But Donna was anything but silly. Again and again Osten asked himself what this smart American black from a middle-class family found so exciting in Chopin. Did she, like her ragtime predecessors in Missouri and Louisiana, perceive in Chopin’s music, or in his life, some rich hidden meaning which was essential to her but which, so far at least, had eluded her white lover altogether?
Initially he had hoped that Donna would be the one to pull him out of his self-imposed sterility and involve him in her life and music. He had hoped, too, that she would also help him erase the memory of the only woman he had ever really loved—Leila Salem—who had come into his life as unheralded as the White House woman, but in quite a different way. So far Donna had done neither.
He had sensed no impending drama on that quiet day just two and a half years ago when he left his small ranch and drove out of the Anza Borrego Desert toward San Diego. He had no special purpose in mind beyond staying a day or two in a good hotel and visiting a few bookstores. In San Diego, he drove aimlessly for a while. Then he crossed the Coronado Bridge, looking down at the harbor and the heavy silhouettes of the ships of the Pacific Fleet. Soon he found himself in the driveway of the Hotel Del Coronado, where he had not been since his freshman year.
He parked his Jeep and wandered around the hotel, staring in wonderment at its Victorian excesses—the gingerbread terraces, balconies, and verandas stacked one on top of the other, the shingled roof and turrets, the splendor of the entrance.
He passed through the interior garden court, peered into the Crown Room, where a large banquet for Arab dignitaries was taking place, then walked along the Hall of History, glancing at photographs of the hotel in its various transformations over a hundred years.
In the arcade, he paused at an open record stand to look at a large display of Goddard recordings, and while he stood there a woman emerged from behind one of the stalls with a stack of albums in her arms. She was in her early thirties, tall and slender in a close-fitting dress, and from the instant he saw her, Osten was unable to take his eyes from her. She was exquisite: waves of thick corn-blond hair, a high forehead, prominent cheekbones, sculptured nose. Unconsciously, Osten moved toward her, and, assuming he was a salesman, she handed him the records she was holding.
“Can I charge these to my hotel bill?” she asked in a faintly foreign accent.
“I’m sure you can, madam,” he said, taking the records. He caught her gaze, her eyes light gray and translucent, and afraid to lose her, he did not move.
He glanced down at the albums—all American rock, about two dozen of them, including three copies of Goddard’s latest record.
“You have three of these,” he said.
“I know,” she said, her eyes still on him. “Isn’t that all right?” She smiled agreeably.
“But they’re all the same,” he said.
“I must be his best salesperson,” she said, pointing at the abstract drawing of a rock singer on the cover of the album. “I buy his records for all my friends.”
“Lucky friends,” said Osten with a smile. “But only Goddard? I mean, there are other rock stars.”
She reflected. “Not like him. I heard him for the first time under very strange circumstances. It was during the war In Lebanon on the radio of the United Nations peacekeeping unit. And I was captivated without knowing anything about him.”
“No one knows anything about him,” said Osten. “People say he’s crazy—or crippled—or—”
“But, you see, I discovered him on my own; I didn’t even know he was a star. His music seemed to untangle something within me to bring order to my feelings and give feeling to what was nothing but order.” Her eyes had not left him as she talked. “I couldn’t care less who he was as a person, and what he looked like. I still don’t. I can’t quite explain what I mean.” She took one of the albums from Osten and, looking at the faceless drawing of Goddard, said, “He is original because he makes one feel original too. Such a feeling is the greatest gift an artist can give—and only a great artist gives it.”
She turned to Osten, and again he met her stare. “And you—what music do you like?” she asked.
“He’s my favorite, too,” he said after a full beat. “And like you, I also discovered him on my own. I heard his first record on the radio in New York. Now I know all his music.” Their eyes were still locked, and to hold her, he decided to risk more. “I play a bit myself,” he said.
“Really? What do you play?”
“Anything Goddard plays I can play too!” He laughed.
“Do you also sing?” she asked.
