The Mystery of the Blackbird

As if not understanding what bizarre object was in front of him, Paul paced around the piano and examined it in bewilderment, afraid to touch the keys. Since morning, a song by John people barely knew—"You Know My Name"—had been buzzing in his head.       He wondered what would happen if he tried to time-travel without America. Paul lay down on the bed, closed his tired eyes staring at the ceiling, and imagined. John's face: small brown eyes, probably even the color of caramel; through the bluish diopter of slightly tinted glasses, the eyes seemed even smaller, and it was amazing how such tiny pupils could see the world so clearly and widely as John's did. But the image couldn't become sharp: Lennon's face blurred at the bottom, making it eerie. The chin flowed downward like gouache, turning the man into a caricature. Following the chin and the usually thin lips, now turning puffy, the eyes started to run, leaving black streaks behind. Paul opened his eyelids to stop seeing this horror. Then, catching his breath, he closed his eyes again and pictured John. He imagined approaching Lennon and saying something, but suddenly began to spin involuntarily. The walls blurred into stripes, and John, like a snow-covered tree, drifted past from time to time—right to left. And Paul kept spinning like a top, and all he wanted was to stop and focus. Paul opened his eyes again.       Something was blocking the sun, and the old man shifted his gaze towards the window. Standing with her back to the homeowner was America, turned into a silhouette. Paul felt he was experiencing déjà vu but couldn't remember when he had seen exactly the same scene.       "Good morning," America said quietly and even a bit sternly, still standing with her back to McCartney; her voice reflected off the window frame and took on a strange sound. "Have breakfast, and then I'll tell you the story of how I became an agent and producer for The Beatles," America turned to face Paul.       "What? Isn't it a bit early?" Paul asked curiously. Ami looked at him questioningly. "Well... You just met... Paul, and already started pushing to become a producer."       "No-o, it's not that simple," America sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands on her knees. "I became... Ah no, that's for after breakfast."       "You sure know how to build intrigue, America!" McCartney praised the girl, though without much desire to please her. Paul reluctantly, groaning in unison with the bed, got up and went to the door. On the threshold stood a tray of breakfast, polished to a shine. Paul picked it up by its carved edges-handles and brought it into the room. With a tinny sound, he set the tray on the table and took a deep breath of the aroma of the freshest, softest buns—softer than a down featherbed—margarine melting from mere waft, thyme brewed in a teapot, and the most English of dishes—real oatmeal porridge with water, topped with thick cherry jam. Nothing had cooled yet, so a whitish steam wafted over the tea and porridge. Paul set about breakfast, greedily devouring the porridge, sliding the spoon across the plate, and chewing the buns. America watched his meal, then went to the bookshelf and, blowing dust onto the floor, examined Paul's miniature library. "How do you like living with books?" America asked. "Splendidly," Paul replied with his mouth full. "And no separate library?" "Only in the plans," McCartney said after swallowing. "That's not good. Books should be stored in separate rooms whenever possible. Your house is big, and there's plenty of space for a library. Books collect dust, and it contributes to insomnia and headaches. And look, you're eating dusty food!" — Ami exclaimed.       Paul dropped the clattering spoon into the empty plate.       "Noted," he said gloomily, "thanks for not missing a chance to ruin my appetite!"       Paul wiped his mouth with a napkin and pushed the tray aside.       "By the way, remember you told me about movie equipment?" Ami asked as if casually, to which Paul answered with a meaningful "Well". "Today I'll show you my real equipment."       "That sounds like a threat. Girl, wouldn't it be simpler to explain your mission, or how much money you need, and vanish from my sight once and for all?!"       "The sooner you accept this, the easier it will be for you."       A tiny coffee-colored box appeared on the table. It lit up like a spotlight, and a bright blue screen hung in the air.       Paul looked at America somewhere between frightened and surprised. For him, of course, the unknown mechanism was a curiosity. Despite being well-informed about all the latest technology, even buying himself several 3D printers with which he printed himself in intoxicating inspiration, McCartney knew nothing of such projectors.       "This isn't just a projector. It's a hallucination projector. Holograms of the highest quality. Films no one has shot or seen," America dictated like a teacher. Paul listened intently.       "And what about our travels? Or is that one of the capabilities of this... hmm... device?" Paul inquired curiously.       "No," America answered briefly.       The movie hung in the air and was sharper than in any expensive cinema. A familiar panorama appeared—it was Liverpool in the late fifties. Images flashed quickly in his mind like slides—memories. From the most terrible and disgusting to the sweetest and most pleasant. At the bottom of the screen, whose image hadn't drastically changed, an inscription appeared: "Liverpool, 1959," duplicated by a male voice.       