The Mystery of the Blackbird

That night, Paul slept unusually lightly and fitfully. There were short, chaotic dreams, deafening with noise, blinding his eyes. He dreamed of his beloved Linda, and of Heather, hitting him on the head with a walking stick, and of Nancy; they were silent together with Linda, and no matter how much Paul addressed them, they only smiled. In a black-and-white dream, he saw the young Beatles; McCartney seemed to be rewatching "A Hard Day's Night" from the inside: George laughed, revealing crooked teeth, John was sad and silent, Ringo kept disappearing and reappearing, laughing, then becoming frighteningly serious and vanishing again. He dreamed of Martin, trying to give useful advice, but his voice was drowned out by the sounds of a symphony orchestra preparing for a rehearsal — all those violins running bows over four strings, clarinets, flutes, horns, oboes, trying to blow the right semitone, timpani pounding out of sync, just to spite him. And he dreamed of America. Just her face appeared and disappeared.       Lying in the morning twilight, sweating from his restless sleep, Paul thought about the tricky questions he would ask his uninvited guest. He would definitely ask her about the place she came from — it was Paradise, as far as he understood. When it grew light, McCartney got up and pulled out the desk drawer where that very contract lay. Under Paul's signature was a brown stain of dried blood. He ran his left hand over it; his little finger ached unpleasantly. America had made a slip and taken blood not from his ring finger, but from his little finger. Paul read the contract for the first time, set it aside, went to get breakfast. He read the contract a second, third, fourth time. Something began to spin in his head, like a little centrifuge, like a hundred little centrifuges. Questions were born one after another, one clause — one new question.       Paul selected a few of the best, and from those best, one remained. McCartney paced the room and bit his lips, waiting for America's arrival. "She's late, she is a woman after all," Paul said with a knowing intonation and sat down at the desk. He turned on the lamp and squinted from the harsh light reflected off the paper. He picked up the pen, shivering from the cold. And from the thrill before meeting an incomprehensible being who had declared itself a "human" with the strange name "America" and the pompous title "Head of the Special Eden Society." What a blunder he, an old man, had allowed! Pure madness, and all for what? Inspiration would have come to him on its own; there was no need to rush it.       McCartney got up from the creaky chair and approached his old friend, the mini-bar. It was silent, only sometimes singing quietly to itself in its corner; it needed neither fame nor the money of its multi-millionaire owner — it conscientiously performed its duties. McCartney crouched down and groaned from the pain in his joints. Paul examined his collection: it was, however, thinning. This didn't faze Paul; he reached for the rotund, almost flat black bottle of magnificent Scotch whisky. From the anticipated pleasure, the old man closed his eyes. The bottle was also slightly warm — just what Paul needed. He unwrapped the paper with which the Scots had sealed their healing nectar, removed the stopper, and took a large, greedy gulp, threatening to turn into a lump stuck in his chest. McCartney grimaced, then blissfully exhaled, licked his lips, corked the bottle, and returned to the desk.       The contract, which still lay on the desk, wasn't as cold and white as this room, but still seemed alien, not of this world. Suddenly, McCartney got scared that his wife might drop by, having not visited her husband in a long time. McCartney waved a dismissive hand at her, feeling no shame for not having inquired about Nancy's life even once in two months. Though, mutually.       Paul put on his glasses and began reading the contract terms again. Spat, set the document aside, started scribbling his second-rate verses on clean, white, and dry paper, like an iceberg on the brown surface of the tabletop.       By the door, in front of the window, something glinted faintly, the curtains barely stirring. Paul glanced over accidentally and shuddered in surprise. America was standing there, her dress shimmering.       "Oh, speak of the angels," Paul said unfriendly, shuffling papers on the desk, and giggled.       "Good morning, Sir Paul. Ready for the journey?" America walked further into the room. Her gaze fell on the nightstand. "Oh, reading about me before bed? Nice to know."       "Low-grade tabloid rubbish," the old man tossed out. "Heh-heh, heh-heh."       "What's with all the giggling?" America asked.       "Nothing. Heh-heh, oh." Paul wiped his eyes. "Special Eden Society..."       America remained silent and walked over to the bookcase, which had desperately captured her attention even during their first meeting.       "America," Paul addressed her. The guest turned around. "Something has piqued my interest."       "Commendable," Miss Zami was stingy in reactions.       "Tell me about the place you came from. Well, about the afterlife," Paul said this firmly, confidently, and so loudly that the glass in the bookcase slightly rattled. America hesitated slightly.       "Alas, Sir, I cannot tell you that."       "But America, the contract says: 'Any additional questions are welcome!' Deceiving me?" the prepared McCartney reacted immediately.       "And higher up it says that 'Miss Zami tells only what is permitted by the laws of Eden,'" the girl knew her rights no less.       Paul was taken aback.       "And so, I won't even find out what this Special Eden Society is?" Paul felt like a character in a fantasy movie. He giggled again.       "It's Hell," America answered calmly.       Paul burst out laughing:       "Hell! So you're a demoness? How hilarious!" he exclaimed.       Paul was old, and, considering the experiments of his wild youth, death had been waiting him for years. Some part of his mind understood this. Paul was afraid of death, not knowing what lay beyond. He was even somewhat devout, so he believed that beyond that line would be Judgment, where everything would be repaid... and about what and how exactly, his guest knew.       "Mistress of cauldrons and tridents... I can't!" Paul clutched his stomach.       "Sir, you're getting carried away. Time to go to the past," America reminded him.       Paul sighed discontentedly and stood up. His knees suddenly began to tremble, so violently that America saw it. Paul mentally tried to subdue his knees, but in vain.       The girl looked at her interlocutor ironically.       "Are you ready?" This almost respectful tone coming from America sounded like mockery. "We're heading to the beginning of 1963. The Beatles already have enough experience to record their own album, which they recorded during a break between their own tours of England and Scotland and a joint tour with Helen Shapiro."       "What are you feeding me? I know that myself!" America bestowed the rebellious Paul with a disapproving look.       "Brian Epstein acted as manager, Dick James became the publisher, and George Martin was the music producer," the girl said seriously. "That's just so you know the agenda for today."       Paul closed his eyes from weariness of this pushy miss, her constant switches from the respectful "Sir" to the dismissive "so you know," though he himself was behaving quite insufferably; tired of events that were too realistic to be real; tired of a life that had lasted over seventy years and was ending like this, shamefully — with delirium tremens.       Opening his eyes, McCartney shuddered: he was back in the past. A dual feeling of the reality of what was happening and a firm awareness that it was a long-gone past. He found himself in a small, dimly lit living room of Epstein's rented London apartment, which contained only a sofa, an armchair, a nightstand, a chair, a floor lamp, a coffee table, and the smell of tobacco. Paul blinked, and in the previously empty room appeared the young Beatles, including himself.       