The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [83]
“‘Dream Door.’”
“Dream Door? By The Extinction Bazaar? Norval wrote that? You can’t be serious! I was a teenager when I heard that song! I bought the album because of that song! But … that doesn’t make sense. It’s a ballad, it’s romantic. He couldn’t have written that song!”
“Don’t tell him I told you, whatever you do. He can’t stand hearing it. The other day we heard it at the theatre and he almost went into convulsions.”
“But why did he … give it all up? He just topped out, apexed? Lost his muse?”
“I can think of a number of possibilities. Well, three.”
“Which are …?”
Noel rotated the cup, took a long sip. “First, it’s not easy seeing things clearly through a haze of drink and drugs.”
“Others have done it. What’s the second?”
“That his muse was a single memory. His songs and novel really only deal with one thing—loss.”
“And an attempt to regain what was lost.”
“Right. But once he had written about that one dominant memory, there was nothing else left, nowhere else to go.”
“What’s the third possibility?”
“Well, when Norval was younger he thought art would fill the vacuum, the void opened up by the … the decay of religion. That the world’s problems could be healed, or alleviated, by art—that ‘great undogmatised church,’ he called it. But now, when he looks around at today’s art, music, film, he’s lost hope of that ever happening. He says today’s art is all about vanity and ego. That celebrity matters more than truth; hype and popularity more than merit.”
“Hard to disagree there. The entertainment industry—it’s a freaking cesspool.”
Noel eyed Samira closely. You would know, he thought. “And he says that egalitarianism is to blame. Or unionism. When you pay plumbers and postmen and athletes that kind of money, you’re going to get films and books and TV shows directed at them, designed to take that money away.”
Samira smiled as she studied the floorboards, as if following the path of some insect.
Noel hesitated. “Didn’t something like that happen to you too?”
Samira raised her head, the smile dying in her eyes. “Something like what? What do you mean? I’m not a musician or writer.”
“True, but you were once an actress.”
“An actress? Me? What’re you talking about?”
“Does the name Heliodora Locke mean anything to you?”
Samira emptied the cup, in large gulps. “Should it?”
Noel regarded her searchingly. “Yes, it should.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re her.”
“My name is Samira Darwish.”
Noel tried to look into her eyes, the one place you can’t conceal the truth. “I’m sure it is. But you used to be an actress, right? Your stage name was Heliodora Locke?”
“Listen, I … can we change the subject?”
“It’s none of my business anyway.”
Samira bit her lip. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?”
“No. But I can get you some.”
“Don’t bother …” That bloody film, she reflected, was made … what? Eight years ago? Nine? At my peak, my high tide. I’ve aged, I’m not wearing make-up, my hair looks like shit. “How did you … you know, recognize …”
“Your voice colours.”
Samira nodded. “Right.”
“So that’s why you cut off all your hair? So as not to be recognised?”
“No. Because hair down to my waist just seemed to attract men, like a red cape before a bull.”
“And you don’t want to attract men.”
“Or bulls. I’ve made a vow of chastity. No, seriously.”
Norval and Samira, thought Noel. A natural pair. Each had a moment of fame and was repelled by the stench. Each attracts and is repelled by the opposite sex. “So you have a lot in common with Norval.”
“He’s taken a vow of chastity?”
“No, I meant—”
“He’s accomplished way more than me.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Acting or sex?”
“Acting.”
“Because … because some people are cut out for it, some aren’t. I don’t like seeing myself on screen, I don’t like being recognised, I don’t like money enough to have to deal with … well, the cesspool, as Norval called it.”
“You called it that.”
“The critics, the creeps, the poseurs, the paparazzi, I just couldn’t stand it. And I never really wanted it. It was just a … fluke. It was a dark period in my life, a big black