YOUR MAMA’S GOOD-LOOKING.
—
Later that evening when everyone was eating round the big table in the kitchen, telling their stories, Pauline slipped out and booked the first morning train to Paris.
Xeno noticed her go. He stood up, hesitated, then went and helped himself to more chicken pie. Zel was filling up his own plate.
“Zel,” said Xeno, “do you think we could talk?”
“What about?” said Zel, not looking at him.
“The fact that I have made a mess of life. That you are my son and I am proud of you.”
Zel didn’t look at him. He went back to the table.
Xeno poured a glass of wine. Then he went to the sink, threw it away and took water from the fridge door.
—
Pauline was awake in her sleeping house at 4:30 a.m. and soon out of the door and into the empty streets to the corner where the taxi was waiting discreetly enough so that no one would know.
But Xeno knew she would go. He was in his room, padding barefoot to the window over the street, at the soft closing of the latch.
He opened his computer. In the game he looked up from the cold streets to MiMi’s window, always dark. He had no wings that night.
In her window there was a light.
Pauline took the Metro Line 4 to Cité.
She walked down the steps at Notre Dame and for an hour or so went back and forth between the ticket office for the tourist boats and the entrance to the Canal Saint-Martin.
The cobbled quay was busy. Men and women eating lunch. A party of schoolchildren bored with the history of the cathedral and waiting to catch a vedette to the Eiffel Tower. The dinner-and-dance boats closed and sleepy. The park keepers setting the sprinklers on the shrubby banks.
Is that her? They say it’s her.
Pauline walked up to the small figure in the big coat, standing motionless watching the water. Pauline took out a simple A4 folder. Inside it was a handwritten piece of sheet music that said “PERDITA” in stubby pencil.
—
And the world goes on regardless of joy or despair or one woman’s fortune or one man’s loss. And we can’t know the lives of others. And we can’t know our own lives beyond the details we can manage. And the things that change us forever happen without us knowing they would happen. And the moment that looks like the rest is the one where hearts are broken or healed. And time that runs so steady and sure runs wild outside of the clocks. It takes so little time to change a lifetime and it takes a lifetime to understand the change.
HollyPollyMolly were at the Roundhouse.
Leo was coping with his feelings by making everything around him as big and noisy and colourful as it could be so that he could pretend to himself he was in control.
“Your girl-group called The Separations? Get them on a plane!”
Perdita Skyped Holly and tried to explain and Shep phoned their father.
Leo was paying for their tickets but their father was adamant: his girls needed a chaperone.
“Who we gonna get?” said Clo. “I don’t trust any of my friends.”
“There’s someone I can call,” said Shep. “He came to visit me in hospital.”
“They’ll have to share a room, Leo,” said Pauline. “My house is full.”
“Pauline! This is a capital city of the world. There are hotels. Every unexpected visitor who lands at Heathrow doesn’t have to stay at your house.”
“Like my house isn’t good enough?”
Pauline had bought new clothes, lost weight, and she smiled a lot. “You’re happy, aren’t you?” said Leo. “You must be happy because you’ve stopped buying your clothes at Marks and Spencer.”
“Happy?” Pauline shrugged. “Happy is too goyish, but I guess…I am…well, it’s a kvell.”
“Do I ever know what you’re talking about?” said Leo.
Then he said, “What about MiMi?”
“There’s an old Sephardi saying…”
“There would be…”
“Give time time.”
—
HollyPollyMolly were running through their numbers with Perdita and Shep when they heard someone clapping from the floor. The lights made it hard to see, but soon a familiar figure was waving at Shep.
It was Autolycus. “Hey, Perdita! I hear you found your dad!”
“I never lost him. He’s right there.”
“She’s a good kid—I wish my kids were like her.”
“I didn’t know you had any kids.”
“One story at a time or we’ll be into The Arabian Nights.”
By now HollyPollyMolly were singing again and Pauline was coming towards the stage with a big carrier bag full of sandwiches.
“I am so hungry!” said Autolycus. “Thank you, lady, thank you.”
He bit into a ham and cheese baguette.
“Who is this person?” said Pauline. “Is he staying with me?”
—
Zel and Perdita were walking hand in hand through the hot evening. “If you told this story to anyone they wouldn’t believe it,” said Perdita. “A month ago we were normal people.”
“They’re the ones you’ve got to watch out for,” said Zel. “I think it’s all because of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said before—in either life, the one they ruined, or this one, the one they couldn’t ruin, because they couldn’t find it—we were going to be together.”
“That’s the Hollywood version.”
“Hollywood didn’t invent fate.”
“So am I fated to spend the rest of my life with you?”
“No—that’s where you get free will. You don’t have to marry me.”
“Did you just ask me to marry you?”
Zel swung her in his arms like this is a happy ending.
—
Shep and Pauline were sitting in Pauline’s garden. Pauline had told Shep the whole old story. When she got to the part about Tony Gonzales, Shep had his head in his hands. “That’s what he said! His last word:
“Pauline.
“Later I thought that must be the baby’s name but we decided to call her Perdita because of the sheet music. It means little lost one, right?”
