by Rachel Joyce
Her eyes were shining. Her cheeks were blazing. The freckles above her nose appeared to dance with a life of their own.
‘Well, “Caroline No” is complicated,’ he said to her small ordinary button. ‘It could be one of the most profound songs about losing something you will ever hear. But Brian Wilson said it was just about his girlfriend coming home with a bad haircut. I guess the deepest things can be very simple.’
And the Miles Davis? What had she thought of that? He was stunned when she paused a moment to collect her thoughts – closing her eyes as if she was searching inside herself for something to say – and then told him:
‘I know this will sound crazy, Frank, but it was like doors opening, one after another.’
‘You felt that?’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘But that’s how I feel too.’
‘You do?’
They laughed. What else? It was like hearing himself speak, but in the infinitely more beguiling form of a beautiful woman with vast eyes and a broken accent.
‘So what are you going to tell me today?’ she asked. She twisted her hands nervously.
‘Last week we talked about listening. This week I want to show you how music can take you for a ride. What we have today is a singing monk, an operatic show-stopper, the father of funk and one of the biggest heavy metal bands in the history of rock.’
He laid the new records on the table. One, two, three, four. Sacred music by Pérotin, Tosca by Puccini, James Brown’s Ain’t It Funky Now, Parts 1 and 2 and Led Zeppelin IV.
‘Oh my God, Frank. This sounds ama-zing.’
He went over some ground rules. For a start, she had to listen lying down. Could she do that? She gave one nod. Grab your headphones, he told her. Unplug the telephone. Do nothing but listen. ‘Because this stuff is wild. Trust me.’
Ilse Brauchmann stopped twisting her hands and held them clasped.
‘So first off, this one’s the oldest, and it’s like going for a trip in the sky.’ He went on to explain everything Peg had told him about Pérotin, as well as plainsong and polyphony. He even told her about his first girlfriend, Deborah. How he walked her home every day after school and then sat in her house, just sort of waiting to be fed. How her father wore driving gloves and did things like clearing leaves on Sunday. How her mother wore a pinny to peel potatoes and called Frank ‘Sonny boy’ and made him sandwiches for his three-mile hike back to the white house.
‘What happened to Deborah, Frank?’
‘We were teenagers. She moved on.’
‘Is that why you want to be alone?’
‘No. It was a long time ago.’
‘You could not see someone for twenty years and still love them. I really believe that.’
He laughed. In fact he laughed so much he had to pretend he had a cough. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’
She laughed too. ‘I’m only thirty, Frank. You will have to ask me again in twenty years.’
The lesson had taken a sideways turning he hadn’t expected. She didn’t seem to have expected it either because she got very busy mixing her drink with the straw. He thought he’d better talk about a record. He picked up the Pérotin.
‘Once you’ve heard “Beata viscera” you’ll never forget it. It’s just a single human voice but it feels like stepping on to a bird’s back. The moment it starts, you’re flying. It takes you up, it swoops you down, and then it lifts you so high you’re a pinprick in the sky. But if you close your eyes and really listen, it holds you safe the whole way. Until I heard “Beata viscera”, I had no idea human beings could be so beautiful. Every time you see a bird, you’ll think of this.’
He realized he was holding his arms out like giant wings. The Singing Teapot waitress watched from her stool with an expression that was either amused, or heartburn. Hard to say.
And Ilse Brauchmann? What was she doing? Her skin was so waxy-pale it had abandoned its freckles. She said nothing, she just stared.
Frank pushed the Pérotin to one side and pulled out the next one.
‘Right. Tosca. This is a BIG love story. In a nutshell, it’s about this beautiful singer and she loves this guy, but Scarpia, the chief of police, is a real nasty piece of work and he’s in love with her too. So he arrests her lover and bribes Tosca to be his mistress, but she turns round and stabs him. It ends up with her lover being killed anyway and Tosca kind of leaping off a roof.’
He wondered if his résumé of one of Puccini’s most famous operas had come out too fast because once again her face had the arrested look of a photograph.
‘So this is the last five minutes of Act One. OK? It’s the opposite of “Beata viscera”. It’s not a ride to heaven, we’re going to hell. And Puccini puts everything in this. He’s got Scarpia telling us how much he wants Tosca, he’s got a church service going on in the background, he’s got bells, cannons, the lot. It’s like the big showdown between God and man – and God barely gets a look-in. By the end, Scarpia’s singing the Te Deum along with everyone else, and it’s fucking scary, you see, because this is the moment you realize Scarpia has put himself above God. There’s no hope left. The curtain falls, and trust me, you need a drink.’
Frank found he was standing up. When had that happened? Ilse was watching him, completely straight-faced. The waitress was also watching, completely amused-faced. Catching his eye, she attended to an itch beneath her little cap.
Frank sat down again. He put the Tosca record with the Pérotin. He made a mental note that in talking about James Brown he must a) remain seated, b) not flap his arms and c) not say ‘fuck’.
But how? How could anyone sit still when they were talking about Ain’t It Funky Now, Parts 1 and 2?
