Her Name Was Lola

  ‘What else?’ says Charlie.

  ‘I don’t remember any more just now,’ says Max.

  ‘Maybe later,’ says Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ says Max. ‘Maybe later.’

  55

  The Vessel Only

  June 1998. Lola now has a permit to carry a sarod. She’d been lusting for one of her own, and after the first month of lessons Indira is willing to sell her an instrument. Before owning it Lola had thought of names for it: maybe .357 or Clint or Callisto. Now that she holds it in her hands another name comes to mind: Polaris. The star that is the fixed and unchanging North, unlost.

  Indira has said that in addition to the lessons she will need to practise for eight to ten hours every day in order to reach the desired level of musicianship. Lola puts in the hours and makes good progress. Hariprasad has given Noah a nakkara, a clay drum with a skin head; and Noah, with a surprisingly good sense of rhythm, does his best to help his mother.

  In the daily lessons Indira listens critically. ‘You have advanced faster than any shisyia I’ve ever had,’ she says. ‘Already you are using Kan, Meend, Andolan, Murki, and Gamak. You have musical intelligence, but still the hands are ahead of the heart and the ear is not hearing all that it should. I shall play you a raga of my own composition. It is called “Smriti”, which means “Memory”. This music came to me, I was only the vessel. It came through me but not from me. Do you understand the difference?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lola.

  ‘Listen,’ says Indira. She begins to play and sing. The music calls up in Lola the memory of her time with Max. The astonishment of love and the joy of it. The bitterness of his betrayal. The wonder of Noah. The times that have been and the times that might have been. As Lola listens she loses all track of time. She has no awareness of how long the music has been going on. The music is now and the times remembered are now. She weeps, adding her voice to the voices of Indira and the sarod. The music and the singing stop. When Lola is able to speak she says, ‘Yes, that’s how it is.’

  ‘Whatever you heard,’ says Indira, ‘was in the music. I did not create the music. I am the vessel only. The music came through me and I did not interfere with it. I think you will understand this with your head but will your heart understand it? Will your hands understand it?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lola. ‘I will learn to be the vessel only.’

  56

  The Enormity

  September 1998. Interesting, thinks Lola, how rage and delight can live side by side in her. Rage at Max, delight in their child. Indira’s teaching has had something of a civilising effect on her. Now when she thinks of Max she tries to consider his actions more calmly, more objectively than before. But no matter how hard she tries, the enormity of his behaviour still hits her like a two-tonne safe dropped from a tall building. How could he say what he said, do what he did, be as he was with her when he was, as far as she knew, being the same with Lula Mae Flowers? Even the woman’s name was a joke. That he should get Lula Mae pregnant while doing the same to her, Lola! How did his mind work, that he could do that? As if she, Lola, were no one special. She who had given him her whole heart, her unconditional love, by the seven stars of Ursa Major and the Hale-Bopp comet. Would the hurt and the anger ever go away or would they grow with time to fill her soul with blackness?

  But even while she thinks this her hands, calmer and more peaceful, draw from the sarod the notes of Indira’s ‘Smriti’. Lola’s voice rises in her to join the sarod. The good moments she remembers, are they truly false or falsely true? Do they flicker like flecks of gold in the bed of time’s river? Gold then and gold now? Sifting these grains of the past tires her. The music is coming through her as it had come through Indira. She is the vessel only. The music is more than she is. Noah is crooning softly. The music is coming through him as well.

  57

  Kirsty’s Fetch

  December 1998. Lola, always interested in place names, has learned by now that the Deil’s Hurdies, the cleft formation sticking out of the sea, is (are) the Devil’s Buttocks. The Teeny Titties, two small finials of rock near the shore, would be Little Sisters in English. Kirsty’s Knowe (Knoll), a grassy hill overlooking the sea, has attracted her because of its story. An old man, a retired fisherman, has told her that the eponymous Kirsty hanged herself when her lover deserted her. He drowned soon after. Since then an apparition called Kirsty’s Fetch was said to be seen on Kirsty’s Knowe by men fated to drown.

