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Fiction 4 - Little Star
"So which songs are you going to do tonight, star?" Gordon asked as the subway train rattled across the bridge that spanned the Don Valley. The fading light of an early August evening spilled into the car and cast long, soft shadows on the handful of passengers heading into Toronto.
Lila shifted in her seat beside him. "The usual, I guess. I might try out the new one, but I haven't decided yet." The sun irritated her eyes; she closed them and turned her head away until the train slipped back into the comfort of the darkness on the other side of the bridge. "I just don't know if it's performance material."
"The new one? Of course it is, honey, it's one of your best."
"I don't know…it's a bit long."
Gordon laughed and gave her leg a mischievous pinch. "When are you ever going to learn, my little silly thing? You are brilliant. Everything you write is performance material."
"No, I wouldn't say that."
"Well I would. I have never heard anyone make a piano sing the way you do. Ask anyone who comes to hear you play, they'll tell you."
Lila smiled, weakly, and looked away.
"God didn't give you that kind of talent for nothing, honey." he continued. "And He didn't put those songs in your head for nothing, either. If you weren't born for super stardom, I don't know who was."
She had heard this so many times, the same thought expressed in countless ways by innumerable well-wishers over the years. A prodigy, her parents had beamed; an unprecedented talent, her grade school teachers had marvelled; a unique and truly gifted songwriter with the hands of an angel…someone she couldn't even remember had said that. Over and over the same glowing words, the same heartfelt message: she had a gift. Others merely played the piano, but she made a whole new instrument out of it. Others wrote saccharine ballads and wispy instrumentals, she captured heaven between the keys. She should have been an international phenomenon by now, her talent should have led her down a glittering path of fame and prestige…at least according to Gordon.
"But please, Lila, please try to remember to introduce yourself as Delilah Nightingale, alright?" His tone turned plaintive. "Last week you called yourself Lila. You can't let yourself get into that habit."
"I've been Lila Knight for twenty-nine years. It's hard to just start calling myself something else one day."
"All the big stars have done it, sweetheart. Do you think Judy Garland would have made it as Frances Gumm? You've got to think big."
Think big. How often had she heard that? He'd been adamant about the name change, pressuring her right from the beginning. Lila Knight was just too dull, he'd said. People will forget it five minutes after they hear it. No, what she needed was a sensual, delicious sort of name, a name one could savour on the tongue. Delilah, he'd said luxuriously, in demonstration. Delilah Nightingale.
But she'd always liked her real name. It was one of those simple, pretty, pleasant-sounding names, something that might appear on a cinema marquee or the cover of a book. Best of all it was genuine. Lila Marie Knight, born August 12, 1970 to Bill and Eileen Knight of Pefferlaw, Ontario. She had almost been christened Hyacinth Marie, after Bill's mother, but luckily Eileen had been absorbed in a soap opera during the last month of her pregnancy and had taken a liking to Lila, the headstrong heroine of Tomorrow Never Dawns. Eileen had spent thirty-nine hours in labour. The name was Lila.
The thought of changing her name had never occurred to her, at least not in a professional sense. Several times in the last three years she'd caught herself idly writing "Lila Galloway", or even "Mrs. Gordon Galloway" as her grandmother might have done, on the scratch pad by the phone but when it came to what name people attached to the unassuming blonde behind the piano, the name she'd been born with seemed as good as any.
But Gordon had gone ahead and made her first booking under the name Delilah Nightingale. Frank Flannigan, the bar owner, had laughed and asked him what escort service she worked with, which offended Gordon such that he wouldn't speak to Frank for a month. It was a wonder Frank booked her at all, she thought, having to deal with Gordon's temper, Gordon's mood...with Gordon period.
And there he was, sitting uncomfortably, unnecessarily, close to her, sitting too close for the claustrophobic heat of an old subway car.
"I'm only thinking of your future, star, I hope you know that." He said, trying to catch her eyes. "I know how hard you work, I know how many years you've put into this. Hell, I think you should have been discovered years ago."
"Please don't start with that again, Gordon-"
"If you'd let me hook you up with that music producer last year you'd be on the cover of an album by now."
