Sweeter Life

by Tim Wynveen

  As they headed back to the main house, Ronnie took Cyrus’s arm and waited a moment for Nigel to move beyond range of their voices. “I can see your flush of excitement,” he said. “You are impressed?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Ronnie let his gaze drift across the field. “Yet at lunch you seemed positively downcast. Is it your difficulties at home?”

  When Cyrus shrugged, Ronnie nudged him into a stroll, knowing that walking could sometimes set free a troubled tongue. Sure enough, Cyrus began to speak once again about his complicated relationship with Eura.

  “When I came back from L.A., I thought she’d be happy, and in a way she was—happy for me. But she was even more unhappy for us.”

  As delicately as he could, Ronnie said, “Have you considered that perhaps she is being selfish?”

  “It’s not like that. You don’t know. I’m the one who’s selfish. I’m the one who has to have a career.”

  Ronnie squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you what I am going to do. I will catch the first plane to Toronto and have a talk with Eura. Then I will bring her back with me. She feels left out, poor thing. I should have thought of it sooner.”

  When Cyrus gave a hopeful look, Ronnie said, “There is joy enough for all in what we are doing, my friend.”

  A few hours later Ronnie left for London, promising to return in a few days. Nigel poured Cyrus another pint and led him back to the bay window. He said, “I’ve listened to your demo this past week.”

  “Oh, man,” Cyrus groaned, “there’s so much I’d change.”

  “That’s good to know,” Nigel continued. “So would I.” He looked squarely at him and said, “I don’t know if you want to get into this sort of thing now, but we’re going to have to work on your sound …”

  The colour drained immediately from Cyrus’s face, and Nigel realized he had overestimated the young man’s level of confidence. “Look, mate, what I mean is, you’ve got a great tone. Really. Trouble is, you use it for everything. Variety, you know. It’s the spice of life.”

  Cyrus opened his mouth but no words came out. Nigel continued. “I’ve got dozens of guitars here and I don’t know how many amplifiers. What we don’t have, we can get in an hour from London. Not a problem. But you have to start listening to sounds, try out different gear. Just now, with my toy out there, you copped right away how to play it. Guitars are the same. They all have different personalities.”

  Cyrus felt as woozy as if he’d been whacked in the head with a stick. “I guess,” he said, “I guess I always thought my job was to play, and it was your job to make things sound good.”

  Nigel laughed good-naturedly. “I wish it was that simple—the flick of a button. But I’ve got limits, mate. I’m just the outsider. I stand back and encourage you to do your best, and hope we get some magic down on tape. But I can’t make it sound better than it really is, or not much better at any rate. I can only work with what you give me.”

  RONNIE’S PLAN was to somehow talk sense into Eura; but he had no idea what to say other than to encourage her involvement. If she came to Hidey-Hole and saw what a splendid place it was, saw the radiance that flowed from Cyrus’s face when he stepped into that studio, she might try harder to hide her own pain. Not that she had ever shown much sense. Ronnie never understood why she stayed in North America when she clearly had no love of the people or culture, when it was perfectly evident how much she missed her home and family. It seemed to him a kind of neurosis to cling to something that drove you crazy. He wondered at times if it was a form of penance, or maybe even a way of remaining faithful—to what or to whom, he had no idea.

  From the airport, he drove straight to the apartment. He had Cyrus’s key but knocked first. When Eura didn’t come to the door, he called from a phone booth around the corner. She picked up immediately.

  “Oh,” she said, “it is only you.”

  “You didn’t answer the door. I wondered if you were all right.”

  “There is no one I want to see. The phone, I thought, was maybe him.”

  “I came to talk to you about that. Can I come up?”

  “I don’t want to talk much to you about Cyrus.”

  “I guess I thought we would talk about you.”

  “That, too, is not so good to talk about, I think.”

  “You’re hurting him. If things don’t change soon, you might actually ruin his life. Is that what you want?”

