that look like message drops for secret agents while producing pens with your name and address on them and novelty key rings. Hermes Soundways is a little twilit studio down a flight of iron steps that ping and patter as the rain hardens up.
By now it’s after seven but business hours mean nothing to Istvan Fallok. He’s a twenty-four-hour person who probably sleeps somewhere sometime but not noticeably. His Soho lair is full of tiny winking red, yellow, and green eyes. Green waves oscillate and blue bars leap up and down on various screens. From speakers as big as fridges issues the sound of a sitar. ‘Favourable sign, that,’ says Max’s mind. Rising from the depths like the Kraken is Fallok, fifty-nine, tall, pale, his red hair flecked with grey. He knows all there is to know about sound and he knows Max because he did the track for a short film Max wrote a couple of years ago, If I Forget Thee.
‘Hi,’ says Max. ‘Remember me?’
‘Max Lesser,’ says Fallok. ‘You look anxious. What can I do for you today?’
Max offers the bottle of Glenfiddich. Fallok finds two cloudy glasses, opens the bottle, pours a drink for each of them, clinks with Max, sips, sighs, and leans back in his swivel chair. ‘You have my ear,’ he says. ‘For a limited time.’
‘I’ve got a problem you might be able to help me with,’ says Max. ‘What’s that on your speakers?’
‘Adana.’
‘It sounds like a ‘round-midnight kind of raga.’
‘It is. That’s because around here it’s always around midnight. You into Indian music?’
‘I listen to it sometimes but I don’t know much about it. Somebody sent me a CD with a raga on it and it did something to my head.’
‘What?’
Max tells Fallok about the whole Apasmara business and they both have another drink. ‘Got the CD with you?’ says Fallok. He ejects Adana from the player.
‘Why are you crying?’ says Max.
‘I’m not crying,’ says Fallok with tears streaming down his face.
‘Aren’t you going to play my CD?’ says Max.
‘I just did,’ says Fallok. ‘Where were you?’
‘Don’t know,’ says Max. ‘So what can you tell me? What did you hear in that music?’
Fallok shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear it. ‘I don’t remember,’ he says. He touches his cheek. ‘OK, maybe I was crying. So obviously the music hooked up with something in me. Music does that, it feeds that which it findeth. If it made you see Apasmara it’s because he was already hanging around somewhere in your mind.’
‘And that’s all you can tell me?’
‘That’s all. It’s that kind of thing.’
‘That’s a wonderful diagnosis,’ says Max. ‘But how do I get him off me?’
‘Is he on you now?’
‘No, but I know he’ll be back.’
‘Nothing I can do about that,’ says Fallok. ‘You let him in and you’ll have to find a way to get him out. Any idea who’d want to put Apasmara on to you?’
‘Nope,’ says Max as his mind comes up empty.
‘Well,’ says Fallok, ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful but I have to get back to work now.’
‘What do I owe you?’ says Max.
‘This one’s on the house. Thanks for the whisky and good luck. Here, don’t forget your CD.’
Max doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to be alone with himself. ‘I don’t know where to turn next,’ he says.
Fallok sighs. From the clutter on his workbench he takes a business card: All That Glisters, Grace Kowalski. It’s in Berwick Street. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming. She lives over the shop.’
‘What is she?’ says Max.
‘Unusual. She might be able to help you. She likes vodka. Off you go.’
All That Glisters has a good sound to Max and now the rain cheers him up. Berwick Street is quite close, and on the way he buys a bottle of Stolichnaya. It looks so clear and promising that he buys a second one, he wants to show willing. Berwick Street is crowded with shops and already he feels less alone. All That Glisters has a window full of interesting and expensive jewellery. It feels lucky to Max. The shop is dimly lit but the studio above it looks wide awake. Max rings the bell, hears footsteps on the stairs, the door opens and Grace Kowalski appears. She’s tall, gaunt, early forties maybe, dark circles under her eyes. Long black hair parted on the side and hanging straight down. Blue denim shirt not tucked in, jeans, bare feet, long and shapely.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Istvan phoned me about you.’ They shake hands. She has a good grip. ‘Come up,’ she says. ‘I just have a little bit of work to finish, then we can talk about what’s happening with you.’
Once in the studio, Max gives her the vodka. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Two bottles!’
‘Belt and braces,’ says Max as she finds two glasses and pours for them both.
‘Here’s to form and emptines
s,’ she says.
‘Whichever,’ says Max.
