For Two Nights Only Read online

  He winked at me and smiled.

  Give me a second to pull up a song. Have a seat.

  I didn’t. Instead I slowly strolled to the far end of the room, making mental notes of my first impressions of claustrophobia and awe at what he’d created underneath his mansion. The space was long and narrow, its width only about a quarter of its length. A two-cushion, black leather sofa sat against one wall, opposite a large desk that held the mixing board, computer monitor and multiple hard drives stacked in a chrome tower of flashing blue, green and red lights. A Steinway piano stood at the far end of the room, facing the wall. A few feet away, looking to the adjacent wall, was a full keyboard, a Korg, and above that, resting on a metal stand attached to the keyboard’s stand, a metallic red synthesizer.

  How did you get the Steinway down here?

  I didn’t. He laughed at his joke. Movers. Of course. And then a bit sadder, contemplative, I don’t do much for myself. Not anymore.

  Does it bother you that you hire everything out?

  Not really. It used to. He crossed the sixty feet to where I stood, next to the piano. But what am I supposed to do? My money goes in the pockets of movers, they do something I can’t do alone, and maybe they send their kids to college.

  That’s a big tip if you’re sending kids to college.

  I don’t mean from me alone. I just think it helps them, too, when I hire people to do something. If I had a dozen friends maybe we could’ve done it, but I don’t. Not here. Only passing shadows of people who seem nice at first.

  I actually meant, how did you get it down that staircase.

  Oh. He chuckled. I’m smarter than that. He tapped his forefinger to his temple. Before I tore out the old staircase I had everything moved in. Come back over and sit on the couch, it’s the best place for listening. I had the monitors custom-made for this space. A guy I met in Manchester does incredible work with sound systems. He came out, took some notes and two months later delivered these. You’ve never heard anything so true to the sound.

  I took a seat on the couch and noticed, off to my right, a vocal recording booth, though I couldn’t see inside. The studio was dim, with only a line of recessed bulbs stretching from one end to other, turned down as low as possible. Sound-isolating tiles and panels lined the walls, and after noticing them it dawned on me we were in an acoustic vacuum. The dampening effect was so thorough that the slight reverb we’d normally hear from our voices was diminished to an imperceptible nothing. Our words sounded hollow and thin.

  I see now why you installed that staircase. It’s really like we’ve come down into a different world.

  Truth. But honestly there’s more behind the staircase than that. It was also intended as a barrier between me and the alcohol cabinet, to dissuade me from running up and down the stairs for refills. That way I’d stay down here and work, no interruptions to the creative process. I guess a part of me even hoped maybe it would decrease my drinking, but now I simply come down prepared for the duration. He held up the bottle of Johnny Walker.

  You’re nothing if not forward-thinking.

  Thank you. I think so too.

  He turned his attention back to the mixing board in front of him and clicked a button. On a 32-inch monitor to his right, a file opened to reveal a dozen tracks, each one a different pattern of sound waves captured inside a color-coded bar.

  Let me ask you before we begin. What happened to Charly?

  Exactly what the papers said happened.

  Some papers said you killed her.

  In some ways maybe I did.

  But not in a way that could get you convicted.

  Not according to this country’s legal system.

  What about in the way where you alone are responsible for her not being alive anymore?

  Do you want to hear this song or not? You should feel quite privileged, only two people have heard this. You can be three or not. Up to you.

  I wanted to rattle him, to break through the calculated rockstar persona. I looked around, taking in the space. This place isn’t as nice as I imagined the home studio of a multi-million dollar recording artist.

  Too far. His gaze grew icy.

  Is there a question in there, Chris, or are you intentionally being a prick? Don’t get ornery with me, I don’t like it. I once had a journalist ask me what it was like knowing I was just skating by on my good looks. He did not complete his assignment.

  How did you respond?

  I told him no matter how much flattery he used, I wasn’t going to sleep with someone as ugly as him.

  Smart. Were his other questions that aggressive?

  I don’t know. At that point the interview was pretty much over.

  I’m sorry, the comment came out wrong. I just meant, it doesn’t feel warm and inviting. Hospitable to the creative process. Take the ceiling, it’s low, don’t you find it claustrophobic? I’m no decorator, but I do know when a room makes me comfortable. I live with an interior designer.

  People have the strangest fucking occupations. The low ceiling allows for extra layers of insulation, to keep noises from getting up into the house and down into the studio. And I don’t need a lot of comfort. I don’t come down here to kick back and watch football, when I’m here I’m here to work. If it was too nice I’d have people over and we’d hang out in here. This is my workspace.

  Do you work best when you’re uncomfortable?

  I work best when I’m uneasy. When I have something to sort out. Do you like oysters?

  Not especially. I don’t eat shellfish.

  I meant as a concept. Have you ever thought of the oyster as a thing? Have you thought about what it does?

  Like making pearls?