‘This one’s about groove. The beat repeats and repeats and repeats. Then just when you’re not looking, BAM! It’s a sock in the jaw. It’s Muhammad Ali doing rope-a-dope with George Foreman. Have you heard of Rumble in the Jungle?’
Her mouth pooched into a gooseberry shape. He took that as a no.
‘It was the biggest boxing fight in history. Ali hadn’t a chance. He offered himself like a human punchbag, and then just when Foreman was beginning to wilt he pulled out a right hand that sent Foreman to the floor. That’s what James Brown does to you in Ain’t It Funky.’
Ilse frowned. ‘I don’t like boxing.’
‘That wasn’t boxing. That was art.’
Frank realized that not only was he standing again, he was also being Muhammad Ali and George Foreman.
Was it possible she was on the verge of laughter? She lifted her hand and covered her mouth.
Frank resolved to speak slowly and sensibly about the last record. He thought it might help if he crossed his arms.
‘Right. “Stairway To Heaven”. This one kind of unravels in layers. I mean, it’s all there, right from the beginning. It’s big, and it knows it’s big, but you’re only allowed to have it piece by piece.’
He had a feeling that might sound sexual.
‘It starts small. Single guitar. Robert Plant sings like he’s remembering. After that, more layers keep adding. By the time Jimmy Page comes in with his guitar, the thing’s flying. It’s epic. You’d do anything for it not to stop. It’s like a really good orgasm—’
Frank had to ram his hand in his mouth.
‘What I am saying is that all these pieces know how to climax.’ (Seriously? Did he just say that?) ‘We recognize things when we hear them, even if we don’t know exactly what they are. And when we hear them, they make the world feel right. But it’s, um – it’s six thirty. I guess you need to go.’
And what did Ilse Brauchmann do? As Frank packed her records into the bag? As he gave her ‘Stairway To Heaven’ that was like an orgasm? Or ‘Beata viscera’ that flew like a bird? James Brown who was like Muhammad Ali, and the show-stopper that was Tosca? Did she search for a pen and take notes? Ask further questions?
No. She remained wide-eyed. Stock still. Entranced.
Paying t
he bill, she passed Frank his envelope of cash in silence and made for the door.
Outside the two of them stood looking at nothing in particular, waiting to part. Frank wondered if Ilse might suggest another excursion to the park, or show him further constellations, but her face seemed lost in another horizon altogether. He walked her back towards the cathedral, telling her as they went about his plans for the shop, and the new shrink-wrap machine, until he too ran out of words, and there was only the click of her heels and the shuffle of his plimsolls echoing from the old buildings on either side of the alleyway.
At the cathedral they stopped. Looked towards the taxi rank. Failed to move.
He said, ‘I guess your fiancé will be waiting.’
Ilse Brauchmann replied with a sigh. ‘Frank, there’s something I need to tell you.’ She stopped. Sighed again. ‘It’s really important. There’s something you need to know—’
It was the BIG MOMENT. It was like the last track of side A, before you flip to side B. It was the middle eight in a song, where a new chord comes in or the tempo shifts, to herald a change. For six weeks, the shopkeepers on Unity Street had asked one another who Ilse Brauchmann was, and why she wanted to know about music. And yet as Frank watched her now, struggling to say something that was obviously difficult, chewing her mouth as if she were in pain, or – more significantly – afraid of inflicting pain on Frank, he made an executive decision.
It was fair to say they had travelled some kind of distance during the course of their two lessons – he hadn’t just told her about records, he had told her about himself – and whatever the difficult and important thing was that she needed to tell him, he did not want to hear it and risk changing things. It had not been a part of his plan to open up to a woman and now that he had begun, the thought of never doing it again filled him with sadness. She expected nothing from him, and yet she absorbed everything he wanted to say. It suited him to believe he meant nothing to her. This was where he was happiest, after all. Floating way out, in the solitary depths of things. Disconnected.
So instead of allowing her to struggle onwards, instead of asking a tricky but illuminating question, like ‘What exactly? What do I need to know about you?’ he cut the conversation dead.
‘Don’t.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t tell me. I mean, I know you’re engaged. You don’t need to tell me anything else. I’m fine.’ He gave a thumbs-up to show just exactly how fine he was.
‘But, Frank—’
‘No. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.’
He looked across the road. A free cab drew up.
‘So I’ll see you next Tuesday?’ he said quickly. ‘Same time, same place. Lesson three?’
‘But, Frank. You will hate me—’
‘Hate you? How could I hate you? We talk about records. It’s a business arrangement.’
Ha ha, he went. To show how easy and tremendously-without-difficulty this all was.
To his surprise, Ilse Brauchmann was not laughing. She gazed back at him with an expression of slow-spreading pain. Then – at last: a half smile. A nod. ‘Yes, Frank. You’re right. This is a business arrangement.’
As she fled with her bag of records, he shouted, ‘Hey! Hey! I don’t suppose you know anything about shrink-wrap machines?’
It was seven by the time Frank got back to Unity Street. A police car was parked outside Articles of Faith and a small crowd had gathered. Maud stood smoking hard with her hand on her hip, while the Williams brothers spoke with a policeman. Kit was washing down Father Anthony’s shop window.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Maud.
‘Giving a music lesson.’
