BetterthanBob 7 страница

The lies weren’t so surprising, really. He couldn’t have a third-person existence—“Tucker Crowe, semilegendary recluse, creator of the greatest, most romantic breakup album ever recorded”—and tell the truth about his eldest daughter. And as he didn’t really have a first-person existence anymore, hadn’t had since that night in Minneapolis, it had been necessary to get rid of her. He’d gone into therapy when he’d given up drinking, but he’d lied to his therapist, too; or rather, he’d never helped guide his therapist toward Grace’s importance, and the therapist had never done the math. (Nobody ever did the math. Not Cat, not Natalie, not Lizzie… ) It had always seemed to Tucker that talking about Grace meant giving up Juliet, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. When he turned fifty, he began to think about what he’d done, like people do at that age, and Juliet was pretty much it. He didn’t like it, but other people did, and that was just about enough: surely a man could sacrifice a kid or two to preserve his artistic reputation, especially when there wasn’t much else to him? And it wasn’t like Grace had suffered, really. Oh, sure, she was probably fucked up about fathers, and men generally. And somebody, her mother or her stepfather, had had to shell out for her therapy sessions, just as Cat had paid for his. But she was a beautiful, smart girl, as far as he could tell, and she’d live, and she already had a boyfriend and a career path, although he couldn’t recall what the hell it was. It didn’t seem like she was paying such a big price for her old man’s vanity. That wouldn’t be how they saw it on Maury Povich’s show, if Grace ever forced him to go on the show to confront his inadequacies. But the world was more complicated than that. It wasn’t just good guys and bad guys, great dads and evil dads. And thank God for that.

Annie was frowning.

“What’s up? ”

“I was just trying to work something out. ”

“Can I help? ”

“I would hope so. When was Grace born? ”

Fuck, Tucker thought. Someone is doing the math. He felt nauseous and relieved, all at the same time.

“Later, ” said Tucker.

“Later than who or what? ”

“I think I might be ahead of you. ”

“Really? I’d be surprised. Seeing as I don’t know why I want you to tell me how old Grace is. ”

“You’re a smart woman, Annie. You’ll get there. And I don’t want to talk about it until later. ”

He cocked his head toward Jackson, whose head was deep in a comic book.

“Ah. ”

And when she looked at him, he could see that she was halfway there already.

* * *

When they arrived in Gooleness, it was already dark. They dragged their bags out to the taxi stand at the front of the station, where one malodorous taxi was waiting. The driver was leaning against his car, smoking, and when Annie told him her address he threw his cigarette down on the ground and swore. Annie shrugged at Tucker helplessly. They had to put their own luggage in the trunk, or rather, Annie and Jackson had to do it. They wouldn’t let Tucker lift anything.

They passed overlit kebab shops, and Indian restaurants offering all-you-can-eat specials for three pounds, and bars with one-word names—“Lucky’s, ” “Blondie’s, ” even one called “Boozers. ”

“It looks better in the light, ” Annie explained apologetically.

Tucker was finding his bearings now. If he translated some of the ethnic foods into Americans’ favorites and swapped a few of the bookies for casinos, he’d be at one of the trashier resorts in New Jersey. Every now and again, one of Jackson’s school friends got dragged off to a seaside town like this, either because the kid’s parents had misre membered a vacation from their youth, or because they had failed to spot the romanticism and poetic license in Bruce Springsteen’s early albums. They always came back appalled by the vulgarity, the malevolence and the drunkenness.

“Do you like fish and chips, Jackson? Shall we get some for supper? ”

Jackson looked at his father: did he like fish and chips? Tucker nodded.

“There’s a good chippy down the road from us. From me. You’ll be okay if you just eat the fish, Tucker. Don’t touch the batter. Or the chips. ”

“Sounds great, ” said Tucker. “We might never leave. ”

“We will, Dad, won’t we? Because I need to see Mom. ”

“Just a joke, kiddo. You’ll see Mom. ”

“I hate your jokes. ”

Tucker was still distracted by the conversation they’d had on the train. He didn’t have a clue how he was going to talk to Annie; he didn’t know whether he was capable of it. If it were up to him, he’d write it all down, hand her a piece of paper and walk away. That was pretty much how he’d got to know her in the first place, now that he came to think about it, except he’d written everything down on cyberpaper.