  ‘Has anybody seen it recently?’ Lola asked.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said the old fisherman. ‘People don’t see as much as they used to. I blame the television.’

  Kirsty’s Knowe has become a favourite walk of Lola’s. She looks out to sea and listens to the sighing of the waters. She never sees the ghost of the long-dead girl but she often talks to Kirsty.

  58

  Boilermakers No

  December 1998. Max and Harold Klein at The Pickled Pelican, drinking Pedigree without Glenfiddich. They want to reach unconsciousness (whether ambulatory or horizontal) more slowly than the last time. ‘I hate these cutesy pub names,’ says Klein. ‘Why couldn’t they call it something straight, like The 14 Bus?’

  ‘You ever heard of a pub named after a bus?’ says Max.

  ‘No, but I’m sure it deserves to be celebrated as much as the dukes and duchesses you usually see on pub signs.’

  ‘This one used to be The Princess Royal,’ says Max.

  ‘There you go. But don’t distract me.’

  ‘Sorry. You were saying.’

  ‘I was saying the 14 bus. Let’s drink to it.’

  ‘OK. The 14 bus!’ says Max.

  ‘The 14 bus!’ says Klein. Clink. ‘Not that drinking to it helps.’

  ‘I’m not with you,’ says Max.

  ‘Of course not. We’re all alone. The red keeps changing.’

  ‘The red?’ says Max.

  ‘The red of the bus. Something is building up in that old Routemaster. Some intention rising from the deep like the Kraken. Hop on, hop off indeed. As if!’

  ‘As if what?’

  ‘As if your destiny were something you could hop on to or off.’

  ‘Do you have to take the 14 often?’ says Max.

  ‘Not very. Actually the danger is minimal when I’m a passenger. The thing takes on a new complexion when I’m on foot.’

  ‘Redder?’ says Max.

  ‘Different,’ says Klein. ‘You can’t tell what they’re thinking.’

  ‘Treat the 14 as you would a hostile dog,’ says Max. ‘Don’t show fear. While staying out of its way, of course.’

  ‘Easy for you to talk,’ says Klein. ‘Why aren’t you at home grinding out your next novel?’

  ‘Some grinds are slower than others,’ says Max. ‘There are times when I find it difficult to concentrate on the writing.’ He takes a photograph out of his wallet and shows it to Klein. ‘Here’s the latest of my son Victor. He was a year old last November 28th.’

  ‘William Blake’s birthday,’ says Klein.

  ‘Jean-Baptiste Lully’s also,’ says Max. He and Klein think about this while working on their third pints.

  ‘He certainly doesn’t look Jewish,’ says Klein.

  ‘His mother’s genes seem to have been dominant,’ says Max. ‘People that see him say “Ah!”’

  ‘Does he talk?’ says Klein.

  ‘Not yet. Lula Mae says he appears to be thinking about what to say first,’ says Max.

  ‘Cautious,’ says Klein. ‘Probably just as well. Have you been to Texas for a visit?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Planning one?’

  ‘I don’t know. My fatherhood is a total confusion to me. Sometimes I dream that I have another son.’ Max doesn’t speak the name of his dream son. Both he and Klein fall silent, lost in thought and Pedigree. Max gets a fourth pint for each of them.

  After a while Klein lifts his right hand with the index finger in the admonitory position. ‘Remember,’
he says, ‘Mack in Barch ’97, the first time we had drunks here at The 14 Bus, I told you that the best thing … What was I saying?’

  ‘The best thing mack in Barch ’97.’

  ‘Right. You could do for both of your women was to get out of their lives.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘I think the same about your child or childs. Children. As the case may be. If you can’t be in the same place with them. Can’t be a full-time father. Better off without you. Vanity of vanities. One generation pisseth itself away and another generation likewise. That’s all she wrote.’ Klein falls asleep. Max wakes him up. They visit the Gents and leave The 14 Bus. Or The Pickled Pelican. Whichever.