  She hung up the phone. When he arrived at the apartment door, she led him upstairs and sat on the sofa, hugging herself as though she were chilled through. Ronnie sat in an armchair on the other side of the room. He could barely look at her. She had always been careful about her appearance, but now she was smeared and dishevelled. She had food stains on her robe. Every visible part of her skin showed some evidence of tattoo.

  Eura spoke first. “Maybe you will be the one to ruin his life and I am an innocent bystander.” When he didn’t respond, she sniffed bitterly and added, “You think I am a poison and should leave him alone.”

  “Well, Eura, I never—”

  “Maybe you think I twist his mind and keep him from making beautiful music. Maybe you would like it better if I would go away.”

  “Eura, really, I don’t know how you could think that. I don’t honestly have the faintest idea what it is you want from him or what you give to him. That’s none of my business. I only want to help.”

  “Maybe you think the best way to help is to get me out of his life. Maybe you came here to help me do something I cannot do on my own.”

  That’s when Ronnie realized she was pleading with him, not criticizing. “What are you saying?”

  She covered her face with both hands, as though she’d seen a terrible crime. After a moment, she said, “In my country, you know, they say that if you win, you are champion for a year; if you lose, you lose forever. Such is regret.”

  He moved beside her on the sofa. He took her hands and gave them a gentle shake. “Here’s what I think,” he said. “I think we should pack you a bag and then fly over to see Cyrus. The two of you can stay in England for the next while. A vacation before the sessions begin.”

  She removed her hands from his and tied her robe more tightly. “It is strange how we come to the end of things. I am finished wanting. There is no room for it in my life anymore. The same way I can see I am nearly at the end of regret. You know how it is, Ronnie, what a stupid cow I am. So many things I wish were different. And now, biggest of all, is this business with Cyrus, because I knew. I knew …”

  Ronnie watched carefully, waiting to see if she would continue. After a few more seconds, he said, “What comes after regret then? What next?”

  “You tell me. This is why you are here.”

  He sat forward, clasping his hands together. “I’ve already told you I think you should fly over to Cyrus.” She smiled at him, like he was an impossibly naive child. He said, “If you won’t come to England, what do you propose?”

  “I propose nothing. I pray.”

  “That …”

  “That love will find a way.”

  Ronnie scoffed. “That he’ll give it up and come running to you?”

  “I would never dream such a thing.”

  “Well, and don’t think you’re the only one who loves him, either.”

  “I am not so stupid as you think. I have eyes and ears.”

  “You are stupid if you think your love will lead you out of this mess.”

  “My love, no. But your love, maybe …”

  “My love?”

  “Your love could find the way.” She looked at him with a level gaze, waiting for him to think this through. Then she added, “You are not a stranger to this kind of thing, Ronnie, slicing the truth until it is so thin it will fit your purpose. What you did with Cal, you can do again, telling lies for a good cause.”

  “For Cyrus, you mean.”

  “For all of us. Someone has to be strong.”

  NIGEL THOROUGH
LY DISSECTED the deficiencies in Cyrus’s playing, then excused himself to run a few errands. Cyrus was so hurt by their exchange, so fearful now of the next few weeks and months, that he could rouse himself to nothing more productive than lying on his bed and hugging his pillow. He remained that way until the light in the room began to fade. That’s when Patrick called and said, “Dinner will be served in one hour, cocktails at your leisure. Nigel is already in the lounge and said he would appreciate your company if you feel up to it.”

  Cyrus wanted to lie on the bed and wallow in self-pity, but he knew Nigel had been at least partly right. When he walked into the lounge, he did his best to meet the other man’s gaze. Nigel poured them each a pint and said, “I know I’ve messed with your head a bit, but it’s better this way. You’ll see. Now we move on. Now we figure out how to make one kick-ass record.”

