CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gordy & Jill Talk!
Friday, August 26
GORDY: Well, you heard about her here first, folks, didn’t you?
JILL: You’re talking about Liza Durbin, Gord?
GORDY: Of course. The whole world is talking about Liza Durbin these days, and I was the first to tell you about her.
JILL: Not that you’re bragging, right? (Subdued chuckles in the audience.)
GORDY: Me? Never. Well, listen, a lot’s happened to the lovely Miss Durbin since then. Everyone knows that she claims to be inhabited by the spirit of Franz Schubert. This whole “inhabitation” thing has become a big deal around the country, and we’ve got a lady with us today who can explain it all to us.
JILL: That’s right, Gordy. She’s the world-famous therapist and bestselling author of Inhabitism—Attract the Spirit That’s Right for You! Please welcome Dr. Mikki Kloster! (Mikki takes a seat between Gordy and Jill.)
MIKKI: Thank you so much for having me.
GORDY: Okay, Mikki, just between you and me, you are Liza Durbin’s therapist, right?
MIKKI: Let me say first that Liza Durbin and I know each other. Professional ethics keep me from discussing my clients by name. But Miss Durbin is obviously the kind of case I specialize in.
GORDY: Well, I guess so. Of course, there is that videotape of you and Liza at the channeler’s house, but we won’t go there, right? (A silent, unrockable nonsmile from Mikki.)
GORDY: Can’t blame me for trying! Well, what we do know is that you’ve studied this phenomenon more than anyone.
JILL: I’ve read your book cover-to-cover, Mikki, and I’m simply fascinated.
MIKKI: Thank you, Jill, that’s what I’m really here to talk about. Anyone can learn something from the case studies in my book. I’ve already heard from people across the country who think they’ve attracted a spirit for themselves or their children.
JILL: Wow. I’m hoping to attract a spirit that’ll teach my nine-year-old to make her bed.
GORDY: Seriously, Mikki, tell our audience about one of your cases.
JILL: Oh, Mikki, I love the one about the little girl who hardly spoke until she was three, then opens her mouth one day and sings an aria from Carmen. (Jill explodes into an operatic sound bite, to the audience’s delight.)
MIKKI: Yes, that little girl was a favorite of mine, too. She’s so young that her parents still protect her identity. I also had a recent letter from a woman in the Midwest whose twelve-year-old son built a working car. Can you imagine? They read my chapter called “Focused Meditative Magnetism” and followed the suggestions. It has all the instructions for connecting with a potential inhabitant—I call them “available spirits”—and finding the one that resonates to the child’s creative energy. Does that make sense?
JILL: Oh, absolutely. But why is it so important to select the spirit and not leave it to chance? Is it true that wild things happen with the wrong spirits?
MIKKI: Well, I hate to call them the “wrong” spirits, but you do want something compatible. For instance, an ancient spirit’s behavior might not always be acceptable by modern standards. I know of a man inhabited by a Minoan fisherman who insisted on vaulting over the horns of charging bulls as part of a ritual dance. There were unfortunate consequences.
GORDY: Ouch! Well, you know, Mikki, we’re going to talk with someone who claims to be inhabited herself, right after this commercial break. Folks, you won’t want to miss this because it marks the return of one of our most beloved stars. (After the break, a Toto dog wearing a checkered dress and ruby slippers yelps to “Somewhere over the Rainbow.”)
As soon as we got back to New York, John D. made arrangements to record our new CD. We were also leaving for Europe in a month, so I was quickly submerged in rehearsals and preparations. With everything I needed to do—practice, running and push-ups, more practice, running, push-ups—I again left the business particulars in Cassie’s hands. Greta, who had distanced herself from me because of my public image, rejoined the fold, purely for the sake of music.
I resumed my habit of playing at Fred’s whenever possible. My first day back, Mrs. Pardo spotted me coming down the street and met me on the front stoop. After her obligatory fawning (I was her discovery, after all), she told me that Fred wasn’t there and she hadn’t seen much of him recently. He was apparently spending a lot of time working with Cassie in Upper Danville. Mrs. Pardo mentioned once or thrice that her daughter would be visiting soon. She hoped Fred and Lovely Daughter could spend some time together. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Ever so nice, I agreed. I double-bolted Fred’s door behind me, only opening it for Danny at lunchtime. He bore sandwiches and good news.
Danny had worked it out so he could live in Vienna during fall semester, staying with his grandmother and going to school. He would join us for concerts whenever he could.
We celebrated Danny’s announcement with ice cream and raucous music. Franz was still floating on the sounds we’d heard in New Orleans and Austin. He added new spices as we banged around the keyboard. Danny took a turn at the piano and sang brash, audacious tunes. When we left Fred’s apartment, Mrs. Pardo happened to be at the mailbox in the hall (where I suspect she’d been getting her mail for hours). She smiled weakly and looked worried about our competence. Apparently the commotion we’d made was not fit for the unimaginative or the tasteful.
