Xstabeth, page 10
But wait. My father said. It doesn’t make sense. He said. How did you know they said it was like a gangland execution. How did you know that’s what they said to the police. Easy. Sheila said. And she picked up the comb again. Easy. The next day an old woman came up to my dad. And she said. That was some leap. By the way. Yesterday. In the fields. She said. I thought it was a gangland execution. At first. She said. And I went and called the police. Sorry about that. She said. If only I had known. She said. And my dad just patted her on the shoulder. And he said. Let that be a lesson to you. What is he talking about. The famous golfer said. And everyone laughed. Sheila put down the comb. And she sat on my father’s lap. Who will ever know what daddies think. I said. And everyone laughed again. But this time for their own reasons.
* * *
The next day was the first omen. The next day where before we went to see the golf. We went shopping for LPs. Father wanted to get a copy of Songs of Love and Hate by Leonard Cohen. As a present for Sheila.
But the night before I had a dream. I had a dream where Jaco and The Snork were boasting about making up Xstabeth. Boasting that they had made up the whole deal. We took Tomasz to the cleaners. That was what The Snork said. In the dream.
Then we were flicking through the LPs. Where would we be without hate. My father said. Love and hate locked in an embrace. He said. Cohen knew that. He said. Can’t have one without the other. Even the people who say they love love. He said. Even they hate. They hate hate. He said. With love and with hate. He said. That’s what Sheila needs to understand. And then I’m not joking. I’m not joking when I say that I looked up at that exact moment. That exact moment as my father was talking about love and hate. About how they were both necessary. I looked up and out of the window of the record shop. And I saw Sheila walking with the famous golfer. Plus. A third person. A third person with a deformity. I saw them walking together. On the other side of the street. I was sure it was them. Although it was raining. And foggy. And the haar had come in from the sea. Which made visibility poor. Which made everything seem ghostly and unreal. Which made it seem like the famous golfer and Sheila and the deformity were speeding like shadows. Speeding and not talking. Not talking like they had somewhere to go. You say that father. I said. I was shaken up. You say that. I said. But it’s much easier to be on the end of love. Than on the end of hate. But no less necessary. Little one. He said. I kept my eye on the threesome. I kept my eye most of all on the deformity. No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be The Snork. It couldn’t be The Snork come to take father to the cleaners. And then what do you think happened. Can you believe it. My father pulled out a copy of the Xstabeth LP. A copy of the Xstabeth LP in St. Andrews. The original Russian pressing. But not the first Xstabeth. Not his one. Not the authentic Xstabeth. But the forgery. The fake. The one that The Snork had said was even better. The one that was mere poetry. What the fuck. He said. He said that just as the threesome sped out of sight. And it had no price on it. The Xstabeth LP had no price on it. It was like someone had hidden it there. Like someone had come into the shop and secretly left a copy there. Left a copy for my father to find. He spoke to the assistant. What is this LP. He asked him. No clue mate. He said. That’s exactly what he said. Looks like a Russian name to me. He said. My father corrected him. Xstabeth isn’t Russian. He said. You obviously know more about it than me pal. The assistant said. At first he was quite rude. How much is it. My father said. It doesn’t have a price on it. That’s weird. The assistant said. That’s unusual. Must be a mistake. He said. Then he said. Do you mind if I stick it on. Do you mind if I give it a quick listen. The assistant said. If you must. My father said. And even though he looked at him funny just then. Even though he looked at him funny the assistant went ahead and put it on anyway. It was those same lines. Those same lines about the frozen river. About crossing the frozen river. Floating across the shop and out into the frozen air. Casting shadows on the walls. And floating up. Floating up and hovering in the air over St. Andrews. Drawing us back. Back into the future. It was all too much. Wow. The assistant said. This is pure poetry. He said. It was like he was there to do a number on my father as well. This is pure loner. The assistant said. This is pure loner folk. He said. What’s that. I asked him. It’s a genre. He said. It’s a genre of one. He said. And then he laughed. It’s a genre of one again and again. He said. That’s what Xstabeth is. I said. I know. The assistant said. That’s what I’m saying. I’m having this. He said. That is if you don’t want to buy it. He said. But my father just stood there. Or rather he stood somewhere else altogether. Caught in a dream. Coming back to him. Swaying slowly from side to side. I imagined the famous golfer and The Snork. Playing the music. Making the music. I imagined them in slow motion. Behind smoke. Dolled up like demons. And I imagined Sheila miming the words. Miming the words in the most horrible way. Miming the words with the comb. Miming the words using the comb as a microphone. Mocking my father like an evil clairvoyant. Then my father said. It’s yours. You can have it. Then he took my hand. Then we walked out into the haar. The tall steeples of the churches were lost in the fog. The ruins looked haunted. The fog lay so low that the towers appeared to begin halfway up. The cars drove off into oblivion. People too. Faded away. We headed to the East Scores. Then down to the harbour. Where we walked out as far as we could on the stone pier. At the end we came to a ladder. A metal ladder that reached up into the clouds. We climbed up. Through the clouds. We came to the top of a high stone tower. Looking back. Looking back we had lost all connection with the town. The stone pier ran off into oblivion. Now we were an island. Sealed off from the rest of the world. At the head of this tower. That was when we heard the music. The new music. The most elemental music. Ghostly music. Music that was barely there. At first you had to turn your head to hear it. You had to turn your ears to face a particular direction. Do you hear that. My father said. Do you hear that music. (Droning.) That sound. Do you hear that sound. (Droning.) It sounds like an angel. My father said. It sounds like an angel breathing out. (E minor.) Then another tone joined it. A tone that was so far away. But that was inside you at the same time. (E seventh.) A choir. My father said. A choir of angels. (Droning.) It’s only ships. I went to say. It’s only ships lost in the fog. But then I stopped myself. Then I realised. It’s not out there. We stood there. (Droning.) Staring into nothing. And listening to less.
