Gabriel's Gift (7 page)

‘Like this.'

Lester took a crayon and made a line on the paper, followed by another line. He wrote a word; more words followed.

‘Y?u can't will a dream or an erection. But you can get into bed, ‘he said.' Any mad stuff that comes into my mind I put down. Wild pigs, fauns, guitars, faces … in dreams the maddest connections are made! If I know where I'm going, how will I get lost on the way? When I'm doing this I disappear. There's no me there. I don't know who I am. I draw and sing to get lost. If I'm not lost how can I do anything? This is how I live twice. I live in the world, and then in memory and imagination. If you listen to the greatest music like “Strawberry Fields” or
Cosi Fan Tutte
, or read the greatest books, like
Hamlet
, you'll see how weird, almost supernatural and dreamlike they are.'

Lester kept writing, colouring in and sketching, his white hand disappearing into the white page.

‘You work quickly.'

‘As quickly as I can, these days,' said Lester, ‘to keep ahead of the rising tide of boredom.'

With his face close to Gabriel's, Lester began to talk of himself as a young man, before he was known or successful, and the difficulty of keeping alive self-belief when there was no one to confirm it. This was the hardest time for any artist.

After a while Gabriel became aware of his father watching them from across the room. Gabriel had been so absorbed he was unaware of how much time had passed.

Dad got up as though startled from a dream.

‘What did you think, Rex?' said Lester.

‘What?'

‘Of the new tunes? I've been working on them for a long time. I wanted them to be really good. They're an advance, aren't they? The same as before, but different enough, don't you think? I'm sick of people saying it's not up to what I did when I was twenty-five. Tell me.'

Gabriel was surprised to see how apprehensive Lester was, as if it were his first record.

Dad seemed to shake himself. ‘As good as anything you've done. If not better. What sounds! Yes!'

‘Thanks.' Lester took the piece of paper, looked at it, and turned it over. ‘You didn't write anything down.'

‘No, no. I was too stunned.'

‘By which track in particular?'

‘All of them … all stunned me.'

‘The third track – the one featuring the trumpet, and later that jumbled piano – is my favourite,' said Lester. ‘You?'

Lester was looking at Rex.

Dad hesitated. ‘I liked them all. The second, the third. The fourth especially. But I think the fifth took the biscuit. I'm still writing myself. You don't want to hear one of my new songs, by any chance?'

‘If only there were world enough and time.'

‘Of course. Anyhow, I didn't bring my guitar. I'll send you a tape to the usual place.' He offered Lester his hand. ‘We'd better not take up any more of your time. Thanks for everything.'

‘That's all right, friend. I've enjoyed myself. I was going to say – I want to give you something.'

‘Really?' Dad smiled widely. ‘You don't have to. I know things will pick up after a bit. I myself am working on a bicycle – sorry, I meant cycle – of songs, on the theme of life, death and rebirth. It's a triptych. Is that how you pronounce it? But I'm sure even someone as successful as you can remember what it's like to fall on hard times …'

Lester interrupted: ‘It's for your son.'

‘For the boy? Good, good. What sort of thing is it?'

Lester picked up a big sheet of paper from the floor. ‘This.'

‘Oh.'

‘I should give it a title. What do you think, Gabriel?'

‘I'm not sure.'

Lester wrote ‘Weird Weather' on the picture, signed and dedicated it, rolled it up, slipped a rubber band around it and slotted it under Gabriel's arm.

‘Put it on your wall or wherever. You might look at it now and again and remember this day. Some of the things I said might be of use. If not, it doesn't matter.'

Gabriel said, ‘I'll remember them.'

Lester touched Dad on the shoulder. ‘Rex, he's good, your boy. Do you spend much time with him?'

‘I lost one son, a long time ago and I can't afford to lose another. So we're together a lot. I'm educating him in politics, astronomy and other stuff like that. He has always followed me around.'

‘Until recently,' said Gabriel.

‘What d'you mean?' asked Lester.

Dad's eyes darted about. ‘I've had to move out … for a bit.'

‘Christ, sorry to hear that. I remember Christine very well. Is that her name? I even kissed her once.'

‘You did?'

‘Before your time, of course.'

‘Right.'

‘You won't let him down, will you?' said Lester. When he saw that Dad was taken aback, he added, ‘I have a daughter, you see. I hardly saw her grow up. I was away too much, working.'

‘No chance of that with me,' said Dad.

Lester seemed to be pondering something. ‘Sometimes I think I became an artist because it was the only way I could avoid my parents. They argued and I escaped into the back room to read comics and draw and listen to records. Little Richard on 45 – “She's Got It”.' Lester sang, ‘“Sweet little girl that lives down the street / I'm crazy but I say she's sweet … She's got it!”'