"Gordon, you met the guy in a night club. He was drunk, he was trying to pick up women." She paused. " He said he was from Chicago, Indiana. He was no music producer."
Gordon smiled, acquiesced. "Okay, maybe you're right. It's just that I get so excited when it comes to your career. I want you to be able to quit that stupid job and tell that manager of yours where to stick it. I want the very best for you."
She sighed. "I know you do."
"Somebody that works as hard as you do deserves the rewards that go along with it." he said, repeating what had become like a mantra to him. "It's your turn."
She hated hearing that, not only because it sounded so pompous coming from someone who hadn't had a job in two years, but because ultimately it wasn't true. When it came to music, she didn't work hard at all. Practice, yes, finger exercises, yes, ruthlessness when it came to mistakes, yes. Hard work? No. She knew that people assumed her songs came from some dark and noble battle, that each piece was the result of an emotionally wrenching night of the soul. But it simply wasn't so.
Others struggled with it, she knew that. She knew some musicians had to coax the melodies from their heads and commit them to paper quickly and precisely before they fluttered away and were lost. She knew that harmonies were often elusive, that finding the most pleasing combination of notes kept some songwriters up until the cold hours of the morning, pleading with an obstinate tune that came to them one reluctant note at a time and sometimes not at all. But she was not one of those songwriters. Melodies seemed to reveal themselves to her, patiently, whenever she was ready to welcome them.
Sometimes she would sit at the piano with her head slightly tilted, as though trying to catch the faint strains of a tune whispering in her ear. It was like a jig-saw puzzle, she often thought. The music, like the fragmented image of a puzzle, was there before her, all she had to do was find it. Somehow her fingers knew exactly how to find it, knew which keys to press and which to pass over. And when they found the right keys, the notes that flowed together created so effortless and perfect a tune that she wondered why someone else hadn't stumbled upon it sooner.
She jotted down the notes as an afterthought, so sloppily sometimes that Gordon would chide her. Others will read this music someday, he'd told her. Others will play it, teach it, learn it in school. At least make it legible, star.
Gordon Galloway. She glanced over at him, watched the way his knee bounced as he tapped his heel against the floor. His eyes were everywhere, darting from passenger to passenger, from the ads that lined the tops of the windows to the graffiti on the red vinyl seats. He was a seven year old going to Disneyland for the first time, bursting with excitement and ungovernable nervous energy. She had seen him like this before; always, and only, when it came to her career.
He had first approached her three years ago, at the uneventful suburban party of a mutual friend. The host had begged Lila to wake up the room by playing something –anything - on his out-of-tune baby grand with the yellowing keys. She had done her best with the old instrument, wincing at every sour note until she realized that the small cluster of elegantly bored guests surrounding her couldn't tell it was out of tune or else didn't care. They clapped politely after every piece and murmured compliments about her skill. But the faces gathered around the piano had been dulled by too many hours of idle conversation, or too many bottles of Merlot, and reflected a blasé kind of weariness that made her feel vaguely guilty for occupying their time. Except for one face, that of the smiling, forty-ish man with the keen dark eyes and the silver hair, who watched her play with such unabashed admiration that she could feel herself blush beneath his gaze.
That moment stood out in her memory, interrupting the bland simplicity that had been her life, sparkling sharp and brilliant like cut glass. It was the kind of moment that only becomes significant in retrospect Later she would come to regard it not as the memory of the night she had met Gordon but rather as the last clear memory she had of what life had been before him. Every moment since then had blurred into the vague and directionless state of couplehood in which they had lived for the past three years. They weren't an average couple; less than married, more than partners, they were simply together. It was difficult now to even imagine the name Lila without immediately adding "and Gordon".
"…'Course, some people might say if you enjoy your job you never have to work a day in your life," he was saying thoughtfully, mostly to himself. " I guess most people will never know what it's like to love what they do for a living. You're very lucky, really. Your passion in life can net you a ton of money."
"I don't know if "passion" is quite right. I sometimes wonder what I'd be doing now if my parents hadn't-"
"I envy you, star. To have this incredible gift, this passionate purpose in your life. It must just thrill you."