* * *
By the time we crossed back into the town. By the time we crossed back into the town everything had changed. We went for a coffee. We went for a coffee in a coffee shop. In the toilet they had a map on the wall. A framed map of the Old Course at St. Andrews. But now it was mapped out like in heaven. Parts of it. The map claimed. Parts of it were now known as the Elysian Fields. The Elysian Fields is the heaven of the heroes. It’s where the saints go when they die. Oh father. Are we dead. I thought in the coffee shop on Market Street. Are we crossed over and dead. Then I saw the River Eden. I saw on the map that the River Eden marked the very boundary of the golf course. And that the whole town was now east of Eden. Father. I said. Father. As I accepted a café au lait. Do you know that Eden has appeared. Do you know that the souls of the heroes are walking on the fairway of the Old Course. Father. Even as we speak. Show me the map. He said. Oh good grief. He said. Can it be true. We went into a bookshop. We went into a bookshop in the fog. On Market Street. All of the books had changed too. All of the books now said that the Old Course was bordered by the River Eden. All of the books said the Elysian Fields were on the golf course itself. Everything has changed. My father said. Everything has been rewritten. Little one. He said. She’s playing. My father said. That’s her thing. He said. She’s playing with me.
Yes. Yes. I thought. I’ve been playing too. So I could understand it. Then I thought about the famous golfer and Sheila and The Snork. I thought about them in the fog. Sneaking around St. Andrews. She’s playing with them too. I thought. She isn’t even faithful. But I could understand that. It was all part of the story. Hadn’t my father said so himself. It was all so delicate. So precariously balanced.
* * *
We went to see the final day of the golf tournament. We saw the famous golfer. We watched as he walked across the Elysian Fields. That’s the Elysian Fields. I said. To a fat American sitting next to me. That’s the Elysian Fields that he’s walking across. I know. The fat American said. He squatted down. The famous golfer. He stood back up. He put his hand to his visor. He spoke to his partner. He tried to see ahead as best he could. He took out a club. He stared at the ball and at the ground. Then he swung into the future. This is too much. I said to my father. This is high drama. Then he disappeared. He disappeared across the fairway in the fog.
Afterwards. Afterwards we heard that he won. The famous golfer. I won’t tell you what year it was. Otherwise I would be giving everything away. We heard he won. But he didn’t call. He didn’t show up at the hotel. My father sat outside at a table. Outside the hotel. With a view across to the beach. Across to the west sands. Where the sun was going down once more. So delicate. I took my usual walk. My usual walk even though there had been no communication. I walked along The Scores at night. I displayed myself. To no one. No one was there. But still. I could feel eyes on me. My own eyes. Watching me. My own eyes. Greedy. Taking it all in. I displayed myself on a bench. I made myself available. I looked the part. He had called me the perfect Russian whore. The famous golfer. Now I was lonely. Not me. But I mean the me that watched me. She was lonely as she watched. I could tell. Don’t ask me how. I had just come to the point. That’s all. Baby. I said into the night. Baby. I said into the empty street. And the echoing walls. And the ruins. Baby. Is there anything I can do for you. But nothing. There was nothing. I was a ghost now. I had died. Remember. Then I began to notice things. Things like shadows creeping over walls. Things like the silhouettes of birds on high walls. Things like flowers sighing. Things like the waves coming in. Things that would never be repeated. Things like the sound of my footsteps in the dark. At first I began to match it. I began to match the sights and sounds as I walked. I’m ghosting. I said. I’m ghosting. Then I just gave up. I just gave up and walked back home. Back to the hotel. On my own. Without even trying. And with everything sounding and moving around me regardless. What a feeling. To just give up like that. I even walked in the front door. Past the golfers and the fans. All sitting there. Me dressed like a perfect Russian whore. Perfect. For the moment. I had come to the point.