“Have you got a computer at home? ”

“Yes. ”

“Can I write you an e-mail? ”

He tried to imagine that he was at his computer in the upstairs spare bedroom and he’d never met Annie, and she was thousands of miles away; he didn’t want to think about having to talk to her in half an hour’s time. He told her how he’d found out he had a first daughter, and how, even then, he hadn’t rushed to see her, because of his embarrassment and cowardice, how he’d only seen her three or four times in her life. He’d told her how he didn’t even like Julie Beatty much, so he had to stop singing songs about how he’d been crushed by the weight of his sorrow and desire and blah, blah, and when he’d stopped singing those songs he couldn’t find any others.

He’d never put it all together like this before; even his ex-wives didn’t know as much as Annie would. They’d never done the math either, not that he’d helped them—he’d lied about Grace’s age more than once. And when he stared at the sum total of his crimes on the screen, it seemed to him that they didn’t amount to a whole lot. He hadn’t killed anyone. He looked again: there must be something missing. Nope. He’d done twenty years for crimes he hadn’t committed.

He called down the stairs to Annie.

“You want me to print it out? Or you going to read it on the screen? ”

“I’ll read it on the screen. Do you want to put the kettle on? ”

“Is that easy? ”

“I think you’ll manage. ”

They passed each other on the stairs.

“You can’t throw us out on the streets tonight. ”

“Ah. So now I see why you wanted to wait until Jackson was asleep. You were playing on my good nature. ”

He smiled, despite the churning in his stomach, went to the kitchen, found the electric kettle, pressed its switch. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, he spotted the picture of him and Jackson, the one that Cat had taken outside Citizens Bank Park when they’d gone to see the Phillies. He was touched that she’d taken the trouble to print it out and stick it up there. He didn’t look like a bad man, not in that photo. He leaned against the kitchen counter and waited.

fourteen

“O kay, ” she said, when she’d read what he’d written. “First of all, you call an ex-wife or one of your children or somebody now. ”

“That’s all you have to say? About my whole career? ”

“Now. Nonnegotiable. I’m presuming here that one of the things you’re owning up to is running away from Grace before she arrived at the hospital. ”

“Oh. Yeah. Ha. I forgot I hadn’t owned up to that already. ”

“You don’t have to speak to Grace, although you probably should. But somebody has to let her know. And you must tell them all you’re safe anyway. ”

He chose Natalie. She’d be angry and cold and withering, but it wasn’t as if it mattered so much. He wasn’t counting on her to make him soup in his old age. He called her cell, she answered it, and he walked through the hailstorm of arrows to deliver the basic information she needed. He even gave her Annie’s phone number, as if he were a regular father.

“Thank you, ” said Annie. “Second thing: Juliet is brilliant. Don’t lump the music in with the rest of it. ”

“Have you been taking any of this in? ”

“Yes. You’re a very bad man. You’ve been a useless father to four of your five children, and a useless husband to every single one of your wives, and a rubbish partner to every single one of your girlfriends. And Juliet is still brilliant. ”

“How can you think that? Now that you know what a bunch of crap it all is. ”

“When did you last listen to it? ”

“God. Not since it was released. ”

“I played it a couple of days ago. How many times have you heard it? ”

“You know I, like, made it, don’t you? ”

“How many times? ”

“All the way through? Since it was finished? ”

Had he ever? He was trying to remember. There had been a moment in just about every relationship when he’d walked in on somebody listening to his music furtively; he could remember all the startled guilty faces. It had even happened with a couple of his kids, although not Grace, thankfully. But then, he hadn’t seen enough of Grace to catch her doing anything furtively. He shook his head.

“Never? ”

“I don’t think so. Why would I have done that? But I played those songs on stage every night for a while, remember. I’d know if there was anything in them. And there isn’t. They’re all lies. ”

“You’re telling me that art is made up? My God. ”

“I’m telling you that my… art is inauthentic. Sorry. Let me rephrase that. I’m telling you my rock album is a fake bunch of crap. ”

“And you think that matters to me? ”

“I wouldn’t like it if I found out John Lee Hooker was a white accountant. ”

“Is he not? ”

“He’s dead. ”

“You see, this is all news to me. Anyway, what you’re saying is I’m an idiot. ”

“Huh? Where did that come from? ”

“Well, I’ve listened to it hundreds of times, and it still doesn’t feel to me as though I’ve emptied it. So I must be daft. It’s all just facts, isn’t it, as far as you’re concerned? It’s a rotten album, fact. And if I can’t grasp the facts, then that makes me stupid. ”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. ”

“So, go on. Square your feelings about Juliet with mine. ”

He studied her. As far as he could tell, she was really irritated, which had to mean that she really did have something invested in the music. And whatever it was, he was dumping all over it.

