Sweeter Life (51 page)

Alec looked much the way Ronnie remembered. He had a round freckled face with doe-like brown eyes and moist red lips that put an exceptionally good front on teeth left brown and rotting from a steady diet of Irn-Bru, McEwan’s Ale and the odd wrapper of fish and chips. His wardrobe had been updated, however. Instead of hand-me-downs from his father and his brothers, he sported black leather pants, white bucks, a Hawaiian shirt and vintage porkpie hat. To look at him, you would think he was a complicated man.

He was slouched in a swivel chair, his shoes propped on the desk. He didn’t seem surprised to see his old acquaintance. He clasped his hands behind his head and smiled broadly, as if he’d been expecting him for some time. “The one and only Ronnie Conger.”

“Mr. Walker, how’s business?”

“Can’t complain. And you, you bugger, you look like the Bank of bleedin’ England. What can I do for you?”

Alec had the unnerving habit of gazing distractedly about the room whenever he spoke. The moment he came to the end of his words, he slowly turned to confront the person with a cool inscrutable expression. Ronnie met that gaze and held it. “Tommy Mac gave me your whereabouts,” he said. “I’ve a business proposition.” He mentioned the sum required.

Alec stared at the ceiling where cobwebs dangled in unfelt currents of air. His eyes gave nothing away, but a faint smile quirked the corners of his mouth. Steepling his hands beneath his chin, he said, “It isn’t every day a man like you comes crawling to a man like me.”

“I’m hardly crawling. I’m offering you a bit of business.”

“Of course you are. Doing me a favour. Spreading the good fortune.”

“Call it what you will.”

Alec sniffed. “Money like that takes a while to arrange.”

“I’ve got time. You can reach me at the Gore.”

Two days later, Alec called and said thirty thousand pounds was the most he could offer, regular terms, take it or leave it.

Ronnie agreed. Then he tidied up a few outstanding debts in London
(most notably at the hotel) and paid off some of his American Express bill. He called Nigel and told him what he could offer as a second instalment. The rest would be forthcoming, he said. Could they resume work?

Nigel had suggested more than once that they settle accounts later, after a deal had been struck with a label. He knew his friend wasn’t the kind to stiff him. But Ronnie was funny that way, always had been, more comfortable borrowing from a stranger than a friend. Nigel figured it had something to do with being a Scot.

FOR THE FIRST FEW WEEKS BACK IN TORONTO
, Cyrus couldn’t sit still. He had never in his life cleaned a floor or a toilet or an oven, and over the course of three days he cleaned them all. He bought a new armchair and futon. He painted the kitchen cupboards canary yellow because he thought it would make the place look brighter.

One night on a hunch, he went out to the Laredo, hoping to find Eura there. But Lonnie hadn’t seen her since the last performance of Tongue & Groove. Cyrus asked people in the neighbourhood about her, but the only person who remembered Eura was Peter Liu, who owned the Two Star Variety at the corner. Peter remembered the nice lady for sure. And a man with grey hair. They drove off in a fancy car. The man was not from Canada, Peter was sure of that.

Cyrus figured it was one of Eura’s relatives, some uncle maybe, or a brother-in-law who had come to bring her home to an official widowhood where she could tend her vines with the proper sort of concentration. Almost any other arrangement of words would have left him with more hope. This was what he had long feared, that Eura would one day come to her senses and do what was right, triggering in Cyrus that particularly noxious heartache that was equal parts guilt and grief.

One night in desperation, he called Janice and asked her to come to Toronto. “You could stay here with me,” he said. “We could have some fun.” But she was too busy. She had her classes and her sculpture to finish. Maybe at the end of the summer, she said.

In mid-August, Ronnie rang up in high spirits. “Time to come back, my lad. You and Nigel have a record to finish.”

“What about the others?”

“Yes, well, I thought perhaps just the two of you.”

Cyrus, who remembered all too well how it felt to be shunted to the periphery of a project, said, “That’s not fair, Ronnie. We’re a band. They deserve to be there.”

After several seconds of transatlantic hiss, Ronnie cleared his throat and said, “You’re right, my boy. Don’t know what I could have been thinking. All for one and one for all.”

