Ghost Music (6 page)

“I'll tell you what,” said Margot. “Me and Dorothea and Jimmy the Squib and Duncan Bradley, we're all going to Sal's Comedy Hole tomorrow night, to see Maynard Manning. Why don't you come along? Get yourself back in the real world, you know, where people talk baloney but at least it's
logical
baloney.”

“Yes, maybe I will.”

“Come on, promise me. You need to get out more.”

“
Okay
, already! I'll come.”

* * *

For the next hour and a half, I played her some of the incidental music I had written for
The Billy Wagner Show
. I opened a bottle of zinfandel and poured us a large glass each. Margot lay back on the sofa and sang along with me, making up the words as she went along.

“Nobody ever told me . . . I wish that they had said . . . how much it hurts when a concrete block . . . drops right on your head!”

She was funny, Margot, but she had a wonderful voice. She could sing anything from blues to light opera, but her specialty was zydeco songs, like “Would You Rather Be an Old Man's Darling or a Young Man's Slave?” She was terrific, Margot.

Eventually my wall clock chimed seven. “Lalo—I really have to go,” she told me. “My fridge is empty and I need to do some heavy-duty shopping.”

“We could go out for pizza if you're hungry.”

“No, I'm so sick of pizza. I need actual food. I've even run out of tofu.”

I showed her downstairs to the front door. She gave me a warm, squashy-breasted hug and she smelled strongly of vanilla musk. She said, “Tomorrow, remember. You need to get back to reality.”

“I promised, didn't I?”

She went skipping down the steps and I closed the door behind her. As I started to climb back up the stairs, I saw an elderly man standing on the second-floor landing, half-hidden in the shadows, looking down at me. White-haired, skeletal-faced, with bushy white eyebrows. He was wearing a pale gray smock with dozens of paintbrush marks all over it, like birds' footprints, and a floppy gray beret.

“How's it going?” I called out. But the elderly man didn't answer. Instead, he turned his back on me and disappeared up the next flight of stairs.

I reached the landing and looked up, but there was no sign of him. I didn't even hear a door close. I guessed he must have been Pearl's friend, the one who was painting her life study. Pretty darn unsociable, whoever he was.

I let myself into my apartment, switched on the flat-screen TV that stood in the corner, and poured myself another glass of wine. I hadn't called my parents since the weekend, so I picked up the phone and dialed their number in New Milford. All I heard was
my mother's voice warbling,
“This is the Lake residence! Randolph and Joyce are unable to come to the phone right now, but they would absolutely love to hear what you have to tell us, so please leave us a message
.
And make it heartfelt
,
won't you?”

“Dis is da plumbah,” I said, in a thick Bronx accent. “I'd love to come by and fiddle wit your cistern, sweetheart.” Well—it served her right for being so precious.

I eased myself back in one of my armchairs with my feet propped up on the coffee-table, and watched
My Name Is Earl
for a while. Earl, as usual, was talking about karma. I think I would, too, without question, if I lost a $100,000 lottery ticket and then found it again, the way that Earl had.

Actually, I was beginning to think that Kate was right about fate, and that karma was at work in my life, too. As every day passed, I was beginning to feel more and more like a bit-part player in some long-running TV drama, in which everybody knew the storyline except me. How can you make choices when nobody explains to you what the choices are? Just stand here, Gideon, and say these lines. Don't worry what they mean.

There was a quick, soft knocking at my door. I went to open it, and it was Kate. There was karma for you. She was wearing a black roll-neck sweater and jeans, and her hair was tied back with a black velvet ribbon. She looked pale, and she was chafing her hands together as if she felt cold.

“Hey,” I greeted her. “I didn't expect to see you again so soon.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, of course you can. You just missed Margot. How about a glass of wine?”

“Yes, thanks.” She sat down on the end of one of the sofas, clutching herself tightly.

“Are you feeling the cold?” I asked her. “I can turn up the heat.”

“No, no. I'm fine. I was wondering if you were free for the next two weeks.”

“Free? When? To do what?”

“To come away with me.”

I brought her a glass of wine and then I sat down next to her. “You want me to come away with you? You mean on vacation?”