“A bit,” he said. He was about to tell her that surgery had left him with a permanent throat defect—the story he had told others for years—but he decided to say nothing about it.
She glanced around. “You have other customers. I don’t want to monopolize you.”
He smiled forthrightly. “I don’t work here. I’m monopolizing you.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—” She reached for the records, but he laughed softly and backed away with them. “May I, at least, carry them for you?”
She smiled. “That’s kind of you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Leila Salem.”
He shook her hand, narrow and cool, aware that it was the first time he had touched her. “I’m James Osten,” he said. “You have a slight accent—where are you from?”
“I was born in Lebanon, of Syrian parents,” she said.
“With your light eyes and fair skin I wouldn’t have thought you were an Arab.”
“Perhaps not.” She paused. “But you would certainly know that my husband is. He looks Arabian.”
He felt confused, then betrayed. He had already lost her to another man. “Your husband?”
“My husband is the Lebanese ambassador accredited to Mexico. We’re just visiting San Diego,” she explained.
They looked at each other in silence, and she saw him go from distraught to resigned. “And you—are you married, Mr. Osten?” she asked.
He shook his head that he was not.
“Are you a professional musician?” she asked politely, as if to distract him from his thoughts.
“Nothing professional about me,” he sighed. “I’m a student at the University of California at Davis.”
“Studying music?”
“Literature. Music is just a hobby.”
“I studied art, first in Lebanon, then in Madrid.” She paused again. “Ahmed—my husband—is an economist.” She watched him drop his gaze. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, her voice almost conspiratorial.
Without raising his head, he murmured, “About—” he stalled. “About you. I wish I could see you again.”
She edged closer, until her hip stopped against the records he was holding.
She hesitated before she spoke. “Tomorrow my husband and I are taking the children to Rosarito Beach, a little resort outside of Tijuana, for two weeks. Then well return to Mexico City.” She hesitated. “While we are in Rosarito, Ahmed will be treated by the doctors at a clinic called Rejuvene-Center.”
“I’ve heard about them. They were allowed to conduct some medical tests with Gerovital at the University of California—injections of animal embryo and afterbirth, that are supposed to have a rejuvenating effect,” said Osten.
She nodded and lowered her eyes. “The Gerovital treatments are available only in Mexico. They have not yet been approved in the United States.”
Seeing her discomfort, Osten changed the subject. “I’ve been to Rosarito Beach,” he said. “It’s a lovely spot. Where will you stay there?”
“At the Scheherazade. A small villa overlooking the sea.”
“How old are your children?”
“My son is eleven, my daughter nine.” Her face lit up. “They love music. You should see them rock to Goddard.”
“I’ll be in Tijuana next week,” said Osten on an impulse that left him no time for reflection. “I want to test my playing and my voice
”—he laughed—“in front of people.”
“You mean, perform in public?” She seemed surprised.
“Why not?”
“But why Mexico? Why Tijuana?”
“Well, they say that over twenty thousand people visit there each day!” he replied. “With that many people milling around, you don’t have to be Goddard to stand up and sing,” he laughed.
She smiled. “Where will you play?”
“Wherever they will have me. Some small square, or a café maybe,” he said. “Any place where I—or the audience—can make a fast getaway!”
“Will you sing in Spanish?”
“Just in English. I don’t know Spanish well enough,” he said.
“That’s a shame,” she exclaimed. “I love the musica ranchera—the real Mexican folk songs.”
Osten reflected. “Really? Do you have any favorites? Perhaps I might try them.”
“My favorites right now are ‘Volver, Volver, Volver’ and ‘El Rey,’” she said without hesitation. “You can find them in any Mexican record store.”
“I’ll get them tonight,” said Osten.
She looked at her watch as she and Osten walked toward the exit. “I must go,” she said.
The cashier, an old gray-haired man, grandly rang up her sales on the cash register and had her sign her name and room number on the sales slip.
