Chapter 1: Thirteen Years Later

The heat had finally abated to a moderate scorching level from the skin-blistering intensity we’d experienced over the past week or so, allowing me to sit outside in the late afternoon. Beads of sweat slipped down my temples as I reviewed a movie script on my lap. A large cream-colored canvas umbrella provided shade but no respite from the heat. A glass of ice water, frosted with condensation, had moisture collecting at its base where it rested on the intricate wrought iron and glass-topped patio table. I stretched my legs and arched my feet, stretching my soles and spreading my toes. The aching pain felt good. I’d been inactive for too long.

Peter, my assistant, had printed the screenplay out, knowing how I disliked computers. He’d gamely tried to interest me in an iPad but had the good sense not to push it when I’d laughed in derision at his optimistic opinion of my technological talents. I didn’t even carry a cell phone, a faux pas in Hollywood Peter constantly reminded me of as he thrust pink phone message slips at me frowning in disapproval, his expression telling me I was single-handedly raping the planet of its natural resources by forcing him to use small pink paper made from endangered rainforest trees. I was unquestionably a technological Luddite.

The script, a poor attempt to bring emotion and empathy to suicide bombers, was wasting my time and making me angry. It was awkwardly phrased, full of typos, and the character’s dialogue was childish. No one would ever want to see this movie. Fuck! Why had I agreed to read it? Unfortunately, relationships were everything and occasionally one had to do favors to grease the wheels of the entertainment business. Reviewing this amateurish script was one such favor.

Oh well. I couldn’t complain too much. All in all I’d been very fortunate. Writing screenplays for two very, very successful movies had financed my way into producing. Several successfully produced movies that I’d also written had purchased the expansive Beverly Hills mid-century modern bungalow residence I now called home, and furnished it rather lavishly. I was, as is the nature of Hollywood, the flavor of the month, the reward for my success a coterie of sycophants who shivered and orgasmed at my every suddenly-prescient word, awed by my erudition on how to succeed in the fickle movie industry. And yet for all of my success, fleeting no doubt, I was alone, isolated from life, lost in my large home, and deprived of strong emotions by being coddled in the lap of luxury. With the exception of Peter, I let no one get close to me, repulsed by the artifice of the Hollywood crowd - those that worked harder on their artful contrivances than real skills. I’d felt more alive back in cold, raw, unpretentious, Clinton, Ohio.

The Hollywood Glitterati’s shallowness couldn’t be contained or managed. They’d hang on to my narrative frolics as if I was God himself, then badmouth me behind my back in jealous vengeance to make themselves feel superior, to ease their sense of failure, if just for a moment.

I hadn’t cracked the secret of how to live happy. Then again, I was still in my thirties and had a lifetime to figure it out ... if I had the stamina.

Tossing the disappointing script onto the table, I stretched, arms up over my head, stomach muscles tightening, and yawned. I checked my watch. Four-fifteen. It was almost time for a drink, one of the highlights of my weekend. How sad.

The voice, when it came, floated on the air, light, lilting, and full of emotion. It stopped me in my tracks, sending chills down my spine and raising the hair on my arms, goose bumps forming. I didn’t recognize the song; it didn’t matter. She, whoever she was, scared me with the clarity of her voice, letting single notes hover in the air and fade, only to echo through my mind. I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the next note, and sighing with relief when it finally arrived just as the previous note faded into lonely silence. The tonal perfection was truly unsettling. I couldn’t see the singer. But she was my neighbor, or visiting my neighbors, the Masterton’s; the song drifting to me from the other side of a white-painted, wooden, six-foot tall privacy fence.

For a few incredible moments, the world seemed to fade away. Birds stopped twittering, nature held its breath, distant traffic paused, and the sound of an immensely talented voice filled my world. Her voice was utter perfection, one of those rare voices that sound effortless despite the range; comfortable, as if you knew she’d never waver, never falter, and never slip off-key. I was still staring at the fence in astonishment long after the voice faded into empty silence, waiting and hoping it would come back. A void formed inside me, a discomfort, a need to hear it again. That alone gave me pause.

How could a voice affect me so powerfully? How could a voice tug at my soul? It was strange, to say the least. I left the useless script on the table, stood and went to get a refreshing beer. Who was she? I wondered. She’d sounded young. But that voice ... a soprano voice with a resonance that reminded me of Cornélie Falcon, the same slightly deeper range, an almost dark timbre that gave the voice character.

There are events in life that take you on a ride, wild emotional roller coaster rides that leave you stunned at the end wondering what the Hell just happened, dazed, and reeling. Then there are events that seem small at the time, yet linger inside, a ghost of a memory hovering over you, ever-present. Those events haunt. Those events are the ones that seem to prey on your mind, a constant companion through the day and into the night, ethereal, not understood. You can’t forget or dismiss them, they’re just there on the edge of your consciousness.

That song, that stunning voice, haunted me throughout the next week. It resonated inside me, distracted me, and followed me from meeting to meeting, an unseen presence. It made life pale and wan, an uninteresting passing of time. It drained everyday satisfactions leaving me feeling unsettled, as if I’d achieved nothing and never would.

The week passed.

I sat at the patio table observing the well-tended garden, roses and azaleas in bloom, lawn perfectly manicured, edges trimmed, and flower beds still dark from being turned and watered. Sounds drifted in; water burbling in the crystal clear sky-blue swimming pool, tree leaves rustling in the slight hot breeze, birds chirping. It was Saturday. I had nothing but a newspaper - the Los Angeles Times - and a mug of coffee on the table; no plans, no work. The sun was low in the eastern sky. It was still early morning. The air had a crystalline quality, recently scrubbed clean by a Pacific wind and not yet polluted by the daily buildup of Los Angeles smog.

I wasn’t interested in the Saturday L.A. Times. In fact, I wasn’t interested in anything. I hadn’t been for a week. I was sitting in my khaki shorts and a T-shirt, barefoot, waiting and hoping. I felt like an addict, wanting to hear that voice sing just once more. Just once and then I’d be satisfied, and the world would regain its balance. I knew, like the addict, that once more would turn into twice, then three times, and on into an endless, voracious, self-consuming cycle. However, that morning I convinced myself I would be happy with once to start with.

Chapter 2 »