I tapped on the Plexiglas window between me and the cabdriver so violently, I saw him jump. “Can you take me to the Film Forum?”
“That’s the one just north of campus?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Please just drive there, and we’ll find out.”
He half turned in his seat. “That film’s supposed to be pretty good, isn’t it? I’d go too if I didn’t have to work. Shame what happened to Nico, isn’t it? He used to be one of my favorites. Saw him in Boston on his first tour, and it changed my life, I swear…”
I froze and tuned out the rest of what he said. Had something horrible happened to Nico? A string of gruesome possibilities flashed before my eyes. If he’d been in some kind of accident, I’d have heard about it, even in the news blackout I’d been living in, wouldn’t I? For a moment I forgot to breathe. Though I could barely speak, I couldn’t help myself. I interrupted the driver with my blunt question: “Did he die?”
“What? No, of course not. You know what I mean, that business that was all over the news a while back…” We were moving by then, and as much as I wanted to hear the specifics, that one word, No, eclipsed everything else. Nico was alive. What else mattered? I could breathe again; I had a pulse. In my elation, I caught only stray phrases. “He had this wife… girl he wanted to marry… ran away. It was all over the news; how did you miss it?” He was retelling my own story, and I didn’t need to hear it. Before the cabbie could come to the end of his tale — my tale — we had reached the theater, which, thank heaven, did turn out to be the Film Forum. I thanked him and gave him an exorbitant tip.
NOTHING LEFT 7:15, 9:30, MIDNIGHT, read the marquee. It was 11:25; the 9:30 show was just letting out. I bought my ticket and took a seat on the bench against the wall, watching the crowds emerge, hoping to catch bits of conversation. The minute the doors opened for the midnight show, I slid into the theater and sat in the back row where I would be relatively hidden. I was frightened of what I might learn about Nico, but there was no turning back. I puzzled over the title. Nothing Left to Reach For sounded like a film about someone who had achieved his highest ambitions, but the abbreviated version on the marqee sounded ominous. What had the cabbie said? Shame what happened to Nico. Now I wished I had listened to the rest of the story. Let Nico be all right, I thought. Even if it means he’s forgotten me, let him be fine. For a while it looked like I might be the only one there for the show, but just before midnight others started trickling in, filling the seats in front of me, chatting quietly. Again, I tried to listen to the conversations around me, to learn more about Nico’s recent history. It seemed like a cruel joke: I who loved him — who might have been paying attention to his every move, watching him from a distance to make sure he was at least all right — knew nothing about him, while everyone else in the world possessed information that would have meant the world to me.
For a moment I considered moving forward to be nearer to the pair of young women three rows ahead of me; I could nonchalantly ask what they knew about Nico Rathburn. I doubted my ability to sound breezy, though. And apparently there had been pictures of me in newspapers and magazines. Would I be recognized? And, really, did it matter? I stayed in my seat, frozen with indecision. At midnight, the theater lights were lowered, and my heart quickened again, but of course there were coming attractions to sit through, a whole string of them. More people trickled into the theater, filling most of the seats.
The film began with a concert scene of Nico playing a blistering guitar solo. My heart twisted like a wrung-out rag; this looked like new footage that must have been taken after I had run away. The narrator confirmed this for me in a solemn voice-over: “September eighth, Emirates Stadium, London. Rock legend Nico Rathburn kicks off the European leg of his comeback tour. Rathburn and his band go on to sell out stadiums in twenty-five European cities. Reviewers in the rock-and-roll press rave.” How good it was to see Nico’s face. Apart from the picture River had handed me, I hadn’t seen so much as a newspaper photo of him since I’d left Thornfield Park.
The concert footage ended abruptly. “Rock critic Gus Masterson, Guitar Slave Magazine,” read a caption identifying a white-haired man with John Lennon glasses seated at an enormous desk. “A tour for the ages. That’s what I called it, and I stand by that description. In these shows, Nico Rathburn surpassed not only his younger self but most if not all of his competition: the energy, the artistry, the sheer raw power of his singing and playing. He was on fire.”
