Short Story: Countless Songs

A short story piece by Victor Lockwood that is the second part of a series entitled 

'Neighborhood Short Stories'

Read part one: "The World of Blank Pages"

Countless Songs

By Victor Lockwood

And so here I am. Settling in the Neighbourhood. Finally.

The capital N is important, because without it that wouldn't be a good story to tell. With it, however... Oh, hang on, you do know what the Neighbourhood is, right? Mmh. Those of you who have been brought up by a pack of wolves and just arrived to the city (it also goes for those who learned to climb up trees by stepping on a panther's muzzle), and those of you who just came back from a fruitless mission to find a stain on a Swiss tablecloth, all of you, listen up, it is time for a heads up. To all the others, I apologise. This was not part of the plan, but as I'm sure you can understand, my story's worthless for a reader who doesn't get what the capital N is here for... It's a question of fairness, for everybody to have a chance to enjoy what they are reading. You can skip the following bit, by the way, it's absolutely fine with me. I'll see you later. Again, so sorry.


So. The Neighbourhood. Where to begin? I guess before I try to describe that wonderful, wonderful place to you, I need to explain something crucial. See, art is an industry. That might come up as a shocking statement to some of you, yet it's the truth. Bear in mind it's not necessarily a bad thing. It doesn't mean that imagination has been smothered, or that creativity has been curbed. Certainly not when you think about the Neighbourhood. No, it's just that some people believe that, in a favourable environment, imagination can be provoked on a regular basis, that a creative process can be systematised. Yes, art is an industry, and I'm about to settle in the very first and only industrial estate of that kind.

I had pictured a standard industrial zone in my head, but when I arrived, I realised that of course the Neighbourhood had nothing you could call standard. No big factories here, whirring with the sounds of clockworks and levers and cranks. No thick columns of smoke that seemed to hold the sky, no fumes, no gasses, no petrol. Only talent. Talent was the only raw material here, the kind of resource that shall never experience a shortage, and that keeps the world alive rather than kills it.

I like to think that I have talent. As the luxurious black limo dropped me on my street and I began to walk, I liked to think that my presence here was a proof that I had at least a bit of it. But then I instantly understood that whatever I had didn't make me moderately special anymore. What was considered to be a weirdo in the Neighbourhood was the kind of person who had never written an acclaimed bestseller, or had a single on top of the charts for at least seven and a half weeks, or produced a painting that got sold for less than 700,000$ (that's roughly about 545,038.26€, and £436,686.79, in case you're wondering), or won an Oscar in the first seven years of their career. No, from what I heard, Golden Globes did not count.

Me? In this place, I was common. As in, not the dazzling-stunning-worshipped-amazing-thousands-of-fans-international-superstar kind of common, but rather the promising-beginner kind, which, I decided, meant I was expected to keep a relatively low profile.

All the same, excited didn't even begin to scratch the surface of my feelings at that moment. 'Stay still, Nat', I ordered myself, as my legs were trembling from exhilaration. 'Stay calm. Breathe in, breathe out. Stay in control, just like when you sing. The Neighbourhood is the biggest stage of all, and surround you the sharpest, most uncompromising critiques you will ever have to deal with in your career'.

At this time of the afternoon, I had expected for the streets not to be that empty. But the fact that they were didn't mean I had no audience. The buildings, for one thing. They were the kind of buildings that stare down on you as you walk by, their immutable, square, opaque eyes hidden under heavy hats of red tiles. There definitely was something pompous about their attitude; they were erect, all proud, straightening with grandness, flaunting their rich balconies and the gilt that ran like golden features along their bodies of bricks. I was so overwhelmed by their majesty, so humbled by their consideration, that I felt a heat in my body, the same feeling I had when my producer called me for the very first time, after he had heard me sing in Mum's bar, or the one I have when I dream of a Whitney Houston-Céline Dion-Mariah Carey trio... A 'We Are The World' type of thing, but with divas only. After my producer's call, I screamed like these exasperating TV teens when they buy new shoes. If this song had existed, I would have died of pleasure listening to it. R.I.P. Whitney...