He shrugged.

“I can’t. Unless I say, you know, everyone’s opinion is valid. ”

“Which you don’t believe? ”

“Not in this case, no. See… It’s like I’m a chef, and you’re eating in my restaurant, and you’re telling me how great my food is. But I know I pissed all over it before I served it up. So, you know, your opinion is valid, but…”

Annie wrinkled her nose and laughed. “But it demonstrates a certain lack of taste. ”

“Exactly. ”

“So Tucker Crowe thinks his fans can’t taste pee when it’s served to them. ”

That was exactly what Tucker Crowe thought during that tour. He hated himself, sure, but he also despised everyone who lapped it all up. That was one of the reasons it had been so easy to quit.

“You know that bad people can make great art, don’t you? ” said Annie.

“Yes, of course. Some of the people whose art I admire the most are assholes. ”

“Dickens wasn’t nice to his wife. ”

“Dickens didn’t write a memoir called I’m Nice to My Wife. ”

“You didn’t make an album called Julie Beatty Is a Deep and Interesting Human Being and I Didn’t Impregnate Anyone Else While I Was with Her. It doesn’t matter how it came about. You think it was all accidental. But like it or not, believe it or not, the music that Julie inspired was wonderful. ”

He threw up his hands in mock despair and laughed.

“What? ” said Annie.

“I can’t believe I told you all those things, and we’ve ended up talking about how great I am. ”

“But we’re not. You’ve confused the two things again. You’re not great. You’re a, a shallow, feckless, self-indulgent… wanker. ”

“Thanks. ”

“Well, you were, anyway. We’re talking about how great your album is. ”

He smiled.

“Okay. Compliment accepted, if not believed. And abuse accepted, too. I can honestly say that nobody has ever called me a wanker before. I quite enjoyed it. ”

“You can only honestly say that you’ve never heard anybody call you a wanker before. I’ll bet it’s happened. Don’t you ever read the Internet? Actually, I know you do. That’s how we met. ”

She paused. He could see that she wanted to say something and she was stopping herself.

“Go on, ” he said.

“I have a confession to make, too. And it’s almost as bad as yours. ”

“Good. ”

“You know the guy who wrote the first review on that website? The one where you found mine? ”

“Duncan somebody. Talking about wankers. ”

Annie stared at him, then clapped her hands to her mouth. He’d have worried that he’d said something out of turn, except that her eyes were bright with a kind of astonished mischief.

“What? ”

“Tucker Crowe knows who Duncan is and he called him a wanker. I cannot tell you how weird that is. ”

“You know that guy? ”

“He’s… This was his house, up until a few weeks ago. ”

Tucker stared at her.

“So he’s the one? The man you wasted all those years with? ”

“He’s the one. That’s why I’ve heard your music so much. That’s why I got to hear Juliet, Naked. That’s why I posted a review on his website. ”

“And… Oh, shit. He lives in this town still? ”

“A few minutes’ walk away. ”

“Jesus Christ. ”

“Does that worry you? ”

“It’s like… Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, I have to walk into his. That’s incredible. ”

“Except not. As I said. Because without him, we wouldn’t know each other. I’d like you to meet him. ”

“No. ”

“Why not? ”

“Because (a) he’s a fucking fruitcake, and (b) I might kill him, and (c) if I didn’t kill him, he’d drop dead from the excitement anyway. ”

“Well, ‘c’ is a definite possibility. ”

“Why do you want me to meet him? ”

“Because no matter what you think, he’s not stupid. Not about art, anyway. And you’re the only artist alive who’s made any sense to him, just about. ”

“The only artist alive? Jesus Christ. I could write you a list of a hundred people better than me off the top of my head. ”

“It’s not about better, Tucker. You speak to him. For him. He connects. You plug right into a very complicated-looking socket in his back. I don’t know why, but you do. ”

“So I don’t need to meet him, then. We’ve already talked. ”

“Oh, it’s up to you. It’s weird. He was unfaithful, and that relationship cost me a lot. But you staying here and me not telling him… That seems like a betrayal beyond all comprehension. ”

“So tell him after I’ve gone. ”

They finished their tea, and Annie found a spare duvet and pillows for the sofa. Jackson was fast asleep in the spare room; Tucker had already lost an argument about who was going to sleep in her bed.