Maud made a scoffing noise and screwed her boot over her cigarette. ‘Kids spray-painted Father Anthony’s windows. He was only upstairs in his flat. He’s really shaken.’ She spoke as if there was a direct, culpable link between Frank and the bad news.
‘What did they write?’
‘Stupid stuff like Shitface and NF.’
At the window, Kit made elaborate sweeping strokes with his sponge – whatever else the words had said was gone, although the glass seemed more on the grubby side than clear.
Afterwards, Frank and Father Anthony sat on the kerb smoking.
‘It will be me next,’ said the old ex-priest.
‘What do you mean, it will be you next? What kind of silly talk is that?’
Frank patted the old man’s shoulder. It was thinner than he remembered, like bone inside beige wool. ‘You fetch me if this happens again.’
‘Fort Development have sent a new letter. They’ve made another offer to buy us up. Have you read it?’
But Frank was barely listening. He was thinking of dark eyes and falling-down curls and a pea-green coat. He was thinking of records and further lessons and all the hundreds of things there were to say about music. ‘It will be OK. There’s no way we’re going down now.’
26
I Say a Little Prayer
ONCE UPON A time there were two people who were in love. She was married. He was a priest. The end.
Inside his shop, Father Anthony read the letter from Fort Development again. ‘We would like to take this opportunity to repeat our offer to buy your property, and to introduce you to a new set of apartments that will soon be undergoing construction in the docklands area. We are also in a position to offer highly competitive rates on endowment policies. Please accept our invitation to speak with one of our consultants at your earliest convenience.’
He gazed at the shop he had run for twenty years, and saw it as a stranger might. The carpet was so thin, you could see straight through to the floorboards. He hadn’t sold a bookmark in weeks, let alone a statue; he slept at night in his hat with earflaps, just to keep warm, and he survived pretty much on a diet of water and baked potatoes. And now here was a development company offering him decent money to sell up. He thought of the love he had left behind long ago, and the drink that had replaced it until Frank turned up and found him jazz. Abandoning Frank would be like walking away from your own son. He would miss him as much as the air itself. But he had no idea any more how he could keep going; and now there was the graffiti.
It was too cold to go upstairs. He sat at the counter, watching the messed-up window, then he tried to close his eyes. ‘Give me a sign, Lord,’ he said. ‘It can be very small. I don’t mind. Just tell me it’s time to sell up.’ He stayed very still, waiting.
Outside someone began trying to start a car, turning the engine over and over. Chug chug chug. It was all he could think about. When he looked again at the window he almost yelped: two teenage boys were peering straight back at him, one big, one small. Before he could reach for the telephone to call Frank, they had shoved open his door.
‘But I’m closed,’ he said.
‘Your door’s open,’ a female voice said back.
So one was a girl. The one who most resembled a big teenage boy was a big teenage girl.
Father Anthony’s heart began to flutter like a bird in a cage. They were dressed in coats and boots; the boy had a weaselly face, and the girl wore a football scarf. They stood side by side, barricading his path. He had no more than a few coins in the till, and there was barely anything of value upstairs, unless they were interested in poetry, and the odd cut-glass fruit bowl.
They didn’t move, they just remained in his way, casting an occasional glance over at the shelves. They seemed to know what they were up to and were simply biding their time. It occurred to Father Anthony there were probably more of them outside; the light was going, he could only see the dark, the cold.
He managed to stand but his legs were trembling. He said, ‘Please don’t break anything.’
‘Is your name Father Anthony?’ asked the girl.
He nodded.
‘You’re a priest? Right? A proper one?’
‘I was a priest. I tried my best to be proper. A proper priest and a proper human being.’ His voice sounded rusted over. ‘Do
you – want to buy something?’
She said, ‘Do you do weddings?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
She said it again, only a bit slower, as if she thought he might be deaf or very stupid. ‘Wed-dings. DO you DO them?’
‘No, I’m, uh, retired. If a couple wants a priest to marry them, they go to their local church.’
‘We tried that,’ the boy said at last. ‘He told us we needed a licence and shit.’
The girl winced as if she wished the boy hadn’t gone and done a swear word. He lifted his arm and tucked it round her. There was something almost comical about the way he had to reach up to get her.
‘You want to get married?’
‘Can you do a BLESSING?’ shouted the girl. She seemed convinced he was senile. ‘If you can’t do a WED-DING?’
Father Anthony had to do a mental rearrangement of the entire scene. So they were not here to mug him, or deface his shop, or steal the little he had. They just wanted to be together, they wanted to give a name to their love, and they were as nervous as he was. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would be honoured.’
‘Do we have to kneel?’
‘We can do it standing up.’
‘Nah. I think it’s more proper kneeling.’
There was no dirt to speak of on the old carpet, and no bumps either, but nevertheless Father Anthony smoothed it with his hands as if he were clearing puddle water. The two teenagers got down and knelt at his feet with their eyes screwed shut and their hands tucked beneath their chins like squirrels.
Father Anthony removed his hat and said, ‘O Lord, please look down on this young couple and take great care of their love. All will be well.’ There was a silence. Outside a dog walked past and cocked its leg on a street lamp.
