Whale Music (16 page)

“The song is a mere piece of dross and frippery. A novelty tune, somewhat akin to ‘Vivian in Velvet.’ I have not forgotten my legal, my
Mephistophelean
, obligations to your company. Here, listen.” I power-on the machines, we hear the majestic “Song of Congregation”.

“Turn it off,” says Kenny.

I do so. When Kenneth tells me to do something, I do it.

“When I hear this music, Desmond, I hear magnificence. Munificence and majesty. I don’t hear money, Desmond. I strain my ears, I can’t hear two nickels scraping together. You were a young man, Desmond, a boy, when you came to me. I listened to the music, I decided to invest heavily. We are speaking great big gobby greenbacks here. This policy has been maintained at Galaxy Records. Over the past years, we have financed albums which, in the argot of this business, stiffed. Dogs, Desmond. Howling mastiffs. Not that our faith has been shaken, no, nay, never even think it. We
know
that Desmond Howl is a genius, we
know
he can get that money back. But the vehicle for this reclamation is a commercially viable song. Not this masterwork, not this astounding display of moral courage, not this art with an
A
as big as a mountain,
no
. What we want is a little song. Such as ‘Claire’.”

“Now,” my volley, “the situation as I see it: Galaxy Records invested money in me—money that I earned it in the first
place—and then released a series of albums. These albums, I believe, averaged sales of seven hundred thousand units per—hardly doglike, Kenneth, very respectable, I believe the Rolling Stones have rarely sold more than that. Also, two of those albums are considered classics, doesn’t
Grin
turn up on every writer’s top-ten list of all-time great records? Furthermore, my contract gives me complete artistic control, which to my mind implies some measure of responsibility over what I do or do not deem acceptable for release.”

“Be that as it may, my friend,” Kenny neatly sidesteps, “ ‘Claire’ is out as a record.”

“Hmm. Well, Maurice is very ill, they no doubt needed the money.”

Kenneth Sexstone jumps onto the Revox, if he weren’t such a scrawny little human being I’d worry about my machinery. Kenneth crosses his legs and braids his arms.
Agh
. I’m about to get a dose of the famous Sexstone earnestness. “Maurice and I, we’re close. His illness, do you know what it’s doing to me? It’s like someone has taken my heart and put it in a Cuisinart.” Kenneth rips open his shirt, his preternaturally hairy chest stares at me. This is the Sexstone earnestness at its highest pitch. “A broken heart lies here.” The effect is undone by the nancy manner in which he rebuttons. “But money, Desmond, for all that I love it, cannot buy back the man’s health. A sad truth. We should have read the fine print, Des, but that’s the deal we signed. So, I don’t see how I can sit back and allow myself to be reamed in this outrageously royal fashion.”

“What do you want me to do, Kenneth? Sue my own mother and her dying husband?”

“Of course not. Don’t be absurd. But if you threaten to, maybe we could work something out.”

“Kenny, you jest.”

“You sued your father, didn’t you?”

“I did not.”

“Well, I attended the court proceedings. It seemed to me that you were suing him.”

“That was Danny’s idea. I just happened to be there. Anyway, how fast is the record climbing? Are we charting in the small towns, in the metropoli, or what? Did we grab the chains right away?”

“Mantlepiece Records put the rink in the dink, Desmond. It’s a scuzzy-looking label, they just sent it out to a few stations, it’s a miracle it’s doing as well as it is. If Galaxy had it, we’d do it right.”

“If the record is out, it can’t be recalled like a car with faulty brakes. You win some, you lose some, Kenneth.”

“Ah, yes, I see your point. However, Desmond, if we can’t manage to clear this thing up somehow, then, I hate to say it, the legal arm of Galaxy Records shall flex its impressive bicep and come out pointing at you. Do you know what that means, Desmond? It means court appearances. Subpoenas and special discoveries. Newspaper and magazine people.
Unpleasantness
. It means getting dressed and leaving the house, battling through the press people into the federal building and then being attacked—let’s not pretend it isn’t so—by people who have a very clear idea of how you lead your life. And, if it comes down to it, Desmond, it means an assessment of your mental capability, and I don’t want even to speculate on where that might lead.”