Outside the stand, Leila Salem was politely accosted by two olive-skinned men in business suits. One of them said something to her in Arabic, and she turned to Osten with an expression of apology. “My ever-present protectors,” she explained with a sigh. “A debatable deterrent to one’s enemy; an unquestionable nuisance for one’s friends.” She paused, then gently touched Osten’s arm. “I hope you won’t mind if they accompany me when I come to hear you sing?”
He was almost afraid to show his elation. “Will your husband come too?” he asked.
“I doubt it,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ahmed hasn’t been well. He must rest and try to relax. But my children definitely will. So please don’t forget to call the Scheherazade and tell me where to come,” she said. She took a calling card from her handbag and handed it to Osten. ‘That’s the name to ask for,” she said. “Don’t forget!”
His mind was made up; he had already envisioned what he was going to do, and even though without doing anything at all he could imagine the outcome as if it were a tune, he still felt prompted to take a chance and carry out his idea of reality. The mind, he reflected, was like an ideal musical instrument—invisible, portable, capable of synthesizing all sounds—too bad it required its listener, the body, to exercise leverage on physical reality.
After meeting Leila Salem, Osten drove to Tijuana, and in the biggest record shop there he bought every available version of the two folk songs Leila had told him she liked, recordings made in Spain, Mexico, and other Spanish-language countries. Then he checked out the city and its never-ending streams of pedestrians—the swarthy locals, the easy-to-spot American tourists, and the masses of brown-skinned peasants lured from the provinces to this modern boom town by the promise of construction work. Midway between the city’s affluent shopping centers, on the Avenida de la Revolución and the shantytowns near the bullring, Osten found what he was looking for: a half-enclosed open-air restaurant-café that would hold about sixty people; it was housed in an undistinguished little hotel called La Apasionada.
He went inside and talked to the manager, a short, plump middle-aged Mexican who spoke fluent English. In broken Spanish—to test himself with the language—Osten told the man that he worked for an American musical instruments company and would like to use the terrace of the café for two weeks to try out a new electronic console, the latest in entertainment, in front of a live audience. He was aware, Osten said, that his playing and singing would constitute a break in the routine of the Apasionada, and he was therefore prepared to pay for the use of the terrace, as well as for a room at the hotel.
Sensing he was onto a good deal, the Mexican told Osten that he rarely allowed singers into his establishment, for, liking girls as much as he did, he believed the old saying: like bullfighters, singers get all the best girls. Then he guffawed and named a sum which, though exorbitant by local standards, Osten found quite tolerable. He promptly gave the manager a deposit—a third of the total amount—and promised to return and begin his engagement in a week.
He then drove back to San Diego, parked in front of the city’s best-supplied musical instruments store, and went in. A Eurasian girl with the manner of a docile masseuse greeted him at the door. When he told her he was interested in electronic music, she escorted him to the desk of a bespectacled young salesman who, in his old white shirt, dark tie, and limp seersucker suit, could easily have passed for a scientist from the nearby Salk Institute.
The salesman introduced himself, and Osten sat down. On the desk Osten saw several brochures picturing the latest electronic music consoles.
The salesman saw his glance. “Paganini. The ultimate electone console,” he said. “Phenomenal versatility in finished sound. Its own SSFS—the synthesizing sound factory system—gives you, with unbeatable authenticity, flute, clarinet, trombone, trumpet, horn, saxophone, harmonica, tuba, oboe, violin, piano, harpsichord, ukulele, banjo, viola, guitar, harp, diapason, bass drum, marimba, xylophone, vibraphone, cymbals, and brush—among others.” He paused for breath, then went on. “The Paganini includes such special-effect sounds as banged pots and pans, dry seeds in a glass jar, party noisemakers, a plucked rubber band, finger-snapping, finger-tapping—” he paused again “—clanking silverware, crumpled cellophane …”
“I like the pots and pans and the dry seeds in a glass jar,” said Osten.