  No, the other thing that makes oysters special. Yes the fucking pearls. I’m starting to have serious doubts about you. Think about the oyster and what it does. Something foreign enters its space and disrupts it, and it fights like hell to make itself comfortable. It works on it and works on it and changes an irritating thing into something bearable, and in doing so produces a pearl. That’s songwriting. It’s a fight to take some discomfort in your life and make it tolerable, and for me I’ve always made those uncomfortable things acceptable by working them over until they’re in a form I can live with. A song. Once I have that song, the problem is wrapped up in a package I can carry around, it’s not floating out there, attacking my psyche, keeping me up at night and emotionally wearing me down. I can transport those songs around and do whatever I want with them. That’s how I deal with issues, that’s my songwriting in a nutshell, and over the years the process has gotten easy. The lingering problem is writing a song that’s great.

  You don’t think you have any great songs?

  Are you kidding? Do you know how hard it is to write a truly great song? Do you know how many I’ve had to write to get one?

  How many?

  As of this morning I’ve written three hundred and fourteen. I’ll let you know its number when I write a brilliant one.

  Is songwriting difficult for you?

  No, but great songwriting is. I can put together music and melody and text relatively easily, but it’s not always worth a listener’s time. The core of this one came in five minutes, and I liked it enough to add additional layers, which took a while.

  He hit play and stepped back from the desk, put his hands on his hips, then shifted his weight to one foot and crossed his arms, looked over his shoulder at me, nodded, dropped his arms to his sides and then clasped his hands behind him.

  The song started with vocals, Darin’s crisp, clear voice on top of itself maybe seven or eight times. He had incredible range and occupied different notes around the core melody, a fifth here, a seventh there. The precision was astonishing, and more accurate than anything I’d heard him do. Ever since he was young people had commented on his voice, how clean it came through, the strength of it, the way he could sing in a whisper and still sound powerful. Here he would surprise everyone again.

  After four rep
etitions of a long, cascading vocal melody the guitar and drums thundered in, urgently pounding forward.

  “He could tell by, the look in my eye I was gone. He said leave your things, I’ve come to take you home. We’ll go back ho-ooooooh -oh- oh- oh- ome.”

  The song burst open, strings and cymbals and fuzzy electric guitar, all collapsing over each other as the music progressed up to a major chord, down to a minor, back up to the major. Darin tapped his right foot in rhythm to the kick drum, his head moving with the current of the melody. Even when he wasn’t on stage he experienced his songs in full.

  “I’ve waltzed with desire, I’ve fallen asleep beside the hum. I swear I’ve walked through fire, I’ve walked beside my dreams alone.”

  Through the wall of sound I heard a piano line tinkling in the upper register, drawing out a counter melody.

  “Now there’s no way to come back, the road that was worn is blocked and gone.”

  The chorus came in again, a rousing “Ho-o-ome!” sung in a meandering melody over the driving beat, the acoustic guitar falling just in front of it, urging it forward. A choir joined Darin, lifting the joyous spirit of the music even higher, to a celebration of the place he called out to.

  When it was over and the colored bars of sound ran out, Darin turned to me. I was expecting a smile on his face, for him to know that what he’d just played me was an incredible return for him after a two-year absence. Instead, for the first time, I saw worry on his face.

  It’s excellent, Darin. That’s fantastic.

  His shoulders relaxed, and he took a seat in the desk chair at the mixing board.

  Thank you. I’m very happy with it. I may have to tweak a few things, but for now it’s where I like it.

  Can you tell me about it?

  What would you like to know?

  Start by telling me what choir that is.

  It’s a children’s choir from London. I had Murphy put it all together. I would’ve liked to have been there when they recorded, truly, but I can’t show up to things like that. Too crazy with the press, and then the song would’ve leaked. But now they don’t know who it’s for, it’ll stay safe. Murphy got them to perform it perfectly, don’t you think?

  It’s amazing.

  Thanks. I think it really buoys that song. It was getting too depressing.

  Really? I found it very uplifting.

  Musically maybe, but the words are a drag. It needed children singing.

  What’s it about?

  –

  Can you tell me?

  –

  –

  Longing, I guess. I don’t know, I don’t always think about what the songs are about. This one came out and then it was there and I liked it too much not to record it, so I did, and then it spiraled into this thing that’s, now, bigger than it was when it started. That’s how a lot of things go. I’m glad you liked it. It might be time for lunch, yeah?

  He stood up, grabbed the bottle of Johnny Walker Black, his glass, and walked a straight line to the stairs. When he got to the bottom of the staircase he stopped, downed his drink, turned to me and said, Practice. Then he climbed the winding staircase up into the ceiling above.

  Track 2

  In the dining room we resumed our places at the oak table. Darin refilled his glass and relaxed into his seat, one arm stretched over the back of his chair, a picture of nonchalance.

  You were the middle child, between your older sister, Doris, and younger brother, Donald. Were you the typical middle child?

  Dunno. Tell me what the typical middle child is like.

  Resentful. Without the attention of the first or final child. Overshadowed.

  Nothing like that.

  So how was it?

  It was okay for a while. We got along all right, my parents always put on the appearance of a great relationship and that trickled down to their kids, so we had the assumption of a happy family.