Gabriel went hot inside. Lester Jones was singing to them!

He went on, ‘Somehow I never stopped singing that song! And drawing! And wearing Italian jackets with white linen jeans. Not to mention the Chelsea boots and eye shadow that matched the colour of the socks I was wearing!'

Lester started to laugh. Gabriel and Dad laughed along with him, like a couple of cringing courtiers, though they weren't sure what was amusing. Gabriel knew Dad would be envious of Lester's honest self-engrossment, and by the fact he could talk about himself, confident that others would listen. As a musician Dad had once been something of a little king himself; later, in his own house, at least, he had been attended to. Even that was gone.

Lester rapped on the table with his knuckle. ‘On we go! Forward, forward!'

The door opened and the girl in charcoal pyjamas came in.

Lester waved and turned away.

Dad and Gabriel were hurried through the rinsed-out maze of the hotel.

On reaching the lobby, Gabriel extracted an apple from his pocket, which he had taken from Lester's fruit bowl. He placed it on the floor in the middle of a ring of drab stones. The little patch of colour would cheer people up. He and his father passed into
the crowd of photographers and fans stamping their feet in the cold. Gabriel turned to see several colourless figures scampering towards the anarchic apple.

Gabriel had wondered whether his father might be amused, too; he used to enjoy anything subversive. Once, Dad dressed up as Santa Claus and took Gabriel and his school friends into a big shop in the West End and began distributing the toys to the children. It wasn't long before Dad, Gabriel and the others were chased out by store security, who in their turn were pursued by children outraged to see a benevolent Santa arrested. Outside, they laughed until they choked.

There was no opportunity for amusement now.

As they started to shoulder through the noisy crowd – and it was easier for Gabriel, being smaller – he glanced back to see that something was holding his father up.

One of Lester's fans, an old woman, had laid the white claw of her hand on Dad's arm and was pinning him to her.

‘Excuse me,' she was saying. ‘One second only, sir!'

‘No comment,' parroted Dad, trying to pull away.

Gabriel had to jump up and down to catch a glimpse of his father, clutching Lester's picture to him.

‘Dad, Dad – come on!'

He was about to return to grab his father's hand and tug him free. The woman, searching frantically for something in her mind, suddenly said, ‘But – Rex! Rex!'

‘Who are you?' Gabriel's father peered into her old face as if he might see other, younger ones, underneath. ‘I don't recognize you.'

‘I was there. It was me that saw … that saw –'

‘Where were you? What did you see?'

‘In Finland, where you fell from your superboots. I used to follow the group around. You were the bass player.'

‘I was that man!'

‘A lovely smooth bass line you had, too.'

‘You noticed?'

‘I was watching when your ankle went. I heard you cry out. Then you were down. “Oh God, he's had it,” I thought, and I wanted to run to you and kiss you back to life and –'

Her voice was drowned out as a voice rose in the crowd: ‘Lester's bass player!'

‘He was in the Leather Pigs!'

‘It's Rex! He's alive!'

‘He's returned from Iceland!'

‘He's been to see Lester! He's touched him!'

‘Rex! Rex!'

‘Look over here Mr Pig Rex!' cried a photographer. ‘Smile for your fans!'

‘Smile, smile, smile!'

The crowd had turned to Gabriel's father, pushing and shoving to get a better view. Some people clambered onto the backs of others. Gabriel saw that Dad didn't know whether to be delighted or humiliated by the attention.

The woman went on, ‘You were the most attractive Pig. I always looked at you the most – after Lester,' she added, unnecessarily.

Dad said, ‘D'you remember my paisley glitter suit and the silver shoes with hearts?'

‘Oh yes, yes I do – Oh the silver shoes!'

‘And the red satin –'

Gabriel realized that the fans were not plucking at his father, but that they wanted to touch him, as if he could cure or save them. For a moment he looked like someone wearing a costume made of hands.

The woman said, ‘I beg you – let me have your autograph.'

Dad quickly signed her book. He bent forward and kissed her. At this the other fans started to wave their books at Dad, heaving forward in a threatening way. For a moment Dad went under the crowd.

‘Run!' shouted Gabriel, when his father's bald patch bobbed up again. ‘Run, Dad! Run!'

Ensuring that his father was hopping and tripping behind him, Gabriel started to run himself, breaking out of the crowd and into the freedom of the ordinary street with its shoppers and office workers. Neither of them stopped until they reached the end of the road.

Dad was white and shaken; he held his chest and found it difficult to speak.

