Pinball (19 page)

Then, too, it was the music she chose to play. Osten did not like Chopin, who seemed to him a gifted amateur, a musical polyglot and a capricious, pampered wunderkind who had never developed into a classical composer. Chopin’s evanescent, donnish and fragile music simply was not universal, could never inspire the masses; it belonged in velvet chambers, in elitist concert halls, in music schools. There was also an ephemeral, almost ragtime quality in Chopin that Osten didn’t care for—the very quality that had made Chopin, an uprooted Pole transplanted to France, so popular a century later with the black ragtime pianists of New Orleans—who probably learned about him through the city’s Francophile coterie.

In order to understand Donna better, Osten had read a few books about Chopin, only to be troubled by most of what he learned about the composer’s tumultuous life. Although several biographers explained that Chopin’s feverish tubercular state was the cause of his constant sexual obsession, Osten nevertheless found it impossible to condone Chopin’s frantic and utterly perverse amorous escapades. To Osten, Chopin’s relationship with the French
novelist George Sand was of a particularly disgusting nature, since from its outset the composer must have known that the novelist was not simply bisexual, but a lesbian by temperament as well as inclination. Yet he allowed her to use him over and over again as a pawn in sadomasochistic games with her male and female friends and lovers, among whom were some of the most perverse minds of the century. Listening to Donna’s passionate, sometimes frenetic, overtly sensuous renditions of Chopin’s ballades, nocturnes, and scherzos, Osten could not keep himself from making free associations between the music and the composer’s unhealthy life—or between Donna and Chopin.

Osten was glad to find that to H. L. Mencken, the toughest of American critics, Chopin was “another composer who is best heard after seeing a bootlegger. His music,” wrote Mencken, “is excellent on rainy afternoons in winter, with the fire burning, the shaker full, and the girl somewhat silly.”

But Donna was anything but silly. Again and again Osten asked himself what this smart American black from a middle-class family found so exciting in Chopin. Did she, like her ragtime predecessors in Missouri and Louisiana, perceive in Chopin’s music, or in his life, some rich hidden meaning which was essential to her but which, so far at least, had eluded her white lover altogether?

Initially he had hoped that Donna would be the one to pull him out of his self-imposed sterility and involve him in her life and music. He had hoped, too, that she would also help him erase the memory of the only woman he had ever really loved—Leila Salem—who had come into his life as unheralded as the White House woman, but in quite a different way. So far Donna had done neither.

He had sensed no impending drama on that quiet day just two and a half years ago when he left his small ranch and drove out of the Anza Borrego Desert toward San Diego. He had no special purpose in mind beyond staying
a day or two in a good hotel and visiting a few bookstores. In San Diego, he drove aimlessly for a while. Then he crossed the Coronado Bridge, looking down at the harbor and the heavy silhouettes of the ships of the Pacific Fleet. Soon he found himself in the driveway of the Hotel Del Coronado, where he had not been since his freshman year.

He parked his Jeep and wandered around the hotel, staring in wonderment at its Victorian excesses—the gingerbread terraces, balconies, and verandas stacked one on top of the other, the shingled roof and turrets, the splendor of the entrance.

He passed through the interior garden court, peered into the Crown Room, where a large banquet for Arab dignitaries was taking place, then walked along the Hall of History, glancing at photographs of the hotel in its various transformations over a hundred years.

In the arcade, he paused at an open record stand to look at a large display of Goddard recordings, and while he stood there a woman emerged from behind one of the stalls with a stack of albums in her arms. She was in her early thirties, tall and slender in a close-fitting dress, and from the instant he saw her, Osten was unable to take his eyes from her. She was exquisite: waves of thick corn-blond hair, a high forehead, prominent cheekbones, sculptured nose. Unconsciously, Osten moved toward her, and, assuming he was a salesman, she handed him the records she was holding.

“Can I charge these to my hotel bill?” she asked in a faintly foreign accent.

“I’m sure you can, madam,” he said, taking the records. He caught her gaze, her eyes light gray and translucent, and afraid to lose her, he did not move.

He glanced down at the albums—all American rock, about two dozen of them, including three copies of Goddard’s latest record.

“You have three of these,” he said.

“I know,” she said, her eyes still on him. “Isn’t that all right?” She smiled agreeably.

“But they’re all the same,” he said.

“I must be his best salesperson,” she said, pointing at the abstract drawing of a rock singer on the cover of the album. “I buy his records for all my friends.”

“Lucky friends,” said Osten with a smile. “But only Goddard? I mean, there are other rock stars.”

She reflected. “Not like him. I heard him for the first time under very strange circumstances. It was during the war In Lebanon on the radio of the United Nations peacekeeping unit. And I was captivated without knowing anything about him.”

“No one knows anything about him,” said Osten. “People say he’s crazy—or crippled—or—”

“But, you see, I discovered him on my own; I didn’t even know he was a star. His music seemed to untangle something within me to bring order to my feelings and give feeling to what was nothing but order.” Her eyes had not left him as she talked. “I couldn’t care less who he was as a person, and what he looked like. I still don’t. I can’t quite explain what I mean.” She took one of the albums from Osten and, looking at the faceless drawing of Goddard, said, “He is original because he makes one feel original too. Such a feeling is the greatest gift an artist can give—and only a great artist gives it.”

She turned to Osten, and again he met her stare. “And you—what music do you like?” she asked.

“He’s my favorite, too,” he said after a full beat. “And like you, I also discovered him on my own. I heard his first record on the radio in New York. Now I know all his music.” Their eyes were still locked, and to hold her, he decided to risk more. “I play a bit myself,” he said.

“Really? What do you play?”

“Anything Goddard plays I can play too!” He laughed.