  But that wasn’t the case?

  It was for the most part. Growing up they provided everything we needed, and both my mother and my father made it understood that our happiness would come from our relationships with the other people in our lives and not from material things. So when I say that we had everything, it wasn’t that they had a lot of money and we were well-off or had lots of things, but we grew up playing games together, eating dinner as a family every night, taking vacations. They put on a united front when it came to instilling that message, so we always looked past the fact that we didn’t have the biggest television or the nicest cars.

  Let’s talk about Doris. Do you think it gave you insight into the female psyche to grow up with her? Did it help you as a songwriter and lyricist?

  Not knowingly, but I suppose so. The more perspectives you’re introduced to, the better you are for it.

  Were you two close? Did you spend a lot of time together?

  It’s an odd time difference, two years. In our town we had a middle school for seventh and eighth grade, so we were never in the same building until high school, and by the time I got there she was already established. Being a freshman I didn’t know front from back and left from right, but I still felt like I should be the good brother. Protective, strong. It wasn’t the right time for me to be that person, I didn’t know who that person was. But that’s one of life’s lessons. Something has to happen before you can realize you need to act.

  It sounds like you’re referring to something specific. Care to elaborate?

  It’s not relevant to my story, or any article you’d write.

  It doesn’t have to be. We can just be talking. You can tell me about Doris.

  Everyone liked Doris. She was magnetic, she had this light in her that drew people in. I think I share some of that, too, and poor Don got it a little but much less. Doris was special that way. She never misused it, either, though she could’ve gotten men to do whatever she wanted. As far as I know she never did. I personally think she found it silly the way guys fawned over her, though like any teenager she wasn’t past the point of getting fooled herself. She was a senior when she started seeing Paul. A wrestler, real good-looking guy, but an idiot. She liked him well enough, I guess, though she never brought him around the house. I think she knew my parents wouldn’t have thought highly of him, because he himself didn’t think much. Not the ripest grape in the bunch. I only knew that they were together because we were in the same school and word got around. Few things, not even pregnancies and abortions, found a shadow to hide in at our school.

  I knew a kid, Andy Savickas, whose brother was best friends with Paul, they were both wrestlers. Andy found me one day between classes and told me he’d overheard Paul and his brother hanging out in their basement, and Paul bragging about getting close to sleeping with Doris. Not the ideal situation, of course, but not the first girl to sleep with some guy she shouldn’t. Problem was, Paul had it in mind to continue seeing a different girl on the side, some poor soul he knew from another school.

  Darin stood up and walked over to the dresser with the pictures and trinkets. His gaze fixed on the oval frame before he turned back to me.

  I grappled for a week with whether or not to say something, and how to do it. Do I tell her straight out? Do I hint at it so she’ll guess? Do I tell one of her friends and let her friend tell her? Do I say nothing and let her figure it out on her own, which I trusted she would? Doris understood people, it’s why they liked being around her. I thought she’d figure Paul out, see him for what he was. In the end I never said anything. My plan of action was inaction.

  He came back to the table, sat down, emptied what must have been a double shot of Scotch and then pushed a grin onto his face, one that was so deeply sad I found it eerie. I waited for him to continue but he just kept wearing that sad smile and looking through me.

  What happened?

  His eyes regained focus and he looked me in the eye.

  Paul succeeded. Doris slept with him, and he kept fucking that other girl and probably others, and when Doris went in f
or a physical to play sports that year she had an STD. Paul had no choice but to admit everything, she told my parents, they told his parents. You can’t begin to imagine what that did to her. It took the light out of her eyes, and it didn’t return for years. I struggled to be around her because I carried the failed responsibility of protecting her with what I’d known. At the time I was confident she’d figure it out for herself, she’d notice something was wrong with Paul, with their relationship, I was sure he’d get caught in his own fabricated storylines about where he was on the weekends or after practice and she’d catch him before something happened, or she’d never put enough trust in his idiotic behavior to sleep with him. He tricked her, and I sat idly by, and for that I am terribly sorry. It was in my power to stop, and I didn’t do it. I thought about telling my parents but I was afraid she’d never talk to me again.

  I glanced down at the digital recorder, the seconds tallying. I wanted him to continue and feared he’s stop, change course, if I said the wrong thing. I waited for him.

  Most people felt bad for her, that’s how well she was liked. But there were the few who made her life hell, who taunted her in the hall and made that last year of high school awful. Some people take joy in the failures of others who are successful, trust me, I see it in every misstep I make. I remember one time entering her room and seeing her sitting on the side of the bed, hunched over, moving a pin down the inside of her arm. She yelled at me to get out, and I left her alone. We never spoke about it.

  The next year she went off to college and the proverbial fresh start. She made new friends, ones who knew nothing about Paul or the jokes about what he’d given her, and I never saw her in the same kind of pain as when I’d surprised her in her room. Slowly she regained her magnetism, her passion for life and people. But I always felt guilty for those long months when Doris was not Doris.

  If you could do it again, would you tell her?