A Breathless Place, page 3
Leila returns with two glasses, interrupting my stream of thought. I’m glad for both the interruption and the drink.
“Shall we sit?” she asks.
Silly me. I’m still standing around awkwardly, so lost in thought was I.
We settle into two armchairs with our martinis. I take a sip. That’s dirty indeed. Not to mention super strong.
“I’m so glad you came, Isabel.” She fixes her gaze on me and it unsettles me instantly. It’s as though, now that I’ve had the thought of sleeping with her, I can’t un-think it, and it’s everywhere. It hangs heavy—and sultry—in the air between us, even though she knows nothing about it. Taking another sip isn’t going to help one bit, I know that much, but I do it anyway. What else am I going to do?
“Ira told me I should get out of the house more, so here I am,” I blurt out.
When she laughs it’s like a warm bubble escaping from her throat with the sole purpose of delighting me. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I need to get a grip. I consider using the trick I use to bring me back to earth, quickly and efficiently, in situations like this. It’s not a trick I enjoy deploying however and I might wait to see if it’s really necessary that I use it.
“Can we speak candidly?” Her fingernails are painted the same color as her lips. They flash bright red as she twirls the stem of her glass around.
“Of course.” But not too candidly, Leila. Trust me. You don’t want that right now.
“I wonder what your life is like now. What a regular day looks like for you.”
Why not dispense with the niceties already? I guess she didn’t win that Pulitzer for beating around the bush.
“Are you asking me what I do all day?” I follow up with a chuckle.
“You say you don’t get out much and, well, I gather you’re not working on any new music. What do you do?”
I guess planning my death is too forthright an answer. “I work out a lot.” It sounds so silly, I have to laugh at myself.
“I can see that.” Was that a hint of admiration in her tone?
“Cocktail-o’clock comes around quite early as well.” I try a smile.
“Okay, you can be coy with me, Isabel. I probably should have gone in with much softer gloves. My bad.” She cocks her head. “Besides, you’re here to learn more about me.” She opens her arms, as though that’s all it takes. It draws my gaze to her cleavage. For a split second, I have trouble pulling my stare away from that spectacular sight.
“I haven’t prepared any interview questions.” I drink again. “I just thought I’d see how we got along.”
Leila nods while she purses her lips. “I’ve been a journalist for so long, it’s difficult to have the tables turned on me, so I quite appreciate that.”
“Do you live here alone?” I glance around the room. I don’t see any pictures of Leila with a significant other. Or any of what might be her family, for that matter.
“I do.” The skin around her eyes creases as she smiles at me. “I’m rather fond of my own company.” She says it without any qualms, which makes me like her even more. “I wouldn’t call myself a loner, but I have always very much preferred coming home to an empty house. I have never understood why that prospect terrifies so many people. I like the quiet. The tranquility. It restores me after a hectic day or a raucous night out.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Do you have many of those?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. Just a boozy dinner once in a while.” She drinks, as though indicating that tonight might just turn into that.
“You spend a lot of your time working?”
“When I get sucked into a project, it’s hard to step away. And it just so happens that it’s a passion I can afford. To really dig deep.” She cocks her head. “I haven’t had the chance to tell you this yet, Isabel, but I’m so thrilled to be working with you.” She grins as though she knows very well that she just jumped the gun again. “The contract isn’t signed yet, I’m well aware, but, regardless of whether that happens, it’s such a treat for me to have you as a visitor in my home. It really is. Your music…” She pauses. “Is it okay to talk about that? It doesn’t… trigger anything for you?”
“Of course it’s okay.” What else would people talk about with me if not about my music? My sparkling personality?
“Your songs have meant so much to me over the years.” She pulls her lips into a smile again. “I sound like a fangirl, but I don’t care. I’m an admirer.”
Not much left to admire. But I’ve had ten years to learn how to deal with these kinds of conversations. It’s funny to remember how I used to have trouble taking an actual compliment, back in the day when I had the kind of voice that warranted them. These days, I’m practically gagging for them.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I say. “Even though I can no longer make new music, or perform my old songs, it’s good to hear they still mean something to people.” Hm. I hadn’t meant to say that. While this is how I feel sometimes, it’s not my most common sentiment about having lost my voice. My instrument. My most meaningful way of expressing myself.
“Would you tell me that even if it weren’t the case?” Has she just read my mind? I didn’t see an award for reading people’s thoughts on her mantelpiece. “I just want you to know that you don’t need to put on a brave face when you’re with me. What happened to you must have been horrible. To lose that incredible gift you had.”
Way to rub it in, Leila. Thanks for that. I take another sip from my martini. I relish the slight burn it leaves in my throat.
“Ten years should be enough to put that into perspective.” Another lie. Another facet of the brave face I’ve perfected over those ten long years.
Leila shakes her head. “No, I don’t believe that. I told you when we met earlier this week that I did a deep dive on you. Understandably, there aren’t any interviews with you since it happened. So I can’t claim to base my assumption on fact or on something you said in an interview, but I’ve thought a lot about the profound ramifications this must have had. How it must have changed you. Not that it’s even comparable, but I’ve likened it to losing all ten of my fingers.” She stares at her fingers for a brief moment.