  He touched his glass to Cyrus’s and took a long swallow. Then, coming out from behind the bar, he led Cyrus into the hall, up a flight of stairs and into a large oak-lined room full of pinball machines and a tournament-size snooker table. Another set of doors led to a soundproof room approximately twenty feet square, a recent addition to the rambling structure of the house. Various amplifiers lined the walls: a Twin Reverb, a Princeton, an Ampeg, a Marshall stack, a Vox, a Mesa Boogie, even an old Traynor. There were flight cases full of effects and pedals and cords, as well as a bank of tape machines. What really caught Cyrus’s attention were the guitars, about twenty-five of them on stands, and one guitar in particular—a National Steel, shiny as the chrome on a new car. He had seen pictures of them, heard them on records, but never played one.

  “Can I touch it?” he asked.

  Nigel shook his head and took Cyrus by the elbow, guiding him to the door again. “I only wanted to show you the room. After dinner you can muck about till your heart’s content. Anytime you’re at Hidey-Hole, really, you’re to treat this room as your own.”

  At dinner Nigel played the genial host, keeping Cyrus entertained with stories about what it was like to chum around with the Yardbirds and the Kinks.

  “Most of us back then felt that if the Beatles could make it,” he said, “damn well anyone could. I mean, they were mediocre players. And those songs, okay, some of them were pretty and sentimental, and some had some bounce, but let’s face it, they didn’t really know how to rock, did they? Now the Who, there was a brilliant band. I’m still trying to figure out what Pete Townshend was doing on ‘Can’t Explain.’ ”

  “And the Animals?” Cyrus asked. “Did you know Eric Burdon?”

  Nigel nodded matter-of-factly. “I was mates with Chas Chandler. It was Chas, in fact, who got me into producing in the first place after he started working with that wanker Cat Stevens. But the Animals, you know,” he wrinkled his nose, “aside from Eric’s singing, there wasn’t much to them. Not like the Who or the Yardbirds. People say Hendrix changed the way we think about electric guitar, and that’s true. The guy was our Charlie Parker. But they forget the early Jeff Beck and Pete Townshend. That’s still some of the most twisted rock and roll you’ll ever hear.”

  “I love the stuff Eric Clapton did with John Mayall.”

  “You and everyone else. You couldn’t be in London in those days without seeing ‘Clapton is God’ spray-painted somewhere. The kiss of death, that.”

  They talked through dinner and two bottles of wine, until Nigel excused himself and stumbled off to bed. Cyrus should have gone to sleep—he was too drunk to do much else—but the thought of that National waiting for him was hard to resist. As he headed in that direction, Sophie, still in chef’s whites, asked if he wanted anything.

  “Well,” he said, tickled by her wispy manner, her lilting accent, “I’d love another coffee if there is any.”

  “I’ll make a fresh pot. Were you headed to your room?”

  He pointed to the guitar room. “But, look,” he said, “I’ll be fine without. Don’t go to any trouble …”

  “No trouble. I’ll bring it to you up there.”

  As she turned to leave, he said, “Just black, Sophie. And thanks for dinner. You’re a great cook.”

  “Oh, well, ta. It was nothing special.”

  “I cook, too, you know.”

  She laughed at that, covering her mouth with her hand. At his quizzical look, she began to fidget like a small bird. She said, “It’s just I’ve never heard of a musician ever cooking before. It’s how I got to do this in the first place, innit, knocking about with musicians who couldn’t stir up a tin of beans.”

  Her voice faded to nothing, and he watched her squirm, this pale, frail creature who looked as though she rarely sampled the food she prepared. Though she had sharp features, and a body that had all the warmth and attraction of a plucked fowl, he felt drawn to her. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in a bit,” he said.

  Upstairs, the National felt cool and unlikely in his arms. Before he had a chance to get familiar with it, however, Sophie arrived with a small carafe and a porcelain cup. She placed them in front of him, then sat on the floor. “Play something,” she said.

  Now it was his turn to fidget. Nigel had been right. Every guitar had its secrets and limitations, and he’d discovered neither about the National. He was also drunk. So he opted for the one tune he could play in his sleep. After fingerpicking a few bars, he began to sing along, too:

  Don’t know what you do with your lips,

  Don’t know what you do with your hair,

  Don’t know what you do with your hips,

  But baby I declare

  That my heart’s on fire.