‘I thought they were going to devour me and spit me out.'

‘Just like the old days?'

‘Too much like that. Though less well paid.'

‘Good fun, though. Wait till people hear about it.'

‘Don't tell Mum.'

‘Why not?'

‘It's not a good idea. Promise?'

His father unchained the bicycle. Gabriel looked back at the hotel.

A black car with dark windows emerged from further along the brick wall and swept towards them, the dignified whisper of its wheels suggesting that it barely touched the earth. Lester's fans and photographers spotted the car and started to hurtle along behind it, some of them falling down and getting trampled, their autograph books and pens flung from their hands. At least they no longer had any interest in Dad.

The car passed and Dad waved. ‘There's Lester – going to the airport.'

‘Where's he off to?'

‘He owns an island where he is protected by barbed wire and gunboats. He's not a fool – he has always known that fame is a handful of foam. He recognized too, that fame isn't a tap you can turn on and off at will. But it was a price he had to pay for what he wants to do. Lester can't roam the streets like us.' Dad glanced up and down the street. ‘Not that he'd be missing much.'

It wasn't fame that Lester had warned Gabriel about when they lay on the floor together. It was envy, which Lester called one of the strongest human forces: the jealousy and hatred of others, and their desire to contain or undermine you. He said the temptation in the face of such a force might be to make oneself as inconspicuous as possible, to merge, blend in, not seem more talented than other people. However, if you attempted that – trying to ‘disappear' yourself or live undercover – you would rob yourself of your own gifts. Lester said it was important to find people who were supportive and inspiring, and who didn't mock one's hopes.

The car accelerated into the distance and Gabriel thought of the pale, isolated figure within, writing, drawing and perhaps humming, with a kind of contentment, ‘She's Got It'.

Dad said suddenly, ‘Where's the picture?'

Gabriel tapped it. ‘Right here, Dad. Safe.'

‘Good, good. I'll hold on to it, I think. I found that a very interesting meeting with Lester. Let's go to a café and have a talk.'

Gabriel reminded his father, ‘I'm still supposed to be at school.'

‘I forgot about that. Do you fancy some education?'

‘I've had enough of that for one day.'

Dad took the picture and pushed it down the front of his coat.

They went to a café near by where Dad wiped the damp table down with his cuff. He slipped off the rubber band and unrolled the picture. To keep it flat Gabriel placed a sauce bottle on one end, and a pot of mustard on the other.

‘Not bad, not bad at all.'

Dad put on his glasses and assumed a voice like an antique dealer on a television programme evaluating an old object.

‘I didn't get the chance to look at it properly just now,' he went on. ‘For what it is, it's pretty interesting. I thought it might just be a sketch.'

‘It's not that,' said Gabriel, leaning over it.

Like his father, Gabriel could see it was a complete, coherent picture, rather than a sketch or selection of scribbles. Lester had probably been working on it for a while.

‘It's dedicated to you, and signed,' said Dad. ‘Lester was very friendly, just as I predicted. He's always been like that with me.'

‘Did you enjoy his new album?'

‘Yes, yes I did,' said Dad, airily. ‘There can't be many people who have heard it. We were lucky to be so honoured.'

Meanwhile the waitress had come over and was looking at the picture.

‘Did you do it?' she said to Gabriel. ‘It's pretty.'

‘It is, yes.'

‘I wish I could draw like that.'

Glancing up at his father Gabriel wondered what exactly was wrong; he appeared to be grimacing and gurning at her.

‘We're brothers.' Dad pointed at Gabriel. ‘He's the eldest.'

She bit her lip. ‘What can I get you?'

‘What d'you think I might like?'

‘I'm run off my feet,' she said. ‘Come on.'

‘You come on. We're artists.'

‘Piss artists.'

‘That's funny. Say it again. Go on.'

Dad wouldn't stop looking at her. Gabriel ordered hot chocolate and cheesecake for both of them.

Dad watched her go, before saying, ‘What we should do is this. We should see what the picture is worth.'

‘What do you mean – what it's worth?'

‘I think we're in business. We could get a reasonable price for it.'

‘For this picture?'

Dad nodded.

Gabriel said, ‘Didn't Lester give you any money?'

‘Did you want me to humiliate myself by asking? I'm a musician not a beggar. But we could do something with this.' He rubbed his forehead. ‘To be honest, Gabriel, this separation from your mother has run me into a few problems of a financial nature.'

Gabriel thought of the man who had threatened his father, pushing him against the wall so that Dad hit his head and hurt his ear. Perhaps he would do the same thing again, today.