Pauline nodded. “Tony said my name?”
“I swear it, Pauline. I always believed I’d done the right thing. Now…I don’t know anymore.”
“You couldn’t save Tony.”
“I tried, Pauline, believe me; we’re not heroes, Clo and me, but we didn’t cross to the other side of the road—we went in there.”
Pauline patted Shep’s hand. “Stop blaming yourself. You got nice hands, you know that? Tony had nice hands—working hands.”
Shep smiled at her and turned her hand over. “You got giving hands—wide palms. But, Pauline, if I had’a taken Perdita to the police she would’a been reunited with her mother.”
“And what kind of a childhood would it have been? The divorce, the horror of everything that happened afterwards. Milo. And Leo would have had Perdita half the time, MiMi the other half, and all the misery of loss and mistake and the two of them not able to speak to each other. Perdita is happy with you.”
“She never had a mother.”
“I don’t know that MiMi could have been a mother to her. MiMi had a terrible breakdown. It wasn’t only Perdita—it was Milo too.”
“Did you stay in touch with MiMi?”
She nodded. “I have never told Leo. But he never asked either.”
“How did you forgive him?”
“He doesn’t want to be forgiven. But how do you live if you don’t forgive?”
Shep said, “I think I was waiting for forgiveness from my wife—which was hard because she was dead. And because she was dead I was dead too—my heart was dead.
“When my wife died I couldn’t remember how to love—it was like she took the instructions with her. Then Perdita happened, like a miracle—it was a miracle—like a new start, the night, the rain
, the moon like a planet coming in to land, and there she was, all wrapped in white like the moon had dressed her, and I tried to take her back, but I couldn’t do it, because she was my instructions to love.”
Pauline put her other hand on Shep’s. He covered her hand with his other hand. Pauline said, “I love having you all in my house. I feel like I’ll know you all forever. I’ve always lived here but I feel like I’ve come home.”
Shep said, “You ever been to Louisiana?”
At that moment the back door opened and Autolycus came out into the garden. He waved. “Just off to my shepherd’s hut. Nice place you got here, Pauline. Do you play poker?”
—
Shep and Pauline went inside. Shep sat down at the piano and started improvising. Pauline came and sat by him. “I wish I could do that.”
“Here…I’ll play the left hand and you put in some tunes to my chords.”
They started to do that. Pauline was hesitant—laughing. “How do you do those great big chords?”
“That is Pentecostal piano. I guess there are no Jewish Pentecostals?”
“Maybe I just haven’t met them yet.”
“These are chords for the Second Coming.”
“That’ll be my problem, then—we’re still waiting for the Messiah on his first visit.”
Pauline spread her hands—she was fast and deft and she could pick out a tune when Shep was guiding her with the chords.
“That’s it! You’re getting it now! I’ll book you a guest residency at the Fleece. You can earn your keep. Now try the left hand too—just stay in key and do these blockbuster chords. I’ll come behind you.”
Shep stood behind Pauline, leaning over her, his long arms on either side, guiding her hands and putting in a little jazz. He leaned in closer. Pauline leaned back against him. He put his arms round her.
It was the day of the concert.
—
Perdita was nervous because the girls hadn’t been able to rehearse the day before—the building was closed for the get-in and the tech. She and Zel had walked by the Roundhouse late at night on their way back to Pauline’s. The lights were all on and the band was playing.
“That’s weird,” said Perdita. “Sounds like a rehearsal.”
They tried the big front doors and the stage door but the place was locked up.
When they got back they mentioned it to Pauline, who was on her way out. “Just a technical problem,” she said. “I’m just going down there myself.”
“It’s midnight,” said Perdita.
“I’m a pumpkin already,” said Pauline. “No worries.”
—
It was the day of the concert.
“I have some bad news for you, Leo,” said Pauline.
“I don’t care,” said Leo. “How much have we lost?”
“You don’t care?”
“It’s just business. Look what we found. We found Perdita.”
“The Secretary of State has called in the planning permission for the Roundhouse.”
“We’ve been granted planning permission.”
“Our major backer has been charged with bribery, corruption and conspiring to pervert the course of justice.”
Leo looked relieved. “That’s fine. It will take five years and a team of lawyers and he’ll get off. What’s the problem?”
“He’s confessed.”
“Oshitavitch has confessed?”
“Plea bargaining. I think there were a couple of murders too.”
“Murders? Why didn’t you say? That’s more difficult. What’s it mean for us?”
“The long version is we fight it. The short version is you don’t knock it down.”
“I’ve been trying to knock down the Roundhouse since…”
“MiMi sang here.”
“OK, so it’s personal.”
“Leo, life is personal. You held it at arm’s length until it came too close and then you killed it.”
“Pauline?”
Leo sat down on the floor, his back against the wall. A man not young. A boy who had never grown up. He was sobbing. Pauline knelt down in front of him.
“I’ve thought of killing myself so many times. I don’t do it, not because I am a coward, but because it would be easier for me to be dead. What’s my life? I make money and I have memories. That’s not a life. I don’t kill myself because living is my own life sentence. I don’t want your pity, Pauline. I just want you to know.”
