Russell Hoban: Her Name Was Lola

‘Among other things,’ says Max. ‘And that’s the guy I’ve been carrying around. Why’d he hop it all of a sudden?’

‘He knew you’d recognise him if you looked at the bronze Apasmara and he was hoping to delay it,’ says his mind. ‘That’s why he made us miss South Ken three times. He’s not all that clever, actually.’

‘He’s not coming from you or me,’ says Max. ‘He’s from somewhere else. Somebody put him on to me. Who?’

‘What was that on the doormat?’ says his mind.

‘It was a CD,’ says Max. ‘The recordable kind.’

‘From where? From whom?’

‘Don’t know,’ says Max. ‘No writing on it. Somebody’d pushed it through the letterbox.’

‘We listened to it, didn’t we?’ says his mind. ‘That’s how this whole thing started.’

‘You’re right,’ says Max.

‘What was it?’ says his mind.

Max closes his eyes, trying to remember. Almost he can hear it coming through the raga the musicians are playing but not quite. ‘It was a raga,’ he says.

‘Let’s go home,’ says his mind.

November 2001. Max knows a little bit about a lot of things. He’s read enough Hindu mythology to recall that Apasmara is Forgetfulness, Heedlessness, Selfishness, Ignorance, and Materialism. Those are some of his names but he could also be called Pain-in-the-Arse or Whatever-You-Don’t-Want or The-One-Who-Doesn’t-Return-Your-Calls or any other hard name you can think of. Somebody’s got to be under Shiva’s right foot and he’s it. Maybe he likes it there, who knows? In bronze he’ll stay under Shiva’s foot, but in reality he’s a freelance demon and he’ll go wherever he’s sent. So who sent him to Max?

Nothing bad happens on the way home from the V & A but Max keeps looking around like a hunted man and people give him plenty of space in the tube. Several men are watching him closely, ready to jump him if he turns out to be a suicide bomber.

‘Everybody can see there’s something wrong with me,’ says Max to his mind.

‘Steady, boy,’ says his mind. ‘Stay with me, I’ll get you through this.’

Max gets home safely and pours himself a large Glenfiddich. ‘What we should do now,’ says his mind, ‘is get some expert advice.’

‘Where?’ says Max.

‘Remember Istvan Fallok, Hermes Soundways?’

‘What a good idea,’ says Max. He knocks back another large Glenfiddich, puts the CD in his pocket and a fresh bottle in his shoulder bag, and he’s off.

By the time he comes out of the Bakerloo Line at Oxford Circus it’s night-time. The sky that was clear over South Kensington has clouded up and is gently raining. The glistening streets are alive with reflected lights of all colours, even words and names. The hiss of tyres on the wet whispers that you never know what might happen next. Feeling like a doomed hero in his own movie, Max goes by way of Argyll Street, Great Marlborough, Carnaby and Marshall to Broadwick, then to an enclave of small businesses and light manufacturing off Broadwick. Places that look like message drops for secret agents while producing pens with your name and address on them and novelty key rings. Hermes Soundways is a little twilit studio down a flight of iron steps that ping and patter as the rain hardens up.

By now it’s after seven but business hours mean nothing to Istvan Fallok. He’s a twenty-four-hour person who probably sleeps somewhere sometime but not noticeably. His Soho lair is full of tiny winking red, yellow, and green eyes. Green waves oscillate and blue bars leap up and down on various screens. From speakers as big as fridges issues the sound of a sitar. ‘Favourable sign, that,’ says Max’s mind. Rising from the depths like the Kraken is Fallok, fifty-nine, tall, pale, his red hair flecked with grey. He knows all there is to know about sound and he knows Max because he did the track for a short film Max wrote a couple of years ago, If I Forget Thee .

‘Hi,’ says Max. ‘Remember me?’

‘Max Lesser,’ says Fallok. ‘You look anxious. What can I do for you today?’

Max offers the bottle of Glenfiddich. Fallok finds two cloudy glasses, opens the bottle, pours a drink for each of them, clinks with Max, sips, sighs, and leans back in his swivel chair. ‘You have my ear,’ he says. ‘For a limited time.’

‘I’ve got a problem you might be able to help me with,’ says Max. ‘What’s that on your speakers?’

‘ Adana .’

‘It sounds like a ‘round-midnight kind of raga.’

‘It is. That’s because around here it’s always around midnight. You into Indian music?’

‘I listen to it sometimes but I don’t know much about it. Somebody sent me a CD with a raga on it and it did something to my head.’

‘What?’

Max tells Fallok about the whole Apasmara business and they both have another drink. ‘Got the CD with you?’ says Fallok. He ejects Adana from the player.

‘Why are you crying?’ says Max.

‘I’m not crying,’ says Fallok with tears streaming down his face.

‘Aren’t you going to play my CD?’ says Max.

‘I just did,’ says Fallok. ‘Where were you?’

‘Don’t know,’ says Max. ‘So what can you tell me? What did you hear in that music?’

Fallok shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear it. ‘I don’t remember,’ he says. He touches his cheek. ‘OK, maybe I was crying. So obviously the music hooked up with something in me. Music does that, it feeds that which it findeth. If it made you see Apasmara it’s because he was already hanging around somewhere in your mind.’

‘And that’s all you can tell me?’

‘That’s all. It’s that kind of thing.’

‘That’s a wonderful diagnosis,’ says Max. ‘But how do I get him off me?’

‘Is he on you now?’

‘No, but I know he’ll be back.’

‘Nothing I can do about that,’ says Fallok. ‘You let him in and you’ll have to find a way to get him out. Any idea who’d want to put Apasmara on to you?’

‘Nope,’ says Max as his mind comes up empty.

‘Well,’ says Fallok, ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful but I have to get back to work now.’

‘What do I owe you?’ says Max.

‘This one’s on the house. Thanks for the whisky and good luck. Here, don’t forget your CD.’

Max doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to be alone with himself. ‘I don’t know where to turn next,’ he says.

Fallok sighs. From the clutter on his workbench he takes a business card: All That Glisters , Grace Kowalski. It’s in Berwick Street. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming. She lives over the shop.’

‘What is she?’ says Max.

‘Unusual. She might be able to help you. She likes vodka. Off you go.’

All That Glisters has a good sound to Max and now the rain cheers him up. Berwick Street is quite close, and on the way he buys a bottle of Stolichnaya. It looks so clear and promising that he buys a second one, he wants to show willing. Berwick Street is crowded with shops and already he feels less alone. All That Glisters has a window full of interesting and expensive jewellery. It feels lucky to Max. The shop is dimly lit but the studio above it looks wide awake. Max rings the bell, hears footsteps on the stairs, the door opens and Grace Kowalski appears. She’s tall, gaunt, early forties maybe, dark circles under her eyes. Long black hair parted on the side and hanging straight down. Blue denim shirt not tucked in, jeans, bare feet, long and shapely.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Istvan phoned me about you.’ They shake hands. She has a good grip. ‘Come up,’ she says. ‘I just have a little bit of work to finish, then we can talk about what’s happening with you.’