With an expected dose of anti-Americanism, Canadian director Guy Maddin serves up an otherwise very unexpected brew with THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD (2003).  The anti-Americanism is expected because this is an avant-garde film and artists the world over are known for their distaste for America.  However, the disdain here is a decidedly gentle disaffection, done with a wink and a nod to even the most jingoistic, right-wing Yankees.  For who among us isn’t aware that there is a certain amount of hubris in our belief that we Americans are the happiest people on earth.  In THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD this particularly American obsession is personified in the character of Chester Kent, portrayed by Mark McKinney.  Even during the depths of the Depression, he hasn’t a care in the world.  Yet he has no doubt that his American contingent will emerge victorious from an international competition devised by a legless beer baroness, Lady Port-Huntley (Isabella Rossellini), to find the saddest music in the world.  In this film set in an eternal Winnipeg winter, (one of Maddin’s favorite milieus), Chester is sure that American showmanship will rule.  Of course it doesn’t hurt that he has bought off much of the competition, convincing them to become part of his spectacle.  Here again is another dig, this time at the American people’s usurpation of foreign cultures and happily claiming them as our own.  There isn’t anything we can’t buy, or so says the world arts community.  But all of this is said and done with such verve and wit, that it is nearly impossible to be offended.  Even from its portentous opening in which the ultimate doom of the pompous American is predicted (in a splendid scene where the principles are seated around a block of ice rather than a crystal ball), we know this is going to be quite a film experience. 

This American truly comes from a varied background.  He has a Canadian war hero, alcoholic father, a Serbian cellist brother who carries his dead son’s heart in jar, and an amnesiac, nymphomaniac girlfriend who unknowingly is the brother’s wife.  All of these disparate individuals represent their respective countries in the music competition and things are complicated further by the former romantic triangle of Chester, his father and Lady Port-Huntley.  The twisted pedigree of the characters and their relationships provide enough fascination, but even more startling is the visual design of the film, for this is perhaps the most unusual looking film since ERASERHEAD (1977).  This is due in no small part to the expressionist production design by Mathew Davies and the photography by Luc Montpellier.  The latter is often achieved with super eight film cameras, the lenses of which have been smeared with vaseline.  Montpellier and Maddin employ a myriad of silent film techniques, such as irises, speed up action and grainy black and white film stock to create their effects.  Another area of delight is the original music by Christopher Dedrick, which adds just the right touch in this most musically inclined film.  Of course the tree on which all of these ornaments are displayed is the screenplay.  Originally conceived by Kazuo Ishiguro and brought to fruition by Maddin and George Toles, the script snaps with witty dialogue, bizarre characters and situations that along with all the other ingredients bring to life a world unlike any visited in recent cinema.

Kiera Knightley may be the one bringing in the money at the box office (and with it, the dirty ol’ men cult following) for the upcoming film version of Kazo Ishiguro’s futuristic suspense novel, Never Let Me Go, but her name may be overshadowing a more important one that didn’t make it on the marquee.

Face Meets Typewriter

Tapped to come out from behind the desk and write the screenplay was Alex Garland, author of The Beach, among other works. This is by no means Garland’s first shot at screenwriting (he did the screenplay for 28 Days Later and Sunshine), but it will be interesting to see how Garland works with director Mark Romanek to recreate Ishiguro’s understated, tender style.

No doubt the issue becomes even more interesting due to the wild liberties that Danny Boyle and screenwriter John Hodge took with Garland’s own work while creating the film version of the Beach. A cult hit despite being a commercial flop, many blamed Boyle and Co. for dismembering the true power of the novel’s eerily addicting prose.

But after all, what good are movies if they don’t completely negate your favorite books? Either way you slice it, the film version of Never Let Me Go will be a resounding success if they manage to capture even a portion of Ishiguru’s emotion – sometimes touching, sometimes unsettling. And with Garland on board, I for one am going to be in the theater.

Plus, watching Kiera Knightley on screen for 90 minutes won’t be too bad either.

I love stationery. Probably a little too much. There. I said it.

I thought I ought to acknowledge this, particularly as, for the first time, stationery got a few mentions on the blog, in my post on writing.

First, there was the Wall Street Journal article, How to Write a Great Novel. Reading through it, it was clear that stationery is pretty central for many writers. It’s not just about scribbling on any old sheet of paper – each writer has their own needs and wants, when it comes to what to actually write on, and write with.

Orhan Pamuk writes in graph-paper notebooks. Hilary Mantel always carries a notebook. Kazuo Ishiguro collects notes in a binder. Michael Ondaatje has a thing for notebooks from Muji. Dan Chaon writes on colour-coded note cards.

Margaret Atwood is perhaps less fussy, scribbling away on napkins, restaurant menus, in the margins of newspapers. (Interlude: Working that way reminds me of an interview with Elvis Costello I read. He said that despite buying many notebooks with the intention of using them for lyric writing, they would often be left unused, as he would end up scrawling his ideas on whatever pieces of paper came to hand. He clearly can be in my Stationery Fan Club, as his intentions are good, but it is interesting that he and Atwood are not tied to a particular method for physically writing their work.)

I was then delighted to see that the world of WordPress has a few stationery fans too. Frances Bean commented, “There was nothing like a fresh compilation notebook and the possibility it holds.” There is definitely something special about that new notebook, ready to be filled. Sometimes it almost seems a shame to write in a good notebook. Almost.

So why do I love stationery? From a very, very young age I enjoyed having paper and pencils. Apparently, before I could write, I would scribble on page upon page, convinced I had written a story, and would then ‘read’ it back to my parents. When I was a little older I’d spend hours writing in A4 pads. Sometimes I’d write stories, sometimes I’d make up football scores, sometimes I’d make up entire discographies of imaginary bands. Paper and pencil was a means of channelling my imagination. I was as happy with a new exercise book as I would be with a bag of sweets.

As an adult I’ve continued to enjoy using stationery, especially notebooks. I’m a real sucker for Moleskine notebooks and have completely fallen for their marketing and stories of famous writers and artists using them in the past. I find them wonderfully tactile, sturdy and just right for carrying wherever I go. They are a bit of luxury, but hardly an extravagant one.

I can also be quite fussy with pens, although so far I’ve shamefully stuck to the disposable type. One day I’ll find the right ‘proper’ pen. One day.

My Significant Other shares this love, luckily for me. We’ll happily mooch around the huge Staples superstore near where we live, or smaller shops we find, like the pen shop we came across whilst holidaying in Eastbourne. As silly as it sounds, enjoying stationery has been a lovely, fun thing for us to share.

I suppose when it comes to me actually writing, with this blog or whatever else, I’m far more likely to use my laptop than pen and paper. But my notebooks are still really important to me. I enjoy having something to hand to jot an idea in, or write a list, or to simply play around with an idea. And there is something more satisfying for me to use a notebook for this, rather than a laptop, or smart phone (not that I have one), when I’m out and about. I look forward to, many years from now, looking through those notebooks and reading those snatches of my thoughts, those snapshots of a past me.

So, do you covet particular items of stationery? If you use pen and paper, are you fussy about the pen and paper you use? Does it depend on what you’re writing? Or where? Or do you think this is all stuff and nonsense?

Photo from mrbill via Flickr

I have been dying to read a book by Ishiguro for AGES and so I decided to start backwards (this is starting to become a trend) and begin with his latest novel. Without doubt Never Let Me Go is probably one of the best books i’ve read this year.

One of my all time favorite books is Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and I’m always on the search for dystopian literature so I was very pleased to find out that Never Let Me Go has elements of Brave New World and Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale as well.

The world that Ishiguro has dreamed up of is one populated by cloned children reared to give their organs away (called donors) and those who help in reassuring the donors (called carers) there are other people in this hierarchical society but it’s the donors and carers who dominate the novel. This is because the main protagonist, Kathy,  is a carer and is telling us readers about her past.

In the first part of  Never Let Me Go Kathy recounts her schooldays at an institute called Hailsham, It is here she notices some strange happenings but her main preoccupation is working within the school’s system and her interactions with her friends Ruth and Tommy. Saying this all the events here affect the future of the book.

The second part deals with Kathy’s post Hailsham life and her training for the future. Again we get brief descriptions of the type of society Ishiguro has cooked up but it’s very subtle and there’s only bits and pieces. Like part one the emphasis is on Kathy’s ever mutating friendship with Ruth and Tommy. However Hailsham still is in the minds of these teenagers.

Part three is the denouement – everything that has confused the reader is exposed, explained and dissected.  Kathy is now a fully fledged carer and her two closest friends are donors, in this part of the book Kathy undertakes a journey to uncover all those secrets that have built up over the years and, yes it all lies within Hailsham.

Despite all the horrors presented here,  Never Let Me Go is an ultra strong tale of friendship and it is the relations between Kathy, Ruth and Tommy which are the real focus of the novel. True it is their situation and Hailsham life which affects this trio’s bond but it is love that shines through.

Ishiguro’s prose is simply beautiful and never ever descends into the vulgar, it’s like eating an After Eight , never harsh and totally satisfying with a surprising amount of depth. It’s well structured flows like a river and gives the reader a lot of joy within the pages.  It’s also worth paying close attention to the novel’s title as it plays a crucial role in Kathy’s understanding of  life.

