All Our Pretty Songs

“Oh, hi,” she says, her expression guilty. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“That was beautiful,” I tell her. “It was like being underwater.”

She smiles. “‘Chaque flot est un ondin qui nage dans le courant.’”

“What?”

“Ravel’s Ondine. It’s about a mermaid who falls in love with a mortal and tries to tempt him to come live with her in her ocean palace. She promises him he’ll be a king. When he tells her he’s in love with a human woman, she laughs at him and vanishes in a shower of rain.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Not really. She’s not human. She doesn’t feel things the way human beings do. She likes the idea of the mortal world, but what she’s feeling isn’t love the way we know it. And if she brings her lover underwater she’ll kill him. You can think of it as a happy ending.” Maia is the most animated I’ve ever seen her, emphasizing her points with her hands. “Ondine is the first movement. Ravel based the entire piece on a book called Gaspard de la Nuit, by the poet Aloysius Bertrand. The whole book deals with night creatures and darkness, the twilight world. Ravel was trying to make a play on Romanticism, but he said later that he thought the piece had gotten the better of him. He became completely obsessed with Bertrand while he was working on the piece. He told a friend that the devil was inspiring him to write the music the same way the devil had inspired Bertrand to write his poetry. ‘Boudeuse et depitee’ is what Bertrand says of the mermaid: peevish and sulky, not heartbroken. None of the creatures from that world understand the way human emotions work. They’re all mimicking what they see in us. They can’t create things. They can only steal from us. They’re forever crossing over to wreak havoc because they’re jealous.”

Maia’s eyes have a feverish gleam, but for once I’m sure she’s sober. The lecture is jarring, and I don’t like where this conversation is going. Given what’s been happening in my life lately, I’m none too thrilled to hear Maia citing the devil as an everyday source of other people’s artistic inspiration. “I never knew you played,” I say, changing the subject. “You’re really good.”

Her face goes blank. All the life seems to run out of her as I watch. I don’t know what I’ve said wrong. “I used to be,” she says. “Jack and Aurora are upstairs.” I take the hint and leave her staring at the piano.

Jack and Aurora are in Aurora’s bed watching Aliens. They aren’t touching, I notice, and then hate myself for noticing. Hicks is showing Ripley how to use the grenade launcher. This scene never fails to send Aurora and me into a frenzy of lust. “Is it normal, do you think,” I say, squeezing between them, “to experience actual feelings of loss and anguish over the fact that Hicks is not a real person?” Jack nods solemnly, puts his hand at the small of my back. “I didn’t know Maia played the piano,” I add.

“She’s weird about it,” Aurora says, gnawing on a piece of beef jerky. “She won’t do it if she knows I’m in the house. Oh my god, look at him. Go, Ripley, go.”

“Does she play a lot?”

“She was going to be a concert pianist or something.”

“She’s incredible.”

Aurora shrugs. “Fat lot of good it does her. Shut up, this is the good part.”

“It’s all the good part.”

“Shut up.”

“How are you feeling?” Jack asks me.

“Not my best. How are you feeling? That was some show.”

“Shhhh,” Aurora says, riveted to the screen.

“Aurora, we have both seen this movie at least forty times.”

“I’m a little tired,” Jack says.

“Did you see anything—” I pause, not even sure of what I’m asking. “Weird? Did you see anything weird?”

“What do you mean, weird?”

“Shhhhhhhh.” Aurora smacks me. “For fucking real.”

I roll my eyes, lower my voice. “Like, you know, weird.”

“I don’t notice much when I play.”

“You were really drunk,” Aurora says to me, not looking away from the screen.

“Not that drunk. Who was that guy you introduced me to?”

“You should ask Jack who that guy was.”

I look at Jack. He turns his face away. “What,” I say.

“Come outside with me,” he says. We leave Aurora, rapt in her bed, and I follow him downstairs and into the jungle of her garden. He finds a less-tangled patch in the shaggy lawn, sheltered from the house by a thicket of blackberries. He lies down in the grass. I stretch out next to him and put my head on his chest.

“You’re going to tell me something shitty,” I say into his shirt.

“I’m not going to be around for much longer,” he says. “They want me to go to Los Angeles. Cut a record. Minos has a club there. I can headline some shows. It’s a big deal.”

“That’s what you were auditioning for.”

“More or less.”

“What do you mean, more or less? Who was that guy? Minos’s boss?”

He puts his arms around me and doesn’t answer.

“You saw what I saw,” I say.

“I told you, I don’t notice much when I play.”

“When do you leave?”

“I don’t know. Soon. It’s not up to me.”

“Will you come back?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can I come?”

“Oh, you.” I wait for him to say something else. Of course you can come with me. I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without you.

“What did you promise them?”

His arms tighten around me. “Nothing I’m not willing to give.” His voice is steady. The ordinary sun beams overhead in an ordinary sky. Birds chirp, butterflies flutter. I will not fucking cry. If it kills me, I will not cry.

“Does Aurora know?”

“She knows.”

“And now I pretend like everything is okay until you leave?”

“You don’t have to pretend anything. But I’d like to enjoy the time I have left with you.”

“So I pretend.” I sit up, furious. “To make it easier for everyone. Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Jack.”

He reaches for my hand but I pull it away. “You knew what I was when you met me,” he says.

“Is this about Aurora?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Now he’s angry, too. “No, this is not about Aurora.”

“Why was it ever me, and not her,” I say. He sits up, puts his hands on my knees. This time I don’t back away. He looks at me until I have to meet his eyes.

“You’re so strong,” he says. “The first time I saw you, in that garden, you seemed so sure of yourself. You have this relentlessness, this fury. You say what you think. You’re not afraid of anything. You’re not like anyone else I know. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Nobody loves the girl who is strong. They love the girl who is beautiful.”

“I love you,” he says. So low I almost miss it. I will not cry in front of him. I will not. I will not. I will not.

“Not enough.” My voice does not waver.

“What if you had to choose? Between art and me? What if you had to go someplace I couldn’t follow?”

“I would choose you. I would stay here.”

“No,” he says gently. “You wouldn’t. You’re seventeen. Your entire life is in front of you. You’re good. But more than that, you’re stubborn. You don’t take anything for granted. You’re so young, and already you understand what it’s like to work. You’ll love other people. But you would never be able to survive letting go of your art. I can’t,