It didn't. She glanced over at him, considered explaining it to him, but she knew he wouldn't understand the difference between passion and ambivalence. Sometimes, rarely, she'd pass by the piano and feel a sudden urge to stretch her fingers along the expanse of keys just for the pleasure of hearing the sounds she could produce. She would marvel at how silent and cold the piano could be when she wasn't in front of it, or how clumsy and dissonant an instrument it could be beneath the hands of a novice. People at parties, pounding out "Heart and Soul" and missing every second note, laughing at their own ineptitude. How different a piano sounded when her hands touched it. Sometimes she found real delight in discovering just how different; alone in the house she'd play for hours, content.
But more often she played because a glissando here or there could be smoother or because Gordon thought "that last bit needed work", or even just because of the vague feeling that she should. She would glance down at her fingers as they moved swiftly over the keys and feel mildly surprised that it was actually some part of her doing it. It so often seemed like someone else. She watched with detached fascination as the strong hands, already showing the pronounced tendons of age or hard work or both, climbed gracefully over the black keys and slipped back down to the white. When her fingers left a key they would hold themselves, patiently, poised above the key they were to strike next as if they themselves had memorized which notes to play. They moved with an agility that came from years of practice, yet still it transfixed her, how these hands of hers moved as if propelled by some other force. She didn't even have to pay attention to what she was doing; she once played Clair de Lune, start to finish, while reciting The Cat in the Hat to herself from memory, and at the end felt a rush of pride for not having forgotten her Dr. Seuss.
"Haven't you always wanted to walk into a record store and see yourself on an album cover?" Gordon was asking as the train pulled into Castle Frank station.
She smiled. "When I was thirteen, maybe. I haven't wanted to be a rock star since I was a teenager."
"Well, of course not a rock star." Gordon laughed. "You haven't got the looks for that, honey. Besides, those people fade. You're going to be the real thing."
Lila's hands began to itch and she glanced down at them, hidden as they were by the soft brown leather gloves that she'd had since she was fifteen, gloves that she wore before every performance, no matter what the season, to keep her fingers supple and warm. Now, in the heat of August, her fingers tingled with an uncomfortable warmth, and she drummed her fingers slowly against her knees to relieve them.
"You're just nervous, star." Gordon put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulders, a little too tight. "But don't be. I'll be right there, clapping louder than anyone."
"I'm not nervous, Gordon." She said. "You know that."
"Well I know you say you're not. But I hardly think that's possible. Especially tonight, of all nights."
"I don't get nervous, Gordon, not really. I get uncomfortable in that spotlight all night, but not nervous. Besides, what's so special about tonight?"
He laughed. "Lila, my silly little thing, where have you been? Surely you remember who's going to be there tonight?"
She frowned, searched for a name he might have mentioned in the last week. "Who...your friend Keith?"
"No, Lila, the scout."
"Oh right, the scout." She nodded. "You think some record company scout is going to be there tonight."
"I know he is. That's all anybody at the bar can talk about it. It's supposed to be all hush-hush, you know, wink wink. You're supposed to walk in there all doe-eyed and stupid and start playing like we don't know what's going on. But of course we know he's going to be there. Everybody does. It's no wonder you're nervous."
Lila let her head fall back and sighed. "I'm not nervous. I never think about who's in the audience, I've told you that a hundred times."
"Yes, well," he withdrew his arm and smoothed out the strap of her sleeveless dress. "You've never played for a scout before."
"I may have." she said. "You can't say for sure."
"Trust me, honey, if there had ever been a scout in your audience, you'd have a record deal by now."
Lila turned in her seat. "What makes you sure this guy, if he even shows up, is going to like what he hears?"
Gordon squeezed her hand. "Because you're going to make sure he likes what he hears, aren't you star?"
"Oh, Gordon, why are we doing this?" she sat back and rubbed the back of her neck with her gloved hand. " I mean, you know I like playing, but what's the point of all this? All this strategy and game playing and nonsense? Why is having a record deal so important?"
Gordon's eyebrows shot up and he laughed. "Why? Why is having a record deal so important? Are you serious?" A smile of genuine amusement lingered on his face, but slowly crumbled into confusion as she remained silent. "Well….for your career," he said as if it were obvious, "for success, for…for…" her silence made his search for words seem all the more frustrating. "For money, for a good life, Lila….for…..I don't know… for happiness."