  59

  The Rainbow Sign

  March 1999. Max has been doing his best to achieve Page One with whatever he can. Moe Levy has left him and no one has replaced him. Charlotte Prickles is doing what she can to help with river memories but there’s been no progress. Max has had times like this before and he’s always got through them so maybe he’ll get through this one.

  This day is not like other days. It’s the vernal equinox. It was just two years ago that he and Lola picnicked on Mai Dun. Max is all keyed up, ready for messages from anywhere. Sitting at his desk with a bottle of red, he falls asleep and dreams that he’s on a boat. He’s on Noah’s Ark. He looks at his hands and sees the hands of a boy. Max is the boy Noah, his own dream son. In his hands is the raven. The boy Noah goes to the window. He launches the raven. The raven is Max. He sees the rainbow. He loops the loop, flies to Mai Dun and lands there by the ribbon that Lola tied to a grass stem two years ago.

  Max wakes up feeling calm and clear. He doesn’t know why or how, but this dream has changed him. He doesn’t know if he has a son by Lola. He doesn’t know where she is or whom she’s with. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever see her again. But he knows now that there can be no other woman for him.

  60

  Well, Really, What?

  March 1999. On the second anniversary of the Mai Dun vernal equinox Lola does nothing to mark the day. With Noah on her lap she thinks about what has brought her to this day. She had come to Diamond Heart full of rage. Full of hurt. She had taken up the sarod with the aim of composing a raga that would, if she could call up the demon of Forgetfulness, erase her from Max Lesser’s memory. But the deeper she gets into Indian music the more difficult it is for her to know exactly how she feels. Certainly the self Max had presented to her had been a lie. But how much of a lie? The first time he saw her he said she was his destiny woman. Outrageous. He said it so loudly that everybody in the shop turned to look at him. Lola was embarrassed. But in her heart she’d been hoping for her fate to declare itself in just such a sudden and startling manner. In that moment she felt as if she’d let go of the trapeze of her ordinary life and was flying through the air to Max’s outstretched hands. There was of course a safety net called Basil. But the thrill of letting go and flying like that! What Max had said that day was not a lie, she knew that. And her response was not a lie. Through the air she flew to him, and that was real. That was a true thing.

  Where did the lie start? With Lula Mae? Not really. The lie started with Max’s constant craving for a bit of strange while he pretended to be true to her, Lola. Could she have changed him? What if he hadn’t got Lula Mae pregnant? At some point Lola would have told him, ‘It’s either her or me. Choose.’ That day at Mai Dun, did his announcement of Lula Mae’s pregnancy mean that he’d chosen the homecoming queen? She hadn’t given him a chance to say what he intended to do. He’d wanted to talk and she’d crashed the E-type instead of listening.

  Lola takes up Polaris and Noah, watching her, goes to his nakkara. Indira has given Lola the written-out music for ‘Smriti’ which is definitely not a piece for beginners. Lola follows the still unfamiliar notation slowly and carefully, but her very hesitancy becomes an embellishment of the shadowy ascents and descents of ‘Memory’. She cannot bring to this music any rage or hurt. She can only be the vessel for what her fingers call up from the sarod. Love remembered. Longing and regret. Noah, listening attentively, draws closer to his mother, his drumbeats helping her to find the music.

  61

  Victor’s First Word

  June 1999. ‘Dear Max,’ writes Lula Mae. ‘Victor is a year and a half old now. As you can see from the photo, he’s looking handsomer all the time. He said his first word today. “Dada.” Daddy. He said it to Jim Bob Baker. Jim Bob has asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes. I know I promised you that he’d never call anybody Daddy but you, but the reality is that you and he have never seen each other and probably never will. So reality has made me break that promise. I hope you’ll forgive me and I think you will. Jim Bob has his own software company and he works mostly from home. He’s a good man, he loves Victor and Victor loves him. Don’t send any more money. Wish us luck. Love X, Lula Mae.’

