Nightingale Songs (12 page)

Boards and pipes fell around him and he raised his arms to protect his head from the debris. The giant continued to thrash while the ground underfoot shook and upturned as though affronted. Cracks spread out further along the concrete, chunks flying through the air. The feral howls had increased an impossible proportion, and he wasn't sure if what filled the air was that, debris, or something far worse. The walls collapsed, and his eyes were drawn to the crumpling of the tiny stained-glass window, no longer square in the house Halford had led to destruction. That simple sound -- a pane of glass breaking and falling to the floor -- was enough to snap Halford into action, and he ran as fast as the muck beneath his feet would allow.

Halford fled from the crumbling room, chased by the inhuman cries of the dying giant. The floor was soaked but with something far more viscous that water. It clung to his legs like hands, trying to slow his retreat, pulling him downward. His box of blueprints forgotten, he pushed himself toward the narrow hallway he'd come down, navigating the twists and turns of the basement that had already started to shift position around him as though borne on a sea of that viscous fluid. He was terrified he would not be able to find his way out, that the exit to the passage no longer existed, but as he came to the end of that muddy darkness he saw the shape of the steep stairwell carved into the splintering walls. The pipes above his head rattled fiercely, a pounding sensation travelling along the ceiling that intensified with each beat. He ran for the stairs, narrowly dodging the concrete rubble underfoot, and was almost at the bottom step when a thunderous howl filled the air and the ceiling fell before him, smashing the small staircase and barring the exit. Furniture dropped through the hole, framed photographs crashing to the ground except for one, the photo of Libby and Peter on vacation, which landed whole and undamaged in the muddy ground. The air was filled with creaking and snapping as the foundations of the home he'd built failed, and when he turned back to face the shadows from which he'd come he thought he saw a darkening garden, a vast field of turned earth from which lumbering shapes advanced slowly. Then the light in the basement disappeared, and he was deafened by a rending sound like reality itself coming apart, and a great weight fell upon him, crushing him into the ground. He had time enough to wish he'd found a way to forgive Libby for all she'd done, for all she'd put him through, before everything went black as the earth and he thought no more.

The flesh of Albert Pane's head was stretched so tight I worried it would split under the strain of his overgrown skull. Yet, surprisingly, the skin held, no doubt softened by the oily film of profuse sweat that clung to it, but the same couldn’t be said for his greying blonde hair. It seemed to drop away quicker each time I saw him. I imagined it fell out in tufts, clogging his sink every morning. The way he wore it, I wonder if he even noticed. Albert was in a smiling daze as he watched the Nightingale's staff preparing the stage for the evening's performance, while all around us affluent college students gathered with their affectations on prominent display. From my seat I could see one holding a cigar he never smoked, another with cat-eye glasses liberated from their lenses. Albert and I were nothing like them, though I loathed admitting it. In my heart, I still felt as young as I was in my own college days, but it took only a look in the mirror to see my sagging chin, or the feel of my knees arguing when I tried to kneel, to make me realize that I was not that young man any longer. The world was mine for such a short period that while I reveled in the sensation it worked tirelessly to fly from my grasp. By the time I knew it was gone I couldn't remember having had it in the first place.

Still, Albert's head: so large and round, so full of ideas. All of them circling in front of me like gulls in the sky.

"I don't want to distract you from the excitement, Albert, but as I said I
do
have a surprise for you."

"A surprise? For me?" It was the first time he'd glanced my way since we'd arrived, and even then it was fleeting. To be honest, the idea of giving him a
bon voyage
gift appealed to me more in theory than in practice, and one look at those bunched up features quite effectively killed my desire. Yet, I'd already started speaking and felt compelled to continue. Even if I'd decided against it, the small box I had hidden in my jacket pocket was already out and in my hand.

"Traveling outside the country can get a bit confusing, so I thought something solid to ground you would help. At the very least, it might remind you of those of us you're leaving behind."

Not that we'll be thinking of you
, I wanted to add.

He was like a child at Christmas: wide-eyed and shaking the gift while I watched. Then, with a smile that seemed too knowing, he proceeded to tear the paper off. When he looked inside the box, his eyes were on fire.

"I can't accept this! It must of have cost you a
fortune
."