“Thank you, Annie, ” he said. “Really. ” And he kissed her on the cheek.

“It’s nice, having people to stay, ” she said. “Hasn’t happened since Duncan left. ”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks for that, too. ” He kissed her on the other cheek and went upstairs.

Saturday morning was, despite Annie’s warnings, clear and bright and cold, but in Tucker’s considered opinion the town didn’t look a whole lot better: without the cheap nighttime neon it just looked tired, like a middle-aged hooker wearing no makeup. They walked down to the sea after breakfast; they took a detour so that Annie could show her visitors where the museum was, and they stopped at a store where the candy was kept in jars, and you had to ask for a quarter-pound of what you wanted. Jackson bought some lurid-looking pink candy shrimp.

And then, while they were down on the beach trying to teach Jackson how to skip stones on the waves, Annie said, “Uh-oh. ”

A pudgy middle-aged man was jogging toward them, red-faced and sweaty, despite the temperature. He stopped when he spotted Annie.

“Hello, ” he said.

“Hi, Duncan. I didn’t have you down as a jogger. ”

“No, me neither. It’s a, a new thing. New regime. ”

Tucker knew enough about the relationships between ex-partners to realize that this exchange was bursting with meaning, but there was nothing on Annie’s face he could read. The four of them stood there for a moment. Annie was clearly trying to work out the best way of breaking the news, but Duncan made a big deal of sticking his hand out, as if he were being magnanimous in some way.

“Hello, ” said Duncan. “Duncan Thomson. ”

“Hello, ” said Tucker. “Tucker Crowe. ” He had never been more conscious of the weight of his own name.

Duncan dropped Tucker’s hand as if it were red-hot and looked at Annie with real contempt.

“That’s just pathetic, ” he said to Annie. And he jogged away.

The three of them watched as he plodded off along the beach.

“Why did that man call you pathetic? ” said Jackson.

“It’s complicated, ” said Annie.

“I want to know. He was mad at us. ”

“Well, ” said Tucker. “I think that man thought I wasn’t who I said I was. He thought Annie had told me to say that my name was, was my name because she thought it would be funny. ”

There was a beat, while Jackson examined every side of this misunderstanding for any possible trace of humor.

“That’s way not funny, ” said Jackson.

“No, ” said Tucker.

“So why did you think it would be? ” Jackson addressed this question to Annie, as the originator of the incomprehensible joke.

“I didn’t, sweetheart, ” said Annie.

“Dad just said you did. ”

“No, he said… You see, I know who your dad is. But that man doesn’t. That man knows who Tucker Crowe is, but he doesn’t think that’s who your dad is. ”

“Who does he think Dad is? Fucker? ”

Annie presumably knew better than to laugh at the sound of an obscenity emerging from the mouth of a six-year-old, but she laughed anyway. Tucker understood the impulse. It was the combination of the curse with the boy’s earnestness, his attempt to understand what had just happened.

“Yes! ” said Tucker. “That’s exactly who he thinks I am. ”

“There’s actually a further complication, ” said Annie. “I know the confessional window has closed, but…” She took a deep breath. “He also thinks you’re somebody I’m… seeing. ”

“Why would he think that? ”

“He asked about the photo on the fridge, and I didn’t want to tell him the truth, and…”

At least Tucker now understood the implied generosity of the handshake.

“So there we are, ” said Tucker. “That man thinks I’m Annie’s boyfriend. And he thinks Fucker is Tucker. ”

“I was right, ” said Jackson. “It’s so, so not funny. ”

“No. ”

“Cool, ” said Jackson. “Because I don’t like it when jokes are funny for everybody else. ”

“Anyway, ” said Tucker. “All in all, I’m a long way from being me at the moment. ”

“Exactly. ”

“Do I have to go to all the trouble of proving it? ”

“The trouble is, he knows more about Tucker Crowe than you do. ”

“Yeah, but I have the documentation. ”

About fifteen minutes later, Duncan called her on her cell phone. She was outside the museum with Tucker and Jackson, fishing around in her bag for her work keys: the charms of Gooleness had been exhausted already, so, much earlier than anticipated, she was about to show her guests pieces of long-dead shark.

“I can’t believe you did that, ” said Duncan.

“I haven’t actually done anything, ” said Annie.

“If you want to make a sad spectacle of yourself around town with someone old enough to be your dad, then that’s up to you. But the Tucker business… What’s the point? Why would you do that? ”

“I’m actually with him now, ” said Annie. “So this is slightly embarrassing. ”

Tucker waved at the mouthpiece.