“Do you also sing?” she asked.

“A bit,” he said. He was about to tell her that surgery had left him with a permanent throat defect—the story he had told others for years—but he decided to say nothing about it.

She glanced around. “You have other customers. I don’t want to monopolize you.”

He smiled forthrightly. “I don’t work here. I’m monopolizing you.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—” She reached for the records, but he laughed softly and backed away with them. “May I, at least, carry them for you?”

She smiled. “That’s kind of you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Leila Salem.”

He shook her hand, narrow and cool, aware that it was the first time he had touched her. “I’m James Osten,” he said. “You have a slight accent—where are you from?”

“I was born in Lebanon, of Syrian parents,” she said.

“With your light eyes and fair skin I wouldn’t have thought you were an Arab.”

“Perhaps not.” She paused. “But you would certainly know that my husband is. He looks Arabian.”

He felt confused, then betrayed. He had already lost her to another man. “Your husband?”

“My husband is the Lebanese ambassador accredited to Mexico. We’re just visiting San Diego,” she explained.

They looked at each other in silence, and she saw him go from distraught to resigned. “And you—are you married, Mr. Osten?” she asked.

He shook his head that he was not.

“Are you a professional musician?” she asked politely, as if to distract him from his thoughts.

“Nothing professional about me,” he sighed. “I’m a student at the University of California at Davis.”

“Studying music?”

“Literature. Music is just a hobby.”

“I studied art, first in Lebanon, then in Madrid.” She paused again. “Ahmed—my husband—is an economist.” She watched him drop his gaze. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, her voice almost conspiratorial.

Without raising his head, he murmured, “About—” he stalled. “About you. I wish I could see you again.”

She edged closer, until her hip stopped against the records he was holding.

She hesitated before she spoke. “Tomorrow my husband and I are taking the children to Rosarito Beach, a little resort outside of Tijuana, for two weeks. Then well
return to Mexico City.” She hesitated. “While we are in Rosarito, Ahmed will be treated by the doctors at a clinic called Rejuvene-Center.”

“I’ve heard about them. They were allowed to conduct some medical tests with Gerovital at the University of California—injections of animal embryo and afterbirth, that are supposed to have a rejuvenating effect,” said Osten.

She nodded and lowered her eyes. “The Gerovital treatments are available only in Mexico. They have not yet been approved in the United States.”

Seeing her discomfort, Osten changed the subject. “I’ve been to Rosarito Beach,” he said. “It’s a lovely spot. Where will you stay there?”

“At the Scheherazade. A small villa overlooking the sea.”

“How old are your children?”

“My son is eleven, my daughter nine.” Her face lit up. “They love music. You should see them rock to Goddard.”

“I’ll be in Tijuana next week,” said Osten on an impulse that left him no time for reflection. “I want to test my playing and my voice”—he laughed—“in front of people.”

“You mean, perform in public?” She seemed surprised.

“Why not?”

“But why Mexico? Why Tijuana?”

“Well, they say that over twenty thousand people visit there each day!” he replied. “With that many people milling around, you don’t have to be Goddard to stand up and sing,” he laughed.

She smiled. “Where will you play?”

“Wherever they will have me. Some small square, or a café maybe,” he said. “Any place where I—or the audience—can make a fast getaway!”

“Will you sing in Spanish?”

“Just in English. I don’t know Spanish well enough,” he said.

“That’s a shame,” she exclaimed. “I love the
musica ranchera
—the real Mexican folk songs.”

Osten reflected. “Really? Do you have any favorites? Perhaps I might try them.”

“My favorites right now are ‘Volver, Volver, Volver’ and ‘El Rey,’” she said without hesitation. “You can find them in any Mexican record store.”

“I’ll get them tonight,” said Osten.

She looked at her watch as she and Osten walked toward the exit. “I must go,” she said.

The cashier, an old gray-haired man, grandly rang up her sales on the cash register and had her sign her name and room number on the sales slip.

Outside the stand, Leila Salem was politely accosted by two olive-skinned men in business suits. One of them said something to her in Arabic, and she turned to Osten with an expression of apology. “My ever-present protectors,” she explained with a sigh. “A debatable deterrent to one’s enemy; an unquestionable nuisance for one’s friends.” She paused, then gently touched Osten’s arm. “I hope you won’t mind if they accompany me when I come to hear you sing?”

He was almost afraid to show his elation. “Will your husband come too?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ahmed hasn’t been well. He must rest and try to relax. But my children definitely will. So please don’t forget to call the Scheherazade and tell me where to come,” she said. She took a calling card from her handbag and handed it to Osten. ‘That’s the name to ask for,” she said. “Don’t forget!”

His mind was made up; he had already envisioned what he was going to do, and even though without doing anything at all he could imagine the outcome as if it were a tune, he still felt prompted to take a chance and carry out his idea of reality. The mind, he reflected, was like an ideal musical instrument—invisible, portable, capable of synthesizing all sounds—too bad it required its listener, the body, to exercise leverage on physical reality.

After meeting Leila Salem, Osten drove to Tijuana, and in the biggest record shop there he bought every available version of the two folk songs Leila had told him she liked, recordings made in Spain, Mexico, and other Spanish-language countries. Then he checked out the city and its never-ending streams of pedestrians—the swarthy locals, the easy-to-spot American tourists, and the masses of brown-skinned peasants lured from the provinces to this modern boom town by the promise of construction work. Midway between the city’s affluent shopping centers, on the Avenida de la Revolución and the shantytowns near the bullring, Osten found what he was looking for: a half-enclosed open-air restaurant-café that would hold about sixty people; it was housed in an undistinguished little hotel called La Apasionada.