In the weeks before Europe, Franz and I were getting along pretty nicely. We were both heavily focused on our recording, and we knew enough to appreciate these days of high creativity and relative peace.
Danny recorded some awfully good lieder with us, including new songs by Schubert, one of them with lyrics by Danny Carson: “I got hot love ready for making, and a heart that’s ripe for breakin’, Pretty mama, won’t you teach me to regret you.” You’d think Franz would recoil at this tripe, but it must be hard to recognize corn in a language you’re just learning. Besides, Franz was loving country tunes since we heard Charlie Drew in Austin. He even found a way to make the piano “twang.” (Don’t worry, John D. sanely cut the whole thing from the CD.)
John D. Doyle was also at most recording sessions. Because he let Danny sing new lieder, we asked John D. to sing a traditional song himself. He had resurrected his voice to a more than pleasant level through many hours of training with the famous vocal coach Pamela Alvera. She was at the recording studio, too, guiding him through the process, tending to every nuance.
In the evenings, we went in search of more music. Salsa clubs in Harlem, uptown cabarets, jazz in the Village, and Porgy and Bess at Lincoln Center. Franz never ran low on interest or energy. He educated my spirit, opened my heart—and he continued to draw me into his life.
Lying in bed, Franz is thinking about the F Minor Fantasie, something he’d like to dedicate to a friend. He hears the tune and sees the written music at the same time, the way other people picture written words in their heads. It looks and sounds beautiful in his mind.
He wants to play the new piece on the piano, to fully enjoy it, and perhaps tinker a bit. But this is a bad day. Franz is weak and queasy, lacks the will even to stand up.
This about kills me, watching Franz’s enormous spirit brought down by a feeble body and one insolent microbe. He is almost thirty, a little younger than I am. I’m so strong, far stronger than a city girl needs to be. I could give him half my strength and we’d both be fine. I would do that, gladly.
“Get out of bed, Franz! Now, just try!” My throat hurts from screaming through time. I will his limbs to move. “Please, Franz, pull back the covers and walk to the piano!”
And, I swear to God, he does it.
Cassie called to summon me for Labor Day festivities at her house. I was protective of my solitude at that time, but she persisted.
“Sorry, Liza, you can’t get out of this one. Family and all that. Besides, there are plans to discuss, decisions to make before you leave for Europe. Some nice new possibilities you should—”
“Okay, I get it, Cassie. Will this be torture?”
“Nope. We have a surprise for you.”
“Mom and Dad?”
“You dragged it out of me.”
“Aunt Frieda, too?”
“She can be the surprise.”
I arrived at Cassie’s in a limo, a luxury I was growing way too fond of. A cluster of relatives met me at Cassie’s front door with the usual Durbin hoopla. When we stepped inside, I felt again the buzz of people at work in my sister’s home. I still wasn’t used to that.
Jesse Edelstein, Frenchie, and Fred were huddled around a table, waiting to show me mock-ups for T-shirts, Web pages, programs, and other paraphernalia. They were arranging media coverage in each city on my fall tour. Frenchie had experience in this and would come along as my assistant. Also, being Dutch, she spoke enough languages to be comfortable anywhere in Europe.
I told everyone that Danny was coming to Europe, which warmed their marketing hearts. I also told them that Greta Pretsky had agreed (after making me beg) to accompany me for the first few weeks. Nobody’s heart seemed warmed, but I would be happy to have her musical support.
We hammered away at the logistics. We didn’t stop long enough to eat or to notice it was getting dark outside. When Barry came home after nine, we were nearing the bottom of our discussion list. He was either tired from his day or tired of seeing Fred, Jesse, and Frenchie planted in his dining room.
“Hi, Barry,” Cassie said, glancing at her watch. “Guess we lost track of time.”
“What else is new?” Barry said. “Don’t worry about it, Cassie, I had a pretty long day myself.”
He dispensed one hello wave for everyone, then headed for the kitchen, loosening his tie on the way. Jesse and Frenchie got busy pulling their papers together. Apparently this was not the first indication that their marathon meetings got on Barry’s nerves. They left within minutes. Fred was staying for the weekend for a little bit of work and for the pleasure of the Durbin company. When Cassie left the room, I asked Fred about the tension in the house.
“Your brother-in-law’s a little tightly wound, that’s all,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Fred was not convincing, but I wanted to believe him.
Trying to fall asleep that night, thoughts of merchandising and schedules and Barry rattled noisily around in my head. My mind battled to stay awake, just to torture me. Finally, I got out of bed and did push-ups until exhaustion got me. Couldn’t hurt, right?
When I crawled back in bed, Franz took me in his care. He soothed me with his song about a round lake near the mountains, and took me there in our dreams.
Sie versucht, freundlich zu sein . . . She tries to be kind. I can see what I’ve done to her life, and still she tries to be kind. She must know she can’t help me. What a fine, stubborn thing she is.