It’s funny that there hasn’t been any Ishiguro’s in this reading project as yet cause never Let Me Go was published in 2005 and When We were Orphans was published in 2000.  Now we’ll see if The Unconsoled will crop up at that was released in 1995.  Now that I’ve read this author I definitely want to keep on investigating his works!

Aquest conte llarg de Thomas Mann és d’aquells títols que poblen l’imaginari col·lectiu: a tothom li sóna, encara que sigui per la pel·lícula de Visconti, però no sé si és molt llegit.

Parla de coses trascendents: l’amor a la bellesa, la solitud, la necessitat d’afecte, i igual que fa Kazuo Ishiguro a The Remains of the Day, hi ha una reflexió sobre l’aprofitament sensorial i espiritual de la vida envers l’assoliment d’objectius materials o de cumplir determinats deures.

La palabra sólo puede celebrar la belleza, no reproducirla.

També com a la novel·la d’Ishiguro, l’ús del llenguatge és superb. Mannha aconseguit que jo apunti algunes cites que m’han agradat especialment. L’autor, a més introdueix un munt de referències a la mitologia grega, fent servir els clàssics com a paradigma de la bellesa pura i de la virtud moral.

Nada hay más extraño ni más delicado que la relación entre personas que sólo se conocen de vista, que se observan cada día, a todas horas, y, no obstante, se ven obligadas, ya sea por convencionalismo social o por capricho propio, a fingir una indiferente extrañeza y a no intercanviar saludo ni palabra alguna.

A La muerte en Venecia trobem també una reflexió sobre l’art i la creació artística. És possible ser un veritable artista si no s’ha fruit de la vida plenament sensorial, si no s’ha gaudit de la passió? Com es traspassa el llindar entre el que és assenyat i el que és extravagant o fins i tot insensat?

Para que una obra espiritual relevante pueda tener sin demora amplia y profunda admiración, ha de existir una secreta afinidad, cierta armonía incluso, entre el destino personal de su autor y el destino universal de su generación.

Thomas Mann dóna pistes d’aquestes respostes seguint un camí pel qual han caminat abans i després escriptors com E.M. Foster (A Room with a View, adaptada pel James Ivory) o cineastes com Gabriele Salvatore (Mediterraneo): al nord saben treballar millor, però al Mediterrani es viu més feliç.

M’ha agradat, però tot i que no és més que un conte llarg, m’ha costat molt de llegir perquè té un rerefons trist i amarg.

Curiosament, la Vio ha trobat a La muerte en Venecia una novel·la breu completament diferent: ella ha llegit una història sobre un pederasta que li ha transmés molt males sensacions.

Adient per a fer una bona tertúlia al voltant. Contraindicada per a relaxar l’esperit.

Salut i sort,
Ivan.

Mrs B dusting

The downside of having fires is dust. Obviously wood-burners, marvellous things that they are, do their best to keep it to a minimum, but still, more dust is generated than by the soulless central heating. Add to this wooden floors, beams, thatch and the great drifts of dog hair that nestle constantly against the skirting boards and you have a dusting schedule reminiscent of the infamous Forth Bridge paint works.

Now, until recently my policy has been that the vacuum should not appear on more than a bi-weekly basis, any more is positively Suburban. And as for dusting – urgh. Those manky old bits of cloth that seem to produce more dust than they clear and leave your hands with a strange metallic smell*. Well frankly it’s too depressing an experience to bother with. After all, what really is the point – we live in the country and have a dog and a toddler? We should just accept that things will get messy, muddy and dusty.

Sadly Mr B does not agree. Now he knew from the beginning that cleaning was not my thing. I have not inherited the tidy gene. It is completely absent in my family. However, it appears that Miss B has inherited it. She is particularly keen on “putting” crayons, farm animals, trains etc. back in their respective boxes, good for her I say. I think that this proves my point that the cleaning gene is dominant – it certainly tries to be in our house. Yet given that this is, as far as I am concerned, a genetic issue, I am amazed that Mr B still persists in trying to change me.

We makes attempts at compromise. He says he is happy to assist if asked and offers helpful suggestions like, “tidy first, then clean.”  And I promise I really will try harder. But all too often it ends in stalemate and veiled references to divorce. That is until a week or two ago when Mr B had an asthma attack after being coerced into cleaning the fireplace. In fairness to the man, there was a substantial amount of brick dust loitering about, so it wasn’t just the normal sort that offended his lungs. Anyway, it did confirm his suspicions – that I make him sick.

So with strategic brilliance, it appears that I have been out manoeuvred – the dusting now has to be done on a regular basis and Mr B is unable to assist, on doctors orders.

However, perhaps the game is not yet up. There is another way. Although it has its dangers, as bringing in any third person to a marriage does – a cleaner. I’ll keep you posted.

*Apparently this is my fault. You are supposed to wash them – regularly!

So, what sort are you?

Where cleaning is concerned, it seems that we fall into two genetic groups: those that clean with righteous zeal and those that avoid it until absolutely necessary. Two examples spring to mind, which sort are you?

Recently, the ubiquitous Mr Fry (in an interview or a programme or a tweet or something, can’t quite remember) suggested that the best way to impress your guests with your house pride, was to spray some polish onto a radiator shortly before they arrive. It gives the impression of sparking cleanliness without any effort. Well, when would he have the time to dust anyway.

A literary example will have to do for the Other Sort. It comes from one of my favourite books, Kazuo Ishiguro’s brilliant Remains of the Day (also a truly wonderful film  – watch and read if you have not done so already). Stevens, one of the last great butlers, tells with pride how he was able to influence world events with his immaculately polished silverware. It diverted attention during some very tense diplomatic negotiations, which paved the way for the appeasement of Germany. Just goes to show how dangerous this cleaning malarkey can be.

Eu zic ca “Ramasitele zilei” i-a adus faima.

“Amintirea palida a muntilor” se citeste foarte usor. Am devorat-o in tren si am avut timp sa si atipesc.

La intoarcere, m-am delectat cu “Copii de aruncat”, insa n-am reusit s-o termin (desi nu mai am mult). Am intercalat si cateva povesti, cum ar fi: “The poetics of sex” si “The world and other places” (despre care o sa povestesc mai tarziu).

In “Amintirea palida a muntilor”, Ishiguro (Piatra neagra, desi, recunosc,  nu i-am vazut kanji. Ishi = piatra, kuro (derivat ca sa sune mai bine, sic!) = neagra) puncteaza:

• obsesia sinuciderii … “rasa noastra are un instinct al sinuciderii”;

• conflictul dintre generatii, o adevarata prapastie. Primii emo pe care i-am vazut a fost in Japonia;
• cat de zgomotosi si de lipsiti de delicatete sunt strainii;

• comportament tipic: plecaciuni repetate, stanjenitoare, politete si amabilitate exacerbate, tonul indatoritor, aproape slugarnic;
• obsesia fantomelor care bantuie neobosite catacombele imperiului;
• optimismul femeilor aflate pe coama muntelui: “sa privim inainte” – propulsia unei natiuni greu incercate;
• istoria denaturata: manualele de istorie eludeaza cateva pasaje semnificative;
• obiceiuri mai vechi, pastrate in zonele rurale: femeia trebuia sa voteze cu partidul barbatului, sa fie serviabila, sa se abtina…
• rolul carierei in viata barbatului japonez, ce-l mana sa roboteasca de dimineata pana seara tarziu, avand poate cele mai putine zile de concediu din lume.

I’ve proudly stuck to my two-year-old resolution not to buy new books, but I make an exception for book club books, because it’s not always possible or practical to get hold of a library or second-hand copy in time.

As a result, today for the first time in, ooh, ages, two shiny new books have arrived on my desk (literally: we have a very obliging postman at work). The first, Global Women: Nannies, Maids and Sex Workers in the New Economy, looks interesting and thoughtful, but the one sending anticipatory shivers up my spine is Come Closer by Sara Gran, about which I know almost nothing except that it’s scary. I like scary books, and the cover blurb is enough to make me want to feign sickness, go home and read the whole thing in one sitting:

Hypnotic, disturbing… a genuinely scary novel

and

Deeply scary, blurring as it does the bounds between everyday life and the completely unthinkable. Just don’t read it alone.

and

Sara Gran’s swift, stylish narrative quickly leads to a terrifying place where anything at all might happen

and

The sly little novel…slides its icicle shard into the warm, pulpy flesh of your dark desires. Gran’s swift finale is very, very cool.

Doesn’t it sound exciting? Fortunately I am sharing both books with other people, and for reasons of timing must read the first one first, so I can prolong the anticipation for a little longer.

I shan’t start either until after I’ve finished my current book, which is When We Were Orphans by Kazuo Ishiguro.  I’m not sure why I haven’t read it before, since it has everything I like in it, but now I’ve picked it up I’m enjoying it very much. My one small criticism, and that’s too strong a word, is that there is slightly too much of this sort of thing (not a quote, but a composite example from memory):

As I sit here pondering the events of this morning, it occurs to me that my curious conversation with Sarah last night might not have happened at all had it not been for an incident which took place a week ago, at the Palm Hotel.