Then there were clips of interviews with a series of musicians I’d never heard of and a few I had.
“Nico Rathburn? He’s the reason I picked up a guitar in the first place,” an angular young man wearing dark eyeliner said. “I was twelve when I bought his first album, and I wanted to be just like him. I wanted the parties, the girls, but most of all the clubs, jamming with friends until dawn, the way he used to before he got his first record contract. The music, that was the main thing.”
“He’s a legend, man. One of the all-time greats. If there was a Mount Rushmore of rock and roll, he’d be on it.” This from a long-haired man in leopard skin, whose name I’d heard somewhere before. “Instead of playing it safe and becoming more derivative as he gets older, he just keeps taking risks.” I was beginning to fidget in my seat, crossing and recrossing my legs, chewing on my knuckles. Enough, already.
But more glowing testimonials followed. When was the film going to tell me something I didn’t already know? I didn’t need anyone else to tell me how talented Nico was. I burned to see him — not his fans and protégés — and to hear him speak or at least sing. Eventually, there was more new footage, this time from Amsterdam Arena. “The critical acclaim for Nico’s new album and tour was impressive,” the narrator intoned. “Not bad for a musician whose wild lifestyle had once overshadowed his music.”
“For a long time there, we weren’t sure Nico was going to make it to thirty.” It was keyboardist Mike Krikorian, dressed in a cool white gauze shirt, interviewed against a backdrop of trees. “He was a wild man. We all were back then, but Nico…” — he chuckled to himself — “let’s just say he made the rest of us look like choirboys.”
Then there was a clip of a younger Nico swaying onstage, slurring his lyrics, looking like a strong wind would topple him, and still more footage of him in front of an audience, berating the band for playing at the wrong tempo. It hurt to see him like that — his face so young and yet so miserable. The narrator ran down a litany of misadventures and drug-fueled exploits, then launched into the story of Nico’s failed marriage to Bibi. There was a clip of him with Bibi on a beach in Brazil, both of them looking glamorous and very high, holding hands, then kissing. My memory of how beautiful she once was had been eclipsed by my contact with her ruined self, but here she was again, stunning. Nico’s wife. I cringed and slid down in my seat as if I were the one being revealed. Until that moment, I hadn’t quite registered how awful it must be for Nico to have his past perpetually shadow him like this. Suddenly I understood the lengths to which he would go to keep his failings out of the press.
Next I sat through footage of Nico with Celine, followed by a discussion of his retreat from the public eye and his long hiatus. “Ironically, now that Rathburn had seemingly settled into maturity, his tumultuous personal life nearly derailed the Nico Rathburn express,” the narrator said ominously. I was shocked to see my own face filling the movie screen; it was me, dressed head to toe in the clothes Nico had bought me for the rehearsal show, my hands on Maddy’s shoulders, the two of us watching the stage wide-eyed. A moment later, there was Nico singing to me from the stage, his eyes shining. “Nico Rathburn fell in love again, not with a supermodel, a pop star, or an actress, but with Jane Moore, the nineteen-year-old nanny to his daughter, Madeline. After a whirlwind courtship, Nico proposed marriage.” I stole a glance to my left, then to my right, but nobody was looking at me. I should have been relieved, but all I wanted was for someone to acknowledge me, to meet my eyes, to recognize me
as the girl on the screen.
Then Dennis Everson spoke: “She brought life back to him. I’ve never seen him so happy. Or so miserable, after she disappeared. We thought he would cancel the tour. He just seemed so, I don’t know… broken. He was crushed to pieces. We were really worried about him.” Dennis! It was good to know he was looking out for Nico.
“On the eve of Nico Rathburn’s triumphant return to the stage, personal tragedy struck,” the narrator said. What followed was no surprise: the story of our nightmarish wedding, the revelation of Nico’s secret, Bibi in the attic bedroom. Somehow the director had located photos of me in my wedding dress clutching a bouquet of lilies of the valley and of Nico looking anxious in his black suit. There was even a blurry snapshot of Bibi in her rumpled nightgown, her white hair wild, her face frozen in a grimace. Who had taken those photos? I couldn’t begin to think clearly and could barely watch the screen. Someone directly in front of me loudly rustled a candy wrapper, and I fought the urge to shush him.