Happiness. The word fluttered into her head like a butterfly and was gone again. He'd said it as if it were a tangible thing, something you could cast a net over and capture for yourself. She knew otherwise, that is wasn't some rare and beautiful creature pressed beneath glass for the admiration of all. It was fragile and elusive and all the more valuable because it never came to rest for long.
But there were moments…moments blessed with genuine, unexpected delight. Glimpses of what he called happiness, or at least the promise of it.
She had experienced such a moment, almost a year ago now, during a weekend away at a friend's cottage in Muskoka. It had started out simply enough as a little getaway for her-a weekend she'd had to pry away from Gordon and the steady, forward march of her career. It was supposed to have been relaxing, but the first day there a tremendous fight erupted between the couple she was staying with, a large, loud, sprawling fight that even the presence of a guest couldn't contain.
Needing to be elsewhere, Lila had wandered through the first rumbles of a thunderstorm to the Pavilion Hall, an old damp, community centre that the local cottagers used for bingos and pot luck dances. Bored, listless, voluntarily banished from the cottage, she noticed an old piano by the side door and decided irritably that she might as well get some work done. She had been troubled by some particularly difficult chords in her latest piece, and so moodily went about playing it. She thundered away on the keys, swaying to the rhythm of her own movement, lost in the exquisite anger of it.
Somewhere near the end she became aware of an audience. Movement attracted her eye and she glanced up to see three children crowding each other awkwardly in the open doorway, a jumble of skinny arms and frayed sandals and bangs slicked to foreheads from the rain. She recognized the twin boys; they belonged to one of the neighbouring cottages and had been bottling fireflies on the roadside when she'd driven up the night before. She'd never seen the girl before, a pretty, freckled little thing with hair the colour of chestnuts. Their ages were indeterminate; Lila guessed them to be seven or eight, but only because they looked older than five and younger than ten.
She smiled at them, said hello, asked them why they were playing out in the rain. They took it as an invitation and any shyness they might have had vanished as they scrambled up beside her on the bench. One of the twins settled easily in her lap while his brother wriggled close to her, his thin, smooth little knee jabbing into her leg. The girl was more cautious, and stood to Lila's right as she chewed the ragged fingernails of her left hand. How could she play like that? the high, sweet birdsong of the boys' voices filled the hall. My teacher plays the piano and you know what? Sometimes she lets us play too. Can you show us how?
Could she show them how? She hesitated, put her hands on the keys uncertainly. Could she? Concertos came to mind, sonatas, etudes, impossibly complicated songs. Simplicity eluded her. She searched her memory for something childlike and fun, something they might recognize. But it had been so long, so many, many years; she felt like a surgeon bewildered by a box of Band-Aids.
The kids squirmed on the verge of impatience. Show us, we want to play like that. Something told her that any second now there'd be six little hands splayed out on the keys, banging to wake the dead. So she put her thumb down on middle C, and they listened.
She pressed the key again and the idea came to her. She hit C again, twice, and stretched her middle finger to strike G twice. Twinkle… twinkle…as she hit the next note, smiles of recognition lit their faces. Little Star, they chirped. We know that one. We want to play too.
She played the melody through again, singing the words softly with each note. The boy in her lap put his thumb down on the wrong key and blinked up at her for approval. She smiled and took his grubby little hand in hers, pressing his thumb down gently on C. Like this, sweetie. He giggled as she moved his hand up to G and pushed his stiff, uncertain fingers down on each note.
They played the whole song like this, his hands loosening beneath hers as the melody took shape. She showed his brother where to begin two octaves down, and helped the girl find her place two octaves up. Soon the piano was alive with a jangle of notes, the loudest, most ill-timed symphony of noise Lila had ever heard. She laughed out loud and played along.
When was the last time she'd had so much fun with a piano? She'd spent her childhood in front of one, but not like these kids, not out of eagerness and delight. She remembered her stern piano teacher, Mrs. Hotchkiss, who had a face like a Halloween mask and a voice to match. She remembered practicing until her forearms ached, or running through a piece perfectly only to be ordered to do it ten times more. There was never any time for silliness, or so it seemed to her now in her dim recollection of the days before she was great.