I changed and found my father in the bar. On his own. Where’s Sheila. I asked him. She had gone on a day trip to Anstruther. To sample their fish and chips again. But she didn’t call. Do you think she is at the party. Do you think she is at the golf party celebrating with the famous golfer. To the winner the spoils. My father said. He reached out. He reached out and at this point he put his arm around my shoulder. And he said. You and me. That’s all he said. You and me. He said. We can’t set a foot wrong. I said to him. It’s impossible. Don’t you see. I said. But I was coming from somewhere else. Soon we were getting drunk and the bar was lively. It’s time to go. I said to my father. But no. For him it was time to sing a song. Someone brought him a guitar. And he played cover versions. Cover versions while drunk. He sang songs by Leonard Cohen. And by Nick Drake. Of course. And one about nothing. One about nothing. Again and again. About being born and going blind. And about how loneliness was the most precious gift. And the only thing that was worth remembering. In the morning we took the plane back to St. Peters.
THE DEATH OF DAVID W. KEENAN IN XSTABETH
by An Anonymous Bystander
David W. Keenan was found, bleeding from the head, but still breathing, at the foot of St. Rule’s Tower in the grounds of St. Andrews Cathedral, from where he had apparently hurled himself. This was October of 1995. It is not clear how long he had lain there for, as it was raining heavily and the smirr had washed in from the ocean, so visibility was poor and the cathedral grounds were deserted. Indeed, on discovery of the body it wasn’t possible to see the top of the tower, which was lost in the clouds and the fog. There was a book in his pocket, I clearly remember that, because just after I discovered the body a young woman appeared, who pointed out that he did, indeed, have a book in his pocket. I offered to run to a phone box and call for help if the young woman would agree to stay with the body. I don’t know why I keep calling it a body, it was still alive then—he, he was still alive then, David was. Who I didn’t know from Adam. Who I didn’t know, at this point, was a well-known local writer but also a crackpot, is what I’ve heard. As I ran off, I turned to look back and saw that the young woman was crouched down on the wet grass and leaning over him. I presumed she was tending to his wounds or caressing his crumpled body. But when I returned, she was gone. And the book was missing from his pocket. She turned him, I thought. She rolled him. And I almost marvelled at the resilience of women. I started speaking to the body. Maybe I call it a body because it was unresponsive. I was having a monologue, a reassuring monologue, with an unconscious, dying body. And then, I’m not kidding you, the clouds parted. Literally. And there was this great rainbow over the cathedral. This great rainbow appeared, and it started moving its lips, the body, this body, David, this body that I had been talking to like a small, scared child with no response started mouthing something. And then I realised he was singing. I’m disappearing, he sang, I swear to God, I’m disappearing, he sang, in this soft, mad voice like a gentle lunatic. And I realised he was dying. I kneeled down beside him and I put his head across my thighs. I’m disappearing, he sang. He couldn’t look at me, his eyes were all over the place. But it was like he was laughing, and bleeding, and convulsing, with joy. Who’s he singing to? I asked myself. And I looked out there. At this rainbow in this graveyard beneath this tower. She’s out there somewhere, I said to myself. I guessed there was a woman involved. I thought about the resilience of women all over again. As he sang himself to death there, in St. Andrews in the rain. Because I heard he died in the ambulance. I heard he died on the way there.