“A dramatic search ensued,” the announcer continued. “Nico Rathburn filed a missing persons report with the police and hired a staff of private detectives, trying to track down his runaway bride. He offered a million-dollar reward to anyone with information about Jane Moore’s whereabouts, but the mystery proved insolvable. The would-be Mrs. Rathburn vanished and left no trace.”
And there, to my surprise, was Jenna, dressed in a low-cut black blouse, sitting demurely on her uncomfortable, spotless couch. “When I got Nico’s phone call, I was shocked,” she said, “and terrified for my sister. Jane was always so reliable, so practical — not at all the type to disappear without a word. I knew right away if she hadn’t called me, she must be in trouble. If she were alive, she’d have phoned to let me know she was all right.” One perfect, glittering tear appeared in the corner of her eye and began its descent down her perfectly made-up cheek. “I’m afraid she’s come to harm. Whenever the phone rings now I jump, expecting to hear bad news.”
Then the director cut to grainy footage of Nico in his home office: “If anyone has information on the whereabouts of this woman” — the screen flashed a picture of me, apparently supplied by Jenna, from a family photo taken two Christmases ago — “please contact the number below. And, Jane, if you hear this message” — he looked beseechingly into the camera — “call me to let me know you’re okay. I won’t come looking for you if you don’t want me to. I just want to know that you’re alive.”
I knew then what a cruel thing I’d done to Nico. What had I been thinking?
“But months passed, and there was no word of Rathburn’s missing fiancée. Though her disappearance delayed the tour’s start by a few weeks, Rathburn resolved to make up the missed dates and to perform the rest of the tour as scheduled.”
“He was a mess,” Dennis said. “I’ve never seen him like that. But he refused to stay home and feel sorry for himself. Instead, he channeled his despair into the music. It was something to see.”
There was more footage then, a lot of it, from stadiums and arenas across Europe — Stadio San Siro in Milan, Parc des Princes in Paris, Amsterdam Arena, Esprit Arena in Düsseldorf — Nico playing with fire and emotion, “plying his trademark red Stratocaster like a man possessed,” Gus Masterson said into the camera. “He took all that sorrow and frustration, all his regrets, and turned it into the most searing, redemptive music this critic has heard in a long, long time, as if by the sheer force of his playing, he could somehow right his wrongs.”
The rest of the film played itself out in a three-song encore from Madison Square Garden, the last show of the tour. I braced myself for the closing credits as the film built to a crescendo of concert high points, relief spreading through me. Not only had Nico missed me and searched for me, his tour had been a success. But then, just as the film seemed to draw to a close, it took an abrupt detour.
Coda, a subtitle announced. A new figure appeared on-screen, an older man with severe glasses and wavy white hair. A subtitle identified him as Dino Marcusi, the film’s director. He spoke solemnly into the camera. “As I was putting the finishing touches on this documentary, something shocking and unexpected happened. Into a life that has had more than its share of triumph and setbacks, fate struck again, adding a new and shocking chapter to Nico’s story.”
But what was this? The cabbie’s words assaulted me again: Shame what happened to Nico.
Footage from a newscast flashed on the screen. “Old Lyme, Connecticut,” a reporter said. “Tragedy strikes the secluded estate of musician Nico Rathburn, a longtime resident of Old Lyme, as his eleven-million-dollar home goes up in flames, in what the local fire department has termed suspected arson. The fire left death and injury in its wake…” And here my heart started pounding wildly. I’m not sure how I managed to even hear the rest. “Bibi Oliviera, Nico Rathburn’s wife, jumped from a third-story balcony. Oliviera, a paranoid schizophrenic, died of internal injuries. The rest of the house’s occupants — Rathburn’s young daughter and his staff — got out of the building unharmed, thanks to Rathburn’s efforts, but the musician himself sustained serious injuries when part of the house collapsed.” Nico was alive. But serious injuries? How serious? I forced myself to keep watching.