Two weeks later, they returned to Hidey-Hole. Nigel had worked up a rough mix that was more polished than Cyrus had anticipated, and for the first time since he’d begun work on the album, he was able to forget the million little problems and puzzles the music presented and hear it the way someone else might hear it—the solidity of the bass and drums, the surprising shape and movement of the keyboards, and through it all the lines of his guitar, blooming here and there into bright unforgettable colour. The more he listened, the more unbelievable it seemed. He wasn’t this good. None of them were. How had they done this?

To celebrate their achievement, they took speakers, an amplifier and a hastily dubbed cassette of the album, and made their way down the road to commandeer the Two Poofs. All the regulars were there and were more than happy to put aside their darts and conversation to join in the festivities, as long as Ronnie was picking up the tab. Nor did they let the difficult rhythms, quirky solos and moody atmospherics deter them from having a rocking time. Everyone tried to bounce along with the music. Some played air guitar. Others hooted like cowpokes on the range.

That night Cyrus’s bliss took on another guise. He felt lighter than air, driven higher by the rising currents of his own sense of accomplishment and the deep gratitude he felt for all those who had helped lead him to this very spot, most of all Ronnie, who believed in music like it was something holy. With each new round of drinks, Cyrus clinked glasses with his old friend, and each time, his voice increasingly muddled, he said, “We did it, man. We fucking did it.”

Ronnie was silenced by this show of affection, and several times had to struggle to hold back tears. After last call, when everyone was moving back under the stars and heading home, he clapped a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder
and, in a breathless voice, said, “You have always, you know, been like a son to me.” Then he planted a soft kiss on his temple.

Cyrus was unable to respond properly to such a heartfelt expression. After six pints of ale he could scarcely make out his friend’s face. Instead he gave Ronnie a witless grin, then staggered into the middle of the road where he tilted his head back and lifted his arms skyward.

Sophie came out of the pub shortly after that. Cyrus had danced with her most of the night and had watched with equal fascination when she laughed and danced with others, because she was moving to his music, his rhythms. Now all he wanted was to lie with her on the ground outside her trailer. He asked ten different ways if he could spend the night with her, but she knew better. She had seen it all before. She knew there was nothing sadder than people who had come to an end of celebrating. This was no business of hers.

BY NIGEL’S RECKONING
, the final mix would consume the better part of a month. It was after the sessions were finished, he said, that the real work took place. Ronnie absented himself at the first opportunity and travelled down to London where he had arrangements to make—a wise choice, considering his aversion to the studio experience.

Day after day Nigel examined the sounds on each track, polishing the tonal characteristics, splicing together performances from twenty different takes, adjusting the levels so that certain instruments would dominate at one time then give way to others. He fiddled with the spatial positioning, some sounds centred while others could be heard dancing left or right on the periphery. Anyone unfamiliar with the rituals of the studio might think Nigel insane, twisting his multicoloured dials a click to the left, a click to the right, over and over and over again, his movements quick as reflex. He spent a whole day feeding a snare drum track through a variety of filters and effects, making minute adjustments in levels and frequencies and tone like a man in the grip of a mysterious compulsion. Whenever he asked the band’s opinion on some technical refinement, they seldom heard any difference. By the end of the first week they were giddy with boredom.

Cyrus was glad now that Sophie had had the good sense to keep him at
a distance. He might have spoiled the easygoing nature of their friendship with emotional chaos. And without her having to say a word, he knew how disappointed she’d been that he had thought of her even briefly as something he might fuck. As if that were her only value, a dumping ground for his excess emotion.

They went for long walks. They sat in the pub or on the grass outside the studio and talked for hours. He told her about the recent funeral and what an important character Clarence had been in his life. From there it was an easy transition to talk about Hank and Izzy and Ruby, and his long history with Janice. In return, she gave him the merest sketch of her childhood, of growing up in a council flat in the east end of London, of her early escape from that dismal grey world and her determination to live a joyful life. They often held hands when they walked. They danced cheek to cheek at the pub. His favourite thing of all was to lie face down in the grass and let her walk barefoot along his spine like it was a tightrope.