We then get the story of what happened  a week ago at the Palm Hotel, followed by the curious conversation with Sarah and finally the events of this morning. I suppose it’s a trick or gimmick designed to draw the reader in with the promise of secrets yet to be revealed, and it’s quite effective, but it does require the reader to do quite a lot of work (“what day is it now? Is this happening before or after the scene I’ve just read?”) and I think it’s slightly overused here.

Still, it’s a detective story set in inter-war Shanghai, which is so much my bag that when I’ve finished reading it I shall sling it over my shoulder and keep my lunch in it.

Margaret Mitchell

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaret_Mitchell

Peter Weiss

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Weiss

http://www.epdlp.com/escritor.php?id=2429

Kazuo Ishiguro

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kazuo_Ishiguro

http://www.lenguaensecundaria.com/resenas/abandone.shtml

http://www.epdlp.com/escritor.php?id=1851

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lb6IAdypaxw

The Wall Street Journal compiles that oft-visited subject of writers and their habits. In “How to Write a Great Novel,” top-notch novelists from Edwidge Danticat to one of my favorite writers, Dan Chaon, discuss hours clocked, font size (Ann Rice uses 14-point Courier), and plot points outlined on notecards.

Interesting little highlights:

• Nicholson Baker writes early, early in the morning (about 4 a.m.) with the lights off, his laptop darkened with light gray text, and, once finished, goes back to bed at 8:30.
• Kazuo Ishiguro spends two years outlining his novel and one year writing the first draft.

Many writers discuss the painful process of ditching a novel: Margaret Atwood and Amitav Ghosh among them.

The feature article about writers on writing has been done repeatedly, but this WSJ article is notable for its comprehensive compilation of writers.

“Crooner”

 

THE MORNING I SPOTTED Tony Gardner sitting among the tourists, spring was just arriving here in Venice. We’d completed our first full week outside in the piazza—a relief, let me tell you, after all those stuffy hours performing from the back of the cafe, getting in the way of customers wanting to use the staircase. There was quite a breeze that morning, and our brand-new marquee was flapping all around us, but we were all feeling a little bit brighter and fresher, and I guess it showed in our music.

But here I am talking like I’m a regular band member. Actually, I’m one of the “gypsies,” as the other musicians call us, one of the guys who move around the piazza, helping out whichever of the threecafe orchestras needs us. Mostly I play here at the Caffè Lavena, but on a busy afternoon, I might do a set with the Quadri boys, go over to the Florian, then back across the square to the Lavena. I get on fine with them all—and with the waiters too—and in any other city I’d have a regular position by now. But in this place, so obsessed with tradition and the past, everything’s upside down. Anywhere else, being a guitar player would go in a guy’s favour. But here? A guitar! The cafe managers get uneasy. It looks too modern, the tourists won’t like it. Last autumn I got myself a vintage jazz model with an oval sound-hole, the kind of thing Django Reinhardt might have played, so there was no way anyone would mistake me for a rock-and-roller. That made things a little easier, but the cafe managers, they still don’t like it. The truth is, if you’re a guitarist, you can be Joe Pass, they still wouldn’t give you a regular job in this square.

There’s also, of course, the small matter of my not being Italian, never mind Venetian. It’s the same for that big Czech guy with the alto sax. We’re well liked, we’re needed by the other musicians, but we don’t quite fit the official bill. Just play and keep your mouth shut, that’s what the cafe managers always say. That way the tourists won’t know you’re not Italian. Wear your suit, sunglasses, keep the hair combed back, no one will know the difference, just don’t start talking.

But I don’t do too bad. All three cafe orchestras, especially when they have to play at the same time from their rival tents, they need a guitar—something soft, solid, but amplified, thumping out the chords from the back. I guess you’re thinking, three bands playing at the same time in the same square, that would sound like a real mess. But the Piazza San Marco’s big enough to take it. A tourist strolling across the square will hear one tune fade out, another fade in, like he’s shifting the dial on a radio. What tourists can’t take too much of is the classical stuff, all these instrumental versions of famous arias. Okay, this is San Marco, they don’t want the latest pop hits. But every few minutes they want something they recognise, maybe an old Julie Andrews number, or the theme from a famous movie. I remember once last summer, going from band to band and playing “The Godfather” nine times in one afternoon.

Anyway there we were that spring morning, playing in front of a good crowd of tourists, when I saw Tony Gardner, sitting alone with his coffee, almost directly in front of us, maybe six metres back from our marquee. We get famous people in the square all the time, we never make a fuss. At the end of a number, maybe a quiet word will go around the band members. Look, there’s Warren Beatty. Look, it’s Kissinger. That woman, she’s the one who was in the movie about the men who swap their faces. We’re used to it. This is the Piazza San Marco after all. But when I realised it was Tony Gardner sitting there, that was different. I did get excited.

Tony Gardner had been my mother’s favourite. Back home, back in the communist days, it had been really hard to get records like that, but my mother had pretty much his whole collection. Once when I was a boy, I scratched one of those precious records. The apartment was so cramped, and a boy my age, you just had to move around sometimes, especially during those cold months when you couldn’t go outside. So I was playing this game jumping from our little sofa to the armchair, and one time I misjudged it and hit the record player. The needle went across the record with a zip—this was long before CDs—and my mother came in from the kitchen and began shouting at me. I felt so bad, not just because she was shouting at me, but because I knew it was one of Tony Gardner’s records, and I knew how much it meant to her. And I knew that this one too would now have those popping noises going through it while he crooned those American songs. Years later, when I was working in Warsaw and I got to know about black-market records, I gave my mother replacements of all her worn-out Tony Gardner albums, including that one I scratched. It took me over three years, but I kept getting them, one by one, and each time I went back to see her I’d bring her another.

So you see why I got so excited when I recognised him, barely six metres away. At first I couldn’t quite believe it, and I might have been a beat late with a chord change. Tony Gardner! What would my dear mother have said if she’d known! For her sake, for the sake of her memory, I had to go and say something to him, never mind if the other musicians laughed and said I was acting like a bell-boy.

But of course I couldn’t just rush over to him, pushing aside the tables and chairs. There was our set to finish. It was agony, I can tell you, another three, four numbers, and every second I thought he was about to get up and walk off. But he kept sitting there, by himself, staring into his coffee, stirring it like he was really puzzled by what the waiter had brought him. He looked like any other American tourist, dressed in a pale-blue polo shirt and loose grey trousers. His hair, very dark, very shiny on those record covers, was almost white now, but there was still plenty of it, and it was immaculately groomed in the same style he’d had back then. When I’d first spotted him, he’d had his dark glasses in his hand—I doubt if I’d have recognised him otherwise—but as our set went on and I kept watching him, he put them on his face, took them off again, then back on again. He looked preoccupied and it disappointed me to see he wasn’t really listening to our music.

Then our set was over. I hurried out of the tent without saying anything to the others, made my way to Tony Gardner’s table, then had a moment’s panic not knowing how to start the conversation. I was standing behind him, but some sixth sense made him turn and look up at me—I guess it was all those years of having fans come up to him—and next thing I was introducing myself, explaining how much I admired him, how I was in the band he’d just been listening to, how my mother had been such a fan, all in one big rush. He listened with a grave expression, nodding every few seconds like he was my doctor. I kept talking and all he said every now and then was: “Is that so?” After a while I thought it was time to leave and I’d started to move away when he said:

“So you come from one of those communist countries. That must have been tough.”

“That’s all in the past.” I did a cheerful shrug. “We’re a free country now. A democracy.”

“That’s good to hear. And that was your crew playing for us just now. Sit down. You want some coffee?”

I told him I didn’t want to impose, but there was now something gently insistent about Mr. Gardner. “No, no, sit down. Your mother liked my records, you were saying.”

So I sat down and told him some more. About my mother, our apartment, the black-market records. And though I couldn’t remember what the albums were called, I started describing the pictures on their sleeves the way I remembered them, and each timeI did this, he’d put his finger up in the air and say something like: “Oh, that would be Inimitable. The Inimitable Tony Gardner.” I think we were both really enjoying this game, but then I noticed Mr. Gardner’s gaze move off me, and I turned just in time to see a woman coming up to our table.

She was one of those American ladies who are so classy, with great hair, clothes and figure, you don’t realise they’re not so young until you see them up close. Far away, I might have mistaken her for a model out of those glossy fashion magazines. But when she sat down next to Mr. Gardner and pushed her dark glasses onto her forehead, I realised she must be at least fifty, maybe more. Mr. Gardner said to me: “This is Lindy, my wife.”

Mrs. Gardner flashed me a smile that was kind of forced, then said to her husband: “So who’s this? You’ve made yourself a friend.”

“That’s right, honey. I was having a good time talking here with … I’m sorry, friend, I don’t know your name.”

“Jan,” I said quickly. “But friends call me Janeck.”

Lindy Gardner said: “You mean your nickname’s longer than your real name? How does that work?”

“Don’t be rude to the man, honey.”

“I’m not being rude.”

“Don’t make fun of the man’s name, honey. That’s a good girl.”

Lindy Gardner turned to me with a helpless sort of expression. “You know what he’s talking about? Did I insult you?”

“No, no,” I said, “not at all, Mrs. Gardner.”

