Now And Forever Part 1

NOW AND FOREVER.

SOMEWHERE A BAND IS PLAYING.

LEVIATHAN '99.

RAY BRADBURY.

"SOMEWHERE"

Some stories-be they short stories, novellas, or novels-you may realize, are written as a result of a single, immediate, clear impulse. Others ricochet off various events over a lifetime and come together much later to make a whole.

When I was six years old my father, who had an urge to travel, took our family by train to Tucson, Arizona, for a year, where we lived in a burgeoning environment; for me, it was exhilarating. The town was very small and it was still growing. There's nothing more exciting than to be part of the evolution of a place. I felt a sense of freedom there and I made many wonderful friends.

A year later, we moved back to Waukegan, Illinois, where I had been born and spent the first years of my life. But we returned to Tucson when I was twelve, and this time I experienced an even greater sense of exhilaration because we lived out on the edge of town and I walked to school every day, through the desert, past all the fantastic varieties of cacti, encountering lizards, spiders and, on occasion, snakes, on my way to seventh grade; that was the year I began to write.

Then, much later, when I lived in Ireland for almost a year, writing the screenplay of Moby d.i.c.k for John Huston, I encountered the works of Stephen Leac.o.c.k, the Canadian humorist. Among them was a charming little book t.i.tled Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town.

I was so taken with the book that I tried to get MGM to make a motion picture of it. I typed up a few preliminary pages to show the studio how I envisioned the book as a film. When MGM's interest failed, I was left with the beginning of a screenplay that had the feeling of a small town. But at the same time I couldn't help but remember the Tucson I had known and loved when I was six and when I was twelve, and began to write my own screenplay and short story about a town somewhere in the desert.

During those same years I kept encountering Katharine Hepburn, either in person or on the screen, and I was terribly attracted by the fact that she remained so youthful in appearance through the years.

Sometime in 1956, when she was in her late forties, she made the film Summertime. This caused me somehow to put her at the center of a story for which I had no t.i.tle yet, but Somewhere a Band Is Playing was obviously evolving.

Some thirty years ago I saw a film called The Wind and the Lion, starring Sean Connery and with a fabulous score by Jerry Goldsmith. I was so taken with the score that I sat down, played it, and wrote a long poem based on the enchanting music.

This became another element of Somewhere a Band Is Playing as I progressed through the beginnings of a story which I had not yet fully comprehended, but it seemed as if finally all the elements were coming together: the year I spent in Tucson, age six, the year I spent there when I was twelve, the various encounters with Katharine Hepburn, including her magical appearance in Summertime, and my long poem based on the score of The Wind and the Lion. All of these ran together and inspired me to begin a long prologue to the novella that ultimately followed.

Today, looking back, I realize how fortunate I am to have collected such elements, to have held them ready, and then put them together to make this final product, Somewhere a Band Is Playing. I have been fortunate to have many "helpers" along the way. One of those, in the case of this story, is my dear friend Anne Hardin, who has offered me strong encouragement over the past few years to see this novella published. For that she shares in the dedication of this work.

Of course, I had hoped to finish the novella, over the years, in order to have it ready in time for Katharine Hepburn, no matter how old she got, to play the lead in a theater or film adaptation. Katie waited patiently, but the years pa.s.sed, she became tired, and finally left this world. I cannot help but feel she deserves the dedication I have placed on this story.

SOMEWHERE A BAND IS PLAYING...

for Anne Hardin and Katharine Hepburn,

with love.

CHAPTER 1.

There was a desert prairie filled with wind and sun and sagebrush and a silence that grew sweetly up in wildflowers. There was a rail track laid across this silence and now the rail track shuddered.

Soon a dark train charged out of the east with fire and steam and thundered through the station. On its way it slowed at a platform littered with confetti, the tatters of ancient tickets punched by transient conductors.

The locomotive slowed just enough for one piece of luggage to catapult out, and a young man in a summer dishrag suit to leap after and land running as the train, with a roar, charged on as if the station did not exist, nor the luggage, nor its owner who now stopped his jolting run to stare around as the dust settled around him and, in the distance, the dim outlines of small houses were revealed.

"d.a.m.n," he whispered. "There is something here, after all."

More dust blew away, revealing more roofs, spires, and trees.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why did I come here?"

He answered himself even more quietly, "Because."

CHAPTER 2.

Because.

In his half-sleep last night he had felt something writing on the insides of his eyelids.

Without opening his eyes he read the words as they scrolled: Somewhere a band is playing, Playing the strangest tunes, Of sunflower seeds and sailors Who tide with the strangest moons.

Somewhere a drummer simmers And trembles with times forlorn, Remembering days of summer In futures yet unborn.

"Hold on," he heard himself say.

He opened his eyes and the writing stopped.

He half-raised his head from the pillow and then, thinking better of it, lay back down.

With his eyes closed the writing began again on the inside of his lids.