"Nonsense. Only part of one."

Albert raised the gold fob watch from the box and the sight of my own generosity pleased me immensely. The inheritance I'd received a few months earlier had finally been settled, and at the outset I could think of no better way to spend the funds than on my friends. Thankfully for me, Albert was the closest thing I had, so with one simple gift my season of charity was complete.

"Flip it over," I said.

"'To Albert; have a fabulous Time.'" He laughed. "Thank you, Wesley," he said as he ran the end of chain through an open buttonhole on his green plaid jacket. Even from across the table, I could hear the watch's tick. "This is going to come in handy. I'm still not sure how long I'll be gone for -- the
Hamilton
offices need to be restructured top to bottom and who knows how long it will take."

"So, you have
no
idea when you'll be returning from
Bermuda
?"

"None at all, which is why we're here: to celebrate my last night in the country for the foreseeable future." He raised his glass to mine and I to his, and as I drank my cocktail I wondered how long it would be before I had to see him again. He though had other things on his mind.

"I guess if you're going to give
me
a surprise, it's only fair I do the same. Between you and me, I'm not planning on taking this trip alone."

"You aren't? Who -- ?"

He raised a single finger to shush me, and then used it to point toward the stage. There stood a tall hunched figure whose long wide face hung halfway down his chest. He appeared to be looking directly at us, but I couldn't be sure; perched on the bridge of his tiny nose were a pair of oversized glasses that reflected the stage light.

"Him? In the black leather coat? He's a bit ...
hulking
, isn't he?"

"No, not
him
," Albert said. "Why would you think that?"

I shrugged my shoulders. In truth, the idea didn't seem all that surprising to me. I looked back at the man on the stage and he still seemed to be watching. Was he listening, too? It was
impossible
, and yet...

"You'll see in a moment," Albert said. And I did.

The room darkened and a spotlight turned on, focusing on the stage and revealing a dark red curtain I hadn't seen being drawn. The large owlish man had vanished, but I suspected he'd not gone far; I could still feel him watching from the shadows. I looked at Albert whose eyes were wide and glassy, staring at the stage with the most beatific expression. There was definitely a warm buzz in the air; I could feel it humming off of everyone around us, and I smelled something like spice. It made me feel strange, and not in an altogether unpleasant way. Then the curtain slid back, revealing the man seated before a piano. He stared at the crowd mute and shaking, and for some reason I worried he might become violent, but instead he stretched his fingers and slowly began to play the opening notes of a slow jazz number I didn't recognize. The crowd hushed, but I don't think it was due to his playing. Certainly, that wasn't what quieted me. Instead, while his long fingers danced, the spotlight moved off him and onto the stage floor, then the circle began to climb the long lean figure of a woman in an ankle-length blue dress. When it reached her beautiful face, she smiled, and from her parted lips emerged the sweetest bird's song. It was as though she sang only to me --
for
me -- because at that moment the rest of the world fell away and she and I were the only people in the universe who existed -- the rest, including Albert, were mere shadows. I'd never experienced anything like it, and I felt a strange light-headed sensation. When she was done -- when the piano stopped playing, the curtain closed, and the spotlight extinguished -- I realized the true world I lived in was as flat and as drab as cardboard. The crowd began to clap uproariously, but I could sense their joy too was tempered by this crushing realization. Had Albert not been smiling, I would have assumed he was weeping.

"Do you mean--?" I sputtered, rediscovering the power of speech. Albert knew exactly what I was about to say.

"I'm going to bring her with me. I
have
to."

The idea was ludicrous. He did not deserve her.

"Who is she?"

"Her name -- her stage-name at least -- is Elaina Munroe. I discovered her by accident when I was walking past this place on my way home a few weeks ago. As soon as I heard her voice, I was smitten, and couldn't resist stepping inside. I've been to the Nightingale every night since, waiting for her to return, and each time she did she was more breathtaking than before."

"Have you spoken to her, yet?" I asked.

"I did once, but only for a second; only until her brute piano-partner interrupted us. He ushered her away, but I'm pretty sure she didn't want to go. I could see it in her eyes. I think she loves me, too, Wesley. I know that sounds crazy, but she
does
!"