“Well, kind of. I'd like you to meet some people I know. You don't have to worry about the cost—I'll pay for everything.”

“What's Victor going to say?”

“Victor won't know.”

“Oh, come on, Kate. You and I will both disappear for two weeks, and Victor won't even get suspicious?”

“Gideon, you'll
love
it! When you see this family's apartment, you won't believe your eyes! It's truly spectacular. Marble bathrooms, antique furniture. Views out over the harbor.”

“I'm really not sure.”

“Why? I've told you I'll cover all of your expenses.”

“Well . . . I have to admit to you, Kate, I'm not the most sociable guy in the world. I can't sit down at the breakfast table in the morning and have meaningful conversations over the Cheerios, especially with people I've never met before. As it is, I don't usually utter a sound until noon, and then it's a strangled growl.”

“Don't worry about it. We'll have our own private suite, with a four-poster bed and our own bathroom and our own living room. If we want to keep to ourselves, I promise you, nobody will mind at all.”

I had to admit that the offer did seem attractive. I hadn't had a real vacation in over three and a half years, and I hadn't had a woman in my bed since Milka—apart from one-night stands with a red-haired flight attendant called Genna and a backing vocalist for P Diddy called Lateesh. Nobody as poised and as magical as Kate. Even if she
was
another man's wife.

“So, ah—where are we talking about?” I asked her.

“I'll give you a clue. You'll need your coat, and your gloves, and a scarf, maybe.”

“Oh. Someplace chilly. Someplace chilly with a view of the harbor. Seattle, maybe?”

“Farther east,” she smiled. “Much farther east. Stockholm.”

“Stockholm, South Dakota? No, there's no harbor there. You mean Stockholm,
Sweden
?”

“You got it. In the old town, close to the Royal Palace, looking right out over the harbor. You won't believe how beautiful it is, especially at this time of the year.”

“Sounds amazing. I mean it. Sounds
really
amazing. But who are these people you want me to meet?”

Kate sipped her wine. “They're a family of four. He's a doctor, the mother works as a physiotherapist. They have two daughters.”

“And can I ask why you want me to meet them?”

“I can't explain, but it's important. And you have to admit that Stockholm in late September—it's different. Different from Palm Springs, anyway.”

“Do you think I
need
a doctor?”

“Of course not.” she smiled. “In any case, he's a gynecologist.”

“I'm baffled. We only just met, we went to bed together just once, and now you want me to come away with you for two weeks to meet a Swedish gynecologist and his family. Do you want their approval? Am I being vetted or something?”

“No, Gideon. It's nothing like that, I promise you. I just want you to come to Stockholm and see things differently.”

I didn't know what to think, but I stood up again, and went over to my desk. I leafed through my calendar and said, “Yes . . . well, I guess I could manage it. I have to finish one more link for
Billy Wagner
, but I should have that all wrapped up by tomorrow. So long as I'm back by the fourteenth. I have a meeting with DDB about a Diet Pepsi commercial.”

“Oh, yes. You'll be back by then, I promise you.”

Just after nine o'clock, Kate finished her glass of wine and said she ought to think about leaving.

“Do you have to?” I asked her. It was much warmer now, because I had lit tall white church candles all around the living room, and the walls were alive with shadows, like dancing witches. “Have one more drink before you go.”

“All right. You've persuaded me.”

“Is Victor home tonight?” I asked her, as ten o'clock struck.

“He might be, later. But Thursday night is his squash night, and sometimes he stays at his club.”

“Doesn't he miss you, when you stay out all night? Doesn't he ask you where you've been?”

“Victor never misses me.”

“Well, I have a confession to make.
I
missed you today. I really felt like I wanted to hold you.”

Kate turned her eyes toward me, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, and for some reason she looked wistful. Sad, even. “Ah well,” she said. “We can't always have everything we want, can we? At least, I can't.”

“You don't think so? I don't agree with you. If you want something badly enough, what's to stop you? Victor?”

Again, there was one of those long pauses, during which it became increasingly obvious that she wasn't going to explain herself.

