A Normal Existence
During the fall of ’82, in the middle of a thirty-city North American tour, an exciting idea started to form in my mind. Each night after my concerts, while soaking in various hotel bathtubs, I became more determined to carry out my plan to treat myself to an entire year off. Why not relinquish this fast-paced performance lifestyle for a more normal existence in Vancouver, where I had a circle of friends? My career had made me financially independent, yet I had allowed myself little free time and had not even learned to drive a car. Bernie would have to stop booking engagements for the following year — hardly the sort of instruction a manager wants to hear. When I recalled how burned out and travel-weary some of my colleagues had become from years of non-stop touring, I regarded the break as preventative medicine, needed before I, too, lost my zest for the concert lifestyle.
The sabbatical had a hidden agenda that I only half admitted to myself. Tiring of always playing the role of girlfriend, I wanted to find someone with whom I could share a larger part of life. The years with Pierre had been full of interest and excitement, but he had never been the passionate soulmate of my dreams. When Pierre and I spent time together at Harrington Lake discussing our futures, he sensed my restlessness. “I know you’ll fall in love with some young fellow out west,” he mumbled sadly, on learning of my sabbatical plan. I tried to assuage his concerns with heartfelt hugs, assuring him chances were slim that I would be swept off my feet, but Pierre intuitively knew this was my hope. “You keep me feeling young, Liona,” he said, gently stroking my hair and nuzzling my neck. I felt a flood of affection for this exceptional man, with whom I had shared so many intimate times. Occasionally he had suggested that we live together, but I had not jumped at the idea. Although I felt immense respect for Pierre, and cared deeply about him, I knew that neither of us was really prepared to offer unconditional love. Our age difference had never been a factor, as I was usually attracted to older men, and he had always kept himself young in spirit and body. Of greater concern was the fact that we were in such different phases of our lives. My career was in full swing, whereas his was winding down so his three boys could become the focus of his days.
When I visited Pierre a few years later at his art deco mansion on Pine Avenue in Montreal, he seemed somewhat lonely and pensive, but appeared to have achieved a state of domestic happiness with his children. How could I ever have become attached to this Ernest Cormier–designed house? The cold marble floors and stone steps were described in Architectural Digest as “mausoleum-like” — the writer had obviously experienced the same chilly vibrations as I had. Perhaps it lacked a woman’s softer touch. Somehow, Pierre’s residence accurately mirrored his personality: so classy and distinguished, yet in a sense rather cool, imposing, and austere. Those indefinable qualities of human warmth that I longed for in a man and in my home were absent from both his personality and his choice of dwelling.
In the spring of 1983, it was time to begin my sabbatical. I rented a pretty two-bedroom condominium on West 7th Avenue, with a spectacular view of the Vancouver skyline silhouetted against the magnificent snow-capped mountains! A delicious feeling of freedom swept over me like a warm wave as I unpacked suitcases and arranged my clothes, guitars, and music. I had not lived on my own since Paris, and the knowledge that no concerts had been booked for almost a year filled me with euphoria. In barefoot abandon, I danced on the soft, white broadloom singing along to one of my favourite Julio Iglesias records.
My friend Dale Mearns, a beautiful, energetic, and intelligent woman with a kinetic personality, was soon busy organizing my social schedule — bicycle trips with her friends, dances at Vancouver’s favourite watering holes, exercise classes at her gym, swimming at the tennis club, charity balls, and cocktail parties. Never had I indulged in such a plethora of social activities, and I frequently had to excuse myself to spend time with the guitar. Although there were no imminent concerts, I had packed an assortment of new pieces to arrange and learn. It takes a fellow performer to understand the constant commitment artists feel toward their instruments. Neglecting the guitar was like neglecting a part of myself. Three new transcriptions — a prelude, a nocturne, and a waltz by Chopin — began to fill my manuscript notebook. Although composed for the piano, these selections lent themselves to guitar arrangement.