“Instead of running out of the building, he insisted on trying to save Bibi, to get her out of the house, but she refused.” It was Linda speaking now. “He tried to coax her away from the balcony, to get her down the stairs and out the door” — Linda’s face was frantic and tear streaked — “but she wouldn’t go with him. I was out on the lawn watching, and she was laughing when she jumped.” Linda covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “It was horrible.”
The director returned to the screen. “In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that Nico Rathburn and I became close friends during the tour as I followed the band around the world making this documentary. So it is with no small degree of personal bias that I say that Nico’s actions that night were truly brave — heroic, even.”
The next newscast featured a blonde correspondent in front of a hospital, the words EMERGENCY ROOM spelled out in huge red letters behind her. “Guitarist and songwriter Nico Rathburn is recovering tonight from severe injuries sustained when he tried to rescue his wife, former model Bibi Oliviera, from a suspicious house fire at his Old Lyme mansion. The surgeon assigned to Rathburn’s case has released a statement saying that his condition tonight is guarded. Meanwhile, fans are standing vigil outside Saint Joseph’s Hospital, where the rock superstar is recovering.” The camera cut to a circle of people holding candles, softly singing one of Nico’s songs, then back to the reporter, this time beside a weeping middle-aged woman. “I’m standing here with Andrea Bernard, a longtime fan of Nico Rathburn. Andrea, what are your feelings tonight?” Impatience overtook me again. What did I care about Andrea Bernard’s feelings?
The woman spoke through tears. “I just want a chance to thank him. His music has meant so much to me for so long. My husband Jason and I played one of his songs at our wedding. And when Jason was diagnosed with terminal cancer, he asked me to have another of Nico’s songs played at his funeral.” Here she broke down completely.
The film cut to a horrific sight — Thornfield Park, its contours recognizable but charred and half-collapsed. I gasped to see it like that. And then an even more terrible photo — a woman’s body, Bibi’s body, limp and broken on the pavement. In contrast with such horrors, Marcusi’s commentary seemed strangely calm. “Though Nico refused to leave the burning building until he had saved his wife, she ran from him and jumped to her death from a third-floor balcony. Arson investigators later learned that she had set fire to the bed that had once belonged to the nanny, Nico’s missing fiancée. Though usually kept under close surveillance, Bibi Oliviera escaped when her caretaker fell asleep after a drinking binge. The caretaker, who fled to safety, admitted she had fallen asleep at her post and claimed that Bibi had taken a set of keys from her pocket to get out of the locked room. This w
asn’t the first time Nico’s schizophrenic wife had escaped her constraints and tried to set the house on fire, but it was the deadliest and the last.”
The camera returned to the director, who wore a trench coat while strolling through what remained of Thornfield Park. “In a few short months, Nico Rathburn had lost everything — his fiancée, his sick wife, his home, and his physical well-being. Still, he survived the accident and recovered, to a point. His left arm was crushed by a falling beam, crippling his hand. His many losses have battered him but haven’t extinguished his creative spirit. Out of the hospital now, Nico lives in seclusion, several hours away from the wreckage of his once-palatial estate, Thornfield Park. Though he can no longer play guitar, he composed and recorded vocals for a song about his recent ordeal, the haunting ‘Nothing Left to Reach For.’ ” And the song I had heard in the cab started playing.
I rose from my seat, though the film hadn’t yet ended, and hurried from the darkness, through the painfully bright lobby. Out on the street, I hailed another cab. Nico was alive when he might have been dead. I didn’t dare think about what his losses might have done to him, how depressed and discouraged he must be feeling now that he couldn’t play his guitar. Nico was alive somewhere, and I had to find him.
Though it was the middle of the night when I returned to the apartment, River was sitting in the living room, waiting up for me. I was shocked to see him there, half-asleep in his favorite chair. The past two hours had all but erased him from my mind.
The sound of the apartment door opening had apparently jolted him awake, but his eyelids were still heavy. “You’re back.” He approached me with something like caution. “I’ve been worried. Where have you been? It’s after three in the morning.” He took another step toward me, his arms outstretched. “But I’ll stay up if you want me to. We can talk things over.”