She searched for even the faintest memory of a time when music would have been new to her, strange as a foreign language, when someone would have guided her little fingers over the unfamiliar keys and made a melody out of it. But if such a time had ever existed, it she had ever not known how to play the piano, the memory of it was lost to her now.
They had spent the rest of the afternoon together, taking refuge from the storm that rumbled above and made the kids jump and squeal, half-delighted, half-scared, with each thunderous boom. And they played piano. Lila had noticed, almost immediately, that the boy nestled comfortably in her lap showed more promise than the other two. He seemed to pick it up quickly, even curved his fingers without being told. She tilted her head slightly and saw the frown of concentration on his face; he picked the notes out carefully, thoughtfully, remembered how to make the melody even amidst the clangourous and hopelessly wrong attempts of his companions. A smile of such pride, such brilliance, as he hit the final note and turned his face up to her. On impulse she kissed his forehead. He shrieked and wiped it off dramatically; the girl cupped her mouth and giggled and his brother laughed and asked them when they were getting married.
It had been easier, after that day. Gordon didn't question her when she began volunteering at a local pre-school, and she was glad not to have to explain. She simply came home every day more certain than she had been the day before. The solution, the way to clear the fog she'd wrapped herself in, had been in front of her all along. She could teach music. She had the letters after her name from the Royal Conservatory, and knew, without conceit, that anyone who heard her play would gladly entrust their child's musical education to her. Besides, she loved teaching. The patience she couldn't find for her own mistakes came easily when the clumsy hands of a five year old stumbled over the same keys.
But why only other people's kids? This idea, too, whispered to her. Why couldn't it be her own little one, nestled in her lap on a rainy afternoon? For a year now she'd pushed that image aside. She never bothered asking Gordon; he'd only look at her with baffled amusement and use words like "sacrifice" and "waste". Words she could use too.
The train emerged from the blackness of the tunnel and slowed to a stop beneath the bright lights of Spadina station. Gordon rose quickly and led Lila toward the doors. She felt the familiar pressure of his hand against the small of her back, as if he were leading her in a quiet, subtle sort of dance; when the doors slid open he gently guided her through.
"I think I'm going to be able to spot this guy right away." he said as they moved along the platform toward the escalator. They were alone, and their footsteps echoed throughout the station. "He'll be cool about it, he'll be it playing close to the chest, but I bet you a hundred bucks I nail it first try."
"Who?" Lila frowned.
"The scout, Lila, who else?"
"Oh," she felt beneath the glove on her right hand and scratched her wrist absently. "Well, why don't you just ask Frank to point him out to you?"
"Frank?" he laughed. "Frank wouldn't know a scout if he tripped over one. Just because he owns a bar doesn't mean he knows jack about the music business."
"And you do?"
The question surprised even her. But if Gordon noticed the thin layer of contempt coating it, he didn't react. He led them up the escalator purposefully, tapping his fingers against the handrail as they moved along.
"Besides," he said when they reached the top. "I don't think Frank even wants me to know this guy's going to be there tonight. He was pretty cagey about it last time I talked to him."
"Why would he be cagey about it?"
Gordon smiled a sly, knowing smile, and rubbed his forefinger against his thumb. "Money, star. He wants to negotiate himself a sweet little deal out of this. Don't be surprised if he starts making noises about becoming your agent." They stepped onto the moving sidewalk that ran the length of the corridor. "If he does, you let me know."
"Frank doesn't want to represent me, Gordon. I'm just his Thursday night act. He couldn't care less about me. Or this scout. Maybe he was 'cagey' about it because your information is wrong. Maybe there is no scout."
"Oh, there's a scout all right." he nodded. "Trust me, star, I know how these people operate."
He led them past a group of backpacked students and a lone commuter lost in the latest Charlotte Vale Allen. Lila's hand twisted uncomfortably in Gordon's grasp; she pulled back slightly but his fingers only tightened around hers.
"That's the trouble with Frank." said Gordon as they stepped off the moving sidewalk and went towards the turnstyle. "He's just the kind of guy who would invite a scout out to see you but conveniently forget to tell you about it. I swear he's just looking for a way to cash in. He's a bottom feeder, plain and simple."
