Millions for a Song (6 page)

For the next three hours, we wear ourselves out raking through our memories. We remember everything: from the most beautiful to the most insignificant. It's surprising to see how, as a group, we're able to piece together our past. We laugh at times, just about cry at others. But the end results are far from spectacular.

Going by the expression on Mr. Biron's face, I think the only lifeline out of this mess is that one small boy … the boy no one remembers! Let's hope we manage to find him, otherwise … good-bye, fame and fortune.

A Cry in the Night

five

I
feel like smashing everything to bits, knowing we still haven't got our hands on that little brat with the recorder! The most maddening part is that almost everyone who was there remembers seeing him, but no one can say who he is! He's a mystery, a ghost, an alien!

It doesn't take a genius to figure out Tom Paradis must have bribed the kid. As soon as our show was through, the brat probably hurried out to hand over the recorder.

How can we prove the songs belong to us if we can't find him? Without his testimony, we're done for. It'll be impossible to catch Tom Paradis out or turn the heat up enough to get him to confess. But oh, how I'd love to be the one controlling the flame!

For three days now, I've refused to see anyone. My mom's worried, but I can't bring myself to tell her that our inexperience has cost us everything, including our claim to all our songs.

Tom Paradis certainly played us. He siphoned everything he
could off us. Squeezed every last drop from our imagination.
We were his little robots. Doing all his work for
him. We produced songs that he then turned around and
sold in Europe. He used us. Now that he's got
everything he wants from us, we're history. No more contracts.
No more shows.

Seeing as it looks like we'll never get our hands on the little brat who recorded our songs, we've lost all interest in making music. How can we play the very songs that were stolen from us? We've lost our voice and, with it, a part of our lives ...

The days go by and the bad news
keeps trickling in. Mr. Biron went to Ottawa to the
Department of Consumer and Corporate Affairs, and his theory proved
to be correct.

Tom Paradis has, in fact, registered all our songs under his name. He's done the same with dozens of other songs, too, so we're not the only ones he's ripped off. Not that that matters. Did anyone else have a song covered by
U2
?

What hurts most is hearing “Live in the Dark” non-stop on radio and
TV
. It's enough to make me sick. The song's a big hit in Canada and the States.

It's practically a given that “Live in the Dark” will end up spanning continents. The song will travel from Japan to Australia, from France to Italy, from Holland to Hungary. A world tour at our expense, dammit! We'd have made a fortune, according to Mr. Biron.

Needless to say, he's gone over everything with a fine tooth comb. He wants another meeting with us. He's offered to negotiate rights for us from here on in. For a ten per cent commission on our earnings.

He knows he's sitting on a gold mine, if only he can unmask Tom Paradis. Between you and me, he really seems to relish the thought. He's giving it all he's got. He's even had Tom Paradis followed. He's had pictures taken of his two kids. All for nothing. Étienne and Nicolas, ten and eleven, don't match the description of the boy who showed up for our basement show.

Mr. Biron is exceedingly frustrated. He was sure Tom Paradis used his own kids to do his dirty work. He was wrong, and he's taking it hard. He says Tom Paradis is the worst plagiarist he's ever come across. A real specimen. He seems to have committed the perfect crime.

“Normally,” Mr. Biron says, “it's easy enough to find a crack in a plagiarist's system. When one can't be found, a scan of his past will usually reveal similar offences. From there, it's easy enough to cast doubt before a judge on the defendant's claim of total innocence.”

This case has really got him stumped. “No hint of other accusations despite meticulous research. It's enough to make you tear your hair out. I've spent a small fortune on this case. As you know, the only way I'll get my money back is to unmask Tom Paradis. You can bet I'm going to do everything in my power to get to the bottom of this.”

We're a bit worried. If he ever decides to pass the bill onto us, we'll be ruined. But he reassures us on that score. “I told you, I won't be asking for a fee. On the other hand, if I win, I become your lawyer slash manager. That's my condition. I'll make sure you never make the same mistake again.”

I have no objection to having Mr. Biron represent us. In fact, I think it's a great idea. The problem is if we lose this case, we won't really need his services anymore. To negotiate what? Our lack of contracts? The break-up of our band? Just thinking about it makes me want to cry. To think we'd be rich by now if we hadn't been such suckers.

Mélanie just called. Going by her glum voice, she's even more depressed than I am. Right off the bat, she begs me to meet her somewhere. She made it sound so urgent that I agreed right away even though I usually don't go out on weeknights. We decided to meet at Pratt Park.

When I get there, I find her sitting on a bench staring at the small pond. She slowly raises her eyes, and in them I see a world of anguish. What could have happened to make her this miserable?

I give her a quick kiss on the cheek and sit down beside her. I don't say a thing. I wait for her to speak. There's a long silence, then Mélanie lays her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her. We stay that way for a few more seconds.

All of a sudden, Mélanie bursts into tears. Her sorrow is so intense, it makes my heart ache. I feel so helpless. I have no idea what to say so I run my hand through her hair.

She looks up at me through her tears. Heart-wrenching. Then she starts crying all over again. She sobs into my shoulder.

I hold her tight and feel her body racked by spasms. I feel her pain so keenly. I have to keep telling myself I can't own her pain. She has something bottled up she can't yet share, but her tears, her moans, and heaving shoulders all point to its existence.

She cries on my shoulder, unable to stop, needing to let it all out, let go of the sorrow suffocating her, while I feel both needed and useless. I keep running my hand through her hair, stroke her cheek to wipe away her tears and say, “Just let it all out, cry as much as you want. I'm here for you, little sister.”