Grace takes her drink to her workbench which is in a corner of the room. It’s littered with tools, rolls of wire, and boxes of sparkly things lit by an Anglepoise lamp. There’s a salty sulphurous smell mixed with the smoke of her last cigarette as she makes herself a Golden Virginia roll-up and offers the tobacco and papers to Max. He declines. She lights up and gets back to work on the brooch she’s finishing. It’s a figure set with red and blue and yellow stones.
‘The Hanged Man,’ says Max. Grace shows him the card she’s working from, XXII Le Pendu in the Marseilles Tarot. ‘Very popular,’ she says. ‘We’re all of us in suspension.’
‘Do you believe in the Tarot?’ says Max.
‘I don’t believe in anything,’ says Grace. ‘You?’
‘I believe in this dwarf I’ve been carrying around.’
‘We’ll get to him in a moment,’ says Grace. ‘Bear with me.’ She’s been using tweezers very delicately. ‘There,’ she says, and puts the tweezers down. ‘It’s finished.’ She leans back, rolls another cigarette, lights up, and refills their glasses.
‘It looks good,’ says Max.
‘It better, I’m going to get a lot of money for it. I have a select clientele for this kind of thing: Tarot, Zodiac, I Ching.’ She moves gracefully off the chair and sits on the floor almost in a lotus position. ‘Join me,’ she says, ‘and tell me what’s happening.’
Max gets down on the floor (non-lotus) and tells her everything. ‘Do you want to listen to the CD?’ he says.
‘I don’t need it,’ says Grace. I’ll be working from your end. I have this one thing I can do. Maybe it’ll help, maybe not. First listen to this.’ She takes a folded piece of paper from her shirt pocket and reads:
‘Here, O Sariputra. Form is emptiness and the very emptiness is form; emptiness does not differ from form, form does not differ from emptiness; whatever is form, that is emptiness, whatever is emptiness, that is form, the same is true of feelings, perceptions, impulses and consciousness.
How does that grab you?’
‘Works for me,’ says Max. ‘Are you a Buddhist?’
‘I’m not anything but if form and emptiness are the same then so are Buddhism and non-Buddhism and the Heart Sutra should work for me, which it does. I’ve never even read the whole thing. Istvan showed me the book and that part leapt out at me. All of a sudden my head seemed to open up in all directions and I knew I could do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Get with the form of emptiness and the emptiness of form.’
Maybe it’s her voice, maybe it’s the words, maybe it’s the whisky and vodka on an empty stomach: Max feels as if he’s far away and high up, standing on the edge of something. Grace’s haggard face, the light of the lamp, the tools and things on the workbench, the smell of the place – maybe they’ll stop being there.
‘Don’t look down,’ says his mind.
‘How do you do it?’ says Max to Grace.
‘I just let myself be with it, and I can get you to be with it if you want. Do you want to do it?’
‘Yes,’ says Max.
‘OK,’ says Grace. ‘Close your eyes and we’ll both say the name of Apasmara until you see the form of him. It could take a while but we’ll do it until he shows up. When you see him I’ll see him too. Then we change his name a little to deny him recognition. We’ll call him Napasmara until his emptiness appears. When that happens maybe we’ll see where he’s coming from. This’ll take a lot of juice from both of us, so move your mind away from all interference and let the energy rise up in you.’ Grace’s voice is low and husky. Her words enter Max as if she’s a priestess and he obeys. His mind becomes clear and immensely deep as the energy rises up in him.
‘Apasmara,’ he says. Grace is saying it with him, he can feel her voice becoming big and far away, his own with it. They sound like the vocal chording of Tibetan monks. ‘Apasmara!’ How many times have they said it? Max feels himself moving slowly apart as the room disappears. After a long time here is the huddled form of the dwarf demon. Apasmara writhing and glaring with burning eyes. Apasmara hissing and spitting with the rage that’s in him.
‘Napasmara!’ Grace and Max and others chant hugely. What others – absent friends? ‘Napasmara!’ Again and again they voice the name that denies the form of the dwarf. It seems hours before he begins to scatter like ashes in the wind as emptiness enters him. Apasmara has become not there. Now there is a fresh dimness like the mist over a waterfall, moving aside to disclose blue eyes, direct and unfathomable. Now appears a woman’s face with chiselled features, sweet mouth, rose-petal lips, delicate pink tongue. ‘Lola!’ whispers Max. ‘Lola Bessington!’ Ridiculously, he finds himself singing:
‘Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl,
With yellow feathers in her hair
And her dress cut down to there …’
‘Lola!’ says Max. ‘I didn’t even remember that she was gone until just now. Not only is she gone, she’s even sent Apasmara to take away all memory of her.’ Sitting on the floor, he hugs his knees and rocks back and forth, weeping.