John and George settled on the sofa. John had taken off his jacket, closed his eyes, and crossed his leg, placing his boot on his knee; George lay with his legs thrown over the arm of the sofa, smoking leisurely, also with his eyes closed. Ringo, like an elderly aksakal, sat in the armchair, smoked, holding a short cigarette in his left hand, and twisted the rings on his other fingers with his right thumb. Paul, unlike the others, for some reason couldn't sit still, and paced the small room with long strides, sometimes bouncing over to the table where his cigarette smoldered in a glass ashtray. He grabbed a pen and scribbled something in an already opened notebook, bending over it nearly double.       The lads, including the restless McCartney, were very tired. The concert schedule was getting denser and denser, with practically no free days left. The group had already toured Britain multiple times, conducted joint tours with the young singer Helen Shapiro in February, and were in the midst of a tour with Tommy Roe and Chris Montez. But the lads didn't really acknowledge their fatigue; on the contrary, they rejoiced in their growing popularity, rejoiced in their first album, rejoiced in their talent, their youth, love, rejoiced in the inspiration they drew from it.       Brian entered the room. George turned his head towards the newcomer, Paul stopped his pacing, John and Ringo raised their eyes to the manager. Sir Paul looked fearfully at America, who was watching closely: her eyes sparkled, she was smiling. McCartney felt uneasy because, seeing Brian, whom he hadn't seen for almost fifty years, he realized that more than half of those present in the room were no longer alive.       "So," began Brian, and the elderly Paul's heart sank into his heels. He had forgotten this voice. "In eleven days, your first LP is coming out, remember that?"       "Yea-a-ah!" George drawled.       "How could we forget?" John responded. Paul started to hoot. Sir Paul smiled and, quietly rejoicing, said, turning to America:       "Yes, I remember this day!"       "Now about the tours. We've managed to arrange for you to accompany on tour in May and June..." Brian stopped mid-announcement, earning a dissatisfied and inquisitive "Come on!" "...Roy Orbison!"       The four emitted a unison chorus of various surprised exclamations.       "How did you manage that?" Paul asked. Brian smiled modestly and didn't answer.       "The exact tour dates I'll tell you later; tentatively it's from mid-May to the first decade of June inclusive. Plus, note the changes in the spring tour: the Luton performance is moved to the sixteenth, on the seventeenth you have an unscheduled concert at the Cavern."       "March?" Paul clarified, raising his eyebrows.       "April," answered the manager.       "That's still a long way off," pontificated Harrison.       Sir Paul already looked warily at Zami and muttered discontentedly:       "But that didn't happen! I don't remember that!"       America didn't react to the old man, only, putting an index finger to her lips, said: "Shh!"       "Boredom..." John drawled dejectedly, raising his head to the ceiling.       "What's wrong?" Brian asked, concerned.       "Ah, forget it, that cellar! I'm sick of it," Lennon grumbled discontentedly. "How many times have we played there? Three hundred at least. But back then we had nowhere else to play except the 'Cavern' and the 'Casbah'. Besides, we're playing there on the twelfth anyway."       "I knew John was my mate!" the old McCartney rejoiced again. "As if I sensed that's where I would meet..." Paul looked at America with disgust, "you!"       "Oh come on, John!" Ringo, who had been silent until then, intervened. "We should be grateful to that place. What's it to you? Think about it: soon we won't even have time to walk past the club, let alone go inside and give a concert."       "Ringo, you traitor! And I was going to call you this weekend," Sir Paul grumbled.       "Really, John. Ringo is right," George interjected.       "You too!" exclaimed the old man and looked at Ame. "If they hadn't stood up for it, I wouldn't be standing here now!"       America smiled broadly:       "You just made an argument in my defense."       Paul thought about it and noticed John, who was looking for support from his friend with his eyes. Young Paul nodded and quietly said the lads were right. After that, Sir Paul sank into deeper thought.       "Be that as it may, nothing will cancel your performance at the 'Cavern'," Epstein said firmly, as if stamping a seal. "You'll have to perform there many times."       Paul looked again at the revived Brian and, closing his eyes, sighed heavily. He regretted it when he realized he was back in his cold room. It seemed tiny to him, much smaller than he was. The heavy curtains swayed from the strong wind rushing from window to window. Paul began to look around for America, and while he turned his head, the room expanded, the ceiling rose, or the elderly gentleman himself shrank.       Something sparkled to Paul's right, and then he, shuddering, noticed America. They were both silent, though there was much to say. Finally, America bit her lip, giving minimal dynamics to events, and after half a minute said:       "Well, it's time to go where we were recently — April 17, 1963. We'll look at the events of that evening from a different angle."       It seemed to Paul that the girl then whispered: "But not everything will please you." At least, he remembered this phrase later, reflecting on everything after the journey.       A hum began to grow in the old man's ears. His legs carried McCartney down a dark corridor, and he walked and walked towards a half-open door from which bright light poured. Sir Paul approached and looked inside. It was the Beatles' dressing room, in which four black shadows bustled about, moving from corner to corner on their business; two of them even had black penumbras — guitars. Paul dared to cross the threshold and turned back to the darkness, where bats darted back and forth — drawn by McCartney's imagination. America was nowhere to be seen. Paul wondered what this hum was, coming from somewhere down the corridor, then remembered that on that day The Beatles gave that ill-fated concert at the Cavern.       Maybe, since that bothersome witch isn't around, this is a chance to prevent their meeting? If they don't meet, America won't become that Paul's wife, accordingly, there will be no reason for her to visit the old man with her claims... Paul headed towards John, who had stopped by the mirror and was sipping coffee from a white cup. The elderly man touched his young friend's shoulder, but he didn't bat an eye.       Brian's head appeared in the crack between the door and the frame.       "Boys, on stage!" — and disappeared.       John angrily put the cup on the dresser, hastily put on his guitar, and soon also disappeared into the darkness of the corridor. Ringo and George glanced briefly at Paul, who also seemed to dive into the gloom.       Sir Paul followed the lads and found himself in the hall. The old man positioned himself off to the side of the stage. Soon the lads, having adjusted the sound, began to sing, and Paul... He heard The Beatles from the outside for the second time, but the mood was completely different then. Those young voices, energetic and rhythmic drums, hearing which the old man fell more in love with each passing minute. And how young and charming the musicians were, how magical and captivating... His hands trembled, his heart pulsed in the back of his head and temples. Paul instantly realized what the fan girls felt, finding himself in their place.       "You always loved yourself," America's voice said reproachfully, so loudly as if the girl herself had been planted in Paul's head. He turned and realized that Zami was indeed in this hall, and that one, and the other, and both were standing far away to sound so loud... here McCartney got confused, and an inner voice, panicking, screamed: "I'm going mad!"       The music began to sound insufferably, as if pursuing Paul, driving him crazy. He began to dart about, run around inside his head, where the voices of John, George, America, and himself sounded alternately, but he couldn't run around the hall, there was no room. And this song, on which the spotlights began to flicker faintly, like McCartney winked at Zami standing in the hall. The old man hurried into the corridor.       "The poet's soul could not endure..." America appeared in the darkness, illuminated by the light spilling from the half-open dressing room door.       "America..." Paul realized he was getting short of breath and tried to catch it.       The sparkling America, a bright spot standing out from the pitch darkness, looked beautiful and terrifying. Two black strands of hair escaped her pinned-up hairstyle on either side of her face. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him that she had come to Paul from entirely different worlds, or rather, that Paul was now visiting her, right at the devil's place, in the middle of nowhere.       America remained silent and pointed her hand towards the half-open dressing room door. A wind blew from somewhere, swayed the two light strands by the girl's face. "Go in," she whispered.       Paul approached the door and once again stepped over the threshold of the dressing room. The tired musicians entered right after him. George immediately lit a cigarette, John pulled a grey checked handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his wet forehead. McCartney hastily took off his guitar and tossed it somewhere into a corner, onto a chair.       "Lads, I'll be right back," Paul said and rushed for the exit.       "Damn it, Paul!" an irritated John shouted after him. "Not the time now!"       "I'll be quick!" McCartney's voice came back.       John was nervous for some reason. For ten minutes, Sir Paul watched the silent guys. George was wiping the guitars: his own, Paul's, John's, because he loved doing it. The atmosphere was heating up; John sometimes sat on the edge of the dresser, sometimes, nervously twitching, paced the room. After ten minutes, a satisfied and beaming-with-joy McCartney burst into the room.       "Why the long faces?" Paul asked, smiling.       No answer came for at least half a minute.       "Tell me," John suddenly spoke, "have you broken up with Jane yet?"       Both Pauls didn't quite understand the question, but for different reasons.       "No, why?"       "Because you don't have the right to waste our time to sort yourself out," — the flame in John's eyes and soul grew. "I saw that girl."       John abruptly moved away and began pacing the room. Ringo and George shrank into their chairs.       "Tell me, what do you need her for?" Lennon stood at the other end of the room, looking at his friend through his glasses. "I'd give you a number, get yourself a lady. But don't waste our time! We have a ton of trips, work, we don't see daylight! I met my own son only a week after he was born, and you have time to start new romances!"       "Why are you so worked up? Isn't it a bit late for you to become responsible?" Paul found the strength to argue.       John asked George and Ringo to leave the room, and they tactfully retreated.       "I'm at least a good friend," John said, simultaneously getting more worked up and already regretting saying it, "and you're also a shitty person! May nothing work out for you with that girl, why would she need such a womanizer?"       "You're going too far!" Paul tried to sober up his friend.       "I know!" John replied and turned to the wall.       Sir Paul stood rooted to the spot. John's behavior was outrageous, but he understood that Lennon was often that arrogant. And he didn't wait for the argument to continue and hurried to leave. Outside the dressing room door, he was met not by a dark corridor, but by his own room.       By the window, arms crossed on her chest and neck stretched, stood Zami. Paul stood on the threshold of the room, and the door slammed loudly behind his back, attracting America's attention.       "Why did you show me that?" he hissed through his teeth.       "You didn't watch to the end, that's why you're angry."       "I saw enough."       "That wasn't the point of this argument. You needed to endure just a little bit more."       "And what would have happened next?"       "You know how it usually ended. With words that made your friendship stronger."       "But he wasn't like that, like there!" the old man tried to prove his point. "That's a different reality!"       "That's exactly how he was. You both were," Zami answered loudly and confidently. Paul fell silent. He knew she had enough arguments.       "America," he began calmly, "I wouldn't want our journey to start with such a story, so please leave and come back tomorrow."       She turned to him. Paul looked into her eyes, and she slowly dissolved into the air.       All evening, McCartney remembered what John was really like. And he cried because he had long stopped communicating with him, long before the opportunity disappeared forever. He remembered countless meetings that began with listening to records and playing guitars, then they composed songs, sang, discussed, criticized, and it flowed into conversation, into a monologue from a suddenly opened-up John. He shared the most intimate, profound things, thinking he had found someone who would find an echo in his stories. But he didn't know that he hadn't. Paul, despite his sociability, wasn't truly open and honest, but rather secretive. Sometimes John noticed this. It was hard for Paul to admit that he was always self-absorbed.       More precisely, of course, he valued John, sympathized with him, but found in himself a powerless inability to support him, to support him truly. He didn't know what "truly" meant, but his support seemed pointless to him, much weaker than what John needed.       Paul remembered the most frequent scene during songwriting: emotional John jumping up from his seat, shouting, swearing, getting angry, walking to the window, being silent for half a minute... wiping his glasses, placing them on the table and, looking McCartney in the eyes, saying: "I love you."       Paul cringed, realizing he had never told John he loved him, but had said it to random, fleeting women. When John was so open, Paul just smiled foolishly and looked away. And remained silent. A feeling of missed opportunities, of shame, gnawed at the old man from within. And a feeling that he had once again become a callous and heartless person.       McCartney wandered in his thoughts. Before, there was no room in his head for realizing there could be other dimensions; he limited himself to the banal Heaven and Hell. He was exhausted by what was happening to him; he had already lived such a life that wasn't available to everyone.       The old man didn't notice how he fell asleep. He fell into a bittersweet sleep, the kind you sleep after crying. He didn't dream of anything. The morning came clear. Waking up, McCartney lay in bed for a long time, contemplating whether he wanted to get up or sleep more. Then he got up and went to the window, where he saw his beautiful overgrown garden. But he didn't admire the view for long and returned to bed. Paul thought about America, about the upcoming journey, and about an important conversation that must definitely take place, because he realized the necessity of talking about many things.       At the opposite end of the room, America appeared. Paul raised his head, noticing her.       "How come?" he was surprised. "How did you know I was... well, speak of the devil."       "I have access to many things," the girl answered. "We have to go"       Paul stood up.       "I'm ready."       "I know."       Paul realized he was in evening Liverpool, on one of its squares. Lights were timidly coming on everywhere. The wind was still the cool breath of spring. McCartney looked around. By a lamppost stood America: in a black coat, the hem of which lifted slightly from the wind, revealing a piece of bright red dress, with a light scarf wrapped around her neck, in spring boots.       "Can ghosts really get cold?" Paul asked the girl. She paid him absolutely no attention. "I don't understand anything," McCartney thought, not for the first time.       Another America appeared in the gloom, glowing in the dark. Paul realized he was mistaken. Soon, another Paul emerged from the darkness into the lamplight and bounded over to the first America. Trying to analyze the situation, old McCartney got confused and realized that if he didn't try to draw diagrams in his head, he would understand everything.       "And here I am! Hi!" the lad said cheerfully. "Shall we go?"       "Let's go," the girl answered, smiling slightly.       They moved towards the restaurant, and Paul followed them. The place seemed familiar to McCartney: beyond the windows stretching from floor to ceiling around the perimeter of the spacious room, a dark blue evening sky was visible; lamps working at full strength produced a soft yellow light reflected in the glass; in the far corner, a string quartet played, drowned out by the aforementioned hum. He remembered that Zami had already brought him here to look at himself.       