“You should have thought about that before you made him take part in your juvenile games. ”

“It’s not a game, ” said Annie. “That was Tucker Crowe. Still is. You can ask him any question about himself, if you want. ”

“Why are you doing this? ” said Duncan.

“I’m not doing anything. ”

“I sent you a picture of Tucker Crowe a few weeks ago. You know what he looks like. He doesn’t look like a retired accountant. ”

“That wasn’t him. That was his neighbor John. Also known as Fake Tucker, or Fucker, because of a misunderstanding that people like you have spread all over the Internet. ”

“Oh, for God’s sake. So how did you meet ‘Tucker Crowe, ’ actually? ”

“He e-mailed me about that review of Juliet, Naked I wrote. ”

“E-mailed you. ”

“Yes. ”

“You post up one piece and you get an e-mail from Tucker Crowe. ”

“Listen, Duncan, Tucker and Jackson are standing here and it’s cold and…”

“Jackson. ”

“Tucker’s son. ”

“Oh, he’s got a son now, has he? And where did he appear from? ”

“You know how babies are made, Duncan. Anyway. You saw a picture of Jackson on my fridge. ”

“I saw a picture of your retired accountant and his grandson on your fridge. This is a circuitous argument. ”

“It’s not an argument. Listen, I’ll call you later. You can come round for tea if you want. Bye. ”

And she hung up on him.

Ros had worked hard over the couple of days Annie had spent in London. The day before she left, the two of them had gone over to Terry Jackson’s house to rummage through his collection of Gooleness memorabilia and had ended up taking most of it, in the absence of anything else to show; Terry’s wife, denied the use of a spare bedroom for the whole of her married life because of all the old bus tickets and newspapers, was insisting that it was a gift, not a loan. Terry had been unable to provide any kind of budget for the exhibition, so they were using anything they had on hand—old photo frames, unused dusty cases—to display his stuff. A lot of it was still in garbage bags, a conservation decision that would get them thrown out of the Museums Association if anyone ever found out.

“Gross, ” said Jackson, when Annie showed him the eye.

Annie admired his determination to say the right things, but the eye didn’t really stare at you, in the way that Annie and Ros had hoped it might, mostly because it didn’t really look like an eye any longer, unfortunately. They had decided to keep it in the exhibition because of what it said about the people of Gooleness, rather than what it said about sharks, although they would not be explaining their decision to the people of Gooleness.

Tucker liked Terry’s Stones poster, though, and he loved the photograph of the four pals on their day out at the seaside.

“Why does it make me feel sad? ” he said. “Even though they’re happy? I mean, sure, they’re all old or dead now. But it’s more than that, I think. ”

“I have exactly the same reaction. It’s because their leisure time was so precious, I think. We have so much, by comparison, and we get to do so much more with it. When I first saw it, I’d just had this three-week holiday trekking around the U. S., and…” She stopped.

“What? ”

“Oh, ” she said. “You don’t know about that, either. ”

“What? ”

“My American holiday. ”

“No, ” said Tucker. “But then, we only met recently. There are probably a few holidays I need to catch up on. ”

“But this one should have come up in the full disclosure section of our conversation. ”

“Why? ”

“We went to Bozeman, Montana. And the site of some studio that isn’t there anymore in Memphis. And Berkeley. And the toilet in the Pits Club in Minneapolis…”

“Shit, Annie. ”

“I’m sorry. ”

“Why did you go with him? ”

“It seemed like as good a way of seeing America as any. I enjoyed it. ”

“You went to San Francisco to stand outside Julie Beatty’s house? ”

“Ah. No. Not guilty. I let him get on with it. I went to San Francisco to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge and to do some shopping. ”

“So this guy Duncan… he’s like a real stalker. ”

“I suppose he is. ”

For a moment, Annie felt a little pang of envy. It wasn’t that she’d ever wanted Duncan to stalk her, exactly. She didn’t want to see him hiding behind her hedge, or ducking behind a supermarket aisle when she was doing her shopping. But she wouldn’t have minded if he’d had the same appetite for her that he’d shown for Tucker. She had only just realized that the man talking to her now was much more of a rival than another woman could ever be.

Duncan poured himself an orange juice and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Gina. ”

“Yes, my sweet. ”

She was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the Guardian magazine.