“He’s always telling me I’m rude to the public. But I’m not rude. Was I rude to you just now?” Then to Mr. Gardner: “I speak to the public in a natural way, sweetie. It’s my way. I’m never rude.”

“Okay, honey,” Mr. Gardner said, “let’s not make a big thing of it. Anyhow, this man here, he’s not the public.”

“Oh, he’s not? Then what is he? A long-lost nephew?”

“Be nice, honey. This man, he’s a colleague. A musician, a pro. He’s just been entertaining us all.” He gestured towards our marquee.

“Oh right!” Lindy Gardner turned to me again. “You were playing up there just now? Well, that was pretty. You were on the accordion, right? Real pretty!”

“Thank you very much. Actually, I’m the guitarist.”

“Guitarist? You’re kidding me. I was watching you only a minute ago. Sitting right there, next to the double bass man, playing so beautifully on your accordion.”

“Pardon me, that was in fact Carlo on the accordion.The big bald guy …”

“Are you sure? You’re not kidding me?”

“Honey, I’ve told you. Don’t be rude to the man.” He hadn’t shouted exactly, but his voice was suddenly hard and angry, and now there was a strange silence. Then Mr. Gardner himself broke it, saying gently:

“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He reached out a hand and grasped one of hers. I’d kind of expected her to shake him off, but instead, she moved in her chair so she was closer to him, and put her free hand over their clasped pair. They sat there like that for a few seconds, Mr. Gardner, his head bowed, his wife gazing emptily past his shoulder, across the square towards the Basilica, though her eyes didn’t seem to be seeing anything. For those few moments it was like they’d forgotten not just me sitting with them, but all the people in the piazza. Then she said, almost in a whisper:

“That’s okay, sweetie. It was my fault. Getting you all upset.”

They went on sitting like that a little longer, their hands locked. Then she sighed, let go of Mr. Gardner and looked at me. She’d looked at me before, but this time it was different. This time I could feel her charm. It was like she had this dial, going zero to ten, and with me, at that moment, she’d decided to turn it to six or seven, but I could feel it really strong, and if she’d asked some favour of me—if say she’d asked me to go across the square and buy her some flowers—I’d have done it happily.

“Janeck,” she said. “That’s your name, right? I’m sorry, Janeck. Tony’s right. I’d no business speaking to you the way I did.”

“Mrs. Gardner, really, please don’t worry …”

“And I disturbed the two of you talking. Musicians’ talk, I bet. You know what? I’m gonna leave the two of you to get on with it.”

“No reason to go, honey,” Mr. Gardner said.

“Oh yes there is, sweetie. I’m absolutely yearning to go look in that Prada store. I only came over just now to tell you I’d be longer than I said.”

“Okay, honey.” Tony Gardner straightened for the first time and took a deep breath. “So long as you’re sure you’re happy doing that.”

“I’m gonna have a fantastic time in that store. So you two fellas, you have yourselves a good talk.” She got to her feet and touched me on the shoulder. “You take care, Janeck.”

We watched her walk away, then Mr. Gardner asked me a few things about being a musician in Venice, and about the Quadri orchestra in particular, who’d started playing just at that moment. He didn’t seem to listen so carefully to my answers and I was about to excuse myself and leave, when he said suddenly:

“There’s something I want to put to you, friend. Let me tell you what’s on my mind and you can turn me down if that’s what you want.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Can I tell you something? The first time Lindy and I came here to Venice, it was our honeymoon. Twenty-seven years ago. And for all our happy memories of this place, we’d never been back, not together anyway. So when we were planning this trip, this special trip of ours, we said to ourselves we’ve got to spend a few days in Venice.”

“It’s your anniversary, Mr. Gardner?”

“Anniversary?” He looked startled.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just thought, because you said this was your special trip.”

He went on looking startled for a while, then he laughed, a big, booming laugh, and suddenly I remembered this particular song my mother used to play all the time where he does a talking passage in the middle of the song, something about not caring that this woman has left him, and he does this sardonic laugh. Now the same laugh was booming across the square. Then he said:

“Anniversary? No, no, it’s not our anniversary. But what I’m proposing, it’s not so far off. Because I want to do something very romantic. I want to serenade her. Properly, Venice style. That’s where you come in. You play your guitar, I sing. We do it from a gondola, we drift under the window, I sing up to her. We’re renting a palazzo not far from here. The bedroom window looks over the canal. After dark, it’ll be perfect. The lamps on the walls light things up just right. You and me in a gondola, she comes to the window. All her favourite numbers. We don’t need to do it for long, the evenings are still kinda chilly. Just three or four songs, that’s what I have in mind. I’ll see you’re well compensated. What do you say?”

“Mr. Gardner, I’d be absolutely honoured. As I told you, you’ve been an important figure for me. When were you thinking of doing this?”

“If it doesn’t rain, why not tonight? Around eight-thirty? We eat dinner early, so we’ll be back by then. I’ll make some excuse, leave the apartment, come and meet you. I’ll have a gondola fixed up, we’ll come back along the canal, stop under the window. It’ll be perfect. What do you say?”

You can probably imagine, this was like a dream come true. And besides, it seemed such a sweet idea, this couple—he in his sixties, she in her fifties—behaving like teenagers in love. In fact it was so sweet an idea it almost, but not quite, made me forget the scene I’d just witnessed between them. What I mean is, even at that stage, I knew deep down that things wouldn’t be as straightforward as he was making out.

For the next few minutes Mr. Gardner and I sat there discussing all the details—which songs he wanted, the keys he preferred, all those kinds of things. Then it was time for me to get back to the marquee and our next set, so I stood up, shook his hand and told him he could absolutely count on me that evening.

•

THE STREETS WERE DARK and quiet as I went to meet Mr. Gardner that night. In those days I’d always get lost whenever I moved much beyond the Piazza San Marco, so even though I’d allowed myself plenty of time, even though I knew the little bridge where Mr. Gardner had told me to be, I was still a few minutes late.

He was standing right under a lamp, wearing a crumpled dark suit, and his shirt was open down to the third or fourth button, so you could see the hairs on his chest. When I apologised for being late, he said:

“What’s a few minutes? Lindy and I have been married twenty-seven years. What’s a few minutes?”

He wasn’t angry, but his mood seemed grave and solemn—not at all romantic. Behind him was the gondola, gently rocking in the water, and I saw the gondolier was Vittorio, a guy I don’t like much. To my face, Vittorio’s always friendly, but I know—I knew back then—he goes around saying all kinds of foul things, all of it rubbish, about people like me, people he calls “the foreigners from the new countries.” That’s why, when he greeted me that evening like a brother, I just nodded, and waited silently while he helped Mr. Gardner into the gondola. Then I passed him my guitar—I’d brought my Spanish guitar, not the one with the oval sound-hole—and got in myself.

Mr. Gardner kept shifting positions at the front of the boat, and at one point sat down so heavily we nearly capsized. But he didn’t seem to notice and as we pushed off, he kept staring into the water.

For a few minutes we drifted in silence, past dark buildings and under low bridges. Then he came out of his deep thoughts and said:

“Listen, friend. I know we agreed on a set for this evening. But I’ve been thinking. Lindy loves that song, ‘By the Time I Get to Phoenix.’ I recorded it once a long time ago.”

“Sure, Mr. Gardner. My mother always said your version was better than Sinatra’s. Or that famous one by Glen Campbell.”

Mr. Gardner nodded, then I couldn’t see his face for a while. Vittorio sent his gondolier’s cry echoing around the walls before steering us round a corner.

“I used to sing it to her a lot,” Mr. Gardner said. “You know, I think she’d like to hear it tonight. You’re familiar with the tune?”

My guitar was out of the case by this time, so I played a few bars of the song.

“Take it up,” he said. “Up to E-flat. That’s how I did it on the album.”

So I played the chords in that key, and after maybe a whole verse had gone by, Mr. Gardner began to sing, very softly, under his breath, like he could only half remember the words. But his voice resonated well in that quiet canal. In fact, it sounded really beautiful. And for a moment it was like I was a boy again, back in that apartment, lying on the carpet while my mother sat on the sofa, exhausted, or maybe heartbroken, while Tony Gardner’s album spun in the corner of the room.

Mr. Gardner broke off suddenly and said: “Okay. We’ll do ‘Phoenix’ in E-flat. Then maybe ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily,’ like we planned. And we’ll finish with ‘One for My Baby.’ That’ll be enough. She won’t listen to any more than that.”

He seemed to sink back into his thoughts after that, and we drifted along through the darkness to the sound of Vittorio’s gentle splashes.

“Mr. Gardner,” I said eventually, “I hope you don’t mind me asking. But is Mrs. Gardner expecting this recital? Or is this going to be a wonderful surprise?”

He sighed heavily, then said: “I guess we’d have to put this in the wonderful surprise category.” Then he added: “Lord knows how she’ll react. We might not make it all the way to ‘One for My Baby.’”