3
When Max Met Lola
December 1996. Lola Bessington was beautiful but she was not a showgirl. When Max met her it was cold and crisp, the air sharp with Christmas. Pavements bulging with burdened shoppers. Fretful eyes, rosy cheeks, clouds of breath. Doorways fully staffed with homeless. Max comes through Cecil Court, crosses St Martin’s Lane, passes the Coliseum entrance, goes into the Coliseum Shop. It’s bright and warm and festive, buzzing with customers doing their bit for the economy. Lola’s reaching up to get something off the shelves for a customer. Short skirts! Max’s heart leaps like a salmon jumping a waterfall. The music on the speakers is Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo. A good omen, he thinks. That’s the opera he’s come here to buy.
He follows Lola and her customer back to the counter. She has elegant legs and Max knows instinctively that her mind is equally elegant. While he waits his turn he hears L’Orfeo as if for the first time. His thoughts about Lola have naturally been carnal, he’s hard-wired for that, but now the music is getting to him. As Lola completes the sale he notes that her eyes are blue, direct and unfathomable. Her voice is a clear stream in a dappled wood, her accent is patrician. ‘If I can have her,’ he thinks, ‘my love will never die.’
‘Hi,’ says Lola. ‘Can I help you?’ The salary she earns in the shop just about pays for taxis and lunches but it gives her a feeling of independence. Her father is the Rt. Hon. Lord Bessington, Lord of Appeal in Ordinary. Lady Bessington is on the Board of Trustees of the Royal Opera. Lola lives with them in a big house in Belgravia and the Bessingtons also own a villa in Tuscany. Lola’s been to Roedean and Cambridge where she got a first in Anthropology. Max’s situation, some might say, is not unlike that of a minor-league baseball player hoping to get to the big show.
Lola, twenty-five, has had a few inconsequential romances in her first years at Cambridge and in her last year she met Basil Meissen-Potts. He was like a specimen out of a Mr Right catalogue. At thirty-five, he was a QC and very silky. Tall, handsome, charming, good sense of humour, a judo black belt, an accomplished cricketer and keen yachtsman. Lola’s parents look on the couple as practically engaged. Lola doesn’t quite. Two things are against him: one, Mummy and Daddy approve of him; two, he’s never really lit Lola’s fire.
‘Hi,’ says Max. ‘Whose recording of L’Orfeo am I hearing?’
‘John Eliot Gardiner, conducting the Monteverdi Choir, the English Baroque Soloists, His Majesties Sagbutts and Cornetts,’ says Lola. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’ll have it,’ says Max. He already owns that recording but he follows Lola to the shelf where Monteverdi lives. She hands him the Archiv boxed set of two CDs.
‘I have a thing for sagbutts and cornetts,’ she says.
‘Me too,’ says Max. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lola.’ (When Max doesn’t sing the Barry
Manilow song he scores a couple of points.) ‘I love Monteverdi,’ she says. ‘He breaks your heart in a very unsentimental way.’
‘I have a lot of time for Monteverdi,’ says Max. He hasn’t listened to Monteverdi for about a year and a half. He’s in the shop now because he wants a new copy of L’Orfeo for the novel he’s trying to start. It’s a superstition thing.
‘He’s not too realistic, if you know what I mean,’ says Lola. ‘He’s like Giotto or …’
‘Lorenzetti?’ says Max.
‘When’s Lorenzetti?’
‘Fourteenth century,’ says Max. ‘He did some allegorical frescoes in a palazzo in Siena. Very formal, somewhat stilted but in a lively way. Real but not too real.’
‘That’s it,’ says Lola. Now she’s really seeing Max with those blue eyes. He’s nothing special to look at but he knows what she means when she talks about not too realistic. ‘Have you got L’incoronazione di Poppea?’ Max loves the way the title rolls off her tongue.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s quite an old recording, the one with Nikolaus Harnoncourt and the Concentus Musicus Wien. I bought it after a Glyndebourne production at Sadler’s Wells. I wanted to hear Ottavia sing “A Dio, Roma” again.’
‘You won’t believe this,’ says Lola. ‘I have the same recording and I bought it after going to that same production. Maybe we were there on the same night.’ Does she know that she’s lighting Max’s touchpaper?
Whoosh! High in the sky goes Rocket Max. Showers of stars explode over the Coliseum, it’s like a movie. The stick falls back to earth in St Martin’s Lane. ‘This is it,’ he says to his mind. ‘This is the real thing. This is my destiny woman.’ All through the shop heads turn. ‘Did I say that out loud?’ he says.
Her Name Was Lola Page 2
