I didn't understand his attachment to the album until he told me that he was a struggling composer, and that most of his compositions were for solo piano. He also wrote for string quartet and quintet on occasion, but preferred to work with just one instrument. Since he only played the piano (and a little guitar), this seemed to be the most rational instrument for which to write. Some of his work has apparently been featured in a few video-game soundtracks. Much to my surprise, this is a pretty big market for contemporary composers. “It sounds like a joke, but, man, even the New York Times will be reviewing video-games in a few years — if not sooner. It's a legitimate artistic medium now.”
“And that's what I've been up to.”
“I told you that Connie was unstable,” Jeff says with a shake of the head.
“I know. But love blinds you, you know.” Caesura. “I guess I should have known that she was going to pull some type of stunt.”
Jeff stares to the table somberly as though he is studying a recondite text that demands no small amount of concentration. “Is this how you're going to remember her?”
“What?”
“Can you even remember her — before all of this?” as he pushes his glasses up.
“I guess I just remember that she was always…”
“Always what?”
“I don't know. My thinking is a bit cloudy. It's been a long day.”
“What did you see in her?”
“I don't know,” with a shrug.
“Seriously, man. What did you see in her?”
“I guess she's really intelligent. She's just prone to these bouts of — I know I've already used this word today, but it seems to be the only one that fits — histrionics. It's as though she has this pathological need to create dramatic situations.” I pause. “And maybe I felt like she was the only person who really fit, you know. There are only a few redeeming qualities that I can think of right now, but, for whatever reason, there just seemed to be something there, something deeper that I've lost. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Not to be rude, but it sounds like you spend two years settling. She may be intelligent, but it sounds like she's emotionally retarded and, to be blunt, a total fucking bitch.”
“Maybe you're right.” I pause for a while. “The thing is that I spent so much time with her that I can't really see myself with anyone else. Not even now.”
“What about this Vinati girl?”
“The whole situation just seems too good to be true. Maybe it's even surreal — I don't know. You haven't seen her, but, man, I've got to tell you, she's just…she's something else.”
He smiles. “Did you know Hegel believed India to be home to the most beautiful women on Earth?”
“I didn't realize Hegel had much experience with women from that part of the world.”
“Maybe it was just common wisdom at the time. To be honest, I don't really know. It's just something that I've always found funny.” He lights a cigarette. “Herodotus said the same thing about Ethiopian women. Neither one stated it as an opinion, either. They both considered their statements to be established facts.”
I nod.
“What else do you see in her?”
“Connie?”
“No, this…what's her name again?”
“Vinati.”
“Vinati. It's a beautiful name.”
“It is. And she's just incredibly beautiful. And she's, you know, fairly intelligent, too. I mean, I never considered her to be a great intellect or anything, but we had a lot of good conversations yesterday.”
“So she's not a dummy.”
“No, she's not. She's bright. She's fairly well read. She has a good sense of humor, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say of Connie.”
“It sounds like all the necessary building blocks are there.”
“Yeah, they are. Definitely. And I feel bad that I can't really tell you about all of her idiosyncrasies yet — that's just because I'm getting to know her.”
“Really? You?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, it's not that I'm accusing you of being judgmental. You just have the tendency to…I guess construct personae and back-stories for people out of nothing more than a glance. I guess all people do it; you just seem to go into a lot depth.”
“So I over-analyze people?”
“Yes. Look, dude, I'm not trying to insult you. It's not like it's a character flaw or anything. I mean, you're just like Zuckerman.”
“Dylan?”
“No, Roth's Zuckerman. I don't remember his first name.”
“Okay.”
He drags from his cigarette in silence. Where did the music go? “I just find it odd that you haven't seriously thought about this girl.”
“Sometimes I just don't. Certain people I just accept at face value.”
“Okay,” he says as he reveals his palms to me. He's quiet for a moment. “But, going back to Connie, it seems as though you were in love with the idea of having a girlfriend. In other words, the particular person wasn't all that important; you just wanted to be in love with someone. Some people may say that you were in love with the idea of her.” He ashes the cigarette, looks to it, and then puts it in his mouth. “I'm sorry if any of this is out of line or overly cerebral.”
“No, not at all. You know, given the circumstances…”
His nods. “Let me ask you a question,” he begins as his expression mimics one often worn by Aberdeen. “When you read a poem about love, do you instantly imagine Connie? I mean, even if the author describes a person bearing no physical resemblance to her?”
“Still?”
“As of yesterday.”
I think. I think for a while. She is that personification of the loved. The self I have constructed for her is an avatar that materializes as Juliet, as Werther's Lotte, as I-330, as pre-veil P.G.O.A.T. She's every heroine, every love-interest. Connie's identity has become almost meaningless over the years.
“I'll take that as a yes,” he says.
“Well, it was because I was in love with her.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I mean,” I stumble, “We had our squabbles, but, yes, I definitely loved her.”
“I'm sure you did, or at least you believed that you did.”
“Don't pull this type of bullshit with me, Jeff,” with a roll of my eyes.
“Am I wrong? It seems like you enjoyed her company occasionally, the ability to have sex without having to form an intimate connection with a stranger — to begin anew, so to speak.”