Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [41]
Stopped at the light at Sunset and Doheny, I checked my watch, then hitched myself up in my seat and gulped in the moment: 6:42 P.M., Friday, July 2. I committed the night air, the cloud formations, and the faces of the passersby to memory. It was my moment, spawned by my covenant, and it would never be again. The light changed and I drove into Beverly Hills.
I parked my old Camaro in the long circular driveway behind Jane’s Cadillac. Sol Kupferman’s newer, darker one was gone. I rang the doorbell and first notes of the choral part of Beethoven’s Ninth sounded off in chimes. A nice touch, no doubt added by Jane.
She threw open the door a moment later and bid me enter. I did. The living room was huge and lavishly appointed. Jane swept an arm toward the vast room, as though encouraging me to take it all in, but all I could look at was her. Her hair was down to her shoulders and she wore only the slightest touch of makeup. She looked demure yet sophisticated, a study in feminine charisma.
“Hi,” I said. “You look good.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Is Sol around? I want to sell him some fire insurance.”
“Very amusing. No, Sol is not around. Run into any firebugs lately?”
“No, but I have run into a few caddies who might serve in that capacity. I prowl golf courses at night, hunting for golf balls and sleeping in sand traps. Take me to your wisest golfer.”
Jane cracked up, doubled over in laughter and grabbed my arm for support. “Laughter in the face of adversity,” she said, “what a scream. It’s kind of decadent, but it feels good. Look, I’ve found two of those letters you wanted. But don’t read them tonight, okay? I don’t want to talk about the whole bum trip.”
“Okay, I was going to suggest the same thing.”
Jane squeezed my arm. “Good,” she said. “Wait here and I’ll get them. Then we can leave.” She scurried off upstairs and I eyeballed the room. Interior decoration doesn’t send me, but I can recognize superb design when I see it. The room had high ceilings; the walls were a rich mustard color. They were hung with oil paintings of sailing ships and landscapes from the last century. Large, tufted floral couches and easy chairs were arranged concentrically. Rich, dark wood was in abundance. The wide bay windows that fronted the street would provide gently reflected sunlight on bright days and a great muted view on darker ones. It seemed like a good place to live.
Jane returned with the letters and I stuck them into my back pocket without examining them. “Nice pad,” I said, “out of the low-rent district.”
Jane smiled. “I feel comfortable here,”
“I’m glad. You deserve it. Now let’s get out of here.”
We drove east. Darkness had fallen and the stars shining in the clear sky competed with garish neon for primacy and won. They didn’t usually, but the completeness of this night altered my perceptions of everything, including my city.
Jane and I talked comfortably.
“Why the cello, Jane?” I asked. “It seems an odd choice for a fledgling music lover. The piano or the violin seem more likely. Their virtuosity is overwhelming to a person just starting to appreciate music.”
“Very true. I’ve asked myself the same question a million times. With me the cello was love at first hearing. It reflected all my deep, inchoate feelings. You know, the sadness, the weltshmerz that sensitive young girls feel. And it seemed so stable, so steeped in tradition! Anyway, I just flipped for it. And I started listening selectively, too. When I came to live with Sol, he bought me a stereo and hundreds of records. And I fell in love with string quartets. Someday I’ll play with a good quartet, and that will be home.”
“You’re home now. Savor these years of practice and study. I know that when, years from now, you reflect on your life, you’ll consider them among your finest.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment, Fritz. How did you become interested in music?”
I laughed. “It was sort of funny and totally unexpected. I was twenty-one and