  62

  River in the Mind

  September 1999. ‘Talk to me about the river,’ says Charlie Prickles to Max. ‘Tell me whatever comes to mind.’

  ‘Well,’ says Max, ‘it’s pretty much what I’ve told you. We paddled. We swam. We had canoe fights. I think we went through a lock. We cooked over a fire, we slept under the stars. When we got to the end of the canoe trip a truck took us back to camp.’

  ‘That’s the canoe trip,’ says Charlie. ‘But what I asked you about was the river.’

  ‘The river we took the trip on?’ says Max. ‘I don’t even remember if it was the Allegheny or the Susquehanna or what.’

  ‘I just mean river,’ says Charlie. ‘The river in your mind.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Max. ‘That river.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Charlie. ‘That one.’

  ‘It flows to the sea,’ says Max. ‘They all do.’

  ‘Think about that,’ says Charlie.

  ‘I always do,’ says Max. ‘And then the Ark comes in. It’s in my dreams with the raven and the Noah child but there’s no story in that.’

  ‘You can’t get a story out of everything,’ says Charlie. ‘Some things are just for thinking about.’

  63

  Another Time With Basil

  December 1999. By now Lola finds saris more comfortable than jeans for sitting on the floor to play the sarod. She has a quasi-Persian rug (the best she could do locally) and several cushions. Sitting crosslegged on the floor makes for a kind of thinking that’s different from standing-up or sitting-on-a-chair thinking. The sky is higher, the sea wider. Time stretches out in all directions.

  Noah’s sitting near her. He’s wearing a woollen waistcoat crocheted by his mother in broad bumblebee bands of yellow and black. Both he and Mum like the effect and sometimes they have little buzzing conversations. Noah’s first word was ‘deh’. As close as he could get to ‘destiny’, which Lola has evidently murmured more often than she’s been aware of. He’s making good progress on the nakkara, and under Hariprasad’s tutelage is able to keep the beat with a skill beyond his years. He particularly enjoys the slow tempos and repetitions of the Dhrupad style. He accompanies Lola as she plays and sings, in English, her own compositions. ‘Yesterday, yesterday, gone away, here to stay,’ she chants. Noah chants along while beating out the time, tunka tu, tunka tu. He likes to play with words. ‘Dessa nay, yessa nay, onna way, heena say.’ When they come to a pause he says, ‘Dad?’

  ‘What about him?’ says Lola.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Lola. ‘London, I suppose.’

  ‘London,’ says Noah. ‘We going?’

  ‘No,’ says Lola.

  ‘Dad coming here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why no?’

  ‘That’s just how it is.’

  ‘His name?’ says Noah.

  ‘Max,’ says Lola.

  There’s someone at the door. Lola opens it to a rush of cold air and Basil. ‘Dad?’ says Noah.

  ‘No,’ says Lola. ‘Basil.’

  ‘Lola!’ says Basil. Her
e he is in his Barbour and cashmere polo-neck, six foot two and ruggedly handsome in a silky way. All the uproar of Christmas in London blows in with him. The lights, the noise, the whole thing. He’s turned Diamond Heart upside-down and a little sparkling snowfall seems to come down around him. Mwah, mwah! Big hug. He pauses to clock Noah. ‘Yellow and black stripes,’ he says. ‘But not a WASP.’ He reaches out to pat Noah on the head. Noah backs away.

  ‘I told Mummy and Daddy not to tell you I was here,’ says Lola.

  ‘You can’t blame them,’ says Basil. ‘They’re worried about you, Lo, and so am I.’

  ‘You can call me Lola,’ says Lola. ‘I’m sorry you travelled all this way for nothing. You must have many things to do back in London. Don’t let me keep you.’

  ‘Why are you being so hostile? What’s bothering you?’

  ‘Now is bothering me, Basil, and I need to be left alone to get on with it.’