When Ronnie returned to Hidey-Hole at the end of the second week, he had a scrape on his cheek, which he’d gotten in a fall, he said. He seemed distracted and edgy, and when he heard how little progress had been made, the energy drained out of him. For a few days he forced himself to sit in the studio and hustle things along, growing increasingly impatient with Nigel’s glacial pace. Then, as the tension in the control room reached the breaking point, the two had a shouting match that ended with Nigel ordering his friend back to London immediately. Ronnie nodded soberly and agreed that Nigel knew best. He insisted, however, on taking Cyrus with him.

They left the next morning with a few cassettes of the rough mix. Ronnie’s idea was to get them into the right hands, stir up a little excitement in the industry. In particular he wanted Bobby Mason to hear the tape. Bobby, who had managed Scot Free way back when, was now a top fellow at the BBC. He could almost single-handedly make or break a record in England, the very kind of help that Ronnie needed.

It was Bobby’s day off, so they dropped by his flat in Chelsea about mid-afternoon. “Just in time for breakfast,” he said at the door. “Salmon and eggs, Conger. Too good for the likes of you, ya bugger.”

Ronnie said, “My friend Cyrus I was telling you about.”

Bobby offered a thin smile then turned and headed for the kitchen. He wore a pair of plaid boxers and nothing else. He was a slim, almost bony man with a deep tan, which seemed to Cyrus entirely out of place in England. A gold chain hung from his neck and tangled in a bounty of grey chest hair. He was drinking a Bloody Mary. A young woman who looked to be half his age was prancing between the bathroom and the bedroom with a towel wrapped around her, her flip-flops making a clatter on the parquet floor. As Bobby added smoked salmon to the whipped eggs, he said, “You eat yet?”

“Yes,” Ronnie lied. “Just did in fact.” Casting a look around the apartment, he said, “Still up to the old tricks, I see.”

“Same person, aren’t I? See you brought a tape.”

“My young friend’s masterpiece. I want you to be the first to hear it.”

He took the tape from Ronnie and looked at it suspiciously before tossing it into a wicker basket half-filled with unripe fruit. Then he turned on the burner beneath a big skillet and cooked the eggs. As he stirred the mixture, he said, “You have to wonder sometimes, men our age farting around with pop music.” He spooned the eggs onto a sky-blue plate and carried it and a second Bloody Mary to a small balcony crowded with white cast iron patio furniture. After his first bite, he twisted his lips with disgust and pushed the food away. He knocked back half of his drink and, fixing his gaze directly on Cyrus, said, “So, what’s it like?”

At first Cyrus thought Bobby was asking how it felt to be on the cusp of great things, instead of a jaded over-the-hill executive. Fortunately Ronnie came to the rescue and gave the entire spiel about Jangle, his voice taut with excitement, his eyes feverish.

While Ronnie talked, Bobby studied Cyrus’s face. In the first lull, he got up from the table to retrieve the cassette. When he sat down again, he held it between thumb and forefinger, the way you might hold a weapon you were hoping to dust for fingerprints. He leaned closer to Cyrus and said, “I get twenty of these dropped on my desk every day. Pathetic, really. What have you got on this thing, four songs?”

Cyrus cleared his throat nervously. “The whole album.”

“And why not? It’s your masterpiece. You poured your heart into it. But you know what? No one cares.” He knocked the cassette against Cyrus’s
hand. “We’re not dealing with art, here, we’re dealing with product. Soap flakes. The only thing that matters is the package. It’s what record companies do, you know, design packages. Boggles the mind how much they spend to convince punters that soap flakes are sexy and exciting. And you? You have to fit inside the box, don’t you? That’s what it’s all about. Are you boring enough to be labelled cool. For your sake, I hope so. Because cool is important, even to me. Let’s face it, without cool, I don’t get laid. I’m an old man.”

Back in the car, Ronnie stared vacantly out the side window, not saying a word. He squeezed Cyrus’s arm and smiled weakly. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said. “The man loves music. It runs through his veins. He grouses that way because he hates to be taken for granted.”

For the rest of that afternoon and all of the next, Ronnie and Cyrus raced around London meeting with influential figures in the British music scene: the pop music critic for the
Times
, A&R directors of several record companies, a handful of writers from various music industry publications. Aside from Bobby, everyone expressed great curiosity about Jangle and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Cyrus.