Futures so far they are ancient And filled with Egyptian dust, That smell of the tomb and the lilac, And seed that is spent from l.u.s.t, And peach that is hung on a tree branch Far out in the sky from one's reach, There mummies as lovely as lobsters Remember old futures and teach.

For a moment he felt his eyes tremble and shut tight, as if to change the lines or make them fade.

Then, as he watched in the darkness, they formed again in the inner twilight of his head, and the words were these: And children sit by on the stone floor And draw out their lives in the sands, Remembering deaths that won't happen In futures unseen in far lands.

Somewhere a band is playing Where the moon never sets in the sky And n.o.body sleeps in the summer And n.o.body puts down to die; And Time then just goes on forever And hearts then continue to beat To the sound of the old moon-drum drumming And the glide of Eternity's feet; "Too much," he heard himself whisper. "Too much. I can't. Is this the way poems happen? And where does it come from? Is it done?" he wondered.

And not sure, he put his head back down and closed his eyes and there were these words: Somewhere the old people wander And linger themselves into noon And sleep in the wheat fields yonder To rise as fresh children with moon.

Somewhere the children, old, maunder And know what it is to be dead And turn in their weeping to ponder Oblivious filed 'neath their bed.

And sit at the long dining table Where Life makes a banquet of flesh, Where dis-able makes itself able And spoiled puts on new masks of fresh.

Somewhere a band is playing Oh listen, oh listen, that tune!

If you learn it you'll dance on forever In June...

And yet June...

And more...June...

And Death will be dumb and not clever And Death will lie silent forever In June and June and more June.

The darkness now was complete. The twilight was quiet.

He opened his eyes fully and lay staring at the ceiling in disbelief. He turned in the bed and picked up a picture postcard lying on the nightstand, and stared at the image.

At last he said, half aloud, "Am I happy?"

And responded to himself, "I am not happy."

Very slowly he got out of bed, dressed, went downstairs, walked to the train station, bought a ticket and took the first train heading west.

CHAPTER 3.

Because.

Well, now, he thought, as he peered down the tracks. This place isn't on the map. But when the train slowed, I jumped, because...

He turned and saw a wind-battered sign over the flimsy station that seemed about to sink under tides of sand: SUMMERTON, ARIZONA.

"Yes, sir," said a voice.

The traveler dropped his gaze to find a man of some middle years with fair hair and clear eyes seated on the porch of the ramshackle station, leaning back in shadow. An a.s.sortment of hats hung above him, which read: TICKET SELLER, BAGGAGE MASTER, SWITCHMAN, NIGHT WATCHMAN, TAXI. Upon his head was a cap with the word STATIONMASTER st.i.tched on its bill in bright red thread.

"What'll it be," the middle-aged man said, looking at the stranger steadily. "A ticket on the next train? Or a taxi two blocks over to the Egyptian View Arms?"

"G.o.d, I don't know." The younger man wiped his brow and blinked in all directions. "I just got here. Jumped off. Don't know why."

"Don't argue with impulse," said the stationmaster. "With luck you miss the frying pan and hit a nice cool lake on a hot day. So, what'll it be?"

The older man waited.

"Taxi, two blocks, to the Egyptian View Arms," said the young man, quickly. "Yes!"

"Fine, given the fact that there are no Egyptians to view, nor a Nile Delta. And Cairo, Illinois, is a thousand miles east. But I suppose we've got plenty of arms."

The old man rose, pulled the STATIONMASTER cap from his head, and replaced it with the TAXI cap. He bent to take the small suitcase when the young man said, "You're not just going to leave-?"

"The station? It'll mind itself. The tracks aren't going nowhere, there's nothing to be purloined within, and it'll be some few days before another train takes us by surprise. Come on." He hoisted the bag and shuffled out of the gloom and around the corner.

Behind the station was no taxi. Instead, a rather handsome large white horse stood, patiently waiting. And behind the horse was a small upright wagon with the words KELLY'S BAKERY, Fresh Bread, painted on its side.

The taxi driver beckoned and the young man climbed into the wagon and settled himself in the warm shadow. The stranger inhaled.

"Ain't that a rare fine smell?" said the taxi driver. "Just delivered five dozen loaves!"

"That," said the young man, "is the perfume of Eden on the first morn."

The older man raised his eyebrows. "Well, now," he wondered, "what's a newspaper writer with aspirations to be a novelist doing in Summerton, Arizona?"

"Because," said the young man.

"Because?" said the older man. "That's one of the finest reasons in the world. Leaves lots of room for decisions." He climbed up onto the driver's seat, looked with gentle eyes at the waiting horse and made a soft clicking noise with his tongue and said, "Claude."

And the horse, hearing his name, carried them away into Summerton, Arizona.

CHAPTER 4.

The air was hot as the bakery wagon moved and then, as they reached the shadows of trees, the air began to cool.

The young man leaned forward.

"How did you guess?"

"What?" said the driver.

"That I'm a writer," said the young man.

The taxi driver glanced at the pa.s.sing trees and nodded.

"Your tongue improves your words on their way out. Keep talking."