I’m too stricken with what she’s saying to have any lewd thoughts about them.
“And not being able to write anymore.” She puffs some air from her cheeks. “I can’t even begin to imagine the horror.”
I know I’m supposed to say something, but it’s been a while—since I quit therapy about five years ago, probably—since someone has been so frank, so utterly forthright with me.
“It’s what makes you such an intriguing subject. I devoured Bruce’s first draft. Your life has just been…” Her gaze skitters away for a moment then returns. “I’m sorry. I’m being so insensitive.”
“No, really. The way you’re dealing with this is actually a breath of fresh air to me. I’m so sick of all the tiptoeing around it.” I fail to mention that I have a lot to do with the fact that barely anyone I know dares to mention my surgery any longer because they’re afraid of my reaction. “I’m a singer who lost her voice. There’s no two ways about it. It happened and now I can no longer sing.” And I would rather die than go on living like that.
It turns out I don’t need to deploy my special psychological trick to stop my friskiness in its tracks. There’s no need to visualize the moment the surgeon came into my room and delivered the news that the surgery had been unsuccessful. And that, in fact, the operation had made it worse and I would never sing again.
Chapter 5
We’ve moved to the dining table. Leila has prepared grilled lamb and tahdig and it’s finger-lickingly delicious. I still don’t know that much about her, but at least I know she can cook.
“The other day,” I start, “you said you knew a thing or two about loss. What did you mean by that?”
“I’ve lost people I loved very much.”
I nod and keep quiet, hoping she will continue.
She puts her cutlery down and then, literally, licks her index finger. She sucks it between her lips and I have to keep my mouth from falling open. Is she doing this on purpose or is this just how she eats? It’s not really the right timing because of my question, so maybe this is just how she is. Maybe I’ve learned much more about her already than I realize—all the things that words can’t convey.
“When I was eighteen, I left my family in Iran to study here. That was just before the revolution. I only ever saw my father again. The rest of them…” She swallows hard. “Well, they’ve been gone a long time.”
Damn. I usually win at comparing grief, but I have no recourse against war and dictatorial regimes. “Is your father still with us?” I ask.
Leila shakes her head. “He died more than twenty years ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Leila.”
“I was lucky,” she says. “Because I came to the United States. So, like most people on this earth, I’ve been both lucky and unlucky.” She flashes me one of her all-obliterating smiles, but it doesn’t seem to reach her eyes completely this time.
I don’t regret asking the question, but the atmosphere has certainly taken a turn. “You never started a family of your own?”
“There were times when I wanted to, but then it never happened. Something always got in the way. Be it work or a breakup or… I don’t know. Looking back, I should know. I mean, I feel like I should have more answers about how my life has gone. But I don’t. Perhaps because I don’t need answers. Perhaps because…” She exhales audibly. “…there was a time when I wanted nothing but answers to questions that were simply unanswerable. Grieving for the loss of my family was hard, especially because I had to do it all alone, out here, but it did teach me that some things happen for no reason at all. That life is just utter shit sometimes. And that asking questions will only wear you down more.”
I’m trying to form a picture of Leila’s life in my mind. She has already admitted to being a loner. To not wanting a family. She’s just told me about her unspeakable loss. I can see where her drive comes from. Where she got the zeal to chase that Pulitzer. But what I can’t fathom is why a journalist of her standing would take on a project like my biography, after what she’s worked on previously and has gone through in her own life.
“Is that my cue to shut up?” I try a small joke.
“Of course not. I make a living asking people questions. I’m going to be digging into a painful period of your life—at least I hope so.”
“Why?” I try to remember the title of the essay she won a Pulitzer for, but I can’t. “Why my story?”
“Are you kidding me?” Her tone is completely free of irony. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“I’m just a singer.”
“No. You’re Isabel Adler. You’re not just a singer. You’ve been out of the game for ten years, yet no one has taken your crown. Sure, new singers with pipes like yours come along every so often, but while every single one of them aspires to be like you, none of them has managed to rise to your level. There is—was—something so unique about you. You always came across like you wanted it all so much more than anyone else, but yet there was always this vulnerability about you. As though, somehow, you knew—you carried it in you and you ever so subtly telegraphed it—that it could all end in one moment.”
And then it did, I think. As always, it’s human nature to be drawn to the tragedy.
“What happened to you is one of the biggest stories of this century.” She takes a sip of wine. “I don’t look down on entertainment, you know. Not even a little bit. As I said, your music has meant a lot to me at various times of my life.”
I dare say you got yourself the job, Leila Zadeh. The pure passion that emanates from this woman is contagious.
I open my mouth to speak but close it when I see Leila hasn’t finished yet.
“I was there in Central Park for your legendary twenty-fifth anniversary concert.” She fixes her gaze on me. “I think I might even have fallen in love with you a little bit that evening. Me and thousands of other people. What a magical night.”
“That was quite something.” The memory washes over me like a tidal wave. The roar of the crowd. The chanting of my name long after I’d left the stage. The golden-orange sunset as the evening progressed. My voice at the very height of its power, seasoned but with no signs of cracking any time soon. The audience eating out of the palm of my hand. But most of all—and what I miss the most—the amazing energy a few well-held notes could create. What it meant for me to sing those songs and to get back so much love from the people listening to them. The elation. The enchantment. The utter joy it sparked in me.