“Agh.”

“Just so.”

“Double agh.”

“Your mother wouldn’t want to subject you to that. So here’s what I suggest. Talk to your mother. The mere mention of legality should do the trick. Then, because Galaxy Records are basically kind-hearted folk, we shall buy Mantlepiece Records at a very reasonable price. Extremely fair. Philanthropic. Enough to ensure Moe his medical needs, for all the good it will do the poor man. We take over supervision of the record, and
poof
, you have another hit, you have made a comeback! Your star burns bright in the firmament once more. I sit in my counting house counting all my money. Everybody is happy.”

“Oh, Kenneth. Are you not already fabulously wealthy? Do you not own a mansion and several cars? At what point do you say, maybe I just close my eyes and let the tilted earth spin?”

“At no point do I say this, Desmond.”

“Currency, Kenneth. Mere currency. At the Pearly Gates they do not ask after your material wealth. They make inquiries about such things as charity. You shall be tongue-tied, Kenneth, you shall hem and haw and mention that you once tipped a whore in Venice.”

“I was a weird little boy, Desmond. Empathize. I was teased and taunted. The bigger boys would hoist me into the air holding the back of my underpants. But like you, I was a prodigy. At the age of four I could beat my father, my uncles, at chess. I was a grandmaster at seventeen. There exists the Sexstone Response to the Queen’s Pawn Gambit, a rare thing, but when played it is often accompanied in the notation with a series of exclamation points. It is a bit complex, but basically the response is this—take the pawn and then fuck him in the heart, screw him three ways from Sunday, leave nothing but carnage and mayhem in the middle game. Do you see where I’m coming from, Desmond?”

“Whales have no money, and yet they are happy.”

“Whales are ungainly, Desmond. Whales swim around going ga-ga.”

“You’re serious, then, in this threat you have made?”

“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

“Is there no one playing the game for the love of music?”

“There’s you.”

I knew there’d be a catch.

“By the way,” says Kenneth Sexstone, “I detect the distinctive odour of alcohol. As your friend, I advise you not to indulge.”

“As my friend. I see. I suppose you are considering rehiring Farley O’Keefe?”

“And just who,” asks Kenneth Sexstone, “is he?”

I must speak with Claire. I check poolside, she is not there. I go to the living room, she is not there. I check the kitchen, she is not there. I hope that she hasn’t fixed her starcraft and zoomed back to the planet Toronto.

I am howling. How could I, the fat phantom, have gotten myself involved in another legal imbroglio?

I climb the stairs, huffing and puffing, and hope that Claire might be in the bathroom or bedroom. She is in neither one, she has disappeared. Perhaps she never even existed, did you ever think of that?

I will go to bed. Bed-going can be rather radical with me, you know. At one point I climbed into the sack and didn’t emerge for close to a year, other than hurried and furtive trips into the bathroom. Mind you, I was indulged in my egocentricities back then. There were people who would bring me food, for example. Judging from my weight, there was a whole army of the little ants. Still, I can probably live off my subcutaneous fatty tissue for a month or two, which might be enough to do the trick. You have no idea, really, how big a deal bed-going is in our society. It’s a sad thing when a person’s normalcy is established upon the regularity with which he/she scurries under the blankies and launches into never-never-land, but sad things abound. If you eat three squares a day and clock in the requisite eight hours nightly, why then, you could collect shrunken heads and no one would bat an eye.

Yes, it’s true. Take it from me, a veteran. The indicators of mental health in this fair land are sleeping habits, hair length and beards. Those doctors hate to see beards, especially long ones, it makes them antsy. A beard and long hair, they reach for the constraining garments. If you have a beard, long hair and stay up late, why then, they shoot the drugs into you, not the fun drugs but the dark lugubrious ones, the drugs that make you go “Blah-blah-blah.” Of course, if you walk around going “Blah-blah-blah,” you’re mentally ill. Checkmate.

I take a few steps, I lift off and deposit the girth on the mattress.