A decade later, I was to visit the monastery at Valldemossa in the hills of Majorca and touch the very piano on which Frédéric Chopin had written his famous Prelude in C Minor, op. 28, no. 20. In the company of the flamboyant French writer George Sand, this genius of the Romantic era had spent the winter of 1838 battling chronic consumption while composing some of the most beautiful piano music the world has ever known. Chopin never wrote for the classical guitar, but I like to think he would have enjoyed savouring my transcriptions. With a cup of freshly brewed tea beside me, I used the pre-breakfast hours for music study; the Vancouver skyline provided a kaleidoscopic panorama of morning clouds and pastel light.
A young Quebec composer, Richard Fortin, sent me several arrangements. “Why don’t you compose some original music, perhaps a tremolo piece?” I encouraged. A few weeks later, the first draft of “L’Oiseau Triste” arrived. His melody so appealed to me that I asked him to extend it by adding an introduction, central second theme, and some descriptive bird-like effects. By phone and mail, we worked together on ideas for several pieces, including “Classical Nash” and “L’Oiseau Capricieux.” After returning from dinner outings with newfound friends, I often worked late into the night, tentatively starting to compose original music. Slowly, Concerto Baroquissimo began to take form. I had already sketched out a theme for the first movement at the urging of the film director Lewis Gilbert, but now I found time to expand the fragment into a Vivaldi-style concerto for guitar and strings, which Fortin later orchestrated. We also collaborated on “Songs of My Childhood,” a work based on the familiar folk songs I had played on the recorder during my infancy, including the SS Columbia’s talent-show duet, “The Bluebells of Scotland.” Without this year’s break from touring, I would never have developed my composing skills. Creativity cannot be rushed; it requires time to unfold and nurture itself.
Numerous concerts and theatrical productions filled my weekends — the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra, theatre at the Vancouver East Cultural Centre, David Bowie at the Pacific Coliseum. What a welcome change to be part of an audience instead of always facing one. I hardly seemed to miss the limelight at all; it was rather refreshing that most people did not recognize me while I was cycling around the colourful lanes of the Granville Island Public Market or shopping in the stores along Robson Street. For ten years, my face had been beamed over so many TV channels and featured in so many magazines and newspapers that I had become used to recognition, but in Vancouver it was a relief to be treated as a normal person. There is great freedom in anonymity. The burdens of a public persona were minimal, and I blended in easily with the sporting West Coast lifestyle of summer in Lotusland.
Stanley Park became my favourite retreat — dewy woods, lily-padded lagoons, and bicycle trails that wound along the beaches and sea wall. Taking deep breaths of the salty air, I marvelled at this paradise of a city. My arm was even twisted to attend a few soccer games — a first for me — and I was invited to judge the Miss Grey Cup pageant! This relaxed and pleasurable pace was certainly a new way of living. No urgent deadlines, flight schedules, or managers intruded on those self-indulgent days.
Through Dale, I met Lois Milsom, a developer and socialite who loved the arts. We exchanged Lawrence Durrell books, hiked around the city swapping gossip, and spent an amusing weekend at the Galiano Island cottage of broadcaster Laurier LaPierre and his guest, the future president of the CBC, Patrick Watson. The Gulf Islands off the coast of British Columbia are glorious during the summer, and I revelled in their rustic charms: loons, blue herons, and families of sea otters floating playfully on their backs or sunning themselves on the rocks. Dale and Lois introduced me to a series of West Coast bachelors who extended invitations to dinners, yacht trips, and parties, but after several months I had not been swept off my feet. “Liona, you are just too darn fussy,” my girlfriends concluded. There had never been any problem attracting men’s attention, but nobody had caused my pulse to quicken. “Que sera, sera,” I figured, enjoying my celibate life. Pierre’s prediction was proving to be wrong.
For a change of scenery, I made a couple of trips to California. One day in a Venice restaurant, I struck up a conversation with Dudley Moore, who impressed me with his vast knowledge of classical composers — he had two degrees in music from Oxford, no less! He invited me to dinner, after which, sitting in his car, we listened to tapes of his amazing jazz piano performances. The bouncy English actor’s devilish sense of humour was even better in real life than on screen.