Hearing me, Mélanie cries even harder. I know that's what she needs to do. I know she has to slowly release the pain caught in her throat, blocked somewhere between her heart and her mouth. So it does, gushing out, washing over my shoulder, drenching my shirt with warm, salty tears …

When it's over, she simply says, without explanation, “You have no idea how lucky you are to have a mom and a dad ...”

Under normal circumstances, I'd have told her it was twice the headache. I'd even have added how much I envy kids in single-parent households, but what's the point? I know Mélanie is suffering. She's obsessed with the memory of her parents' divorce and her dad's death a few years later. It often comes back to haunt her. I know she'll never be able to erase that memory from her mind. Ever. It has scorched her body and soul. A lasting wound ...

But I swore I wouldn't speak of Mélanie's secret.

“I'm an absolute genius!”

I'm sure I'm not the only one who'll be dazzled by my genius so I let out a victory cry. It's so loud that both parents come running into my dad's den, convinced I'm being tortured to death.

When they see me sitting there alive and well, not to mention grinning from ear to ear, a change comes over them and I get quite an earful. “What's gotten into you? We thought you'd just had your throat slit. Don't you realize it's midnight and your dad and I were fast asleep? You'll give us a heart attack yet!”

My dad, who's even more furious, takes his turn, “I've got half a mind to give you a well-deserved kick in the pants! After what I just heard, there's no way I'm going to be able to fall asleep for another couple of hours. Just how am I supposed to get up for five? In case you didn't know, I've got an article to hand in without fail tomorrow morning. Dammit all to hell! One day, I swear you're going to drive me crazy!”

My father fancies himself a writer. For years, he's been getting up with the birds. It's become a sacred ritual. He claims inspiration strikes in the calm, pre-dawn hours.

I've got to admit I don't get it.
Between you and me, anyone who drags himself out of
bed at five in the morning has got to be
nuts. The sun isn't even up then! Sometimes I wonder
if my dad isn't a bit of a masochist.

But that's beside the point right now. The thing is, the idea I just had is so great I couldn't help but shout for joy. I take it slow and explain, “Hey, Dad, I'm sorry. I know that was a stupid thing to do, but I couldn't help it. You know how our case is a lost cause? Tom Paradis' evidence is watertight. Mr. Biron won't say as much, but that doesn't change the truth of it.

“It makes me crazy to think of that pretentious dweeb laughing up his sleeve and driving around in a Mercedes that by rights should be mine. At the computer just now, I had a brilliant idea that just might save us all. I had to shout for joy knowing that Tom Paradis will soon be pacing up and down … the halls of a prison and that I'll be the one driving a Mercedes. Don't you think that's reason enough for a small lapse in judgment?”

“I'm not going to answer that until I hear your ‘brilliant' idea. If there's no merit to it, I swear I'll wring your neck. Go on, spit it out and be quick about it because I've got to get some shut-eye! I promised the magazine I'd hand in my article by noon.”

So I explain. The way I see it, the only evidence the judge can accept has to do with the issue of timing. If we can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that we wrote the songs before Tom did, we're home free. Proud as can be, I share my discovery with my dad.

He looks at me incredulously. “How did I not think of that!”

Not one for handing out compliments, my dad's honest enough to throw me a bit of a bouquet. “Maybe I was wrong about you. You may be smarter than I give you credit for. In any case, that's one … brilliant idea.”

“My thoughts exactly!”

We all burst out laughing, then Dad and Mom go back to bed. They're happy for me and, when all's said and done, not too upset at being wrenched from sleep. After all, strokes of genius don't happen every day! That's got to be worth a little victory cry, doesn't it?

Before leaving the den, Mom gives me a piece of advice, “Call Mr. Biron as soon as his office opens tomorrow. I like your idea, but only a lawyer can say if it will hold up in court.”

That's my mother for you! Always so cautious. “Never sell the bear's skin before you've killed the beast,” she's always saying. But today, she'll be eating her words because I'm about to slay that cowardly bear Tom Paradis, and make a fortune with the pelt!

Just as my watch reads nine, I'm on the phone to Mr. Biron's office. His secretary answers with forced
heartiness, assuring me that Mr. Biron will call back as soon as he gets in. She must think I'm a real pain in the butt. I want to be absolutely certain he gets my message so I insist, “Tell him it's of the utmost importance; the outcome of our trial might depend on it.”

Unable to resist the urge, I blurt out, “Tell him I've found watertight proof that guarantees us a win.”

Skeptical, his secretary answers, “Don't worry. I'll be sure he gets the message.”

I want to shake her! I know he'll get the message and call me right back. That's not the point. What bugs me is being treated like a child. In her eyes, I'm some smartass kid who knows nothing about the law but thinks he can one-up her boss.

She's seen lots of people like me. And she's seen Mr. Biron shoot down his clients' “watertight” arguments on more than one occasion. A good thing I know she's totally devoted to our lawyer, otherwise I'm not sure I'd trust her to pass on the message—instead I'd keep calling back. But I can already hear her saying, if a bit disdainfully, “Mr. Biron, you've had an urgent call from Alexandre de Vertefeuille. He claims—young people these days can be so presumptuous—to have come up with evidence that will allow you to win the trial.”

I'm still imagining the conversation between Mr. Biron and his secretary when the phone rings. I rush to pick up the receiver and immediately tell Mr. Biron—who, of course, it is—that I've found the solution to our problem. “My parents think it's rock solid proof, too.”