"I don't know," I said in as dismissive a tone as I could muster. "You'll probably get your heart broken. Maybe you should forget her and go on your trip alone."

"If you felt like this, you'd know that there's no way I could."

"Well," I said irritably, "You'd better go ask her. But don't expect me to be waiting here when you return with your crushed heart in your hands."

He smiled at me as a father might smile at his foolish child, and then put his hand on my shoulder. It took all my power not to cave in his smug oversized head.

"Thanks again for the watch. I'll write you when I land in Bermuda."

He took off his green plaid jacket and folded it over his arm, straightened his tie, then gave me a small farewell wave. I watched him from my chair, my drink shaking in my hand, as he strode confidently toward the stage door on the other side of the Nightingale. As he knocked I prayed in vain that no one would answer, and felt my heart sink when the door opened. But it wasn't Elaina who greeted him. Instead, it was her hulking piano player. He towered over Albert and raised his hand to prevent my friend from passing. I smiled. The chatter in the club had been steadily rising since the show ended and was at a point where even the loudest of Albert's protests were drowned out. I could tell he was being denied entry to the paradise I imagined lay beyond. I downed my drink with glee and prepared to go rescue my friend before something dire happened to him at the brute's hands. All I had to do was get Albert to his scheduled flight and I would have a considerable amount of time to return and see about making Elaina Munroe my own private songbird. No sooner had I stood, however, than she appeared at the door behind her bodyguard, and with a few words sent him stomping away. She smiled at Albert and held out her hand. He took it, and she led him backstage and closed the door. It seemed I'd been wrong: it was I who was going to leave carrying a crushed heart in my hands.

Despite his promise to the contrary, Albert never wrote me, and frankly I couldn't have been happier. I lived in dread of receiving a card or letter from him. No doubt it would detail the happy life he and Elaina were having together and all the wonderful things they'd shared thus far. It was something I couldn't bear to face. I admit it: she'd bewitched me. There was no other way to explain it. For a while, I thought I might be suffering from some sort of nervous breakdown; I knew on some level that to feel so strongly about her -- a woman I'd seen but once -- was in many ways troubling, and I tried to mitigate her effect on me with all sorts of alcohol and drugs. Yet nothing worked; she tormented me in my sleep, robbing me of that one thing I needed to maintain my sanity. So I began taking rides into the night, into the city.

There was always a taxicab to be had, no matter the time of day or night, and yet regardless of when or where I hailed one the drivers always seemed to share the same bored face. He was always silent, softly playing his radio in the front of the car while I spent the evening in the back, squinting to make out the driver's name on his faded license or looking out the window at the dark streets we passed. Every once in a while I'd notice someone walking along the pavement, head hung low, looking as mournful as I felt, and I wanted to stop and comfort him. I resisted, though. The city, it clearly doesn't
want
to be comforted; it wants to be left alone in its sorrow. And I was only too happy to oblige.

I’m not sure what prompted me to stop the taxi at Strachan Park. Perhaps it was the sight of the trees swaying in the half-shadows beneath the gibbous moon that called me -- filled me with the desire to break out of the claustrophobic metal cab I'd been travelling within. I asked the driver to pull over and when he brought the vehicle to a stop I stepped out and paid my fare through his window. The driver took my money and nodded quickly, thanking me with a tone I understood, even if the words didn't sound quite right. I shrugged my shoulders as he drove away, and turned to walk the stony path that lay before me in the weak moonlight. I wasn't the only person out there, of course, though I may have been the only one without a partner to walk hand in hand with or sit closely beside on a bench. Instead, I was cursed with a love I would never see realized. The air around me was so heavy it was as though I were walking underwater, feeling currents brush my face, and in the quiet I heard my memories floating to the surface, the sound of Munroe's song echoing and churning inside my head. I shook as though my body was trying to dislodge the sound, but all I succeeded in doing was causing myself further pain. Pain, indeed. How I envied him, Albert Pane; I envied the big-skulled bastard so much I wanted to kill him. How could it be that he should have everything, when he had virtually nothing, and I nothing when my coffers were so full? Why did he deserve the only thing I ever wanted? I cut my trip through Strachan Park short, anxious to rid myself of the bad memories I'd dragged in there with me.