Vittorio steered us round another corner, and suddenly there was laughter and music, and we were drifting past a large, brightly lit restaurant. Every table seemed taken, the waiters were rushing about, the diners looked very happy, even though it couldn’t have been so warm next to the canal at that time of year. After the quiet and the darkness we’d been travelling through, the restaurant was kind of unsettling. It felt like we were the stationary ones, watching from the quay, as this glittering party boat slid by. I noticed a few faces look our way, but no one paid us much attention. Then the restaurant was behind us, and I said:

“It’s funny. Can you imagine what those tourists would do if they realised a boat had just gone by containing the legendary Tony Gardner?”

Vittorio, who doesn’t understand much English, got the gist of this and gave a little laugh. But Mr. Gardner didn’t respond for some time. We were back in the dark again, going along a narrow canal past dimly lit doorways, when he said:

“My friend, you come from a communist country. That’s why you don’t realise how these things work.”

“Mr. Gardner,” I said, “my country isn’t communist any more. We’re free people now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to denigrate your nation. You’re a brave people. I hope you win peace and prosperity. But what I intended to say to you, friend, what I meant was that coming from where you do, quite naturally, there are many things you don’t understand yet. Just like there’d be many things I wouldn’t understand in your country.”

“I guess that’s right, Mr. Gardner.”

“Those people we passed just now. If you’d gone up to them and said, ‘Hey, do any of you remember Tony Gardner?’ then maybe some of them, most of them even, might have said yes. Who knows? But drifting by the way we just did, even if they’d recognised me, would they get excited? I don’t think so. They wouldn’t put down their forks, they wouldn’t interrupt their candlelit heart-to-hearts. Why should they? Just some crooner from a bygone era.”

“I can’t believe that, Mr. Gardner. You’re a classic. You’re like Sinatra or Dean Martin. Some class acts, they never go out of fashion. Not like these pop stars.”

“You’re very kind to say that, friend. I know you mean well. But tonight of all nights, it’s no time to bekidding me.”

I was about to protest, but something in his manner told me to drop the whole subject. So we kept moving, no one speaking. To be honest, I was now beginning to wonder what I’d got myself into, what this whole serenade thing was about. And these were Americans, after all. For all I knew, when Mr. Gardner started singing, Mrs. Gardner would come to the window with a gun and fire down at us.

Maybe Vittorio’s thoughts were moving along the same lines, because as we passed under a lantern on the side of a wall, he gave me a look as though to say: “We’ve got a strange one here, haven’t we, amico?” But I didn’t respond. I wasn’t going to side with the likes of him against Mr. Gardner. According to Vittorio, foreigners like me, we go around ripping off tourists, littering the canals, in general ruining the whole damn city. Some days, if he’s in a bad mood, he’ll claim we’re muggers—rapists, even. I asked him once to his face if it was true he was going around saying such things, and he swore it was all a pack of lies. How could he be a racist when he had a Jewish aunt he adored like a mother? But one afternoon I was killing time between sets, leaning over a bridge in Dorsoduro, and a gondola passed underneath. There were three tourists sitting in it, and Vittorio standing over them with his oar, holding forth for the world to hear, coming out with this very same rubbish. So he can meet my eye all he likes, he’ll get no camaraderie from me.

“Let me tell you a little secret,” Mr. Gardner said suddenly. “A little secret about performance. One pro to another. It’s quite simple. You’ve got to know something, doesn’t matter what it is, you’ve got to know something about your audience. Something that for you, in your mind, distinguishes that audience from the one you sang to the night before. Let’s say you’re in Milwaukee. You’ve got to ask yourself, what’s different, what’s special about a Milwaukee audience? What makes it different from a Madison audience? Can’t think of anything, you just keep on trying till you do. Milwaukee, Milwaukee. They have good pork chops in Milwaukee. That’ll work, that’s what you use when you step out there. You don’t have to say a word about it to them, it’s what’s in your mind when you sing to them. These people in front of you, they’re the ones who eat good pork chops. They have high standards when it comes to pork chops. You understand what I’m saying? That way the audience becomes someone you know, someone you can perform to. There, that’s my secret. One pro to another.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Gardner. I’d never thought about it that way. A tip from someone like you, I won’t forget it.”

“So tonight,” he went on, “we’re performing for Lindy. Lindy’s the audience. So I’m going to tell you something about Lindy. You want to hear about Lindy?”

“Of course, Mr. Gardner,” I said. “I’d like to hear about her very much.”

FOR THE NEXT TWENTY MINUTES OR SO, WE SAT IN that gondola, drifting round and round, while Mr. Gardner talked. Sometimes his voice went down to a murmur, like he was talking to himself. Other times, when a lamp or a passing window threw some light across our boat, he’d remember me, raise his voice, and say something like: “You understand what I’m saying, friend?”

His wife, he told me, had come from a small town in Minnesota, in the middle of America, where her schoolteachers gave her a hard time because she was always looking at magazines of movie stars instead of studying.

“What these ladies never realised was that Lindy had big plans. And look at her now. Rich, beautiful, travelled all over the world. And those schoolteachers, where are they today? What kind of lives have they had? If they’d looked at a few more movie magazines, had a few more dreams, they too might have a little of what Lindy has today.”

At nineteen, she’d hitch-hiked to California, wanting to get to Hollywood. Instead, she’d found herself in the outskirts of Los Angeles, working as a waitress in a roadside diner.

“Surprising thing,” Mr. Gardner said. “This diner, this regular little place off the highway. It turned out to be the best place she could have wound up. Because this was where all the ambitious girls came in, morning till night. They used to meet there, seven, eight, a dozen of them, they’d order their coffees, their hot dogs, sit in there for hours and talk.”

These girls, all a little older than Lindy, had come from every part of America and had been in the LA area for at least two or three years. They came into the diner to swap gossip and hard-luck stories, discuss tactics, keep a check on each other’s progress. But the main draw of the place was Meg, a woman in her forties, the waitress Lindy worked with.

“To these girls Meg was their big sister, their fountain of wisdom. Because once upon a time, she’d been exactly like them. You’ve got to understand, these were serious girls, really ambitious, determined girls. Did they talk about clothes and shoes and make-up like other girls? Sure they did. But they only talked about which clothes and shoes and make-up would help them marry a star. Did they talk about movies? Did they talk about the music scene? You bet. But they talked about which movie stars and singers were single, which ones were unhappily married, which ones were getting divorced. And Meg, you see, she could tell them all this, and much, much more. Meg had been down that road before them. She knew all the rules, all the tricks, when it came to marrying a star. And Lindy sat with them and took everything in. That little hot-dog diner was her Harvard, her Yale. A nineteen-year-old from Minnesota? Makes me shudder now to think what could have happened to her. But she got lucky.”

“Mr. Gardner,” I said, “excuse me for interrupting. But if this Meg was so wise about everything, how come she wasn’t married to a star herself? Why was she serving hot dogs in this diner?”

“Good question, but you don’t quite see how these things work. Okay, this lady, Meg, she hadn’t made it. But the point is, she’d watched the ones who had. You understand, friend? She’d been just like those girls once, and she’d watched some succeed, others fail. She’d seen the pitfalls, she’d seen the golden stairways. She could tell them all the stories and those girls listened. And some of them learned. Lindy, for one. Like I say, that was her Harvard. It made her what she is. It gave her the strength she needed later on, and boy, did she need it. It took her six years before her first break came along. Can you imagine it? Six years of manoeuvring, planning, putting yourself on the line like that. Getting knocked back over and over again. But it’s just like in our business. You can’t roll over and give up after the first few knocks. The girls who do, you can see them any place, married to nobodies in nowhere towns. But just a few of them, the ones like Lindy, they learn from every knock, they come back stronger, tougher, they come back fighting and mad. You think Lindy didn’t suffer humiliation? Even with her beauty and charm? What people don’t realise is that beauty isn’t the half of it. Use it wrong, you get treated like a whore. Anyway, after six years, she finally got her break.”

“That’s when she met you, Mr. Gardner?”

“Me? No, no. I didn’t come on the scene for a while longer. She married Dino Hartman. You’ve never heard of Dino?” Mr. Gardner did a slightly unkind laugh here. “Poor Dino. I guess Dino’s records wouldn’t have made it to the communist countries. But Dino had quite a name for himself in those days. He sang in Vegas a lot, had a few gold records. Like I said, that was Lindy’s big break. When I first met her, she was Dino’s wife. Old Meg had explained that’s how it happens all the time. Sure, a girl can get lucky first time, go straight to the top, marry a Sinatra or a Brando. But it doesn’t usually happen like that. A girl’s got to be prepared to get out of the elevator at the second floor, walk around. She needs to get used to the air on that floor. Then maybe, one day, on that second floor, she’ll run into someone who’s come down from the penthouse for a few minutes, maybe to fetch something. And this guy says to her, hey, how about coming back up with me, up to the top floor. Lindy knew that’s how it usually played out. She wasn’t weakening when she married Dino, she wasn’t cutting her ambition down to size. And Dino was a decent guy. I always liked him. That’s why, even though I fell badly for Lindy the moment I first saw her, I didn’t make a move. I was the perfect gentleman. I found out later that was what made Lindy all the more determined. Man, you’ve got to admire a girl like that! I have to tell you, friend, I was a bright, bright star around this time. I guess this would be around when your mother was listening to me. Dino, though, his star was starting to go down fast. It was tough for a lot of singers just around then. Everything was changing. Kids were listening to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones. Poor Dino, he sounded too much like Bing Crosby. He tried a bossa nova album folks just laughed at. Definitely time for Lindy to get out. No one could have accused us of anything in that situation. I don’t think even Dino really blamed us. So I made my move. That’s how she got up to the penthouse.