'My girl, my girl... Nat, is that your name?'

'Yes, sir', I blurted out at my first meeting with Retch, my producer.

'Well, Nat, my girl... What have you been up to?'

'I... I'm sorry? Was I late? Oh gosh. Jesus. Oh flipgoodnessme. I'm so sorry, Mr. Cellocase I... I thought we had arranged 3pm, so I arrived at 2:15, just to make sure, but...'

'No, Nat, you weren't late at all. Relax, my girl. And call me Retch'.

He grinned, and I laughed so loud from the embarrassment I feared for my voice. I've got a very sensitive voice, you know.

'I was just wondering why you weren't a star already', he went on. 'That's why I'm asking: What have you been up to?'

Had I just heard the word 'star' in a sentence directed at me? How was I still breathing at that point?

'I was schooling. I mean studying. At school. For my studies and stuff. It's Mum, she's a school sort of person, so she put me there'.

'She did well, my girl. Your mum's a good mum. But now? Now you're done. It's over. You're never going back. And that's because I'm gonna make a diva out of you, my girl. Look at you... You've got all it takes. Beside the great voice and great writing, I mean. You're overemotional, dreamy, ambitious, perfectionist, young, full of hopes, and you wear pink only'.

'I really love pink. However I can also do purple'.

'Sure you can. Tell me, how many times have you seen a Beyonce concert?'

'Seventeen. Well, that's counting her Destiny's Child period'.

'That's what I'm talking about. Listen, I want you to record this song I heard you sing. You're mine now, my girl. And if it works, I shall offer you a flat in the Neighbourhood'.

'Is that close to Broadway?'

So my single worked really well. Number one during eight weeks. Diving into life, by Nat Unicorn, as I'm sure you would've guessed by now. Every radio station would play it on and on, wouldn't they? Now people want another song, and I'm going to give it to them. Wait for it, I'm sure you guys will not be able to live without it as soon as it's out!

For my arrival, I had decided to dress up modestly. No pink, so that I wouldn't seem girly. My auburn hair attached in a loose ponytail to show how relaxed I was. Some make-up, but not too much, to achieve the class of a lady. A thick coat, to give the impression I had a strong body. A scarf hiding my expressions, my face seemingly unruffled. I looked exactly like the contrary of what I was at that moment, and it was all for the better.

An elated pink child wasn't what I wanted the buildings, and all those inside, to see. It was hard to focus on my character, though, because I couldn't help thinking: 'What if the fresh paint I can smell is composing the painting that will soon make Mona Lisa seem all fuddy-duddy? What if the echoes I can hear will become the symphony of a new Mozart? What if the man who declaims a monologue in the distance is Robert Pattinson's spiritual heir? And what about all the words, that darkened blank pages to turn them into the invaluable manuscripts of timeless masterpieces?' There was so much in the air, a thrill, an energy, an incandescence of art that fully justified a capital N, and I wanted more than anything to be part of it. Countless songs had to be written about the Neighbourhood, and I was the one who would write them. But I knew it would take time. This afternoon, I felt as though I would have needed a thousand vocal cords to sing all the words that came to me, and a thousand' thousand lungs to breathe in all this oxygen of mind.

All I could breathe in then was a cold and dangerous wind, so I tightened my scarf around my fragile throat and decided to go back a bit to turn where I had been told my apartment was.

And then I saw them. Pages, white as birds of ivory, flying out of a window, an ephemeral species pushed by the wind to a land of legends.

I entered the building, moved by what I saw, thrilled by all I still had to see. When I arrived on the third floor, a door burst open.

'Whoops! I'm sorry, I... I was just looking for my apartment. Hang on. 36. Oh well, it seems we'll be neighbours then!'