The salesman brightened. “The clever Japanese have not overlooked a thing in this one,” he said, handing Osten several of the information booklets. “In its automatic rhythm section, the Paganini contains”—he looked for confirmation in one of the booklets—“thirty-six authentic autorhythms: march, swing, rock, tango, rhumba, bossa nova, waltz, ballad, bolero, beguine, mambo, samba, as well as several less common Latin ones—”
“Latin rhythms?” Osten interrupted.
“Yes. A wise choice, given our proximity to Mexico and the Southern Hemisphere. You know what’s really amazing?” he said. “With the thousands of musical combinations possible on the Paganini, you practically invent a new instrument every time you play it!”
“I wish I could invent a new me,” said Osten.
“You almost can on the Paganini,” said the salesman, glancing into the booklet. “And the Paganini is built so compactly that you can invent your ‘new me’ almost anywhere you go.”
He took one of the booklets from Osten, wrote a price on it, and passed it back like a card in a casino. “Even the price is compact,” he said, smiling. “That’s why we sell a lot of these models to nightclubs and traveling rock performers, as well as to composers and songwriters. Did you know that some of these electone consoles have even been installed in the lounge sections of some of the big jetliners?” He was winding up his pitch.
Osten glanced at the figure written on the card.
The salesman began to worry. “What kind of music do you play?” he asked.
“All kinds,” said Osten. “I improvise a lot.”
“Then the Paganini’s your best bet by far,” said the salesman. “By means of its special line-input, you can feed any sound into it—anything you have taped or picked up live, or from any other electronic instrument—radio, TV, your record player, even your own singing voice …”
“It would have to be someone else’s singing voice, not mine,” Osten laughed.
“Don’t be so tough on yourself!” the salesman scolded. “You may sound a bit hoarse, but so what? These days, a lot of singers and musicians use modified mouthpiece microphones. The Paganini lets you modify any external sound—including your own voice. Why don’t you follow me to our music room and try out the Paganini for yourself?” r />
Beaming, he got up and under the indifferent gaze of the other salesmen, he led Osten through a labyrinth of desks to the music room.
With the Paganini secured in the back of the Jeep, Osten drove home through a pass between the Cuyamaca and Volcan mountains. He stopped to fill the gas tank in Julian, once the region’s gold-mining center, where the two hundred inhabitants now took pride in apple and pear orchards and dense oak and pine forests.
It was near sundown when he passed through the gates of his ranch, which he had named the New Atlantis after a book which had impressed him greatly. In it, in 1624, the philosopher Francis Bacon had described the music of the future as being created in
Sound-houses, where wee practise and demonstrate all Sounds … of diverse instruments of Musick likewise to you unknowne, some sweeter than you have; Together with Bells and Rings that are dainty and sweet… . Wee also have Strange and Artificial Echoe’s, reflecting the Voice many times, and as it were Tossing it; And some that give back the Voice lowder than it cam, some Shriller some Deeper; Yea some rendering the Voice, Differing in the letters or Articulate Sound, from that they receyve.
Situated four thousand feet up in the Laguna Mountains, the New Atlantis covered three hundred acres and overlooked the entire valley below. In addition to the two-story house Osten occupied, there was a small gatekeeper’s house where his helpers lived. They were three Shoshone Indians—middle-aged brothers who had worked for him ever since he had acquired the ranch.
The Indians rushed to help him unload the Paganini. Even though every day, and for years, they sat staring for hours at a television set, they still barely spoke English, and in communicating with-them Osten often had to rely on gestures and wordless sounds.
The men helped him carry the console to the big house, which, with the exception of a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, was an elaborate soundproofed recording facility. There, on the ground floor, the Paganini joined an impressive array of musical instruments and recording equipment—electric organs, amplifiers, synthesizers, guitars, drums, and effect boxes—all dominated by the Gershwin, the state-of-the-art, twenty-six channel, sixteen-track recording console that gave Osten complete flexibility in digital computerized recording and playback techniques.