“We got married in Vegas, we had the hotel fill the bathtub with champagne. That song we’re gonna do tonight, ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily.’ You know why I chose that one? You want to know? We were in London once, not long after we got married. We came up to our room after breakfast and the maid’s in there cleaning our suite. But Lindy and I are horny as rabbits. So we go in, and we can hear the maid vacuuming our lounge, but we can’t see her, she’s through the partition. So we sneak through on tip-toes, like we’re kids, you know? We sneak through to the bedroom, close the door. We can see the maid’s finished the bedroom already, so maybe she doesn’t need to come back, but we don’t know that for sure. Either way, we don’t care. We tear off our clothes, we make love on the bed, and all the time the maid’s on the other side, moving around our suite, no idea we’ve come in. I tell you, we were horny, but after a while, we found the whole thing so funny, we just kept laughing. Then we’d finished and we were lying there in each other’s arms, and the maid was still out there and you know what, she starts singing! She’s finished with the vacuum, so she starts singing at the top of her voice, and boy, did she have one lousy voice! We were laughing and laughing, but trying to keep it silent. Then what do you know, she stops singing and turns on the radio. And suddenly we hear Chet Baker. He’s singing ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily,’ nice and slow and mellow. And Lindy and me, we just lay there across the bed together, listening to Chet singing. And after a while, I’m singing along, really soft, singing along with Chet Baker on the radio, Lindy curled up in my arms. That’s how it was. That’s why we’re gonna do that song tonight. I don’t know if she’ll remember though. Who the hell knows?”

Mr. Gardner stopped talking and I could see him wiping away tears. Vittorio brought us around another corner and I realised we were going past the restaurant a second time. It looked even more lively than before, and a pianist, this guy I know called Andrea, was now playing in the corner.

As we drifted again into the dark, I said: “Mr. Gardner, it’s none of my business, I know. But I can see maybe things haven’t been so good between you and Mrs. Gardner lately. I want you to know I understand about things like that. My mother often used to get sad, maybe just the way you are now. She’d think she’d found someone, she’d be so happy and tell me this guy was going to be my new dad. The first couple of times I believed her. After that, I knew it wouldn’t work out. But my mother, she never stopped believing it. And every time she felt down, maybe like you are tonight, you know what she did? She put on your records and sang along. All those long winters, in that tiny apartment of ours, she’d sit there, knees tucked up under her, glass of something in her hand, and she’d sing along softly. And sometimes, I remember this, Mr. Gardner, our neighbours upstairs would bang on the ceiling, especially when you were doing those big up-tempo numbers, like ‘High Hopes’ or ‘They All Laughed.’ I used to watch my mother carefully, but it was like she hadn’t heard a thing, she’d be listening to you, nodding her head to the beat, her lips moving with the lyrics. Mr. Gardner, I wanted to say to you. Your music helped my mother through those times, it must have helped millions of others. And it’s only right it should help you too.” I did a little laugh, which I meant to be encouraging, but it came out louder than I’d intended. “You can count on me tonight, Mr. Gardner. I’m going to put everything I’ve got into it. I’ll make it as good as any orchestra, you just see. And Mrs. Gardner will hear us and who knows? Maybe things will start going fine between you again. Every couple goes through difficult times.”

Mr. Gardner smiled. “You’re a sweet guy. I appreciate you helping me out tonight. But we don’t have any more time to talk. Lindy’s in her room now. I can see the light on.”

WE WERE GOING BY A PALAZZO we’d passed at least twice before, and I now realised why Vittorio had been taking us round in circles. Mr. Gardner had been watching for the light to come on in a particular window, and each time he’d found it still dark, we’d moved on to do another circle. This time, though, the third-storey window was lit, the shutters were open, and from down where we were, we could see a small part of the ceiling with its dark wooden beams. Mr. Gardner signalled to Vittorio, but he’d already stopped rowing and we drifted slowly till the gondola was directly beneath the window.

Mr. Gardner stood up, making the boat rock alarmingly again, and Vittorio had to move quickly to steady us. Then Mr. Gardner called up, much too softly: “Lindy? Lindy?” Finally he called out much louder: “Lindy!”

A hand pushed the shutters out wider, then a figure came onto the narrow balcony. A lantern was fixed to the palazzo wall not far above us, but the light wasn’t good, and Mrs. Gardner wasn’t much more than a silhouette. I could see though that she’d put up her hair since I’d met her in the piazza, maybe for their dinner earlier on.

“That you, sweetie?” She leaned over the balcony rail. “I thought you’d been kidnapped or something. You had me all anxious.”

“Don’t be foolish, honey. What could happen in a town like this? Anyway, I left you that note.”

“I didn’t see any note, sweetie.”

“I left you a note. Just so you wouldn’t get anxious.”

“Where is it, this note? What did it say?”

“I don’t remember, honey.” Mr. Gardner now sounded irritated. “It was just a regular note. You know, saying I’d gone to buy cigarettes or something.”

“Is that what you’re doing down there now? Buying cigarettes?”

“No, honey. This is something different. I’m gonna sing to you.”

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“No, honey, it isn’t a joke. This is Venice. It’s what people do here.” He gestured around to me and Vittorio, like our being there proved his point.

“It’s kind of chilly for me out here, sweetie.”

Mr. Gardner did a big sigh. “Then you can listen from inside the room. Go back in the room, honey, make yourself comfortable. Just leave those windows open and you’ll hear us fine.”

She went on gazing down at him for a while, and he went on gazing back up, neither of them saying anything. Then she’d gone inside, and Mr. Gardner seemed disappointed, even though this was exactly what he’d suggested she should do. He lowered his head with another sigh, and I could tell he was hesitating about going ahead. So I said:

“Come on, Mr. Gardner, let’s do it. Let’s do ‘By the Time I Get to Phoenix.’”

And I played gently a little opening figure, no beat yet, the sort of thing that could lead into a song or just as easily fade away. I tried to make it soundlike America, sad roadside bars, big long highways, and I guess I was thinking too of my mother, the way I’d come into the room and see her on the sofa gazing at her record sleeve with its picture of an American road, or maybe of the singer sitting in an American car. What I mean is, I tried to play it so my mother would have recognised it as coming from that same world, the world on her record sleeve.

Then before I realised it, before I’d picked up any steady beat, Mr. Gardner started to sing. His posture, standing in the gondola, was pretty unsteady, and I was afraid he’d lose his balance any moment. But his voice came out just the way I remembered it—gentle, almost husky, but with a huge amount of body, like it was coming through an invisible mike. And like all the best American singers, there was that weariness in his voice, even a hint of hesitation, like he’s not a man accustomed to laying open his heart this way. That’s how all the greats do it.

We went through that song, full of travelling and goodbye. An American man leaving his woman. He keeps thinking of her as he passes through the towns one by one, verse by verse, Phoenix, Albuquerque, Oklahoma, driving down a long road the way my mother never could. If only we could leave things behind like that—I guess that’s what my mother would have thought. If only sadness could be like that.

We came to the end and Mr. Gardner said: “Okay, let’s go straight to the next one. ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily.’”

This being my first time playing with Mr. Gardner, I had to feel my way around everything, but we managed okay. After what he’d told me about this song, I kept looking up at that window, but there was nothing from Mrs. Gardner, no movement, no sound, nothing. Then we’d finished, and the quiet and the dark settled around us. Somewhere nearby, I could hear a neighbour pushing open shutters, maybe to hear better. But nothing from Mrs. Gardner’s window.

We did “One for My Baby” very slow, virtually no beat at all, then everything was silent again. We went on looking up at the window, then at last, maybe after a full minute, we heard it. You could only just make it out, but there was no mistaking it. Mrs. Gardner was up there sobbing.

“We did it, Mr. Gardner!” I whispered. “We did it. We got her by the heart.”

But Mr. Gardner didn’t seem pleased. He shook his head tiredly, sat down and gestured to Vittorio. “Take us round the other side. It’s time I went in.”

As we started to move again, I thought he was avoiding looking at me, almost like he was ashamed of what we’d just done, and I began thinking maybe this whole plan had been some kind of malicious joke. For all I knew, these songs all held horrible meanings for Mrs. Gardner. So I put my guitar away and sat there, maybe a bit sullen, and that’s how we travelled for a while.

Then we came out to a much wider canal, and immediately a water-taxi coming the other way rushed past us, making waves under the gondola. But we were nearly up to the front of Mr. Gardner’s palazzo, and as Vittorio let us drift towards the quay, I said:

“Mr. Gardner, you’ve been an important part of my growing up. And tonight’s been a very special night for me. If we just said goodbye now and I never saw youagain, I know for the rest of my life I’ll always be wondering. So Mr. Gardner, please tell me. Just now, was Mrs. Gardner crying because she was happy or because she was upset?”

