Love You Madly. Alex George

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СКАЧАТЬ in RCA Victor Studio ‘A’ in Manhattan to record a tribute album of Strayhorn compositions. At the end of the second day of the session, while the rest of the band are packing up and getting ready to go home, Duke sits at the piano and, unaccompanied, plays a tender Strayhorn tune, ‘Lotus Blossom’. It is Duke’s personal tribute to a man he loved deeply.

      That much we all know. It’s after this that the myth begins:

      As the studio empties, Duke remains at the piano, staring at the keys, alone with his memories. He’s an old man, now. Still dapper, still elegant, but tired after a lifetime of hard graft and sacrifice. Ellington turns and faces his loss – and starts to play the blues. Tune after tune, the piano cries a sad song of loss and heartache. The wistful, tender lyricism of this final, intimate salute is unbearably poignant. He plays seven or eight laments, quietly closes the piano lid, and shuffles home.

      Unknown to Duke, one man has remained in the engineering booth throughout, and has quietly switched on the tape to capture the impromptu performance. The engineer, a young Italian called Alessandro Ponti, has a string of gambling debts to his name that he is unable to pay. He spirits away the illicit tape, his eye on a quick profit and an end to his financial troubles. Some test acetate pressings are produced before Ponti loses his nerve and decides to destroy the master tape. But by that time the acetate pressings are already in circulation, and they are still out there somewhere.

      That, at any rate, is the story.

      Since then, the fate of those lost recordings has inspired decades of obsessive speculation and wishful rumours. For Ellington enthusiasts, those acetate pressings are our Loch Ness Monster, our Holy Grail. Nobody even knows if they really exist or not. I still cannot resist scouring the second-hand record racks in the hope that one of the pressings will magically appear at my fingertips.

      I climb into the shower, whistling a medley of Ellington tunes. A few minutes later, as I am drying myself (by way of indolent rub, rather than the efficient, chafingly vigorous towel-work that Anna favours) I notice three virgin rolls of lavender loo paper in the wicker basket next to the toilet. This is what Anna calls ‘nearly out’? I cannot think of any disaster – global, domestic, or intestinal – that could possibly put our present reserves of toilet paper under immediate threat, but Anna suffers from that exclusively female psychosis whereby she gets twitchy if we have less than a quarter of a mile of readily available bog roll.

      By the time I have washed and dressed, it is almost ten o’clock. With a knot in my stomach, I put on my coat and walk to our local bookshop.

      As I stand in the doorway of the shop, I take a couple of deep breaths. I want to be poised, calm, so that I will remember this moment. I’ve been into this bookshop hundreds of times, but this morning is different. Licked is officially published today. My role has changed. I’m no longer just another browser. From now on I shall be part of the stock. I shall be a commodity. I shall be a browsee.

      Inside, there are only one or two customers nosing about. Behind the main desk stand two scruffy individuals in shapeless jumpers. I wander up to the New Releases table. Licked isn’t there. I inspect the Bestsellers table. Finally I walk over to my bit of shelf between Nancy and Iris. Then I go over to the desk.

      ‘Do you have a novel by Matthew Moore?’ I ask. ‘It’s called Licked.’

      One of the assistants pulls a face. ‘Matthew Moore? Doesn’t ring a bell.’

      I smile thinly at him. ‘I think it’s quite new.’

      The man turns to his colleague. ‘Declan. You ever heard of a Matthew Moore?’

      The other man wrinkles his nose. ‘Nah.’

      I put my hands deep in my pockets. ‘Could you check?’

      ‘Hold on.’ The first assistant taps at the computer keyboard on the desk, and peers at the screen. ‘Let me see. Here we are. Moore, M. Licked. Wellington Press.’

      ‘That’s it,’ I say eagerly.

      ‘It’s actually published today,’ the man tells me.

      ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’

      There is a pause.

      ‘So have you got any?’ I ask.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Oh.’ Deflation beckons. ‘Have you got some on order?’

      The man peers at his screen again. ‘No.’

      ‘Are you going to order some?’

      ‘No.’

      I think. ‘Can I order one?’

      ‘I suppose so,’ says the man reluctantly.

      ‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’ll do that, then.’

      ‘Who are Wellington Press, anyway?’ asks the man. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

      ‘Me neither,’ agrees Declan, yawning.

      Neville, I reflect ruefully, would be delighted.

      ‘It’s just that I heard that this book was absolutely brilliant,’ I say.

      The first man looks doubtful. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

      I stare at him, dumbstruck. I can’t admit who I really am. It would be too embarrassing. And lying would be too desperate, too sad. ‘Look, don’t worry,’ I mumble. ‘I’ll see if I can find it somewhere else.’

      The assistant shrugs. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says.

      I walk away from the till with the saunter of a man without a care in the world, the saunter of someone who isn’t bothered whether this stupid bookshop has any copies of Licked by Moore, M., or not. I stroll nonchalantly back towards the front of the shop, whistling to myself, until I stop short, the tune dying on my lips.

      In front of me is not a stack, not a pile, but rather a mountain of books. They have been built up in a pyramid, about six feet high and four or five feet across at the base. The book which has been used to construct this monstrous edifice is called Virgin on Mergin’, the latest effort by another of Sean’s clients, Bernadette Brannigan. This is the most recent novel in her long-running Virgin series, which began with the now infamous pile of tripe, Virgin on the Ridiculous. I pick up a book and read the blurb on the back cover. Virgin on Mergin’ tells the story of the gormless heroine, Poppy Flipflop, and her attempts to find a husband. To my disbelief there are quotes from several literary luminaries on the back cover. Julian Barnes describes the book as ‘Devastatingly Original’. A. S. Byatt calls Brannigan ‘the most astute chronicler of female social angst since Jane Austen’. I am convinced that these encomiums have been fabricated without the knowledge or consent of their alleged authors. As if A. S. Byatt would ever dream of reading such dross.

      The book is atrociously written, with pedestrian jokes, terrible puns, mildly raunchy sex scenes, and painfully obvious payoffs. It is undemanding pap. It is, frankly, shit. I know, because I’ve read it. Actually, I’ve read all of Bernadette Brannigan’s books, and they’re all exactly the same. That, of course, is why she is the most popular writer in Britain.

      I СКАЧАТЬ