The main heroine vaguely resembled America. She had black eyes, a straight nose, eyebrows of a slightly different shape. The voice, which sounded a bit later, was soft but cloyingly and childishly sweet. Paul's eyes darted as if following a pendulum, looking at America, who was running the nails of one hand over the cuticles of the other and intently watching the process, then shifting his gaze to the girl on the screen, trying to understand what they had in common. The longer and more attentively he did this, the more striking the acute difference in features became. The man didn't understand why they had chosen this particular actress. And what would the cast of Paul McCartney be like if they had selected America Zami so carelessly?       "Outrageous! Why did the casting director, or whoever, take her?!" the old man exclaimed.       "Don't worry, it's a draft, and it wasn't released," Ami reassured. "It was supposed to be the film "Eight Lives," with the working title "The Root of Worldwide Love," but it was reshot. And this is truthful material about the history of my production work. To make it easier, consider it a film based on a fiction book.       Paul let out a short, hoarse "A-a-ah" and stared at the screen. "Why 'Eight Lives'?" he thought, and at that moment noticed another difference: if America was slender but quite sturdy, the actress was gaunt and pale, like an Auschwitz prisoner.       America smiled tenderly. The moment when a person steps out of the cardboard box they've built in their imagination to protect themselves and becomes sincere pleased her. Though it wasn't night yet. McCartney was as changeable as an unfriendly London wind.       The film continued. Famous original rock 'n' roll compositions played as background music. The main heroine awkwardly entered the club, looking around as if afraid a drunk man with a dagger would jump out from around a corner. On a makeshift stage stood five guys with instruments. One of them jumped onto the flimsy wooden structure, slinging the bass guitar strap over his neck just as America looked at him. There was another guy who drew attention—he stood in the middle of the stage and spoke into the microphone. It was assumed the center of the composition would be the speaker who managed to shush a late colleague but the other group members shaded the leader. The drummer attracted the audience's eyes with his bulky setup. One of the guitarists held his guitar incorrectly, the other ran his fingers over the neck too fast. The speaker, the obvious leader, announced the song, and after a loud count-off—"One, two, three!"—the group began to play. The leader didn't sing but screeched, imitating Little Richard. The young man mixed up the words, replacing them with his own. The bassist (the one who jumped on stage) wasn't playing but was goofing off. The drummer, who besides the lead guitarist was the only one who worked, kept the rhythm perfectly but the frontman hitting the strings lost his way unable to hear himself. The musician holding his guitar in a different way tried to take advantage and outshine his colleagues. They played out of tune and out of sync, as if playing one song but with completely mismatched parts. They smoked right on stage and got distracted by conversations with the audience. America left the club, unwilling to listen to the inept musicians.       According to the movie, the next day came. The same club America Zami had been in the day before, and rock 'n' roll was playing again. America and her friend with lush brown hair stopped at the entrance. "This is my friend Chris," stated the real Zami, if you can put it that way — real," and actress looks alike."       "They've got a long way to go before becoming a group; they still need to practice and practice," Chris focused her eyes on the guys and tilted her head towards Ami. "But there's definitely a spark."       "Look at you, homegrown professionals!" Paul said, even somewhat kindly.       "Liverpool, 1961." Following the appeared inscription, the narrator announced. This time his voice unpleasantly crackled. Paul leaned back in the creaking chair and threw his head back. America glanced at him briefly. Another America appeared on screen, noticing the jazz club "The Cavern."       "I didn't know that on this day, rock 'n' roll was played at the 'Cavern' jazz club," the doppelganger began her monologue. "Going down to the hall, I listened. The sounds captivated me, the performance, despite its roughness, delighted me!       ...As I walked into the hall, I saw under the low ceiling, blocked by people swaying side to side, those guys I had seen a couple of years ago at 'The Casbah,' only there were four of them now. The neglectful bassist with deep-set small eyes, hair combed up emphasizing his already protruding wide forehead, was gone. Pompadours, by the way, remained on everyone. The bass had migrated to that one who holds the guitar strangely. The one standing in the center again doesn't howl like a knife."       The group appeared on screen: the guys looked unkempt; they smoked, snacked, chewed gum right on stage without interrupting the performance; turned their backs to the audience, talked, and argued with the front rows.       "Now they play much more professionally, just need to work on their manners. Who I got home, I realized I wanted to try promoting them."       "What a nonsense," Paul said listlessly, tilting his head to the side. "And the actors... aren't alike... and the lines are strained."       Paul yawned.       America, ignoring the old man's comment, stared at the screen as if seeing this film for the first time. On-screen America wrote a letter to John Lennon offering her candidacy as the group's manager, met Brian Epstein, with whom she jointly developed reforms in the performance schedule and artistic image; but suddenly, a loud snore, sounding like a drill boring through a brick wall, came from McCartney, who had fallen asleep in his chair. This did not amuse America. She turned off the device and left.       