The only interruption in my sabbatical was a Merv Griffin taping in Los Angeles. Virtuoso, my first digital record, was released by CBS around August, but any media promotion would have to wait until I resumed touring. Nothing could persuade me to disturb this luxury of a year’s hiatus from the music business. When I realized that a bicycle was not the most practical mode of transportation around rainy Vancouver, I signed up for driving lessons. After a few weeks of faltering lane passes and parallel parking practice, I had at last caught up with the rest of the world. It was a few years, however, before I got around to buying a car.
Lois introduced me to a dynamic man eight years my junior. In the past, I had never shown interest in younger dates, but Sam Houston, with his thick mop of dark hair and mischievous green eyes that interlocked with mine, was about to temporarily change my habits. Along with his sharp intelligence and British private-school education, Sam possessed a playful childlike quality that endeared him to me instantly.
As we explored each other’s personalities over beach walks and picnics, Stanley Park bicycle rides, and dinners that stretched late into the evening hours, I learned about his unorthodox childhood in Baffin Island with his parents, Alma and James Houston — the first people to teach printmaking to the Inuit — his wild escapades at boarding school near his uncle’s castle in Scotland, and his career as a dealer in both Native and contemporary art. Instead of the usual movie and dinner dates, Sam gambled on more adventurous experiences: a totem-pole-turning party and salmon-bake at the Haida artist Robert Davidson’s country house; a sketching expedition to Pender Island in the artist Toni Onley’s flimsy private plane; and a forbidden rendezvous in the University of British Columbia’s Japanese Nitobe Memorial Garden, which involved scaling high walls and barbed wire at 1:00 a.m. How dangerously romantic it felt to lie together beside the moonlit lily ponds on a stone shrine, sharing the cedar-scented night air. Sam was an eager puppy dog, bursting with exuberant passion for life, full of fantastic daydreams and grand plans for his future. After a week, he was already plotting out our life together, and I was swept away by amorous emotions, intensified by our pact not to consummate the relationship for some time. He slipped poems under my pillow, read me art history books, and kissed me like no previous lover of mine. Although completely smitten by this gorgeous, sensual twenty-six-year-old, a part of me always felt uncomfortable with our age difference; this was akin to dating one of my brother’s friends! We travelled to Los Angeles, where I felt uneasy at a luncheon with Arthur Erickson, Geneviève Bujold, and Shirley MacLaine’s daughter, Sachi Parker. Much as I adored Sam’s youthful energy, I wished he would control it a little in the presence of people we did not know very well. Disquieting moments of doubt started to cloud my feelings.
Back in Canada, we hiked Mount Seymour, ran around the Pacific National Exhibition like two high-school kids, and attended a Simon and Garfunkel concert, to which I had invited my brother, who was temporarily living in Vancouver. Observing Sam and Damien’s animated conversation and knowing they were born the same year, I despaired that Sam lacked another ten years. I hated the feeling of being an “older woman” in his eyes, realizing that he, just like Damien, could be easily attracted to twenty-year-olds! Had I not always enjoyed looking up to older men whose life experience surpassed my own? In spite of its refreshing buoyancy, this love affair was starting to feel all wrong.
Pierre had called me from time to time, wanting to come to stay with me in Vancouver, but I made excuses. At summer’s end, however, I played a convention in Ottawa and agreed to spend a few days with him at Harrington. Canoeing the waters of our familiar lake, wearing his old straw hat, I told Pierre that I had been dating someone. He smiled wistfully, nodded his head, and said, “See, Liona, I told you you would.”
Allan MacEachen, the deputy prime minister, came to discuss the downing of Korean Airline’s flight 007 with Pierre, and while the two men sat on the patio debating Canada’s position on this international incident, I serenaded them through the upstairs window with my Chopin transcriptions. Over a candlelit dinner, the conversation again turned to the future of our relationship. “If you ever decide to marry, you must give me first choice,” he whispered, but I knew that in many ways, with his independent spirit, he would be happier living alone. Back at 24 Sussex, I gazed for a while at a Toni Onley painting on Pierre’s bedroom wall. Sam, who represented Onley, had confided that he had concealed a personal message behind the frame, as he knew it was destined for the prime minister, whom he greatly admired. How strange it felt knowing that, unbeknownst to Pierre, Sam’s secret words were only a few feet away from us. During our few days together, Pierre struck me as so inflexibly set in his ways and seemed older than ever; yet when my thoughts returned to Sam, I realized how naive and unseasoned he was in comparison. Was I never going to find the right balance of joie de vivre and intellectual sophistication in my relationships? Back in Vancouver, I reluctantly started to cool my fledgling romance, and after a few weeks, we saw less and less of each other.
