His flat was unusually quiet, imbued with a silence that was a stranger to Los Angeles, especially during the nights, so close to the heart of the city. One would have expected hoards of people to walk by and fill the air of nocturnal quietude with their human noises. Cars would speed by on other occasions, in the distance as well as closer, industrial life would bustle without stop, all of which lay imperceptably behind Andrew’s conscious recreating of a dinner with the Morgans.

Just him and a glass of wine swiftly approaching its empty state, the night seemed long, too long- and yet, too short to comprehend all that conflict, all that struggle he had witnessed in himself, as well as the one he had shamelessly picked as illusory substitute for his deceased son. A second chance at fatherhood, one he never hoped he would get, was presenting itself on a silver tray, and he stood perplexed before it, not knowing how to approach the situation, how to approach… Joshua. Making a connection with him seemed easy enough, especially with the help of Jack’s and Lindy’s oblivious kindness: they saw in Andrew an elderly friend, an unexpected benefactor who discovered the values of their beloved son. They had no idea who he was in Joshua’s past, and he suspected they would have been just as embarrassed as he, were they to find out.

Please, allow me a toast… since we cannot ever repay your generosity and kindness, to receive you into our family with open arms seems the best, and only thing in our power. Andrew felt his heartbeat falter at the memory of Jack Morgan’s almost demure assertion; the man was sincere, there was no doubt about it, but for someone who had as much to settle within himself as Andrew did, Jack’s candid affection was almost offending.

Not for the first time since the night he had driven a drunken Joshua home, Andrew feared he had taken a wrong turn, had chosen to meddle into matters that did not concern him beyond his own guilt, and dragging Joshua into his own private ruckus was not only irresponsible, but also futile. He could never resolve a real problem through a ghost-solution, and as a result of their intricate trellis of emotions that Mary held together as the unquestionable link between them, there would be accusations flying soon enough. Justly so.

The parts of the dinner that concerned business had been walked through at a leisurely pace, not least under Andrew’s cunning direction to stay out of private matters as long as it was possible. He had provided the family with valuable contacts that he knew from experience would help along the rebuilding of Joshua’s career, told anecdotes about some of the aforesaid persons he knew intimately, and was open for any kind of discussion regarding music, its business in general, and specifically Joshua’s place in it. The parents took turns telling him about their son’s childhood, what a prodigy he had been, however late he had been discovered to justify the term. Even family photos emerged to the delight of Lindy, the horror of Joshua and the amusement of Jack. Andrew watched them all with a kind of fascination which was more of a perversely painful thrill of someone witnessing the doings of a proper family, someone whose boat had long sailed on the lake of missed chances. Between the Morgans and their son, there was peace, there was an openness that stabbed him in the heart each time the accusing face of his own son flashed before his eyes. The Morgans loved their son with a love that bound the three of them together in a way Andrew had never experienced, and hence always thought impossible. The surprise of it derived from his having been wrong as well as the realization that despite the pain he was feeling, he loved being part of a real family, albeit vicariously.

Before he left, mostly because he didn’t want to impose any longer (it was already midnight but the Morgans were trying to persuade him to stay the night in their guest-room), he had listened to a new composition of Joshua’s that the latter bashfully, upon his mother’s gentle coaxing, had shown them all on an old CD player. It sounded as tentative as the first batting of a butterfly’s wings, but the richness of a seasoned voice shot across the silence of the parlour to stun the minuscule audience into a soft reverie. Andrew had heard some of Joshua’s old songs over the years, but their joyous liveliness formed a striking contrast with the stark, raw profundity of what he was hearing now. It was not unpleasant; the soulful arch of the melody invited to lose oneself in it, while the words of an obviously more experienced person, to ruminate. It was the first step towards a new beginning of Joshua Morgan, singer and songwriter, however wobbly: Andrew realized the reluctance Joshua felt from the way the latter was clasping his hands while mutely listening to his own confession of a song. Andrew knew there must be in him all kinds of despondency and fear of opening a new chapter in his life, and in that respect, he felt a comfortable kinship with Joshua. Turning a new leaf required full understanding of previous events in one’s life, the bravery to face old mistakes and the power to correct them, and Andrew wasn’t certain he possessed any of those abilities.