Paul gallantly helped Ami take off her coat and sit down at the table. America appeared in a striking red dress, accentuating her scarlet lips, which McCartney complimented. They were brought menus, and Paul asked the girl what she preferred. She answered that she wasn't hungry and asked for tea.       The elderly Paul looked around: no one was glancing at the young celebrity who had descended upon the restaurant, let alone at him, at Paul from the future. At that time, the waiter took the couple's modest order.       "What do you do?" Paul inquired curiously.       "I study at the University of Liverpool and I work," the girl answered.       "Where do you work?" the young man was clearly interested in his companion's person.       "In the theatre. I'm a director."       McCartney hurried to express surprise:       "Wow! A girl and at such a young age — that's, honestly, a nonsense for me. Don't think anything bad! On the contrary, I'm amazed by your courage."       "No, no, I understand that. Women haven't yet won a place in many professions, including directing. And to become a director, you really need some life experience, established views on many things, so you have something to say to the world through plays," America spoke very smoothly, fluently, and this hypnotized the lad even more.       "Do you have a lot of life experience? How old are you?"       "Twenty, in June I'll be twenty-one."       "In June? My birthday is in June too — on the eighteenth."       "You won't believe it," the girl, despite seeming otherwise, also didn't hide her feelings, "mine is on the nineteenth!"       "Wow!" Paul smiled, his Adam's apple quivered with delight. "One day apart!"       "Mm, very original," the elderly McCartney was again skeptical.       "Are you studying to be a director?" the lad was swept up by interest.       "I'm on a dual program, and besides directing, I study Germanic languages in the faculty of history, linguistics, and culture."       "Really? That's amazing!" young McCartney's eyes widened.       "What a show-off you are, America," Sir Paul commented grumpily.       "But you keep asking all the questions, tell me about yourself," the girl hurried to shift attention to her interlocutor.       "Well, what is there to tell about me..." the youth played modest. Then tea was served.       "And why aren't you telling him you're their group's producer?" Sir Paul asked that Zami who stood next to him.       "I got flustered." America looked Paul in the eyes.       "You? You're like an Iron Lady: Mary Poppins or Margaret Thatcher..." McCartney demonstrated his impression of America.       Zami, sighing, said:       "I remember, I cried for a long time that evening."       Paul remained silent.       "By the way, what's the date today?" the man became agitated for some reason.       "April twenty-second," America answered, not taking her eyes off the couple at the table. "So, I met Jane Asher the day before yesterday? Or didn't we meet and date?" Paul grew anxious.       "You were already in a relationship with her. That's exactly what we'll talk about very soon."       "So that's what Jane John was talking about then!" the old man exclaimed. "But how?"       "Alright," America began the narrative. "When you were eighteen, you met fifteen-year-old Jane. You struck up a friendship, which by 1961 grew into... Although, you understand, there's not much you can do with a girl who's sixteen, from another city and a strict family. So you had a lot of other girls on the side, including Dot Rhone. When she got pregnant, you broke up with Asher for a while. You know what happened, the stories don't diverge much here, and you returned to Jane. But by then you didn't love her anymore. Honestly, she helped both of us out for many years after, even though you left her straight for me."       "What a scoundrel I am!" McCartney exclaimed sarcastically.       Paul found himself in a room, but not that oppressively white one, but the one he lived in during his youth in another universe. A Buddy Holly record was playing, and young Paul stood by the phone, thinking of what to offer Ami.       "Honestly, I didn't get your number the day before and was very worried about it," America confessed.       Young Paul bit his lip with a quiet groan, then, drawling out an "Mmm!" took the needle off the record and, turning the gurgling telephone dial, dialed Ami's number.       "Hello, America! It's Paul, recognize me?.. Ha-ha... Good that you're home. Thank you for last night, it was splendid... Let's meet again? I'll have free days at the end of April... Wonderful! Then I have a tempting offer — to watch the sunrise on the roof. How about Sunday evening?.. How everything coincides! Then same time, same place... Alright, bye."       Paul hung up and danced across the room again towards the Buddy Holly record.       "And what was the point of that scene?" McCartney senior asked discontentedly.       "To look at your beloved self," America couldn't hold back. "Well then, shall we move a little further ahead?"       "Do I have a choice?" McCartney said doomedly.       America didn't remind him that he has. He'd remember when needed.       Paul again found himself on an evening Liverpool square, but in a different corner. By a bench under a lamppost not yet lighting the street, young McCartney was hopping about, the cold port wind blowing on him. He was waiting for someone, glancing at his watch every five minutes. Finally, in the distance of the half-lit street, a red head appeared. Sir Paul recognized that straight and hurried gait: Miss Asher was heading this way.       Jane approached McCartney and gave him a cold look without greeting.       "Great that you're in Liverpool," Paul said, looking at her with puppy-dog eyes. The girl adjusted the bag on her shoulder.       "Have some business. Do you have something urgent?"       "Shall we go to a cafe? It's cold."       "Say it here, I'm expected."       "I think you understand what I'm getting at. Jane, thanks for a lot, of course, but... Don't you think it's time for us to break up? We haven't been a couple for a long time."       "You probably meant 'break up for good.' We've done that more than once. And it seems we weren't even back together this time."       "You're right," Paul lowered his eyes. "I hope you're not offended?"       "Not for a long time," the girl articulated indifferently.       "You understand why I didn't want to say this over the phone?"       "I understand, Paul. Can I go? I'm with Peter, he's waiting for me."       "Go," Paul said finally, and Jane, wagging her ponytail, again with a straight, hurried, businesslike gait, strode into the distance.       "Jane was good, but not wonderful," old McCartney thought.       "Then, in the restaurant, we parted very reluctantly," Ami began, almost singing; a picture appeared in McCartney's eyes as if he were recalling a recently watched film. "We told each other a lot about hobbies and interests: books, music, theatre, cinema, painting. You told how you studied, I told how I studied. Then they started kicking us out of the empty restaurant, and you walked me to the bus."       Everything Zami described, Paul saw vividly, as in a film, in all Liverpool colors. As if this girl was controlling his consciousness.       Footsteps sounded nearby, all three turned and saw America, moving gracefully across the cobbled square. She, as if sensing, walked around the visitors from the future and approached the gentleman. The gentleman, taking Ami's hand, kissed it tenderly and gallantly offered his arm. They set off, and their invisible versions followed.       "How was your week?" Paul asked.       "Fussy," America answered. "And yours?"       "Mine too... restless," the lad smiled. "You know, America, maybe we don't know each other well enough to talk about this, but no girl has ever made such a strong impression on me as you."       "Let's hope it's positive..." America quipped.       Paul smiled.       "Don't doubt that... America, I'd like to talk about something personal."       "Oh, lad, what's got into you? Don't rush!" experienced McCartney grimaced.       "Try," America said cautiously.       "Have you had many... well, boyfriends?" the youth asked. America was embarrassed but evasively answered:       "Relatively. For our prudish society, a single premarital affair is already a lot."       "Ugh, I'm going to be sick from unnecessary information!" the old man grumbled. "What else to talk about on a second date? About sexual partners, of course!"       "Well, I have a bit more experience," young Paul smiled.       "No, no, no! Not that! You're making a mistake, you macho!" the old man grabbed his head in horror, as if trying to tear out clumps of hair. "You're not bragging about your manhood size to your mates! You idiot!"       America, the one who floated glowing through the air, laughed loudly.       "One girl even got pregnant by me..." continued McCartney, opening up to the girl in whom he apparently felt a kindred spirit.       Sir Paul jumped to his young version and started slapping him on the back:       "Hey, can you hear me? Nothing's going to work out with her now! Shut up before it's too late!"       "Not long before our wedding, she had a miscarriage," the youth continued. "It was a sign that, you know, we had fallen out of love."       "What have you done! Jerk!"       America continued to laugh at the scene Paul was playing out, but suddenly stopped.       "You realize you were just defending our relationship?" she tried to sober McCartney up.       "Was I?.." Paul was surprised, but quickly found a way out. "No... I just wanted the lad not to miss out in the future..."       "And you think, with that looks, those manners, and that fame, he'll often miss out?" America parried.       "But now I'm ready for new feelings," young Paul's voice was heard.       "We won't talk about anything interesting further," America informed.       "Ah, so there was something interesting before this?" old Paul flashed with humor.       "Let's fast-forward a bit."       In front of Paul's eyes, someone seemed to start rewinding a tape, and white stripes and snow ran down the screen top to bottom.       The four found themselves on the sloping roof of an ordinary low-rise Liverpool house. The sky was blue, closer to the horizon — bluish, and separated from the black city by a yellow crack of the impending dawn. Paul firmly took America's hand so she wouldn't slip on the still damp tiles. They descended to the middle and sat down, waiting for the sun to appear. The wind, much fiercer at this height, scattered the girl's black hair in different directions. Ami tried to wrap herself tighter in her coat and scarf. Paul sat closer to the girl and put his arm around her. The couple glanced at each other and directed dreamy gazes at the horizon. The sky turned pink; excited by their closeness, by the fragility of the moment, by the beauty of the changing sky colors, they didn't dare break the silence, and when the solar disc was half above the earth, overflowing with feeling, Paul and Ami timidly kissed.       "Isn't it too early?" the elderly McCartney grumbled.       "We need to go inside, warm up," Paul said in a trembling voice into America's ear, who had nestled her head on his shoulder, and kissed her again.       "What a mushy stuff, brr!" the discontented McCartney exclaimed. "Like going to an American melodrama. Starring Myself. Now he'll drag her to bed, right?"       "Almost. You'll find out everything now."       Paul turned and saw that the young couple was already half-hidden in the hatch. The sky instantly became bright as day. The dome-hemisphere of the sky turned into a cube, acquired edges and corners; the city turned into parquet; clouds moved apart and formed windows. The roof became the young musician's apartment. McCartney gasped at such a metamorphosis.       "How do you do this?" he asked America, stunned.       She remained silent.       Clicks of the front door lock were heard. Sir Paul peeked around the corner. Zami and McCartney entered the apartment. Paul went to the closet and, rummaging halfway through the shelves, searched for something until he pulled out some brown bundle and handed it to the girl.       "Go to the bedroom, wrap up and get warm," the youth literally ordered. "I'll be right there."       America went deeper into the apartment, where Paul lived. Old McCartney and the ghost girl — a scary tandem — watched the timid movements of the freezing Ami from the spacious hall-living room, which, despite having a wide exit to the balcony, was dim. Two doors with opaque glass inserts led from the living room: one to the study, the second to the sunlit bedroom, where old Sir had already been.       "This Paul lives well!" McCartney exclaimed, grinning.       "This is the Liverpool flat; the lads were gradually moving to London. I'll show you my house today, where I lived alone for several years," America said promisingly, causing the old man's surprise and interest.       Meanwhile, the younger America was already in the room and sat on the bed, wrapped in a brown blanket. In the corridor, the shadow of a slowly moving Paul trembled. He carried a tray with two mugs. The lad slowly floated past the living room into the bedroom, where he moored at the bed.       "Help yourself," Paul said, sitting down on the other side. "Just be careful, don't burn your mouth."       "And what's this?" Ame inquired curiously.       "Hot chocolate," Paul answered proudly of his masterpiece.       The girl carefully sipped the drink and, letting out a brief "Mmm!" nodded.       "Paul, very tasty. Thank you."       "You're welcome. Drink," Paul smiled just as proudly.       "One day I'll treat you to my cocoa."       "Really? I'd love to try it!"       A few minutes passed, and the mugs were empty. The lad stacked them on the tray and went to the kitchen. America half-sat, half-lay curled up on the bed.       "So?" the voice of the returning Paul sounded. "Shall we nap a bit?"       "That would be good," the girl smiled.       McCartney lay down on the bed on top of the blanket, turning to face Ami. He reached out his hand to her, and she entrusted him with hers. They kissed, then lay looking into each other's eyes and smiling until they fell asleep.       "And that's it? Hmm," Sir Paul said discontentedly. "Then let's go visit you. At least save this day somehow."       An unfamiliar place, presumably on the outskirts, appeared. It was a road that in a few kilometers turned into a highway.       "We need to walk a few meters along the shoulder. See those fences?" America asked, pointing southwest.       "I do," Paul answered.       "My house is among them."       America and Paul walked along the gravel by the roadside like hippie tramps. The pile of houses was getting closer to them minute by minute. Opposite the entrance stood a lonely phone booth. They rounded the corner of the outermost fence and approached the entrance to the yard. America went to the grey gate on the left and with a click of her hand unlocked the door. Paul followed. He entered a barely greening, but still grey yard of a two-story house. A little way off grew a small apple-cherry orchard, and beyond it a pool filled with twigs and dry leaves stirred. America was already on the porch and beckoned McCartney with a wave of her hand. The man entered and found himself in a hallway where a coat hung alone, from whose pocket that same light scarf peeked out like a snake.       The door before Paul opened as if a doorman had done it for him. To the right of the entrance stood a piano — this was the first thing McCartney noticed. Directly opposite the entrance, about three meters away, a wooden spiral staircase leading to the second floor tempted. Under the stairs, a full-length mirror gleamed — just like Paul's at home, but not covered with a dust cloth. Paul went further and surveyed the spacious kitchen-dining room occupying most of the first floor. The kitchen was separated by one unpretentious construction: a wooden crossbar about one and a half meters high, which held between the wall and a wooden column stretching from floor to ceiling. High stools stood nearby, and McCartney guessed it was a counter table where one could dine. Paul liked this interior detail and hurried to sit on one of the stools.       Sitting, however, he didn't stop studying the house. So far, everything seemed unfamiliar to Paul but found a positive response in his soul. Behind the counter, like a window, was the kitchen with its typical attributes: stove, sink, preparation table, cupboards, hooks, utensils, jars, and bottles. To the side, under the window, stood a sofa. Noticing it, McCartney jumped off the stool and approached his new, softer, and more comfortable friend. Beside the sofa purred, almost like Sir McCartney's mini-bar, a refrigerator. Suddenly awakened conscience stopped Paul in time, before he got up to go to the white purring friend and conduct a product inventory with confiscation. In front of the refrigerator, stretching along the wall under a cuckoo clock, stood a dining table.       