This is not good, and I’ll tell you why. There is a scent, an odour, there is a sweetness here that certainly has nothing to do with me. Claire was no apparition, then. She existed, and now she is lost to me. I toss the pillows angrily across the room. There was a sect of monks who bedded down on nothing but dirt floors and they achieved spiritual enlightenment. I’m not willing to go quite that far, but I can do without pillows.

Loss, loss. Is that what life is, an accumulation of things that must then be lost? Bingo. Some people become inured to it, that’s how they survive. Danny, for instance, took loss in stride, and he lost a lot. He lost money, girlfriends, wives, control of the silver Porsche.

What are the chances, do you figure, of me falling asleep? I’m talking actual slumber here, the restful variety. Las Vegas odds-makers would give you a long line on me going to sleep, but I’m here to tell you, go put down two dollars at a thousand to one, because I think it might actually take place.

Yes, quickly, two dollars at a thousand to one …

So here we are in Dreamland once more.

You likely won’t notice any big difference. Whales occasionally happen by, the furniture is strewn with seaweed, otherwise it’s situation normal. Which is to say, I get locked in a Memory Room from which there is no escape. The irony of the situation is not lost upon me, I mean, I can’t remember what
happened seven minutes ago, but when there is no music in my head, the Anamnesis Association holds a convention, there is drunkenness, cavorting and mayhem.

I’m seeing Fay Ginzburg for the second time. She has undergone a metamorphosis. Her hair is no longer red and piled like autumn leaves; it’s black and industriously straight. A great bolt of it covers most of her face. One grey/black eye burns beside this hank, the tip of her nose pushes through, otherwise Fay Ginzburg’s aspect is one of midnight, witchy blackness. She’s lost weight, is more than slender. Her body has trouble coping with the bombastic breasts and buttocks. Fay wears a turtleneck sweater and a skirt that shows off her dimpled knees. I’ve just come off stage. I’ve sweated profusely, I smell rank. Fay has pushed her way backstage, she seeks me out and kisses me soundly upon the lips. “Desmond,” she whispers. “Coming back to my place?”

“Um …”

Fay grabs my arm, we march out of the dressing room and into the night. I see Karen out of the corner of my eye—she is standing in a corner looking like an addled kitten staring at sunbeams. Danny will ignore her for the rest of the evening. If he’s in an especially sensitive, kind-hearted mood he might try to slip out without Karen noticing, otherwise he’ll treat the girl like so much odourless gas.

(Such reflections are big danger in Dreamland, because now we have Danny appearing, water-logged and puffy. Danny wants us to know that he was never as bad as all that. Nod politely, smile like an idiot and wait until he goes away.

(He was, you know. He was every bit as bad as that, and here in Dreamland we see him at his worst. Open up that door, sneak a peek inside, what do you see?!)

I’m certainly pleased to see the Professor and Mrs. Ginzburg again. Mrs. Ginzburg has become a rabid Howl Brothers fan. The mansion is decorated with posters and buttons and eight-by-ten glossies. She even has an autographed picture of Fred Head, can you believe it? Mrs. Ginzburg greets me with a
hug, she pats my ballooning belly appreciatively. “Good, Desmond,” she says. “I’ve been worried. Fay has given up eating.”

“Mom,” says Fay sternly.

“Let’s go to the kitchen and eat soup,” whispers Mrs. Ginzburg conspiratorially, perhaps not conspiratorially enough.

“You don’t bring a person into the house—especially not so famous a person as Mr. Desmond Howl—and drag him into the kitchen to eat soup. You sit him down in the living room, we get cozy, we cross our legs, we hem and haw, maybe have a little fruit juice, then you say, Desmond,
how’s ’bout soup?”
The professor seems to have lost a little weight, he’s hard to pick out against the white of the carpet. He’s saddled with a lethal-looking oaken cane, and he uses this to tap my leg affectionately. “Desmond, where’d you get them ears? That chorus in ‘Kiss Me, Karen,’ boy oh boy, I think that would have confused Mr. Johann Sebastian Bach!” The professor grabs me by the arm, hauls me towards the living room. “I bet you play chess,” he says.