"Gordon, that's hardly fair-"
"Damn right it's fair. All he ever talks about is money. Remember the hassle he gave me over our percentage of the door? He's been a bastard about it from the get-go."
"He's always been nice to me."
"Of course he's nice to you." Gordon laughed. "He may be a greedy bastard but he's no fool."
Gordon pushed open the door and led Lila out into the warm night air. They turned south towards Bloor street, Lila falling awkwardly behind as Gordon pushed through a group of strolling tourists. He glanced over his shoulder at her once or twice, his eyes flashing with a look that was both patient and fed up. She could have walked faster but she didn't, and through her deliberate steps she slowed Gordon's pace as they rounded the corner at Bloor, heading west.
"Guys like him have no integrity, no decency." said Gordon decisively, as if this truth had only just entered his mind. "That's what it is, you know. No values. The guy just doesn't have any values."
"You don't even know him, Gordon." Lila sighed. Her hands felt sticky and warm inside the gloves. She flexed her fingers to satisfy the uncomfortable itch that was spreading up to her wrists.
"He thinks he's got values." Gordon went on. "He thinks he knows what integrity is. Guys like him always do. But Christ, look at him, he's not exactly at the top of the food chain, you know what I mean? All he's got to show for himself is some pissant little dive in the Annex."
"We're headed to that pissant little dive right now." she said, feeling an unwelcome stab of indignation. "And it's the only dive in town that books me."
"Not for long, star, not for long." He winked at her. "And you can just forget about that "I'm lucky they let me play" attitude. Sounds like Frank's been giving you the gears again about what a big favour he's doing us."
"He's never done that, Gordon."
"Sure he has. Maybe not in so many words, but it's all over his face. He doesn't want you to start thinking too highly of yourself before he's had a chance to cash in."
As he spoke they passed by a trendy, artistic little shop whose earthy colours and fragrant scents promised handcrafted delights from artisans of the third world. Lila's eyes passed over the oriental trinkets and mystical paraphernalia that cluttered the window and dangled from the doorway. Indian cotton dresses rustled in the breeze, the tiny bells sewn onto their fringed hems jingling like wind chimes; B flat, F sharp, A. Would she ever be able to hear a collection of notes without automatically identifying them? She could even picture them, sitting primly on the lines and in the spaces of the musical staff. It must be like reading, she thought; once you learned to read you'd never be able to pass a stop sign and not know what it said, or glimpse your name on an envelope and not know it was meant for you. Once known, some things could never be unlearned.
A swirl of richly-coloured fabric floated up gently on the breeze and settled down again with a soft little jangle of notes. Lila pulled the glove off her right hand and let two fingers slide between the folds of the dress, marvelling at how cool and feather light it felt. She removed the other glove and slid the pair into her purse. The spicy aroma of incense wafting through the doorway made her feel comforted yet vaguely nauseous at the same time.
"-so I told him there was no way we'd make it there for seven. Too early, way too early." Gordon was saying as he tugged gently on her arm to coax her along. She didn't move. "I told him we weren't going for the after-dinner crowd. As if you'd want to play for a bunch of lushes on their way home from the office."
"It doesn't matter to me." she replied absently. She ran her fingers over the little bells dangling from the fringes of the dress, and noticed how pale her bare hands appeared next to the warm opulence of the fabric.
"Well it should matter, Lila." He stepped in front of her. "Listen to me, star. If you don't start taking yourself seriously, no one else will."
"I do take myself seriously." She paused, and bit her lip. "Do you like this dress?"
"Your career, Lila, you need to take your career seriously. You think playing for a crowd of rat-race alcoholics is going to make you famous? You just don't get it, sweetheart, the record people have to see you playing for the Adult Contemporary demographic. The people who listen to Streisand in their Volvos, that sort of thing. We want Delilah Nightingale to be synonymous with-"
She turned to him. "Let's go away. Just you and I. Let's go somewhere lazy and warm and wonderful."
Gordon stepped back and cocked his head to one side with an expression of mild astonishment. He looked as though she had abruptly stopped speaking English. He laughed uncertainly. "A vacation? Well…where?"