Paul woke up because he jumped out of his chair. Opening his eyes, he realized he was standing in the middle of the room. It would take time to figure out where America had gone with her traveling cinema. Paul decided not to waste time and lay back down on the cold white bed.       For the second time, the man was awakened by the question of why America's silhouette, turned towards the window, seemed so familiar? The thought sounded loudly in his head, receding like an echo. Outside, it was getting dark. Noticing the girl sitting on a chair, the old man flinched. She sat with her arms folded on her chest, one leg crossed over the other, stared daggers at him.       "Sir Paul, how often have you signed contracts?" America asked sternly. Paul didn't like this tone.       "A cosmic number of times, why?" Paul replied, raising his eyebrows.       "We'll have to sign a contract too, Sir Paul McCartney."       America handed the old man two sheets of contract stapled together. Paul began to read.       "Has America started thinking about decency and addressing elders politely?" Paul said, studying the contract. America didn't answer. Paul, mocking, read the document in a voice as if he had a clothespin on his nose.       "This ultimatum is presented by America Zami, the Head of the Special Eden Society, to the citizen of the United Kingdom, the Member of the Order of the British Empire and the Knight Bachelor, Sir James Paul McCartney..."       "The Head of the Special Eden Society? What?" Paul laughed loudly and unpleasantly.       "If your servants run in now and see this letter, they'll send you to the loony bin.       Paul gave Ami a sly look.       "...Systematic absences from meetings are punishable..."       "Ooh, I feel like a student!" the old man waved his hands.       "...Punishment shall be carried out personally by the Head of the Special Eden Society, Ms. Zami..."       "See, even in a serious document you're not Mrs. McCartney!" Paul said after reading the passage that interested him.       "I didn't change my last name," Zami replied instantly. Paul, quickly running his eyes over the lines, finished reading the contract.       "And why should I sign this?"Paul asked a perfectly logical question.       "I'm not forcing you," America crossed her arms over her chest. "But you know yourself that you need this right now. Any adventure is a breeding ground for creativity. But if you're happy with everything," she nodded towards the cluttered table, "I'll back off," the girl reached out to take the sheets. She understood she had punched Paul in the gut.       For three months, McCartney had suffered, having lost inspiration. What would he show his hungry fans? What would he say to confirm his own statements that if he wanted to say something, he'd write a song about it? Trash bins everywhere were filled with crumpled paper, and the scraps would have resembled snow if the tense handwriting hadn't left ink marks. Paul didn't know what to say to the world. Music wasn't being composed, books weren't being read, movies weren't being watched, conversations weren't flowing. And the old maestro was ready to clutch at thin air to float up.       And perhaps, at the end of this story, Paul would reach what he had chased all his life—creative perfection. And he had an advantage—the unexplored otherworldly realm, exciting to everyone, was opened to him. If, of course, America allows him to burst into it.       "Alright, fine," he said, not showing he was worried. "Where's the pen?"       America pointed with her eyes to the pen lying on the table. Paul took it, clicked twice, and put the tip of the pen to the letters.       "So, where do I sign?" the old man asked proudly.       "Second page, at the bottom," Ami replied tiredly, resting her head on her hand.       Paul aimed the pen at the line next to the words "Respondent's Signature" and signed carelessly.       "Here," the man handed over the sheets and the pen, and suddenly felt his left hand being squeezed, followed by pain in his little finger. America lightly pricked the bassist's finger with a medical needle. Paul was taken aback and for the first few seconds couldn't utter a word. America pressed on the fingertip, and a drop of thick cherry blood came to the surface. The guest applied the finger to the cool white paper under Paul's signature.       "You, you, how dare you?!" Paul screamed, abruptly pulling his hand from the girl's careful grasp.       "You don't yet know who you've gotten involved with," America said ominously, tossing the needle into the trash. "We don't show up to just anyone. A deal with us must be confirmed with blood."       Paul shrank in fear. America smiled only with the corners of her lips. The insincere smile didn't touch her green eyes.       "Okay, we've had our fun, now let's get down to business," before America could finish, a large, thick book with a glossy hardcover appeared on the table. It depicted America in life: sitting at a table in a black turtleneck, her hands folded as if at a school desk; fair-skinned, she smiled and tilted her head to the left, black hair falling from her shoulders onto her arms; the background behind her was dark gray, making the black-and-white photograph look very contrasty and fresh.       "Open page one hundred eighteen and read everything you missed," Ami instructed, pacing the room. Just like a real teacher.       "Do I really resemble a schoolboy that much?" the old man looked up at the girl. America was still pacing circles in the cold room.       "You didn't want to do it the nice way, I started the bad way," America shrugged.       "I just fell asleep! I'm seventy-four! You in your Eden don't need sleep!"       "You've shown enough hostility for me not to believe you.       "And you offended? Oh, you silly girl!"       