“I do know,” said Pauline. “That’s why I’m still here.”
—
It was the night of the concert.
Pauline had had her hair done. She’d been to Elaine in Golders Green. “I want big hair, Elaine. Special occasion.”
Elaine stood Pauline’s hair on end like she had seen one of those ghosts nobody sees.
“There’s enough length—some spray, some hold. You want me to schlepp it up?”
“Schlepp it up, Elaine.”
—
Autolycus was freshly minted in a Camden Town suit. “You look the cut, Toly,” said Pauline.
“Only my mother ever called me Toly,” said Autolycus. “I could fix you up with a nice car if you come out west. Do you make chicken soup, by any chance?”
“What do you think?” said Pauline. “Toly, I just want to ask you. Zel…is he a good boy—I know he’s not a Jew but is he a good boy?”
“Never let him hear me say this,” said Autolycus, “it would compromise my authority. He’s the best. That boy’s the best. Sure, he’s had a good teacher…”
—
Xeno was standing outside Pauline’s house.
Zel came out wearing a black suit and a white T-shirt. Xeno was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt and pink suede shoes.
“You are so gay,” said Zel.
“We were the style industry before you were born,” said Xeno. “Nice suit.”
Zel hesitated. Then he smiled. Xeno hesitated. Then he smiled. “I’d like to get to know you.”
Zel hesitated. “I guess I’m walking down there. You walking too?”
—
Clo had never met a woman the same height as him.
“When did you first read Hemingway?” said Lorraine LaTrobe.
Clo couldn’t say he had never read Hemingway. That the book had stayed in his jacket long after Autolycus had given it to him. That the jacket and the book had come to London and that Clo had left his jacket in Leo’s office and Lorraine LaTrobe had picked up the book as it fell out when she picked up the jacket.
She was pretty sexy.
“The Sun Also Rises is my favourite Hemingway,” said Lorraine LaTrobe, “but I love A Moveable Feast too. The memoir. His time in Paris—Shakespeare and Company.”
“Yeah, right,” said Clo. “That bookstore.”
Lorraine LaTrobe ran one powerful hand down the inside of Clo’s powerful thigh.
—
HollyPollyMolly were backstage getting into their new dresses.
Perdita was still in the shower. She felt nervous and unfocused. It wasn’t like her.
Shep knocked on the door. Perdita answered it in her dressing gown with her hair in a towel. “Hi, Dad.”
Shep came in. “You OK? What is it?”
Everything, but she couldn’t say it. Too much, but she couldn’t explain it. Enough, but she couldn’t understand why what she wanted seemed to have happened and she didn’t want it at all. She felt like Eve after the apple.
“It’s Friday; we should be at the bar serving clams and asking people to choose a song.”
“We can go home soon.”
But we can’t, she thought, because home isn’t where we left it. If I could wind back time, I would.
But Shep knew her thoughts.
“We can’t go back to where we were, or who we were, that’s true. But we can still go home.”
He gave her a hug.
There was a knock at the door. It was Clo and Lorraine LaTrobe. “We’ve come to wish you luck, little
sister,” said Clo. Lorraine LaTrobe was dressed in a skintight one-piece Lycra suit and spike heels. Her hair was piled on her head and dyed red like a stop light.
“You look amazing,” said Perdita. “Are you on your bike?”
“I don’t have a bike. Bikes are for vegans.”
She put her arm round Clo. He looked sheepish. “Hi, Dad.”
Pauline came down the corridor with her hair in a towel. “It’s time! Hi, Lorraine.”
“Hello, Mrs. Levy,” said Lorraine. “We’ll be in the front row.”
She took Clo’s hand and led him off.
“She’s quite a woman,” said Shep.
“She’s trans,” said Pauline.
“Trans what?” said Shep.
“Don’t worry about it, Dad,” said Perdita.
“So are you ready?” said Shep. “It’s time.”
It was the night of the concert.
The big space was full. Red lanterns and red lights lit the audience. The raised stage was silver-white with a big grand piano and drum kit and plenty of room for the brass section. There were a couple of local breaking bands, two performance poets, a stand-up comedian and a fire eater.
—
The Separations finished their set. The audience loved them. “I could sell them,” said Leo. Pauline pulled her oy vey face at him. “Don’t you know the old saying Don’t boil your children to make into spoons?”
“Can you cut the Yidderish and tell me what’s happening?” said Leo. “Why are they rearranging the stage? Who are those guys coming on to play?”
“That’s her band.” Said Pauline.
“Whose band?” Said Leo.
The theatre and the stage went black. Blackout-black like a night in a dream. And then there was a light, high up like a light in a window. And were those feathers falling from the rig, or was it snow? And were there diamonds mixed in with the snow and the feathers, shining like another chance?
And the follow-spot lit up an empty space that had been empty for as long as anyone could remember, and what is memory but a rope slung across time?
—
A woman is standing like a statue in the light. She’s wearing a simple black dress and red lipstick, her heavy hair cut short.
She doesn’t move. Then she does.
“This song is for my daughter. It’s called ‘Perdita.’ ”