“What do you think are the chances of Tucker Crowe being in Gooleness? ”

She looked at him.

“The Tucker Crowe? ”

“Yes. ”

“This Gooleness? ”

“Yes. ”

“I’d say the chances were very slim indeed. Why? Do you think you just saw him? ”

“Annie says I did. ”

“Annie says you did. ”

“Yes. ”

“Well, without knowing why she said it, I’d have to say that she’s winding you up. ”

“That’s what I think. ”

“Why did she tell you that? It seems quite a peculiar thing to say. And quite cruel, given your… interests. ”

“I was jogging along the beach, and she was there with a, a respectable-looking middle-aged man and a young boy. And I stopped, and introduced myself to the man, and he said he was Tucker Crowe. ”

“That must have been a bit of a shock to you. ”

“I just couldn’t understand why she made him say it. I mean, it’s not very clever. Or funny. And then I just called her from the bedroom before my shower and she’s sticking to her story. ”

“Did he look like Tucker Crowe? ”

“No. Not at all. ”

They found their eyes straying over to the mantel-piece, and the photograph he’d brought with him when he’d moved in: Tucker onstage, maybe at the Bottom Line, sometime in the late seventies. Duncan could feel the beginnings of another little panic, rather like the panic he’d felt the other night when he was talking to Gina about Juliet. The man he saw on the beach this morning wasn’t the man who’d sung “Farmer John” in a club a few weeks ago, that was for sure. And the man he saw on the beach this afternoon definitely wasn’t the man in the famous Neil Ritchie shot, the wild man lunging for the camera. What was troubling Duncan now was that, for the first time, he’d begun to wonder whether the young man on the mantel-piece could possibly be the crazy person with the matted hair who’d tried to attack Ritchie. They looked nothing like each other, really. Their eyes were different, their noses were different, their coloring was different. He’d never for a second doubted the wisdom of the Crowologists until now; he’d accepted the Neil Ritchie story as a piece of history, fact. Except—and these panics were coming thick and fast now—Neil Ritchie was an idiot. Duncan had never met him, but his ignorance, his rudeness and his self-importance were common knowledge, and Duncan had had an e-mail from him a few years back that had been offensive and a little deranged. Neil Ritchie was a man who’d traveled God knows how many miles in order to invade the privacy of a long-retired singer-songwriter who didn’t want to be disturbed. This, let’s face it, was not normal behavior. And yet this was the man Duncan was prepared to trust more than Annie and the pleasant-looking chap on the beach? If one took the two Farmer John pictures out of the equation and put glasses on the singer in the Bottom Line picture, changed his hair color to silver, trimmed it…

“Oh, God, ” said Duncan.

“What? ”

“I can’t think of any good reason why that man would introduce himself as Tucker Crowe unless he actually was. ”

“Really? ”

“Annie’s not really a cruel person. And the person on the beach looked a little bit like the person in that picture. Except older. ”

“And did she explain how she knew him? ”

“She said he wrote to her. Out of the blue. After she posted that review of Naked on our website. ”

“If that’s true, ” said Gina, thoughtfully, “then you must want to hang yourself. ”

* * *

Unfortunately, Duncan was not physically capable of jogging through the streets of Gooleness for the second time in less than an hour, so he had to settle for a brisk walk, with occasional pauses. He needed the time to think, anyway; there was a lot to think about.

Duncan had not been a regretful man, not until recently. However, over the last few weeks, he had found himself wishing that he had done a lot of things differently. He had been impulsive, and overeager, and lacking in judgment. He’d got a lot of things wrong, and he hated himself for it. And the thing he’d got most wrong, he’d come to realize, was Juliet, Naked. What had he been thinking of? Why had he responded like that? After about five more plays, the songs in their acoustic form had started to pall; after ten, he’d decided he didn’t want to hear the album again. Not only was it a weak, malnourished, puny thing, but it had started to diminish the magnificence of Juliet: who wanted to see the rusty old innards of a work of art, really? It was of interest to scholars, and he was a scholar. But how had he come to the conclusion that it was better than the original? He knew part of the answer to that question: he’d had access to Naked before any of his peers, and to post a review saying that it was dull and pointless would have thrown away his advantage. But then that’s what art is, sometimes, he always felt: something that confers advantages. His had come at a cost, though. He’d had currency, but the exchange rate turned out to be dismally low. Why hadn’t he just taken the wretched review down? He turned back—to run home to his computer—and then spun around again. He’d do it later.

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