Finally, Paul was drawn to a dark little room, the entrance to which gaped before the guest about seven meters away. Directly opposite the entrance and, accordingly, Paul, stood an ordinary nightstand, and above it, like a TV, a window shone.       "Spacious at your place," McCartney delivered his verdict, sprawling more comfortably on the sofa. "Can I go upstairs?"       "Sure," the girl answered.       Paul, groaning, rose from the sofa and went to the stairs. It creaked, and the boards under the old man sagged slightly.       "Hey, you sorceress, couldn't you make it so I move silently?" McCartney asked discontentedly.       "I could. But it's worth experiencing all the charms of my abode," America said calmly. Paul rolled his eyes and ascended to the dimly lit second floor.       To the right, a white wall shone, on which light fell from an uncurtained window. To the left of the wall was a half-living-room-half-study, plunged into darkness due to the curtained second window. Perpendicular to the window stood a desk along the wall with a typewriter and stacks of books and papers, and opposite, a sofa and bookcase nestled, right by the stairs, before which, like a rye field, a carpet stretched.       Suddenly, Paul was drawn to the window, which, despite the cloudy sky, shone brightly into his eyes. He approached and looked out into the yard: at the path leading to the gate, at some shed (or garage?) dividing America's and her neighbor's territories, which McCartney only noticed now.       "And what's that?" Paul didn't hesitate to ask.       "Garage," America confirmed McCartney's assumption.       The man peeked behind the door, which cut into that white wall as a dark spot. There was a modest bedroom with two doors, which no longer interested the guest so much. After a brief silence, Sir Paul continued, throwing short glances into the corners of the room:       "Interesting little house. I'd live in one like this. If I go to Liverpool, I'll pass by it."       "Unfortunately, you can't. In your universe, in place of these houses," — America gestured with her head towards the window, — "is a wasteland. Such a house exists in a completely different country."       Paul was taken aback by this fact.       "Well," he said disappointedly.       Suddenly, the telephone jangled loudly. Judging by how quickly it fell silent, the receiver had been picked up by someone. McCartney and Zami hurried downstairs. The stairs under Sir Paul didn't creak this time.       By the telephone, which sat on the lid of the piano, stood America.       "Yes, thank you for calling back. I think I've decided to meet the guys."       Sir Paul could hear Brian Epstein's voice from the receiver.       "Finally, Ami! Tell me where and when, I'll schedule the meeting."       America looked at her notebook.       "Let's say, Friday, May third, at my place. I'll cook dinner. But I doubt... They'll have their first long break in a very long time, and I'll just take time from their vacation. They probably have their own plans."       "Ami, don't waver, time to get down to work."       America sighed and fell silent for a moment, wondering whether to consult with him about what to do with Paul.       "Ami?" Brian called.       "Yes, I'm here. It's decided, Friday at seven."       "Ami, I'm so glad! Work will go much more cheerfully together!" Brian sincerely rejoiced.       "And I'll go on tour with Orbison!"       "How can I object? Expect us on Friday!"       America made a note in her notebook. Paul came closer to Zami, who was writing something, and noticed her dominant hand.       "So she's left-handed too, or what?" he asked, surprised.       "Yes, I'm left-handed," America reminded him that the writing girl and she herself were the same person.       Both Americas went up to the second floor, and Paul had no choice but to follow. A motor roared in the yard. Curious Paul went to the window to see what was happening. Five tall silhouettes got out of a black car parked by the gate. Unexpectedly, America came out of the bedroom and headed to the window where Sir McCartney stood. He pressed himself against the wall. The visitor from the future was afraid of contact, which could easily happen in this cramped space. America, it seemed, was also anxious, but not because of that. She could be understood. She exhaled and let her hair down.       Lively conversation was heard downstairs. "What a house!" The Beatles, like the old ex-Beatle, liked the house. "Smells delicious!" Paul's voice sounded. America turned on the light and disappeared into the bedroom. "Come up to the second floor," Epstein directed the lads. "Why? The kitchen seems to be here," John's voice was heard, followed by the creaks of the stairs, and the figures of Ringo, Paul, George, John, and Brian began to rise above the floor.       "Sit on the sofa," Epstein invited, and the lads, barely fitting all four on the sofa, began to whisper. "So, boys, I'm not handling business alone and for a year and a half now I've been helped by a wonderful girl who invited us over today. She had a difficult time in her life, so she couldn't join us fully, but now she will immerse herself completely in the band's affairs. Please love and favor — America Zami!"       The bedroom door opened slightly, and before four pairs of interested eyes appeared America.       "Hi! I'm America Zami, your colleague and, I hope, your support." America smiled and tried not to look at McCartney, whose eyes were popping out as if from Graves' disease.       "Wow!" John said. "Very pleased!" He stood up and extended his hand for a handshake.       "Likewise!"       "So, we have a dad and a mom now!" Ringo said somewhat childishly.       "You could say that. In any case, you can come to us with any problems, requests, and questions, and we promise to make every effort to resolve them. And now let's go downstairs to the table," Ame hospitably invited the guests.       Paul, however, couldn't find the words. He was stunned.       In the room, the aged Beatle noticed, there were: two Americas, two Pauls, one George (if Martin had come, there would have been a pair of Georges too), one John, one Richard, one Brian. "There are too many of us in this room!" McCartney grinned, either aloud or to himself, because no one answered him.       All the guests, including the uninvited ones, went to the table, which already held plates with cookies, pancakes, and cherry pie, over which America had labored all morning. The table was moved from the wall and surrounded by six chairs. The girl offered beef stew, to which everyone agreed, and distributed the meat onto plates. While everyone eagerly devoured the beef, the hostess poured fragrant Earl Grey into cups.       "America," John addressed the girl, chewing meat, "was it you who wrote me a letter? And we met once in Liverpool. I liked your name."       "I remember. I noticed that," Zami answered meekly, omitting one detail.       "Oh, I saw you that evening too!" Ringo exclaimed joyfully.       "Yeah, I think I've seen America somewhere too," Paul couldn't hold back and looked reproachfully into the girl's eyes.       "Our paths have crossed more than once; in Liverpool, it's hard not to meet."       Only George, sitting at the other end of the table, was silent, not taking his eyes off the girl, but averted them when she looked in his direction.       "Delicious pie, America," Brian praised the hostess.       "America," John addressed the girl again, sitting closest, "what exactly is your work?"       "Brian and I handle all organizational matters, and that's a substantial volume of work. We organize concerts, tours, arrange logistics, draw up schedules, negotiate with organizers, work with the press, maintain documentation, handle finances, hire team members. You won't see a lot of it because much remains hidden from your eyes, so you can just give concerts and create without wasting energy on all this tedious routine."       "Do you have a music education?" Ringo asked.       "Music college at the Liverpool Philharmonic."       "There you go, lads. Not like us," Ringo said.       The lads smiled, though Paul was still not merry.       