  I’m in love with

  The itty-bitty things that you do.

  Now if you really want to know—

  It’s unreal

  How I feel

  About you.

  She got to her feet and smiled. “Cheers. See you later.”

  When she was gone, he idly fingered the intro to “The Bridge,” remembering his struggle to write that first piece of music, how for the longest time he’d had a single chord, and how it eventually led to another chord and another until an entire song was born. In the same way, he wondered if his life with Eura had led him to an appreciation of this odd new person. Wasn’t it all a kind of progress, coming to understand various complications, various structures that at first seem alien but in time become moving and then familiar? And wasn’t the key that original brightness? You play a certain chord, often by accident, and like magic you hear something new, a clear and surprising possibility you don’t quite understand but know you will, know you must.

  With that thought he put aside the guitar and walked to the kitchen, where Sophie was sitting at a large oak table with her head cradled in the palm of her hand. She had changed into a black T-shirt and baggy cotton pants. “You look tired,” he said.

  “I forget to eat.” She rubbed her face, then looked over to the big walk-in refrigerator. “Scrambled eggs, maybe. Something light.”

  Before she could move, he put his hands on her bony shoulders and said, “Stay put. I make fantastic scrambled eggs.”

  He walked into the cooler and returned with three eggs, a wedge of cheddar and a pitcher of milk. The serious look on his face made her want to laugh. She actually had to bite her lip as he mixed the eggs and milk and then cut cubes of cheddar into it. He fired up the stove, dropped a scoop of butter into the skillet and, when it had begun to brown, poured the eggy mixture into the pan. A few minutes later he presented her with the finished product. “Madame,” he said with a bow, “bon appétit.”

  She sampled the eggs, then took a second taste and a third. Holding her fork aloft like an exclamation point, she said, “Next time use cream. It gives them a velvety texture. And your pan was too hot. You overcooked the eggs. You want something more like soft custard.” In response to his startled expression, she touched his arm and said, “They’re good, though. Really. And anyway, sometimes cooking’s not about food, or I’ve always thought. Is music that way? Are there times wh
en playing your guitar isn’t about music but something else?”

  Cyrus hardly knew where to begin. He only had to think of the Harmony, and hugging that beautiful thing in the darkness of his bedroom, to know it was more than a musical instrument. But even if he could find the words to describe those feelings, they were too personal to share with someone he’d just met. Instead he moved beside her and took her hand in his. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said. “I feel I could walk all night.”

  She finished the eggs and told him he could take her home. Then she led him out the back door and along a gravel path, the air so thick with fog that he was soon chilled through, even though he was wearing a sweater.

  “Let’s go back and get you a jacket,” he said. “It’s freezing out here.”

  “Not at all,” she replied, opening her arms to the sky. “It’s lovely. You North Americans with your central heating are a wee bit soft around the edges. We’re built of sturdier material over here.”

  Cyrus nearly laughed out loud at the idea that she was sturdily built. When he tried to put his arm around her, she jabbed him in the side with her elbow and skipped away. “Don’t be trying your fancy moves,” she said, “or I’ll serve you your bollocks for breakfast.”

  “I didn’t mean anything. I thought you might want to get warm.”

  “I’d just as soon stay cool around the likes of you. A girl could get herself a broken heart if she’s not careful.”

  “I’m taking you home, that’s all.” This time when he put his arm around her, she let it stay, and they walked on through the fog, neither of them saying a word.

  The path led past the recording studio and down a hill to a wooden gate that opened to a paved road bordered on each side by a thick hedge. A hundred yards down the road they found another gate in the hedge and passed through it to enter another, smaller field. Off to one side stood an oak tree and, chained to its massive trunk, what looked to be a large metal mushroom. When he looked at her with disbelief, she smiled and said, “My caravan.” Then she placed her hand against his breastbone and pushed him back toward the hedge. “I really did like the eggs, and I’m glad you walked me home, and some other time I’d love to sit and talk, but if I don’t go to sleep right now, alone, I’ll be a nutter tomorrow.”