One Sunday, I consented to a spur-of-the-moment invitation from a group of friends: bicycle riding along sea dykes to the fishing town of Steveston. I was busy reworking some of the chords on the first movement of Baroquissimo, so initially I declined, but I was finally persuaded to come and enjoy the glorious August afternoon. One member of the cycling party was a slim, athletic man named Joel Bell. As we pedalled along the trail, he asked what I did. “Oh, I play the guitar,” I replied casually. “Really! So does my sister,” he volunteered. I later learned that she could strum three chords! I preferred to be introduced without my career persona prejudicing an impression, so I welcomed his unfamiliarity with my name. A woman who rode alongside me for a while sounded surprised that I, in turn, had never heard of Joel Bell. “He’s the brilliant lawyer who was Pierre Trudeau’s top economic advisor, a founder of Petro-Canada, and is now CEO of the Canada Development Investment Corporation,” she puffed. Enjoying the scenic coastline, I was blissfully unaware of the role that Mr. Bell would soon be playing in my life.
The internationally acclaimed architect Arthur Erickson and his partner, Francisco Kripacz, had become my good friends. We spent time at Robert Altman’s Malibu beach house, had tea with Timothy Hutton, and partied with Donald Sutherland. My date book was beginning to fill with names from the glossy international set that Arthur cultivated like Mikimoto pearls.
On impulse Arthur, Francisco, Lois, and I flew to Italy for a couple of weeks. What a blast to be in Europe without the pressure of concerts. Arthur had been adopted by the aristocratic social circles of Rome, and for several evenings we dined in the glamorous company of Italian countesses, barons, tycoons, fashion designers, and film directors — La Dolce Vita had come to life before my eyes. Roloff Beny, the renowned photographer, invited us to stay in his apartment where, after sipping Cointreaus on the balcony, he approached me with his camera. The resulting portrait appeared on the cover of an Italian publication. Years later, it hung in the Canadian embassy in Washington, D.C., on loan from the national archives in Ottawa.
After a few hedonistic days in Rome, our foursome headed off to soak up some Mediterranean sunshine in Capri, staying in a quaint hillside hotel where the luggage was transported along narrow streets in wheelbarrows. Riding in a cable car one afternoon, we glided in dreamlike slow motion over sweet-smelling orchards and autumn vineyards burgeoning with grapes. In the evenings, dinner parties with jewelled countesses and playboy industrialists kept us entertained. Sometimes bored with the name-dropping jet set, I excused myself around midnight to have some guitar time back at the hotel. How calming it felt to finger out my new Massenet transcriptions. Partying was fine in small doses, but I tired easily of the one-upmanship and the clouds of smoke from strong European cigarettes and cigars.
While sunbathing on one of Capri’s rocky beaches, I noticed Adnan Khashoggi’s yacht had pulled into the cove and weighed anchor. “I played a concert on the Nabila the day she was christened. Why don’t we go over so I can introduce you?” I suggested, trying a little name-dropping myself, as Arthur had never met the infamous Arab arms dealer. A handful of lire persuaded a boy to ferry us across the water. As our small fishing boat pulled alongside Nabila’s dazzling whiteness, two uniformed patrols peered down into our humble craft, which was bobbing up and down beside the flanks of their enormous yacht. I felt as though we were entering an exotic James Bond location. At any minute, the Nabila’s secret steel panels would slide open to draw us into the bowels of the villain’s world-controlling headquarters. “Momento, signorina,” one of the “bad guys” shouted from above, as he whispered suspiciously into his black walkie-talkie. There was a delay while our presence was conveyed to their boss. A few moments later, the notorious “sheik” himself appeared on deck, dressed in white from head to foot. A ladder was lowered over the railing, and we were helped on board by two handsome crewmen. Khashoggi greeted me warmly and welcomed us to his floating extravagance. “Please make yourselves at home. I have to go to shore for a meeting, but I’ll return within the hour. Please use the pool if you’d like to,” he said with a magnanimous gesture, then slipped out of sight.