His father said, ‘Years ago I was in a group with a man who now has restaurants full of rock memorabilia – gold discs, photographs, guitars, all that old tat. Young people can find interest in an old pop star's trousers. This picture is recent and it's original. I reckon he'd pay a lot for it. I'll take it to him now and see what he says.'

Dad started to roll up the picture.

Gabriel said, ‘Right now?'

‘I think it will be open. We're rocking here, boy. That's the thing about life – there are some opportunities you can't let go!'

‘Listen!' Gabriel slammed his hands down on the table. ‘Listen, Dad.'

His father looked shocked. ‘What's the matter, Angel?'

It was a difficult situation. Gabriel didn't know what to do. He had an idea. If he contacted his brother, Archie would – surely – supply a solution to satisfy both Gabriel and his father.

For a moment Gabriel closed his eyes but heard nothing.

Dad touched his son's face. ‘Gabriel, are you awake?'

‘Yes. But wait –'

Perhaps Gabriel was trying too hard. After a moment he heard the clear calm voice of his brother. Gabriel listened and nodded to himself. You could rely on Archie, sometimes.

Dad was slipping the rubber band around the picture. ‘Let's go. The restaurant isn't far from here.'

‘No, Dad.'

His father looked up. ‘What?'

‘The picture is mine.'

‘Yours? Of course it's yours. But haven't I given you everything? What do you think I'm trying to do here?'

‘Lester gave it to
me
.'

Dad rolled up his sleeves. ‘Look at these scratch marks! I almost got murdered carrying that picture away! That crowd wanted to rip off my clothes and eat me!'

‘He didn't give it to you.' This was the hardest conversation of Gabriel's life. In Archie's voice he said, ‘I'll keep it a few days.'

‘A few days!'

‘I want to look at it. Let me enjoy it.'

His father was looking at him in annoyance. At last he nodded and handed the picture to his son.

‘You'll bring it back to me?' he said. ‘You can't leave such a valuable object just lying around the place. I wasn't intending to sell it, if that's what you think.'

‘What were you intending to do, then?'

‘Get an estimate of its value, that's all.'

‘I'll give it back to you. I promise.'

‘That's pretty magnanimous of you.' said Dad, sarcastically, ‘bearing in mind we wouldn't be in this poverty-stricken situation right now if you hadn't talked so much to Lester about your precious drawings. You forced the poor man to pretend to be interested –'

‘It was Lester who did it,' said Gabriel. ‘He was talking to me.'

‘You led him on. It was disgraceful, ungrateful behaviour! I wish I hadn't taken you, you little idiot!'

‘Calm down, Dad –'

‘He hardly said two words to me. I'll be lucky if he even mentions my name in his memoirs! It was my great chance and what happened? We came away with a rotten picture you won't even let me have!'

Gabriel got up and went to the bathroom. When he returned the picture was still lying on the table. Dad wasn't in his seat.

He had backed the waitress, still holding a heavy tray, into a corner, and was talking to her while writing something on a piece of paper which he slipped into the pocket of her apron. She was looking about anxiously, as if Dad were a prickly hedge bearing down on her, and she sought a gap to dash through.

‘Dad!' Gabriel called.

Dad turned; the woman scooted away.

‘Oh, I'm in a better mood now,' said his father. ‘She took my phone number! There's one thing that women like –'

‘What's that?'

‘They like men who want them, who have a passion for them. You remember this. See how interested she is in me.'

‘Are you sure she wasn't about to call the police?'

‘What makes you say that? What are you saying? That I'm a dirty old fool?'

‘Dad –'

‘Is that it?' His father's face looked as though it had been turned inside out. Dad could flirt, but he couldn't charm. ‘You're right. That's me – an old man!'

‘In a way.'

‘Does it show?'

‘Now and again.'

‘The light is bright in here.'

‘Dad –'

Dad dug his fingers into his own stomach and pulled at the rolls of flesh. ‘You reckon I should do a few press-ups?'

‘At least.'

‘What possessed me suddenly? It was hope! Stupid hope! Gabriel … I've been so lonely!'

‘Do you miss Mum?'

‘She listened to my monologues, as she called them. All the time we were together she had at least half an ear open to me. I have so much to tell her … Except that she doesn't want to hear me. She got rid of my furniture!' Dad glanced back at the waitress, now secure behind the counter and looking determinedly in the other direction. ‘I s'pose most of us spend most of our lives trying to control our desire for other people.'

Gabriel took his father's arm. ‘I'll see what I can do with Mum, Dad.'

‘Oh yes, thank you. At least we've got this,' said Dad, tapping the picture.

They were leaving; the manager approached them with the bill.