He was quite pale. The man, he was quite pale. Wide-eyed, a bit distraught by something maybe. He was holding tight on a pen, so tight, it seemed, that his hand shook from the effort. His livid forehead wrinkled when he saw me, and he bit the scarlet scar that was his lip. His shirt was so dark as well! I wondered: Maybe he's a Victor Hugo, but much slimmer and without all the facial hair. Or a Van Gogh, with two ears and less blurry features. I felt like smiling to him though, because he seemed oddly nice. So I loosened my scarf and showed him. You don't miss a chance to make friends with Victor Hugo or Van Gogh when you get one anyway.

'My pages', he greeted me. He wanted to talk about his work already. That was a good start!

Only then did I understand: 'Oh, that was you, wasn't it? I saw it all! Was it an artistic project? It was really brilliant. Did you want to claim how vain writing is? Or the detachment of art from nature? I got that. It was very strong, you know. So you're a writer then. That's really great. I'm new in the Neighbourhood. I'm a singer-to-be. I'm Nat, by the way, very nice to meet you'.

I figured calling myself a singer-to-be was a good plan. I didn't want to have to mention the single song that I usually tend to extrapolate into an actual career. Chances were he was a hugely successful author, and there was no way I would impress him with that.

I showed him my hand, and that, I think, made him a bit panicky. It seemed to me he kind of forgot what to do with his own in relation to mine for two long seconds. But then he shook it, in a surprisingly vivacious way, so I decided he liked me, and that flattered me, and I liked him too. And when I like someone I start talking:

'I was having a walk around the Neighbourhood. It's a nice place. I'm excited. It shows, doesn't it? (I giggled. I felt stupid, but then I realised his scar of a lip had twisted in some sort of grimace... it's when I looked at his kind eyes that I knew it was a smile. I went on:) It's just that there's so much to do, and... and so much to share here. I mean, we're supposed to be the most promising artists in the country, right? Not that I want to boast about it, but it's such a privilege! I'm so humbled, you know? I had to come back though, because of all this wind. Wind is not good for a singer. My voice is so sensitive as well. I shouldn't talk that much, by the way. Tell me, I was just going to have some tea with loads of honey in it - honey helps a singer, you know? - so would like to, say, join me? So that you could tell me all your stories?'

That was bold. I hoped he wouldn't be put off by that, and that the removal men had thought of my tea and honey. The answer I got wasn't either of the ones I expected:

'I have no story to tell.'

I blinked. There was a sudden distress in his eyes, a melancholy that took me by surprise. It wasn't a joke, but I didn't think he was the kind to make jokes. He looked clueless, slightly insecure, like a grown child who just lost his best toy but wasn't sure he needed it anymore. Vulnerable, that's what he was, and I, the young girl usually in pink, wanted to take care of him.

'Well I guess we could make one up while we're drinking tea, then', I attempted, with an uncertain smile. 'What do you think?'

He nodded repeatedly, and that made me smile some more.

'But before we go...' he said, and grabbed a blank page from the floor. Then he scribbled something on it. That excited me quite a lot. I let him lock his door (as he stepped out, he seemed to breathe for the very first time since our encounter), and I had to ask him:

'Can I be curious? What... What did you just write?'

He looked at his page and thought about it.

'It... It's ah... It's a, well... a new story, actually. Brand new. A tale. For the cherubs'.

'The cherubs? That's a funny word! It's a good word, cherubs. People don't use it enough, don't you think? A tale, then. Well that's exciting. I love tales myself you know, with or without fairies. But hang on, are you... Gosh, that's you! Yes, I'm sure it's you! You're Kane Pickle, you wrote The Bird Above The Buds! I'm so honoured, you know? Mum used to read me your story when I was young and I'm sure your photo was on the inside cover. You published it when you were a teen, didn't you? You haven't changed that much! Well that's amazing. And the story is lovely. The twist at the end! Gosh, I remember it, trust me! Tell me, sir, will there be fairies in your new tale?'

'No. But there will definitely be a Muse'.