The ship seemed to be deserted apart from the two tanned officers. Arthur and I sipped tall glasses of iced juice and stretched ourselves out on the deck, while the music of Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 21 floated down from hidden speakers. Yes, I remembered from Bond’s The Spy Who Loved Me that there was always Mozart playing as the villain greeted his guests. I inspected the pool, half expecting to see a pet shark lurking in the turquoise shallows. A silver platter of sweet Mediterranean fruits and chocolate truffles appeared as we lay back on plush cushions, enjoying the gentle sound of waves lapping against the Nabila’s hull. This is how Jackie must have felt on the Onassis’s yacht, the Christina, I daydreamed. After an hour, an attendant informed us that his boss had been delayed on shore, but he offered us a tour of the boat. What a different experience from my previous visit, when hundreds of “beautiful people” were boogieing the night away in prodigal splendour, their designer-clad bodies spilling into every stateroom and on every deck! That afternoon in Capri, the Nabila was ours alone.
We walked down the curved staircase past the chamois leather walls to explore the bird’s-eye maple staterooms, the tortoiseshell ceiling and onyx fixtures in Khashoggi’s suite, and the movie theatre where I had played on the evening of Nabila’s first big bash. The yacht had its own operating theatre, helicopter landing pad, satellite communications system, desalination unit, 150 telephones, a laser-equipped disco with bronze dance floor, and a crew of fifty! No expense had been spared in her rich furnishings, which included paintings by Picasso. Nabila had cost thirty-five million dollars to build, and another fifty million had been lavished on the interior. On one of the private sundecks, there was a telephone platform that raised itself up at the touch of a button. James Bond would have been “frightfully impressed.” The sheer extravagance of this floating palace was overwhelming. In this sybaritic world one probably never had to contemplate poverty and unemployment — problems that only existed in the real world. The Nabila was pure fantasy. We tried to absorb as much as possible. Few were privileged to have the Nabila to themselves for an entire afternoon, yet a mixture of awe and revulsion filled me as I tiptoed over thick broadloom and stroked the ocelot bedspread in Mrs. Khashoggi’s suite.
“I’m afraid we have to leave now,” Arthur apologized. Two uniformed sailors were summoned to transport us to shore in the sleek aerodynamic lancha whose design was featured in one of the 007 movies. Perhaps on reaching the shore, it would sprout wheels and drive us back to the hotel, The Spy Who Loved Me–style. The sunset had begun to spread washes of crimson and orange across the sky as we skimmed across the incandescent water, leaving a wake of white spray. When we were halfway to the Capri harbour, Khashoggi passed us in his returning lancha. The two boats signalled to each other with flashing lights and everyone waved. What further adventures might possibly have befallen us had we lingered aboard ten minutes longer?
Lois and I had been offered a villa on the island of Hydra, so we left the men and headed for Greece, loaded down with one of Roloff’s photographic tomes for Melina Mercouri. What a treat to have a sumptuous hillside estate on this isle of whitewashed walls and narrow stone streets. Donkey rides up mountain pathways gave us saddle sores and aching backs — a small price to pay for the splendid vistas and warm reception we received in a remote nunnery at the end of our ascent. The hospitable inhabitants, moussaka, souvlaki, and retsina of outdoor tavernas lulled us into the lazy pace of island life. One evening, we invited a dozen bronzed businessmen to our villa who had sailed into port on a private yacht; one turned out to be the president of CBS Sweden! He was equally amazed to encounter one of his recording artists, and serenaded us on the piano while I coaxed some Villa-Lobos from my strings and Lois kept the wine glasses filled. Sadly packing to leave next morning, I vowed to return one day to those enchanted islands.