"I don't know," she shrugged. "Somewhere tropical…" she brightened. "I know, Mexico. We could book a cruise, and maybe-"
"That sounds wonderful, star, but you know this isn't the time to be thinking about vacations." Gordon took her hand and pulled her along.. "After tonight you're going to be a very busy girl. Besides, this is the peak season. We'd pay through the nose for a cruise this time of year."
He must have felt hesitation in her grasp; he stopped, watched her face, and softened. "Look, maybe after your career takes off we can-"
"I don't want to wait, Gordon. This is important. For us." If she could have willed some understanding into him, she would have. If there had been a way to reach him through the sheer intensity of her gaze, she would have done it. She didn't dare look away, tempted by the hope that her eyes conveyed everything she couldn't say.
"I know you think it is, sweetheart." he said gently, smoothing back a lock of her hair. "But don't you think your career is more important right now? I mean, especially now? Just when you're on the verge?"
She closed her eyes. "We need some time off."
"Darling, what would we do in the Caribbean? Lie on a beach and stare at each other?"
"We'd relax, Gordon, that's what we'd do."
He sighed, "There'll be plenty of time to relax, star, once you've got your record deal. It would be a perfect way to celebrate, don't you think?" He began walking. "Now come on, let's get going, we don't want to be-"
"Gordon." She said abruptly, pulling up short so that he was forced to stop. Her eyes fixed his. "Gordon, I want to get married. I want to get married and start a family. We've been together three years. I don't want to wait anymore."
Never, in all the days spent dreaming of this moment, had she ever considered that the proposal would be reduced to this. No romance, no diamonds, no bended knee, no bashful bridegroom asking for her hand. The moment, such as it was, might have been romantic were it not for the flatness in her voice and in her manner. There might have been something touching and sweet about an impromptu proposal on a warm summer night; passers-by might have thought it cute. But the bluntness of the request revealed the truth; she had only found the courage to ask because of the dull certainty, cultivated from years of disappointment, that his answer would be no.
Gordon paused, looked at her with soft eyes. "Yes," he said warmly, "that's what I want too."
Her stomach tightened, slightly, but she breathed out and the sensation was gone. It was only a remnant, she told herself, a flicker of nostalgia from the days when those words from him would have lit the sky. Yet… the irony of it taunted her. Had it been right in front of her all along? Had they each been waiting for the other to propose? He was a modern man… maybe he'd been waiting for her to broach the subject. Maybe she'd wasted the last couple of years hoping for something that had always been within reach.
"But not now." he gently spaced the words for emphasis and she had her answer. "I'd never forgive myself if I let you trade this extraordinary talent for diapers and purple dinosaurs. Can't you understand that, star? A talent like yours is so rare, I just can't let it wither away in suburbia." His eyes had never looked so gentle. "You're better than that. There'll be plenty of time for mediocrity later, if you want it. I just can't let you give it all up, not to become some boring housewife with a gang of brats."
Somewhere it made sense to her.. She was still young, there would be time, later. Maybe she could have both. Maybe she could perform for a year or two, give him the album he seemed to need so badly, and then start a family, start teaching, start everything.
"Besides, I know what's important." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. "I didn't fall in love with some boring housewife, now did I? And I certainly wouldn't stay in love with one. I fell in love with a star, Lila, my wonderful little star."
She looked at him and suddenly felt the urge to stretch out her fingers and smooth back the hair growing awkwardly over his ears. It should have been an intimate gesture, would have been under different circumstances, perhaps, but she already knew there would be no intimacy in her touch, and so her hands were still.
They call these "black moments", she thought, but there was nothing black about them. If you had to put a colour to moments like these, to silent, sobering moments of clarity like these, it would be grey: the colour of disinterest. If she'd wanted to strike him she could have coloured the moment black, or red even; if she'd wanted to cry or storm off back to the subway or scream at him out there on the street then black would have suited the moment. But she felt nothing so dark or desperate. She wondered at how long it had been since his last haircut, and whether he would remember his dentist appointment on Monday without her having to remind him.
"You okay now, star?" Gordon tilted his head to find her eyes. "Can we get going now?" He checked his watch. "We're already a bit late, we shouldn't keep the scout waiting."