I thought he wasn’t going to answer. In the dim light, his figure was just this hunched-up shape at the front of the boat. But as Vittorio was tying the rope, he said quietly:

“I guess she was pleased to hear me sing that way. But sure, she was upset. We’re both of us upset. Twenty-seven years is a long time and after this trip we’re separating. This is our last trip together.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Mr. Gardner,” I said gently. “I guess a lot of marriages come to an end, even after twenty-seven years. But at least you’re able to part like this. A holiday in Venice. Singing from a gondola. There can’t be many couples who split up and stay so civilised.”

“But why wouldn’t we be civilised? We still love each other. That’s why she’s crying up there. Because she still loves me as much as I still love her.”

Vittorio had stepped up onto the quay, but Mr. Gardner and I kept sitting in the darkness. I was waiting for him to say more, and sure enough, after a moment, he went on:

“Like I told you, the first time I laid eyes on Lindy I fell in love with her. But did she love me back then? I doubt if the question ever crossed her mind. I was a star, that’s all that mattered to her. I was what she’d dreamt of, what she’d planned to win for herself back in that little diner. Whether she loved me or not didn’t come into it. But twenty-seven years of marriage can do funny things. Plenty of couples, they start off loving each other, then get tired of each other, end up hating each other. Sometimes though it goes the other way. It took a few years, but bit by bit, Lindy began to love me. I didn’t dare believe it at first, but after a while there was nothing else to believe. A little touch on my shoulder as we were getting up from a table. A funny little smile across the room when there wasn’t anything to smile about, just her fooling around. I bet she was as surprised as anyone, but that’s what happened. After five or six years, we found we were easy with each other. That we worried about each other, cared about each other. Like I say, we loved each other. And we still love each other today.”

“I don’t get it, Mr. Gardner. So why are you and Mrs. Gardner separating?”

He did another of his sighs. “How would you understand, my friend, coming from where you do? But you’ve been kind to me tonight, so I’m gonna try and explain it. Fact is, I’m no longer the major name I once was. Protest all you like, but where we come from, there’s no getting round something like that. I’m no longer a major name. Now I could just accept that and fade away. Live on past glories. Or I could say, no, I’m not finished yet. In other words, my friend, I could make a comeback. Plenty have from my position and worse. But a comeback’s no easy game. You have to be prepared to make a lot of changes, some of them hard ones. You change the way you are. You even change some things you love.”

“Mr. Gardner, are you saying you and Mrs. Gardner have to separate because of your comeback?”

“Look at the other guys, the guys who came back successfully. Look at the ones from my generation still hanging round. Every single one of them, they’ve remarried. Twice, sometimes three times. Every one of them, young wives on their arms. Me and Lindy are getting to be a laughing stock. Besides, there’s been this particular young lady I’ve had my eye on, and she’s had her eye on me. Lindy knows the score. She’s known it longer than I have, maybe ever since those days in that diner listening to Meg. We’ve talked it over. She understands it’s time to go our separate ways.”

“I still don’t get it, Mr. Gardner. This place you and Mrs. Gardner come from can’t be so different from everywhere else. That’s why, Mr. Gardner, that’s why these songs you’ve been singing all these years, they make sense for people everywhere. Even where I used to live. And what do all these songs say? If two people fall out of love and they have to part, then that’s sad. But if they go on loving each other, they should stay together for ever. That’s what these songs are saying.”

“I understand what you’re saying, friend. And it might sound hard to you, I know. But that’s the way it is. And listen, this is about Lindy too. It’s best for her we do this now. She’s nowhere near old yet. You’ve seen her, she’s still a beautiful woman. She needs to get out now, while she has time. Time to find love again, make another marriage. She needs to get out before it’s too late.”

I don’t know what I would have said to that, but then he caught me by surprise, saying: “Your mother. I guess she never got out.”

I thought about it, then said quietly: “No, Mr. Gardner. She never got out. She didn’t live long enough to see the changes in our country.”

“That’s too bad. I’m sure she was a fine woman. If what you say is true, and my music helped make her happy, that means a lot to me. Too bad she didn’t get out. I don’t want that to happen to my Lindy. No, sir. Not to my Lindy. I want my Lindy to get out.”

The gondola was bumping gently against the quay. Vittorio called out softly, reaching out his hand, and after a few seconds, Mr. Gardner got to his feet and climbed out. By the time I too had climbed out with my guitar—I wasn’t going to beg any free rides from Vittorio—Mr. Gardner had his wallet out.

Vittorio seemed pleased with what he was given, and with his usual fine phrases and gestures, he got back in his gondola and set off down the canal.

We watched him disappear into the dark, then next thing, Mr. Gardner was pushing a lot of notes into my hand. I told him it was way too much, that anyway it was a huge honour for me, but he wouldn’t hear of taking any of it back.

“No, no,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face, like he wanted to be done, not just with the money, but with me, the evening, maybe this whole section of his life. He started to walk off towards his palazzo, but after a few paces, he stopped and turned back to look at me. The little street we were in, the canal, everything was silent now except for the distant sound of a television.

“You played well tonight, my friend,” he said. “You have a nice touch.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gardner. And you sang great. As great as ever.”

“Maybe I’ll come by the square again before we leave. Listen to you playing with your crew.”

“I hope so, Mr. Gardner.”

But I never saw him again. I heard a few months later, in the autumn, that Mr. and Mrs. Gardner got their divorce—one of the waiters at the Florian read it somewhere and told me. It all came back to me then about that evening, and it made me feel a little sad thinking about it again. Because Mr. Gardner had seemed a pretty decent guy, and whichever way you look at it, comeback or no comeback, he’ll always be one of the greats.

Kazuo Ishiguro published this book, to great acclaim, before his popular success The Remains of the Day. For a while it seemed to me that the narrator was going to be the same kind of character as the other book’s narrator, and that the story was going to be an equally painful look backwards at the life of a person who failed to do the proper thing at the crucial time.

This book is set in Japan in the years that followed the end of World War II. The narrator, Masuji Ono, is a successful retired artist, the mysterious nature of whose work is a problem for the reader to figure out throughout the book.

Like The Remains of the Day, this book is written in the first person, in a stilted and distant manner, as if the narrator is describing someone else. In one scene this style seems to be a way for Ono to detach himself from the strong emotions he is remembering, and it has the striking effect of heightening the drama for the reader. “I suppose I remained silent for some moments,” he writes. “I must have stood up at around this point, for when I next spoke, I recall I was standing across the room from him, over by the veranda screens.”

For all his scientific detachment, it appears that others do not see Ono the way he sees himself. Ishiguro is a genius of progressive disclosure; what you learn through circular digressions is continually surprising and never absolutely satisfying. What is said and what is not said are equally important.

One remarkable thing about the book is the multiple story lines that repeat and subtly echo each other. Ono is working through the problem of his past at the same time he is facing the problems of his adult daughters’ lives moving forward. And his reflections on his time both as a student and a teacher present a subtly contrasting recapitulation of themes. As he related to his teachers when he was young, so he realizes his students must have related to him when he taught. Some of the dialogues seemed fuguelike within themselves, in their repetition and elaboration of phrases.

The artistry of the writing is apt for the main problem that the narrator explores: the nature of art. Is it enough to flawlessly depict the “floating world” of momentary pleasure? In a crucial conversation Ono and one of his teachers debate the opinion of another artistic friend: “The best things, he always used to say, are put together of a night and vanish with the morning,” says the teacher. Can art be good or bad morally, as well as technically and aesthetically good or bad? How does it serve society?

It was a sad book in many ways, but there was also happiness and humor. I enjoyed the story of a man’s interesting life, the fascinating interplay between the generations, the description of postwar Japan’s collective sorrow, and the philosophical debates about art.

This is my final readathon pile! The third book from above (Model Gliding by Marcel Möring in Dutch: Modelvliegen) I will actually not read on paper: I have the audiobook waiting on my iPod. With thanks to Elsje las!

Listening to the advise of oldtimers I’ve decided to start with a short book to get a feeling of accomplishment: The Pianoman (also in Dutch: De Pianoman), by Bernlef. It’s the boekenweekgeschenk from 2008: ‘book week present’. Each year in March there’s a week devoted to books and reading. If you spend 20 euro’s on Dutch literature, you’ll get that year’s gift written by a famous author. This started as early as 1930! In the beginning the public had to guess who the author was by reading the novella.

Oh my, I suddenly discover I forgot to put one book in the photograph… The China Lover! Well, I might even never get to it anyway

I wonder what this readathon will do to my daily post statistics… LOL The hard part of coming 24 hours will be not to spend too much time behind my computer blogging and following other readathonners! Beneath you can see my starting position. Good luck to all!

Betyg: 4 kanske 4+

En fin roman om Mr Stevens och Miss Kenton, bäst av allt är språket. Denna gång var det Louise som bjöd på scones. Citat: ‘Utmärkt’

Vi gillar Ishiguro, vi gillar också filmatiseringen med Emma Thompson och Anthony Hopkins.

England gav mersmak så DLK tog sig sedan an denna mer moderna historia. och vilken historia! En sådan där välskriven bok som man fastnar i redan i bokaffären. Det gemensamma DLK betyget når dock bara upp till fyra. En författare som vi vill läsa mer av.

No. This is not about Schindler’s List. Nor is it a black list. This is a list of books that everyone is supposedly supposed to read before they die.