Mercifully, there hadn’t been any mention of Mary during the soirée, for the surprising reason that neither Joshua, nor Andrew had felt the need to bring her up between them, not even when the Morgans had left the room to prepare dessert in the kitchen. Andrew steered clear of any recollections of her for the sake of everyone present, and he suspected Joshua was much more preoccupied with his own fate than to stir up unsettling memories. Andrew suspected the time would come when the two of them would be forced by circumstance to settle their dispute, one man with another, but for now, he gratefully took on the role of benefactor, from the point of view of the Morgans, and that of beggar for closure regarding his own personal past, from his. It should have bothered him that he inadvertently showed himself in a good light when it was he who needed the presence of Joshua in his life, but for now he was happy fate had brought such circumstances upon him.

The weeks that lay ahead seemed novel to him in their buoyancy of spirit. When he was realistic enough to let go of the disturbing psychological aspects of his newly formed, and apparently promising relationship with Joshua Morgan, Andrew saw the material prospects of their association. Without his ever wishing for it, he had become a beneficiary of a contract never actually signed by either party, merely alluded at. The Morgans’ attitude made it clear to him that he would be monetarily recompensed for his efforts that honestly speaking, required no added pains than what he was already willing to go out of his way for. He boasted relations, some of them well beyond superficial, with some of the most influential people in Los Angeles, and on a quid pro quo basis, he was not ashamed to ask for favours. The fact that someone was more than grateful for the network of human bonds he could pride himself on added significantly to the monotonous contentment of getting something done. There was much to do, many people to contact, but he knew it with a certainty that if Joshua himself was ready to go out on a limb with his own life, a stable, profitable career would easily shape itself. The simple truth in that made him happy: to get someone back up where he belonged, made him happy. Just like he had taken up Mary to make her known for others. He had never denied that he loved the role of a modern-day Maecenas; it set him above the average crowds who discerned artistic depth only when someone else flicked a flag with the word “talent” written in huge red letters on it. He was happy to wave that flag, Mary’s flag, Joshua’s flag: in that respect, the two of them were similar to him. Two artists of exceptional talent who have lost their ways through the years and the confusion in their lives.

The city was still dormant, or perhaps he was too immersed in his thoughts to notice anything else as he poured himself another glass of his Franciscan Cabernet Sauvignon, quietly relishing the subtle oak flavour above the soft fruity gust. He had been saving the bottle, purchased years before at a wine tasting fair, for a special occasion, but after the recent ups and downs of his existence, he decided that the eve of a perchance beautiful new bond with someone he had never dreamed of becoming close to was as good an occasion as any. In the dawning light of pallid pink and overwhelming orange sunrise he examined the rich depth of the pomegrenade hue in his glass, the quality of the wine confirmed by the unbroken film of translucent liquid that covered the smooth inner surface of his glass. The simple luxuries of high standard living he gladly accepted; as a child, he had never needed anything, either, but that did not stop him from growing into an empathetic and generous person. One could have reasoned that money, albeit at the root of most quarrels over power humankind had ever been through, was for other, emotionally more intelligent people a means to further emotive enrichment, for the plain reason that not having to struggle for financial self-preservation, a person could focus on more elevated facets of existence.

In spite of, or perhaps because of the above, he appreciated his situation as he corked the bottle to preserve some of it for later on that day. It being so early in the morning he felt uninclined to set off for work. Having pondered his current matters enough for one night, he decided to compose a letter to Mary. It was time to straighten the matter of her paintings but before shipping them to her, he first wanted to make sure he had the correct address, as his letter had gone unreplied for weeks. The dealings with the Morgans had helped him push her to the far reaches of his memory, but the nagging feeling of something unresolved surfaced from time to time. Not only did he know that retaining paintings that weren’t his was an immoral act: the unpleasant aftertaste of his last encounter with Mary managed to suppress even the pleasurable aromas of his wine. It was time to get even with her in more ways than one, but because once again, the undemanding beauty of a sunrise coming to life before his eyes gave him hope that everything could be settled, he felt no fear as he started writing his deliberately curlicued characters on the parchment-shaded paper.

(tbc)