“How long ago was that? Fifteen years?” Leila asks.
“Almost.”
“I can understand why you would ask me that question, Isabel,” Leila says. “But the truth is it would just be an enormous honor for me. It already is a huge one to have you in my house. To share a meal with you. To talk to you. It’s an amazing opportunity. But… it’s my nature to want to peek behind the curtain. To find out what makes you tick and what makes you angry. To get to know the real, human side of you would be a privilege.”
“You’re a very gifted cook.” I nod at my empty plate. “And you serve excellent cocktails and wine.” As though those are my main criteria for hiring a new biographer. “I hope it’s not the last time I get invited to dinner.” I hope she doesn’t expect me to return the favor. Although, actually, I should. I should invite her to my house and cook her a meal. I haven’t done that for anyone in too long.
“Thank you.” One of her dark eyebrows is quirked up as she glances at me.
And let’s not forget you’re very easy on the eye. I can’t help but smile again. She can think it’s because of all the praise she just heaped on me. It is also because of that. One thing I’ve never been immune to is glowing reviews, even if they relate to long-past achievements.
“I’ll get Ira to send you the necessary paperwork tomorrow.”
Leila’s face lights all the way up. It’s truly a marvel to behold. Her dark eyes sparkle; her bright lips glitter. Something inside my belly stirs again. Do I really want this woman turning my soul inside out? But yes, of course I do. I may be attracted to her—I believe that’s been well established tonight—but that doesn’t mean I have to act on it. After all, I haven’t acted on any twinges of desire during the last two and a half years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve held another woman in my arms. Perhaps I believed that part of myself dead already. I now know that it’s not.
“Thank you so very much, Isabel. You won’t regret it. I promise you that.” Apart from her charismatic looks and her abundant intelligence, I also admire Leila’s confidence. She sits there as though she didn’t doubt, not for one single second, she’d get the job.
“Here’s hoping that you won’t regret it then.” I hold her gaze.
“There’s not a lot of chance of that.”
“If you’re so interested in finishing my biography now, how come you didn’t get it instead of Bruce?” I’ve spent so much time with Bruce in the past two years. I’m trying to imagine having spent all those hours, recounting my life to Leila.
“I was very interested at the time. I really was, but I had to choose between the fight to write your biography—and it would have been a fight because so many writers wanted to do it—and three weeks of being embedded with the Secretary-General of the UN for an in-depth profile. I’m sorry. It’s just how life is sometimes. Certain opportunities pass you by. I hope you’re not too offended by that.”
“My ego has taken bigger hits.” I’m well acquainted with how life can throw you the most impossible curveballs.
Leila offers me a sweet smile. “How about dessert?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Join me in the kitchen?” She starts gathering the plates. I give her a hand. She looks at me as though she hadn’t expected me to lift a finger. It gives me a tiny tinge of pleasure to be able to surprise her already.
“How long did it take Bruce to win your confidence?” she asks while rinsing the plates.
I have to think about that one. Bruce went about things so surreptitiously, it just happened. “You’re not Bruce.” I watch how she works. Leila’s elegance is about to get the better of me again.
“Do you have any demands or restrictions I should know about?” She wipes her hands on a towel.
I’ll be dead by the time this book comes out. I’ve known this since Bruce started interviewing me. It made me unusually open with him. I think I can extend Leila the same courtesy. Anything legal Ira will deal with in the contract.
“None.” I do like the way my voice sounded when I said that.
“Then I very much look forward to working with you.” She pins her gaze on me and, for a split second, I wonder if I will have to start a letter to Leila as well. I don’t know why. I’ve only just met her. I had never intended to write Bruce a farewell note. But Leila is not Bruce. She may only just have gotten the job, but I already know that much.
I miss the person I was. I have mourned her for a long time. Despite my 50/50 proclivity, which I believe I was born with, being able to sing was my lifeline. It was, in many ways, my life. It made me forget about all the rest. It was my therapy. My best friend. My way of laying it all out there. My means of processing all my emotions. Without it, everything just seems so pointless.
That’s not to say that I don’t care for anything else in my life. I care about you guys. But, and this is perhaps the crux of the matter, I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy to spend an hour in my mess of a head. It never stops. The doubts. The constant back-and-forth. The feeling that I lost everything in that split second the surgeon put his scalpel exactly where he did.
Until recently—until I made the one, final decision I’m writing to you about now—I woke up every single morning, still hoping some sort of magic might have occurred during the night. Every morning, I forced myself to sing the first few words of “Somewhere I’ve Never Been”, and every morning, I was faced with the same massive disappointment. And every morning, it drained a little bit more life out of me. It has slowly been gutting me from the inside. Slowly chipping away at what made me me. And now, I tend to believe, even if I were to miraculously get my voice back, I could never be the performer I once was. Because I know what it’s like to be without the power, without the strength my voice has given me. It has always been like an extra limb. An extra something special to help me through whatever life has thrown at me.