Besides the awkward wording of my last sentence, this blog brings me joy. For too long I have sat dormant while an entire galaxy, nay, universe of literature stares me in the face, daring me to open their covers and pour through their pages.

Therefore, I have embarked upon a process of reading through the list of 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. It was put together by Dr. Peter Boxall who is a senior lecturer in English Literature at the University of Sussex. He has published widely on drama and twentieth-century fiction and contributes regularly to journals such as The Yearbook of English Studies.

This blog is my way of posting my thoughts on each book. However, I began this blog after I read the first few books so I will simply post my thoughts from a Facebook note here and then begin with the fourth book on the list.

1. Never Let Me Go – Kazuo Ishiguro ~ EXCELLENT (a bit about adult topics, but very good).

2. Saturday – Ian McEwan ~ Meh…Not as interesting as originally thought, but I now know a bit about neurology…

3. On Beauty – Zadie Smith ~ Very good. A few things that had too much detail (in the adult persuasion), but all in all very well written and offered a good view into the life of African American people.

I really want to see An Education, the new movie based on the memoir of the same name by Lynn Barber, directed by Lone Scherfig, and adapted for the screen by Nick Horny.

The story seems interesting enough, about a 16 year old girl named Jenny in 1960s England with a normal mum and dad who’s working hard at her studies with plans to go to Oxford. And then she meets an older man, played by Peter Sarsgaard, who sweeps her off her feet with romance and the jet set travels of his swinging friends and leads her slowly down the path to ruin and the eventual growth into a woman. There’s more to that, much more, but I’ll spare you the details unless you’re truly interested.

First thing you should know, impressionable ladies of any age: Stay the fuck away from Peter Sarsgaard. He just looks like he’s out there to scoop up impressionable young girls.

But in all seriousness, the real reason I want to see this movie, besides the fact that it just looks good and has been getting incredibly positive reviews, is it’s lead, Carey Mulligan.

Ah…

I’ve only been lucky enough to catch her in a few things here and there, but she’s always come off as a young actress of grace and intelligence. And there’s an adorableness factor that’s truly undeniable. But all that ties into the fact that in one instant she can seem so young, so painfully, beautifully young, full of innocence and wide eyed wonder of the world, and then she can turn in an instant, those large eyes quivering with sadness, and then turn again, staying in the realm of adulthood, moving from the sadness to the joy of growing up. And she does it all with something that I never honestly thought I’d ever find in a living human being: grace.

I should also add, since I am a nerd, that I originally caught her in an episode of Doctor Who, the classic “Blink,” which I would highly recommend not only as an excellent piece of science fiction storytelling, but because it’s a stand alone episode, featuring solely Carey Mulligan’s one off character, the unstoppably inquisitive Sally Sparrow, girl detective, as she faces off against a mysterious mansion and one of the scariest bit of creatures (it is almost Halloween, after all) you’ll ever see: The Weeping Angels.

To say more would be criminal, but I’d give my highest recommendation to that episode, written by the genius Steven Moffat (set to take over the reins of Doctor Who early next year) and Carey Mulligan’s performance in it especially. She not crafts an energetic and intelligent young character who loves a good mystery, but she manages to create a role you fall in love with instantly. It’s a joke I make quite frequently on this site, but I’d truly give just about anything to see a spin off with her character in it (as opposed to the bisexual Nigel Kneale ripoff that is Torchwood on it’s better days).

Carey Mulligan is only 24 and already has a wide variety of film and television roles under her belt. Other than An Education now, she’ll also appear in the Natalie Portman/Tobey Maguire/Jake Gyllenhaal remake of Brothers, as well as Oliver Stone’s Wall Street 2 and Mark Romanek’s adaptation of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.

Nick Hornby, who you of course know from his earlier works like High Fidelity and About A Boy, and who adapted the autobiographical memoir by Barber into An Education, also has a new book about called Juliet, Naked. And I hear it’s actually pretty good.

“She’s a suburban girl who’s frightened that she’s going to get cut out of everything good that happens in the city. That, to me, is a big story in popular culture. It’s the story of pretty much every rock ‘n’ roll band,” said Hornby about the character in the book version of An Education. Interesting the way he frames that, but when asked about the actual writing of a teenage girl, as opposed to just a man who’s whole live revolves around music and quim, Hornby said, “I think the moment you’re writing about somebody who’s not exactly you, then the challenge is all equal. I was glad that everyone around me on this movie was a woman so that they could watch me carefully. But I don’t remember anyone saying to me, ‘That isn’t how women think.’”

If not stopped, I could potentially post pictures of Carey Mulligan here forever.

Troy Jollimore’s recent review of Kazuo Ishiguro’s new book Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall, had one of those brilliant one liners that can some describe a whole class of fiction well. He writes, “Characters in contemporary fiction often suffer from Multiple Epiphany Disorder.” It is a line that sums up so much of contemporary short stories. The problem I have with the epiphanies is people seldom have them and when they do they seldom follow them. Moreover, it makes the fiction read like your 7th grade report about the field trip so that story really seems to have ended this way: I learned that… It is refreshing to see a writer avoid such nonsense. I think part of the problem is young writers are taught to have epiphanies. I remember I was. Someday, maybe, that vogue will disappear, but for now we at least have Ishiuro’s stories.

The Sunday Salon is a virtual gathering of booklovers on the web, where they blog about bookish things of the past week, visit each others weblogs, oh — and read

This is very exciting: on Wednesday the Monopoly 2.0 release game got started! My teammate myranya and I are called De boekenleggers, which can be translated into bookmarks – but it is a better name in Dutch because it is literally ‘the book layers’ (people laying books). Our first assignment is to leave a book at an IKEA shop… This is my 2nd time playing Bookcrossing monopoly and it was great fun last year!

Speaking of Bookcrossing: I received no less than two RABCK’s this week! (Weekly Geeks made us improve our weblogs, so I’m referring you to my new glossary for the explanation of RABCK First came Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections from Marsala. It is #1 on the list of Best Fiction of the Millenium (so far)! Marsala read the book during the September readathon. And yesterday my surprise gift for joining in that same monthly readathon arrived! I had joined in preparation of the 24 hour Read-a-Thon of October 24th. I am really excited that I already got my pile of books done! Here’s what I will be reading during those 24 hours (although I probably won’t manage all of the books/hours):

• short stories: Nocturnes, by Kazuo Ishiguro
• De pianoman (‘The Piano Man‘), by Bernlef
• audiobook: Modelvliegen (‘Model Gliding‘), by Marcel Möring
• [my current book of that moment]
• Dromen van China (The China Lover), by Ian Buruma
• graphic novel: Coraline, by Neil Gaiman
• graphic novel: Persepolis & Persopolis 2, by Marjane Satrapi
• comic: The Best of Mutts, by Patrick McDonnell

There’s just one title I would like to add: Zijde (Silk), by Alessandro Baricco. So if anyone has got a copy available, in Dutch or English..?

Buying graphic novels for the upcoming read-a-thon was a first for me! I figured it would be great for variety. But the funny thing is I can hardly wait to start reading them now! I should keep myself from picking them up first thing on THE Day

My mailbox really had to work overtime this week: I also received my three online Japanese book group reads yesterday!

• I Am a Cat (Wagahai wa Neko dearu 1905), by Natsume Sōseki — readalong, part 1 TBR before November 15th
• The Old Capital (Koto 1962), by Yasunari Kawabata — TBR before November 30th
• The Housekeeper and the Professor (Hakase no aishi ta sūshiki 2003), by Yoko Ogawa — TBR before January 30th 2010

Next week I hope to have finished John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath… I’ll see you then!

Image via Wikipedia

When We Were Orphans, Kazuo Ishiguro (2000)

Christopher Banks spent a happy childhood in Shanghai at the beginning of the 20th century as the son of privileged British ex patriates living in a large house supplied by the opium importer for which his father worked. He spent his days playing make-believe games with his best friend, the Japanese boy who lived next door. But then first his father, then his mother disappeared—kidnapped by ruthless Chinese criminals. An orphan, Christopher is sent to England where he grows up determined to become a famous detective like Sherlock Holmes and solve the mystery of his parents’ disappearance.

Gradually, as Christopher narrates his story – alternating between 1930s London where he lives as an adult, having fulfilled his ambition of becoming a famous detective, and his recollections of his childhood in Shanghai – the reader becomes aware that the narrator’s view of reality is skewed. Indeed, it seems that Christopher is living in a fantasy world where he believes his parents are still alive, even decades later, and that his return to Shanghai to find them will somehow avert the disastrous war brewing between the Chinese and Japanese. By the time he gets back to China, we feel like we can trust nothing that Christopher says, and that is the genius of this novel.

Christopher comes to an abrupt reckoning with the truth following a harrowing sequence in which he wends his way through a bombed-out Chinese slum, avoiding the battles going on in the streets around him while trying to locate the very house where he believes his parents are still being held. When he finally learns the truth, he returns to England defeated but still quite self-deluded.

While on the surface, When We Were Orphans is a crime novel written in the style of Arthur Conan Doyle, in actuality it is a complex psychological study of a character stranded at a traumatic point in his childhood, unable to move beyond his fantasies.