At home he fell into a slump. He described himself as being like an animal. My father. Like an animal that had lost its footing. On a thin mountain path. An animal that had lost its footing and had nearly fallen. An animal that had lost trust. In itself. Or in the universe. He wasn’t clear. An animal that had displayed a weakness. Who knows. A pack horse. Or a mule. Or maybe just a dog. I have to make it up to her. He said. I haven’t been paying attention. He said. I have to win her back. He said. I have to play the concert. He said. I’m an apostate. He said. What. He took out his notebooks. His St. Andrews notebooks. His notebooks that consisted mostly of simple drawings of birds. And he began to work. To work on new songs. Aren’t you just going to wing it. I said. It was kind of a joke. Aren’t you just going to let the spirit take you. I said. That’s what you did before. I said. No. He said. No. It has to be right. I need precision. He said. It has to be delicate. He said. He went to see The Snork. He went drinking at Snork’s. Any word on Jaco. He asked him. No man. The Snork said. The rumour is that he is living in a commune in the Urals with three wives. And that he has taken a vow of silence. The rumour is he saw the light. The Snork said. What does that mean. My father asked him. Who knows. The Snork said. You know it when you see it. I guess. He said. Bastard. My father said. What a disappearing act. That should have been me. He said. But I stumbled. He said. The Snork had no idea what he was on about and just gave him another drink. How was St. Andrews. The Snork asked him. We rewrote the book. My father said. St. Andrews is heaven on earth. He said. Sounds like fun. The Snork said. Then he went back to flicking through his records. Any more releases from Xstabeth. My father asked him. Would you believe we found one of those LPs in St. Andrews. No shit. The Snork said. No fucking shit. That’s what he said. Then he put on a song by The Seeds. “Where Is the Entrance Way to Play.” On an album called Future. Perhaps he’s widening his remit. He said. Not he. My father said. Not he. She. Xstabeth is a she. I doubt it. The Snork said. I seriously fucking doubt it. Unless it’s a she with an Adam’s apple and a beard. He said. If you get what I’m saying. I’m playing a show. My father told The Snork. Back in the saddle. The Snork said. And then he put on an LP by Bob Desper. He put on an LP by Bob Desper called New Sounds. My father would always play it at home. I never got out of the saddle. My father told The Snork. I’m always working. Always taking notes. He said. Always soaking things up. Bob Desper began to sing. It’s too late. It’s too late. He sang. It’s too late for the driver. Just Bob Desper with this doomy guitar. In a room full of echo. You doing your usual covers set. The Snork asked him. Cohen and shit. He said. That’s not my usual shit. My father said. That’s to keep the monkeys happy. He said. I’m going deep. He said. I’m dredging the bottom. He said. This time it’s as serious as your life. He said. Dredging the bottom. He said. Of course I pictured the body of my mother. The body of Jaco. Dredged up on a beach. On a beach in the dark. Tangled up in guitar strings. Their arms and feet tied together. Oh God. I thought. What is happening to us. Are we really raising the dead. Is everything tangled. I don’t buy it. The Snork said. Don’t buy what. I don’t buy the whole Bob Desper shit. He said. What. You mean the whole back story. My father said. The shit about him being a blind preacher. The Snork said. Bullshit. My father said. No man. The Snork said. You really buy that shit. He said. Damn right I do. There are pictures. There are pictures of Bob Desper. Bob Desper in the echoing studio. Alone. Sitting with a guitar. Singing into a microphone. And he has no eyes. That’s how my father put it. He has no eyes. Could have been anyone. The Snork said. They could have used any picture that they found. Who’s they. My father said. Record scum. The Snork said. Cynical collectors. People trying to big up an average LP. He said. Trying to turn it into a private press legend. He said. Christian psych. He said. You know the deal. The story I heard is that it was a bunch of record collectors who made the damn thing up. Trying to fool collectors. No man. My father said. There’s too much documentation. Besides. There is another record. There’s an earlier group. Doesn’t mean shit. The Snork said. Besides. My father said. You can hear the blindness. That’s what he said. All the time Bob Desper is singing. Rolling down life’s highway. He sang. Said he’s gonna do things my way. That was always a weird line. The Snork said. I always tripped over that one. Is that what you mean by hearing blindness. No man. I mean you can hear that Bob Desper has never even seen his own reflection. Yet he’s travelling down a highway. He’s singing about travelling down a highway. And about death lying on the highway. And you can tell. You can tell he has no idea what a highway is like. You can tell he thinks it’s something that has a particular sound. And a particular feel on the skin. I mean of course he has never driven. A blind man behind the wheel of a car. Give me a break. It’s too late. It’s too late. Bob Desper sang. It’s too late for the driver. You can’t fake blindness. My father said. Yes you can. The Snork said. All you have to do is close your eyes. That’s not blindness. Blindness is a state. My father insisted. How do you know. The Snork said. You know as much about blindness as Bob Desper knows about driving on the highway. He said. Playing the guitar is one thing that you can do when you’re blind. I’ll give you that. The Snork said. There are plenty of things you can do when you’re blind. My father said. Just most of them slowly. What would it be like. My father said. What would it be like to never have seen. Are there any other famous blind singers. He asked The Snork. Roy Orbison. Was he blind. No. But I heard he was an albino. Stevie Wonder. Of course. He said. The most depressing music ever. He said. I know. Tell me about it. My father said. But he sings like he had eyes in his head. He said. Maybe he went blind. The Snork said. Maybe he saw for a little bit. That would explain it. But that’s what I’m trying to say. My father said. When Bob Desper sings it is clear that he has never seen the light. You can hear it. Funny thing to say about a preacher. The Snork said. A preacher who never saw the light. My father said. That’s why it’s so heavy. Imagine having only seen the light through the dark. Eternity opens her gates. Bob Desper sang. She cries out it’s too late. And they both sat there and listened. It’s like the opposite of being born. The Snork said. Okay. He said. You got me. Maybe Desper is the real deal. But my father couldn’t get it out of his head. Light in darkness. He kept repeating. Sound in silence. And then he went back to working on his music.