One glance from America was enough for the old man to humbly take the book and open it. The brand-new copy creaked somewhere in the spine. Paul flipped the pages to the assigned one. Two photos gleamed in the margins: a portrait of Brian Epstein and America with Brian at his side. In the second, the girl held a smiling Epstein's arm and smiled herself. Both shots were black and white, but McCartney discerned a fountain of champagne glasses and various phantom-like spheres in the background.       "Chapter Nine. The Producer." "So-o-o. America first met The Beatles... No, we already know that," Paul's inner voice said, "Oh, here."       "...A week later, America writes a letter to John Lennon, offering to take the group under her patronage and outlining the advantages of cooperation. Despite lacking relevant experience but relying on knowledge about Sergei Diaghilev and Sol Hurok, America believes she can manage. John agrees to the proposal, though later admits that an offer from a girl, especially with such a strange name, seemed like a joke to him, and he responded in jest."       "That's you, John!" Paul laughed.       "It's important to note that upon turning sixteen, America Zami became the possessor of substantial capital. Living in France before the war, Naum Zami opened an account in a Swiss bank, which he replenished after moving to Liverpool for his daughter's future education. In 1961, America makes a risky decision to invest the remaining funds in promoting The Beatles."       "Did she fall in love with John or something?" McCartney was clearly in a joking mood.       "America doesn't get to meet John in person, as her university studies demand attention. America has to stage a course play, which takes up a lot of time from the start. In November, a letter arrives from a certain Brian Epstein, owner of the 'NEMS' store chain, famous for the most extensive collection..."       "Well, I know all about you," Paul skipped a few paragraphs. "Good job, Brian, take the reins from this know-it-all!"       "Epstein and Zami arrange a meeting. Both later recall they liked each other immediately. The conversation lasts several hours, resulting in their decision to work together. First, they determine the next set of tasks:       - Brian issues an ultimatum to concert organizers to increase the performance fee;       - jointly, they organize the concert schedule, type personal instructions for group members on where and when a concert will take place, what not to do on stage, how much they'll be paid;       - they devise a new stage image with neat suits; Brian gives an educational talk about not appearing on stage in everyday clothes; not chewing or smoking on stage, not interacting or fighting with the audience, especially during songs; also, a performance program must be prepared for each concert;       - America, having connections with the Liverpool press, is responsible for the information field..."       To the right, McCartney read: "America Zami: 'I realized we would become good colleagues and even friends, which was only confirmed over the years.'"       "America arranges with Brian not to introduce herself to the group until she can devote more time to work and asks not to even mention her, but her stay behind the scenes stretches for a year and a half: after the brilliant premiere of the course play, America is invited as a director to the 'Fortune' Theatre, where she had worked part-time in the costume and prop departments in her early youth. Her debut is a play based on H. Ibsen's 'A Doll's House' (premiere — January 14, 1963)."       "Just look at her, she's here and there. You were definitely invented by someone with a good imagination!" Paul exclaimed. "Okay, further I know again," the old man flipped through descriptions of how Brian knocked on studio doors, secured an audition at Decca, met George Martin, signed a contract with Parlophone, how Pete Best was ousted and Ringo Starr was taken on.       Outside, it had grown completely dark. Paul turned the page. The heading at the top read: "Chapter Ten. Meeting the Group." The old man got so carried away that he continued reading. Though he did notice a note on the table. In handwriting that for some reason seemed very familiar but still alien, it said: "If you get really carried away, don't read beyond meeting the group. Don't forget to hide the book in a safe place."       "America returns to the group's affairs just in time, when the workload increases dramatically, as does the group's popularity. She attends concerts in Liverpool, but after a long absence, she is too embarrassed to step out of the shadows and introduce herself, even considers abandoning the idea of working with The Beatles altogether. Interestingly, in the summer of 1962, America and John will cross paths personally, but while the former later mentions this episode without details in interviews, the latter doesn't remember the meeting at all. On April 17, 1963, after a concert at the 'Cavern' club, America meets Paul McCartney..."       At that moment, the light treacherously went out. "What's going on, another power line failure?" — Paul yelled and went to the switch. No matter how many times he clicked, the light wouldn't turn on. Paul decided to turn on the desk lamp, but it refused to work too. He scolded again, then decided to use a camping lantern, but it only clicked because there were no batteries inside.       The old man decided to light candles but couldn't find them, as all had been burned the previous evening. Paul cursed again. "Like I need this," he threw angrily.       Paul flopped tiredly onto the bed. Thoughts of America wouldn't leave his head, and perhaps she wouldn't leave him alone in his impending sleep. The window glowed with a bluish screen, and for a second, it seemed a film would start playing on it. Paul turned on his side and bit his lip. Who on earth is she? Why is she doing this? And what secret is hidden in this little bird?