Soon they moved on to discussing music of recent times and not only. George was still silent but occasionally inserted a couple of wise words. John and Paul shone with knowledge and observations, and Ringo kept up with them. The men polished off everything America had cooked.       Sir Paul watched their conversation closely. This was what he had lacked for many years — communication with his closest friends and comrades in life. Even though the elderly Beatle didn't participate in the discussion, young Paul, despite the age difference, spoke as if with his mouth, which made Sir feel completely immersed in the dialogue.       America's remarks, which included musicological and art history terms, also made a pleasant impression on everyone, including the old skeptic McCartney, who was beginning to get drawn into this story. The Beatles were pleased with the visit and left very reluctantly.       Seeing them off, America promised to accompany the tour with Roy Orbison and immerse herself in their lives not only in spirit but in practice. John demanded they not have time to forget her face, and the lads drove off.       "America," McCartney called to the ghost, "what's the story with John, Ringo, and Ami meeting?"       "I'll tell you about that a bit later," Zami promised.       The telephone jangled again, and America wearily descended the stairs. Paul came closer, expecting an important conversation.       "Hello?" the girl said timidly. McCartney's voice sounded muffled from the speaker, but the old man heard every word clearly:       "Good evening, America," he greeted curtly.       "Good evening."       "So what was that?" Paul's tone alerted the girl, though she understood why he was speaking like that. "Why didn't you tell me anything?"       "Paul, forgive me," Ami said guiltily. "Although how did you imagine it? 'Let's go on a date, but I warn you: I'm your band's manager.'"       "You know, Ami, this really bothers me," the young man said, resentfully. "It's not a fair game. Now I feel like you set it all up, maybe even hunted me."       "Paul, forgive me," America repeated. "It truly happened by chance. I'll tell you about the last year and a half, and you'll understand it's a pure coincidence of circumstances."       Paul was silent.       "Well, anyway," he suddenly softened, "what difference does it make? I like you very much, and I'll even be glad if we have a common cause."       "Me too. Paul, before we hang up, tell me, can we meet before the tour starts?" Ami asked.       "Of course, I'd be only glad."       They agreed to meet the next day.       "That resolved rather quickly," Sir Paul said into the void. "And did they really meet then?"       "They met," America exhaled. "I told you about the ups and downs of the last few years, and you wanted to see my play."       "And did he see it?"       "Yes, you came to the next performance, on May twelfth. You watched all my plays at least once and tried to attend every premiere. Well then, shall we continue observing the development of the McCartney-Zami couple?"       "McZami..." Paul inadvertently said. "Let's continue."       "So, in May and June, I went on tour with the band for the first time. The shared travel brought us very close. Besides, we met and became friends with Orbison himself. On June eighteenth, we celebrated your birthday together, but on the nineteenth, we couldn't gather for mine, as you went to your father and brother."       The telephone rang again. "Again?!" Paul was surprised. America came to the phone from somewhere under the stairs, which also piqued the guest's interest. He looked questioningly at the other America, but she only shook her head.       "America, hi! Finally got through to you! What happened?" an inspired McCartney exclaimed.       "Hello, Paul!" America answered cheerfully. "I was at friends' wedding in Oxford, just returned today."       Sir McCartney again looked questioningly at the second America. "All in good time," she said quietly.       "Good that everything is alright! I've already missed you" Hearing this, America smiled and pressed the receiver tighter to her ear. "We came from Blackpool to Margate. Can't meet for a while yet. But I'll definitely make time for you!"       "Don't worry, I have a lot of work myself at the theatre with the summer school. Barely wrangled a three-day leave for the trip to Oxford..."       "Then see you soon, darling. Kisses."       Outside the window, early morning was breaking, as indicated by the heavy greyish-blue sky. The clock ticking in the dark room on the first floor, which Paul still hadn't entered, showed almost seven in the morning.       On the kitchen sofa sat America, strumming a guitar. An open notebook lay beside her, and from time to time the girl wrote something in it. Minutes passed, dawn slowly broke, the sun rose higher. "Isn't she asleep at such an early hour?" Paul wondered, having often been sleepless himself due to inspiration. But even greater surprise was caused by the suddenly jangling telephone, which was already starting to annoy him. "And what idiot calls at such an hour?" McCartney thought. "Though I can guess which one."       America stood up, placed the guitar on the sofa, and headed to the telephone.       "Good morning, Ami. Didn't wake you?" McCartney said tenderly.       "No, I'm not sleeping," America's knees trembled with joy. "Why aren't you sleeping? You should get some rest after the trip."       "The heat keeps me awake," the lad chuckled. "And you? You need to sleep before work."       "Also woke up because of the heat." America looked at the guitar lying on the sofa. "I have to leave soon anyway."       "You are coming to me for dinner today, right?"       "Sure!" Ame was clearly excited.       "Wonderful!" Paul was somewhat anxious too. "Then expect you around eight or nine!"       Before the girl, anticipating a superb evening, could hang up, the telephone vocalised again.       "Forgot something," Paul remarked to himself snidely.       "Miss Zami, Miss Zami!" a frightened woman shouted. "I can't reach anyone! There's a fire in the theatre! The children are trapped!"       "The children were attending our summer theatre school," America explained while her past self dashed headlong for the exit. "Let's go!"       Paul and America went to the garage. There, Miss Zami was trying to start the car. Finally, after long groans, the engine roared. America, trembling from fear and feelings she had for Paul, opened the garage doors.       "Get in," the second girl invited Paul.       "How do I get in?" McCartney asked. "If I open the door, you... I mean, she... she'll notice us! You still haven't explained anything to me!"       "You'll get right through the door. Come on!" America, as an example, got into the car as if the door were already open.       Paul was seized by fear — the fear of loudly hitting the metal. It was easier for both Americas: one could open the door, the second was a ghost, therefore it was normal for her. McCartney still couldn't get used to the thought he was invisible. The old man gathered his strength with difficulty, squeezed his eyes shut, and jumped through the door, ending up in the back seat of the car.       "Wow!" Sir Paul emotionally marveled. "Incredible! I passed through it!"       "Don't rejoice too much. You'll have to perform many such tricks yet."       America got behind the wheel and sharply pushed the gas pedal. Usually, the girl drove softly, but then emotions made themselves felt despite all her restraint. After that Zami stopped just as abruptly and got out only to close the garage, and then, pressing the gas fully again, sped towards the theatre.       When America parked the car on the opposite side of the street, the theatre building, crackling and bursting with flames, was unrecognizable. Even the Liverpudlian McCartney didn't recognize the place. Many people already crowded around, but no one was taking any action.       "Mmm," America suddenly moaned in anguish.       "I just thought that I only wasted time, not calling the fire brigade and medics immediately from home," the second America explained.       Zami rushed to a phone booth and hurriedly called all necessary services. Soon, the first fire truck, called by witnesses, arrived at the theatre, then an ambulance, then more firefighters, and finally the police.       Events flew by as if on a fast-forwarded tape. Children were led out of the theatre, ambulance carriages took away the injured, witnesses replaced each other. America answered ubiquitous reporters several times, assisted those who had not yet been reached by doctors, but mainly dealt with the children: reassuring some, connecting others with parents, taking some home.       