At last, I said, “I don't understand you and Victor. I mean, I've met swingers before. I've met couples who have open marriages, and sleep with anybody who takes their fancy. But what's going on with you two? It's almost like you're not really married at all.”

She gave an almost-imperceptible shrug. I guessed that meant she didn't want to talk about it. I got up and changed the CD, from Brian Wilson's
Pet Sounds
to plinky-plonky piano studies by Debussy. The music sounded as wistful as Kate.

I sat down close to her. “I can't help the way I feel about you. It's just you. Your face, your voice, the way you kiss me. I feel like I knew you even before I ever met you.”

She pressed her forehead against my cheek, as if she were trying to tell me telepathically that she felt the same way, but didn't want to commit herself by saying it out loud.

I stroked her hair for a while, and then I said, “This family we're going to be staying with in Stockholm? What are they like?”

“The Westerlunds. You'll like them. Dr. Axel Westerlund and his wife Tilda, and their two daughters Elsa and Felicia. I'll write their address down for you.”

“Why do you need to do that?”

“Because you and I won't be traveling to Sweden on the same flight. You'll have to find your own way there. You can do that, can't you?”

“Because of Victor? Is that it? You don't want Victor to find out that we've gone on vacation together? What does it matter, if he never misses you?”

“It's better if he doesn't find out about you, that's all. He has a very bad temper.”

“I'm not scared of him, Kate.”

“No? Then you should be. Victor . . . well, Victor's not like ordinary men. He's not even like ordinary bad-tempered men.”

* * *

I lit candles in the bedroom, too, and we went to bed together, with Debussy playing in the background. Our lovemaking was slo-mo, almost balletic. I loved the transparency of her skin, and the pale shine of her lips, and the flowery smell of perfume in her hair.

As she came close to her climax, she closed her eyes and opened her mouth wide, as if she were silently singing. There was a bottle of Armani aftershave on the windowsill, and it started to rattle. It rattled more and more furiously until her hips began to spasm, and she clung to me, and pressed her face against my shoulder, and then it abruptly stopped.

“Has that always happened?” I asked her, with a grin. “Or is it just when you make love to me?”

With one fingertip, she traced the outline of my lips. “It never used to happen at all. Not when I was making love. Not when I was singing. Never.”

“So what do you think it is? It's like one of those Memorex commercials, when they used to make a wineglass shatter.”

“I don't know. Maybe it's ecstasy.”

She kept on touching my lips, and it was then that I knew that I was going to Stockholm next week, for sure.

On Saturday morning it was raining hard, and my apartment was very dark. I rolled out of bed with my hair sticking up like a scarecrow and shuffled into the kitchenette to make myself some very strong coffee. I hadn't been drinking the night before, but for some reason I felt thickheaded, as if I had a hangover. Maybe it was the thought of winter approaching.

I went into the living room and drew back the drapes. St. Luke's Place was slate gray and glistening wet and almost deserted. As I walked back toward the kitchenette, I saw a white envelope peeking under my front door. I bent down and picked it up. It was addressed in blue ink to
Mr. Gideon Lake, Apt 2
. I shook it, and I could feel some weighty objects inside it.

I tore it open. Inside, there was an SAS air ticket, flight 904 to Stockholm Arlanda on Tuesday, returning on Tuesday the following week. Business class, costing $2,882. There was also a sheet of heavy white writing paper, with the name Dr. Axel Westerlund on it, and the address Skeppsbron 44, 111 30 Stockholm.

I turned the envelope upside down and two decorative brass keys dropped out into the palm of my hand. Not only had Kate given me the Westerlunds' address, she had given me access to their apartment, too.

I made myself a strong cup of espresso and sat by the window drinking it, while the raindrops slowly shuddered down the glass. I juggled the two keys in the palm of my hand. If Kate and I weren't
going to be flying together, and the Westerlunds were going to be out at work when I arrived, I guess it made sense that I should be able to let myself in. But it seemed unusually trusting to give me their keys. The Westerlunds didn't know me from Adam, after all. And apart from two or three oblique conversations, and going to bed with me twice, Kate didn't really know me either—any better than I knew her.