They crossed the street at Brunswick, Gordon leading them brazenly out into the stream of cars. The bakeshop on the corner looked as warm and inviting as it did every other time they'd passed it. Inside poets and chess players sipped iced cappucinos by the large glassless windows; outside tables full of friends drank cool summer cocktails and laughed. Every week Lila asked if they could stop in there after the show. Every week it was forgotten.
When they reached Flannigan's a block later Gordon checked his watch again and ushered her inside with a look of smug anticipation animating his face. Lila moved to open the second set of doors but he pulled her back, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her.
"Now remember everything I told you." he said, straightening the straps of her dress and arranging her hair over her shoulders. "Don't make it obvious that you're looking for the scout, but if you think you see him I want you to give me a signal. Christ, I should have thought about this before…how about you clear your throat or something? No, I know…if you spot him, tap your mike a couple of times like you're testing it. Now go on, star," he winked and patted her behind, "get in there and shine."
The club was dimly lit and fragrant with cigarettes and wine. Frank was refilling bottles behind the bar, but caught Lila's reflection in the mirrored wall and turned to smile at her. He had the broadest smile of anyone she'd ever met, and she couldn't help but smile herself whenever she saw it. Gordon went to him right away, as he did every week, ready with the questions and concerns that had germinated in his mind during the previous week, questions about cover charges and advertising and whether Lila was getting her fair share. Every week Frank listened patiently, eased Gordon's mind, and said nothing so effectively that Gordon left feeling vindicated, for another week at least. Lila wondered how Frank kept his sense of humour. Tonight she let Gordon approach Frank alone. She left her purse with one of the waitresses, and made her way to the Steinway baby grand, softly spotlit, on a raised dais in the middle of the room. She had never gotten used to this part, to how exposed and conspicuous she felt stepping into that spotlight. Usually she kept her eyes down, avoided eye contact with her audience for as long as possible, until the knot in her stomach went away. This time there was no knot.
She sat down on the worn wooden stool and adjusted the mike. Familiar faces smiled shyly at her from the shadows, as if they were afraid of breaching some unspoken etiquette by communicating with the talent. One or two new faces regarded her with open curiosity; the most obvious among them belonged to a willowy brunette in a camel-coloured suit who crossed her long legs and laced her fingers together casually as she settled back in her chair. A leather-bound notebook lay open on the table in front of her, a glass of sparkling water topped with a wedge of lime sat next to it. Lila met her glance and smiled awkwardly, felt herself blush. The woman's smile was confident, professional, almost inquisitive.
Lila felt like laughing. Could it be? She couldn't know for certain, but the mere possibility of it delighted her. She was sure Gordon had never imagined the record company might send a woman.
He was lounging with his elbows propped against the bar, and winked at her when she caught sight of him. His face shone with admiration, with a puffed up pride, as it had the first night they'd met. It was so easy for him, she realized. His happiness was so uncomplicated, so easily bought, and so blithely accepted, without hesitation, without guilt. His accomplishment, his success, was sitting twenty feet away on a stage, shining like a little star.
She brought her fingers up to the mike, thought about what how he would react if she were to tap it a couple of times. He'd pull a muscle, she thought, craning his neck to search the bar. So she adjusted the mike again and edged the stool closer to the piano.
"Good evening everyone," she began the intro she'd recited a hundred times, smiling into the shadows. "It's nice to see some new faces here tonight." She nodded at some regulars "And of course our old friends. My name is Del…" she paused, glanced down at her thin, bare fingers, already poised over the keys. She cleared her throat. "I'm Lila, and tonight I'm only going to play one piece for you. It's one of my favourites. I hope you like it as much as I do."
The smile on Gordon's face dropped slightly, sagged a little at the corners of his mouth. Confusion narrowed his eyes.
"I didn't write this one," She looked at the woman in the camel-coloured suit. "A wonderful little boy did. If you know the words, sing along."
She hesitated, just for a moment, savouring the feeling that the first note she struck would resonate throughout the room, would shatter the smoky silence, would end it all. For the first time, ever, she felt a passionate desire to play.
She put her thumb down on middle C, waited, then struck the note again. Twinkle, twinkle…Two meek little notes that filled the silence. She looked over at Gordon, laughed at the panic spreading across his face, then put her middle finger down on G, once, twice. Little star.
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