Shadows from the buildings began to lengthen, and the sun started to incline towards the horizon. The fire was declared contained, everything calmed down, streetlights began to come on.       A portly gentleman, shifting from foot to foot, approached America, who, closing her eyes, tiredly leaned her back against a lamppost. Paul listened in:       "Miss Zami, I respect you, respect your courage and much else," the portly gentleman said, approaching the girl. She opened her eyes and moved away from the post. The man extended his hand for a handshake. America reciprocated, and it became clear her hands were smeared with soot. "Thank you for helping us out. But now you need to sign some papers for the police."       "For what police?" America asked, frowning.       "It's about arson," the man explained. "Possibly done by some detractors. Need to sign papers stating it was an accident."       America looked at her watch: it was well past nine. There was no time.       "It's complicated here," Paul addressed the second America.       "Need to go to the station," the boss said in conclusion.       "Why should we admit it was an accident, not arson?"       "You see, America, it will look bad for our reputation. We don't have enemies," the man timidly rubbed his hands.       "Mr. Westfield, I insist on an investigation. If we admit we violated fire safety regulations, it will cost us more. I won't sign anything today, and tomorrow I suggest going to court. The police must find the culprits and punish them."       "Miss Zami, don't you understand..."       "Mr. Westfield, I understand you don't want to admit that someone dared to set fire specifically to our theatre. Do you want to pay a large fine or actually receive compensation? Let's discuss everything tomorrow: today was a very difficult day. I promise you not only to deal with the police but also to find a space where we can work while the theatre is under reconstruction."       They agreed on that. "Paul is probably beside himself," McCartney grinned aloud. Ten to ten. The trio got into the car. America pressed the gas again, and her car rushed and flew through dark Liverpool streets.       Suddenly, Paul realized he wasn't sitting in the back seat of the car but on the sofa of some kitchen. The lights were off, three long candles burned on the table, another dozen on the windowsill, and as many on the counter between the sink and the stove. Directly in front of Paul senior, Paul junior paced back and forth. "America!" the men said in unison discontentedly, meaning, seemingly, the same girl. Younger Paul sat at the table and began writing something in a notebook. Sir Paul, interested, approached his young self and peeked into the notebook:             When I get older losing my hair             Many years from now             I'm still sitting, waiting for my Valentine             Dreaming of the bottle of wine.       Then the lad sang the verse to the tune of "When I'm Sixty-Four." The old man, understanding the youth's message, burst out laughing. Finally, Paul noticed two headlights in the window and realized his beloved girlfriend had arrived. He went into the hallway, followed by the elderly guest. He examined the rest of the apartment and understood the romantic guy had decked the whole place with those aforementioned candles.       The doorbell rang, and Paul, trembling with excitement and joy, opened the door. As expected, America stood before him.       "Come in," Paul invited, smiling. Ami approached the lad, they hugged tightly, looked into each other's eyes, and kissed, reveling in the sweet kiss after a long separation.       "Wow," the girl said, surprised, noticing the entire apartment glowing.       "Come to the kitchen," McCartney whispered.       The table was set somewhat modestly, but America appreciated Paul's culinary skills. The girl explained why she was so late, and the lad fearfully began extinguishing the candles. America laughed heartily and stopped him, assuring him the candles would go out on their own. The youth told her about his week and how much he had missed her. Paul got up to clear the table, and Ami joined. They paused for a moment by the table. Paul pulled the girl to him and kissed her. She ran her hand through his soft hair, and his hands began to explore her body.       "Oh no, no!" Sir Paul suddenly perked up. "I know what's coming now! Let's skip ahead!"       "Well then," the elder America said. "We spent the next day together, and at the end of July, I moved to London. And now we'll go to EMI Studios, to the July 30th sessions. I came to the studio; that day the group was recording several songs."       "I know all that. When will you show me your first meeting with John? I don't see the point in this visit." Paul was impatient.       "I already told you," America said sternly. "And now..."       "Please Mr. Postman" performed by The Beatles sounded loudly. Paul's attention was drawn to the blinking red light warning that recording was in progress. The tear-off calendar hanging on the wall also proclaimed: that it was July 30th.       America entered the control room, where Martin stood with arms crossed over his chest, and a sound engineer sat at the console.       "...Mister postman look and see, is there a letter in your bag for me?..." John sang.       "Oh-ho... The lads've got a great taste," America noted, placing a stack of papers on the table. The lads, especially Paul and George, standing on backing vocals, instantly perked up. America waved her hand at them, and the musicians beamed and smiled. The girl watched their work for a bit and went to Brian to settle matters.       "And what's the point of this episode?" McCartney grumbled discontentedly.       "To show how the guys reacted to America," the girl answered casually.       "More nonsense," the old man continued to grumble. "No, let's go home, I'm tired."       Paul was about to plop onto a chair, and when he landed, realized he was on the bed in his room. It was evening outside, but very early, because the sun was just setting.       Paul went to the desk and sat on the chair, crossing his legs. He wanted a smoke, but there were no cigarettes nearby, as McCartney had gotten rid of that habit some time ago. America sat on the windowsill nearby. The clock ticked, reminding that the silence had dragged on.       "Strange name you have, America," Paul said. "Did you have a middle name?"       "I did," America seemed to toss words rather than speak. "Judie."       "That's a good name," Paul approved, as if someone needed his approval. "And where did you grow up?"       "Like you, in Liverpool." America seemed to shut down. "I think, Sir McCartney, it's time for me to go." She finally looked at the man.       "Wait, I wanted to ask you a lot!"       "Tomorrow, Paul, tomorrow," America said, disappearing.       Paul was left in proud solitude. He waited for darkness to fall. He had seen and experienced much that day. Paul thought about it for a long time, and when he made the bed and lay in it, cold, alien, he thought about it too.       It seemed to him he took a long time to fall asleep. He remembered two questions that, like two flames, ignited in his consciousness before sinking into sleep. Why had everything turned out so differently somewhere? And what does America feel, seeing herself?       Paul had a strange dream, as it seemed to him. It also seemed to him he had dreamed it before, but from a first-person perspective. It smelled of an impending thunderstorm, a cold wind blew. There stretched a huge, blooming garden smelling of jasmine, orchids, and mallow; a tall girl in a long white dress walked along its alley. She had black wavy hair, the tips of which yielded to the light wind. The girl went to a clearing where, in the tall grass, a young man in formal suit lay whistling something. His hair was as black as the girl's.       She walked up to the man and sat down in front of him, letting the ends of her soft black hair fall onto his chest. Paul felt how much in love these young people were with each other, and their heartbeats merged into one in Paul's chest. Thunder rumbled; Paul moved closer to the couple.       Suddenly, the young man also sat up, grabbing the girl's hand. She placed her other hand on his chest, over his heart. The wind died down, and it began to rain. Through the noise, