The Mystery of the Blackbird

After Ami's disappearance, Paul drank until late as if he had suffered a loss. As soon as the glass emptied, it was filled again. Once Linda, and now Nancy, had asked him never to do that. At his age, such binges would land McCartney in the hospital, although he couldn't drink much that evening and passed out after only a couple of drops of gin remained in the bottle.       Sunlight streamed through the window, hitting its main target—the musician's eye—piercing through the large gray autumn clouds. They hung low over the ground, promising an imminent, nasty rain. This wasn't like summer: when black clouds shroud most of the sky, and snow-white clouds fight the enemies with all their might and, in the end, surrender. Day turns to night, menacing thunder rumbles at the horizon, the sky flashes with lightning like a camera's flash, and small traces appear on the asphalt from tiny drops. And a few seconds later, you hear a pleasant hissing sound, and a warm rain floods your city. And, if you're lucky, you take your loved one by the hand, you run around laughing, and passersby, glancing at you disapprovingly from under furrowed brows and black umbrellas, are perplexed—undoubtedly envious.       Autumn rain is completely different: cold drizzle, accompanied by a biting icy wind blowing right into your forehead. You, tired from your boss's instructions, trudge home from work at a snail's pace, droplets hitting your eyes. This time of year had always depressed Paul, and this autumn was utterly unusual: Paul was drinking himself to ruin.       But for now, the rain was only impending, and a ray of light hit McCartney in the eyes. Paul winced and lifted his heavy head, which had lain all night on his right arm. This made itself known when he tried to lift his arm, and it had gone numb and turned blue, like a corpse's. McCartney jumped up from his seat, and his arm dangled as if not his own. "Oh, you, seventy-four years old, and panicking when your arm falls asleep," Paul tried to comfort himself.       The old man walked to the window, grabbed the curtains, and drew them. The room grew a bit darker, but none of this could reach the degree of gloom that had settled in McCartney's soul. Then he walked to the door and opened it. On the threshold lay a breakfast tray, delivered by a servant every morning at seven. The strangeness of this ritual was beyond question.       Paul couldn't stand The Doors, especially their frontman, the drunkard-philosopher, but now he felt like putting on their record, listening to it all day, and smashing it against the wall in the evening. Paul considered Morrison a bore and for many years, even long after Jim's death, had been jealous of him because of his wife. Linda had slept with him and perhaps loved him, and that drove McCartney mad.       Paul sat on the edge of the bed and hunched over. For a moment, it seemed to him that he himself was Jim Morrison, who was perpetually drunk and perhaps only loved Linda in that state. McCartney didn't go looking for the record to make a scene with it. He'd probably sell it at auction or give it to collectors.       "How terrible everything is..." McCartney grimaced at the fleeting thought that things couldn't get worse. "Life is going downhill, and no one will help..."       "Good afternoon!" In front of Paul appeared America Zami, and he jumped from the unexpected greeting.       "You again?" Paul began to get angry. "Leave!"       "But..." America tried to remind him of the agreement. McCartney stood up and began pushing the guest toward the door.       "No 'buts'!" Paul moved toward Ami, and she stepped back. "Did I listen to you? I did. Did I ask you to leave? I did. And now, please get out of my sight!" McCartney opened the door, pushed the bewildered America into the corridor, and closed the room. Paul snickered maliciously. "Well, that's how easy it is to get rid of you!"       But as soon as Paul turned around, he screamed in surprise. There was Zami, who had just vanished behind the door.       "But... How... You... There... Corridor..." Paul gasped for air, gesturing clumsily. America laughed.       "No 'buts'!" she giggled. "Don't forget, ghosts walk through walls!"       Paul looked at the ghost resentfully, pouting his lip. America stopped her graceful laughter, which echoed off the walls and tinkled in the glass. Paul exhaled silent curses fiercely and loudly, like a bull, his fingers turning white as they clenched into fists, and his eyes filling with blood. But America, apparently, wasn't afraid of this transformation. This girl knew a different Paul or, to be more precise, knew Paul differently.       "I take it you're not planning to back off?" Paul growled.       "That's up to you," America tossed back. "I can leave at the first request, as promised, but I am needed by you..." the girl grabbed the doorknob and prepared to pull it toward herself.       "Stop!" Paul shouted unexpectedly for himself, stretching his hand toward America. She was right. Realizing that somewhere deep in his soul, in its attic, a desire to listen to her was lurking, he decided not to show it. "Why do you need to open doors? You said ghosts walk through walls?"       "And what about slamming the door demonstratively?" Zami replied instantly, without thinking.       "True enough..." Paul breathed out, plopping down on the bed.       'A drinking binge is a dangerous thing,' McCartney began to ponder, trying to distract himself from the presence of the annoying ghost, 'a woman is even more dangerous. A binge and a woman—a lethal combination. That's what put Jimi Hendrix in the grave.'       "Indeed," America nodded. Paul stared at her wide-eyed.       "You can read minds?!"       America smiled and, lowering her eyes, looked away. Then she waved her hand, and the curtains on all the windows slid apart. A blinding white light burst into the room, despite the heavy clouds that the sun had drawn in.       Paul looked around as if he were in his own room for the first time. The bare white walls still confused him. A dusty robe was thrown over the mirror. The mini-bar hummed plaintively in the corner, asking for something impossible. Creative chaos had settled on the desk. Suddenly, "Anna" performed by The Beatles began to play, and Paul realized he was in a dark living room with curtained windows, in someone else's apartment. A gramophone, reading a crackling record, stood in the adjacent room, flooded with white morning light. McCartney rose from the sofa and headed into the bright little room. The light emanating from the window, covered with a semi-transparent, lacy tulle, hit his eyes, and Paul squinted. Near the window, in large clay pots, stood three plants not very familiar to McCartney. On the bed lay a man in a black stage suit, sprawled across the width of the bed. Paul approached him and saw himself in the past. Twenty-year-old Paul McCartney was listening to the debut Beatles album on repeat. But, as Sir Paul understood, the young man wasn’t really thinking about the record.       The older Paul was approached by America. "Anna" ended, the record crackled like logs in a fireplace, "Chains" began. Zami looked at McCartney, sprawled like a starfish, smiling. The record continued crackling, song followed song, Paul lay motionless.       "Does he really not feel our presence at all?" Sir Paul inquired in a whisper. "Not at all," Zami replied, continuing to gaze at the guy. "Don't you feel yourself in this person, can't you say 'that's me' about him?"       "No," Paul lied, looking away. McCartney knew this guy was himself: handsome, young, energetic, and talented. The songs playing in the background added fuel to the fire, and Paul's feeble heart fluttered like a butterfly. Images from the past, happy memories, arose in his head one after another. Spring, which lived inside McCartney when he was twenty, blossomed in his soul. Paul didn't want to admit that he really liked having the opportunity to relive his youth, even if in the third person.       A chill ran through Paul's body from his feet to his neck as soon as "P.S. I Love You" started playing. Young McCartney sat up, pressing his hands to his chest. Sir Paul felt goosebumps covering his body, waves of shivers running back and forth along his back and arms, and a pleasant, thick warmth spreading across his chest. Young Paul got off the bed, walked to the gramophone, and lifted the needle off the record. It kept spinning.       "I need to do something!" the young man uttered decisively, pacing the room. The elder Paul trembled with fear, hoping the younger Paul couldn't see him.       "Ami, can he walk through me?" Paul babbled in fright.       "I won't allow that," Ami said firmly, but it didn't add to Paul's confidence. Meanwhile, the young musician grabbed the telephone, lifted the receiver, and clamped it between his head and shoulder. Pulling out the scrap of paper already familiar to Sir Paul from his pocket, he began frantically spinning the murmuring dial.       "Good morning, Miss Zami! I hope you slept well!.. Oh, good... Wanna meet?.. Today? Then, maybe at seven in the evening at the cafe on the square?.. Excellent! Bye!"       Paul slammed the receiver and broke into a wild, Papuan-like dance, yelling one word: "Yes!"       The old Paul watched all this with disgust. America laughed.       Paul didn't notice how he ended up in some cafe, packed to the brim with people. The bewildered Paul looked around. Outside the windows, stretching from floor to ceiling along the perimeter of the spacious room, more like walls, a dark blue evening sky was visible. The cafe was filled with the merged hum of visitors' conversations and the clinking of plates. Feeble lamps, working at full capacity, produced a soft yellow light. The cafe seemed even brighter than it was: the lamplight reflected off the glass panes. In the far corner, a string quartet played, drowned out by the aforementioned hum.       Right in front of Sir Paul was a table where young Paul and America sat. The guy had taken the girl's hands in his and, bringing his face close to hers, was telling her something. From time to time they laughed loudly, but the laughter was lost in the general sound stream. Paul was dressed neatly and elegantly. McCartney from the future couldn't tear his eyes away from himself and wasn't even listening to what the young people were talking about. He wasn't very interested.       "You are such a narcissist," ghost-America chuckled, putting a hand on the old man's shoulder. He glanced back at her disapprovingly. "You've been staring at yourself for an hour and a half."       "So what? I should have at least some freedom of action," Paul snapped.       Young McCartney and Zami rose from their seats. America laughed brightly, and Paul courted her like a true gentleman. Paul was enchanted by his new acquaintance.       "Isn't it time for us to go home?" the elderly Paul inquired, following the guy and girl with his gaze.       "Are you already tired?" Ami asked in surprise.       "Well... I have a weak constitution... And these time jumps take so much energy..." McCartney made up excuses.       "I see," America reacted to everything calmly, as if she knew the outcome of this story.       The contours around them flowed, smeared, and transformed the cafe back into McCartney's room with its boring white walls. Paul turned to the desk and began sifting through papers, rustling and sniffling loudly.       "May I sit?" America asked, pointing with one hand to the musician's wide bed, as cold and white as the walls. Paul turned for a second to understand where the guest wanted to sit.       "Yes," he said, turning away from the hallucination. Then he opened the desk drawer, which, roaring, slid forward. With his thin, wrinkled, small hands, he rummaged through all the junk contained in the drawer and pulled out a punched pocket. The old man felt the guest drilling into the back of his head with her gaze. Rustling the plastic bag, he stuffed cold and white, wall-like sheets of paper into it.       His hands trembled, and he, nearly tearing the flimsy sleeve file, shoved stacks of papers into it. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his mouth went dry—Paul was afraid of America's gentle, piercing gaze. McCartney threw the papers, which landed with a clatter on the knick-knacks, into the drawer and slammed it shut with a crash. The old man examined his trembling hands. He mustn't show this state to the creature peacefully sitting on his bed.       "I suppose we only got together because of your beauty," Paul said, smirking, and turned to sit on the table.       America smirked back.       "You underestimate yourself. You always praised my intellect. We have a lot in common," America crossed her legs.       "Eye color," Paul chuckled sarcastically in an old man's creaky voice. "Listen, girl, seriously. I'm about fifty years older than you. I've lived my life; yours is still ahead. Besides, I see you're not poor, having such equipment to show me this movie. Don't waste time on me, on your idol you want to conquer. You are very young..."       "How often you waver from joyful contemplation of your young self to skepticism and denial. I am one day younger than you," Ami interrupted the just-started long-playing record.       Paul burst into laughter, pressing a hand to his stomach. He laughed so loudly and sincerely that tears came to his eyes. America, watching this, emitted light chuckles.       McCartney became so engrossed that he didn't notice America disappearing. "Phew, finally!" he thought, approaching the silent mini-bar. Opening the gray door, Paul realized the mini-bar wasn't working. McCartney swore with unprintable words and strode decisively toward the door. After Paul hoarsely howled the butler's name, the latter, frightened, came running.       "Yes, Sir?" the young man squeaked.       "My mini-bar is out of order. Need to fix it, call a repairman," Paul stated. "I was going to partake of some excellent French wine."       "Sir, sorry, we didn't warn you that the house is temporarily without power, some problem on the line," the butler bowed and left the room. Paul locked the door and flopped onto the bed, on which someone incomprehensible had just been sitting...       For a moment, Paul felt like Faust, talking to the devil himself.       What stopped Paul—the lack of electricity? The drinks wouldn't have warmed up anyway. More likely, disappointment and melancholy. Right now, he was staring at the ceiling. Until he got tired, probably from those same cold white walls. His eyelids began to stick together, words in his head got mixed up, turning into gibberish, and Paul closed his eyes.       When Paul opened his eyes, a dark blue sky flickered in the window. Paul mentally asked, "Is it night?" and looked at his wristwatch—expensive and mechanical, which tick timidly only if you press your ear to them. Someone with a candle in hand approached Paul's bed and sat on its edge. The old man raised his eyes and saw America, guarding his sleep.       "My mother died," Ami uttered quietly, like a secret, looking at the flickering yellowish candle flame, and passed her hand through the hot flame several times. This had an effect because Paul was vulnerable now, and his heart was open.       "When?" he asked with compassion.       "Sixty-eight years ago, June 30, 1948," America moved her palm right above the flame. "I was only six."       "And mine also di..." Paul was about to open up and turn his soul inside out, but the former nasty old skeptic awoke in him.       "I know everything about you," America looked straight into McCartney's eyes, and the yellow light from the candle passed through the girl's somewhat cloudy eyes.       "America," Paul asked in a voice hoarse from sleep. "Did you and I ever argue?"       "Of course we argued," Zami wasn't going to lie.       "Must have been a terrible marriage then. But Linda and I never argued."       America burst out laughing. Such a bold statement amused her.       "Don't think you can fool me," Zami said sternly, got up from the bed, and placed the candle in its holder on the table. "You did argue, and more than once, and I can easily prove it. Take this, for example."       Before Paul's eyes appeared the living room of his farmhouse in Scotland. On the sofa sat he, Paul McCartney, twenty-eight years old, bearded and unwashed. In his hands—a half-finished bottle of vile whiskey. Annoying green flies buzzed everywhere. A clock ticked in a dotted rhythm.       Linda entered the living room. The floorboards creaked in time with her steps. She flopped onto the sofa, nearly making it collapse into the rotting floor, and put her hands on her husband's shoulder.       "Paul, the farm needs to be put in order," she said in a sweet voice. Old Paul watched, holding his breath. Before him stood the wife he missed, going crazy with longing. "I can't manage alone."       "Linda, get off my back with this already! How many times do you want to repeat the same thing? Think you can get something out of me this way? You're a pain," Paul hissed through his teeth. "I have no strength for anything! Let me sit in peace!"       "I don't know what to say..." Mrs. McCartney mumbled. "At least pay some attention to the children. They're waiting for their daddy to come back."       "Daddy's dead, go tell them!" Paul shouted in his wife's face, spitting. Sir Paul flinched.       "Pau-u-ul, you're such a loving father, snap out of it! This isn't like you! Honey?.." Linda, trying to handle the drunkard-husband with affection, gently stroked his cheek, but he roughly pushed her away.       "Don't you understand me at all? Get out, you silly!" Linda reacted instantly, delivering a resounding slap. Then she snatched the bottle of vile whiskey from Paul's hands and splashed the nasty drink in his face.       "Bastard!" Linda screamed, running out of the house, while McCartney wiped his face with his hand.       Old Paul shook his head, perplexed. Such an episode actually took place. The vivid picture faded, discolored, and turned back into the musician's dark room.       "Another example?" Ami inquired.       "No," Paul answered shamefacedly. He remembered this moment from his life and realized with horror that he would have to admit that America was a genuine ghost who walked through walls, universes, and time.       "You not only have good equipment but also confidential information," Paul tried to speak firmly and angrily. "You're probably a journalist who wants to extort money from me? Well, how much do you need to leave me alone? A million? I'll give you as much as you ask, just go away, please!"       "No amount of money will save you."       Paul lay down on the cold bed, exhaling in resignation. America, apparently, wasn't planning to leave. She walked around the room, examining the furniture, approached a wooden cabinet with glass doors, and opened it. The glass panes rattled, and heavy beige dust flew into the girl's face. Ami glanced at the shelf filled with assorted books. "Wow, you have Yesenin in Russian!" with this exclamation, her fingers dug into the old, shabby little book. New dust rose into the air, capable of settling on respiratory tract walls if inhaled. Not noticing this, America calmly closed the cabinet and sat on a chair next to the table. The weak, flickering candle flame barely allowed America to read the letters. Rustling the limp pages like withered autumn leaves, Zami leafed through the book.       "Oh, 'The Black Man'!" Ami perked up.       "There's a translation inserted on a piece of paper inside. Please read it," the old man breathed out a request. He felt as if he had traveled back in time a hundred years: a dim candle flickered on the ceiling, the smell of burning paraffin spread through the cold room, a girl somewhat resembling his mother was reading Yesenin translated into English.                   My friend, my friend,                   How sick I am. Nor do I know                   Whence came this sickness.                   Either the wind whistles                   Over the desolate unpeopled field,                   Or as September strips a copse,                   Alcohol strips my brain.                   My head waves my ears                   Like a bird its wings.                   Unendurably it looms my neck                   When I walk.                   The black man,                   The black, black,                   Black man                    Sits by me on the bed all night,                   Won't let me sleep.                   This black man                    Runs his fingers over a vile book,                   And, twangling above me,                   Like a sleepy monk over a corpse,                   Reads a life                   Of some drunken wretch,                   Filling my heart with longing and despair.                   The black man,                   Oh black man.                   <...>       "Tell me," the old man asked, swallowing a lump rising in his throat, "can I see John? I miss him terribly."       America set the book aside and stared at Paul.       "No problem. Choose a date."       Paul jumped up from the bed.       "Seriously? You can show me any day? I like this much more now!" Paul exclaimed in a voice trembling with joy and excitement. "Although, wait. Most likely, you are a figment of my imagination. Time travel is my memories, and the visions about you and me are dreams. Yes, exactly, dreams! I can't think of any other logical explanation."       "Going to choose a date?" America asked insistently.       "M..." Paul put his fingers to his chin and began sorting through the calendar in his head. Probably he would say—July 6, 1957, as anyone would think. "Any day, just to see him with at least one eye!"       A second later, Paul and America found themselves in a bright hotel room. Beyond the windowpane was unnaturally black sky poured in. Below, yellow and greenish square lights of a sleepless nighttime New York City cut through. On the sofa sat a living John and George, looking at whom one couldn't guess that one of them would die in less than twenty years, the second—in less than half a century.       "A perfectly ordinary day in the life of a Beatle," America said, folding her arms on her chest. "You're unlikely to remember it because in your memory, it merged with other similar days."       "Well observed," Paul said, not taking his eyes off George and John, his mouth slightly open, polished dentures gleaming within. "I had a wagonload and a small cartful of those in my life."       Richard barged into the room and, looking around, asked discontentedly:       "Is Paul still not back?"       George and John each held a smoldering cigarette and a bottle of beer made of transparent green glass. George, taking a sip of cold beer from the bottle, answered that he wasn't.       "So he did like that girl after all," Richard sighed, walked deeper into the room, and sprawled in an armchair opposite the sofa.       "I fancied a girl too," George reported and took a drag. "John, Ringo, coming with me?"       "No-o-o," John drawled, crossing his legs. "I'm completely knackered. Running out of steam," Lennon reached for the ashtray to flick off a huge piece of white-gray ash that had grown on a sturdy Marlboro cigarette, "going to sleep."       "And you?" Harrison addressed his second friend. "You coming?"       "Not coming. I'm very tired," Starr rubbed his eyes and yawned lengthily but modestly. George took a long drag, and the red ember crept from the edge of the cigarette toward the filter, leaving a trail of whitish-gray ash. The next instant, bluish smoke erupted from George's throat like a hurricane. George stubbed the butt into the soiled ashtray.       "Richie really has exhausting work," John said, rising, with one simple hand movement extinguished his cigarette and stretched his back.       As soon as Sir Paul blinked, the hotel room crumbled like a sandcastle and turned back into the room with white walls.       "That's not fair! That's not enough!" McCartney complained discontentedly. "For the first time—just what's needed," America knew the truth better.       "But I didn't really see him, didn't feel him!.." Paul whined, almost whimpering.       America laughed and walked over to the light switch. Paul remembered the electricity had been off during the day but had completely forgotten about his mini-bar with French wine. Clicking the shiny, brand-new switch, Zami turned on the light. Paul squinted out of habit, and when he started looking for America, he realized she had disappeared again.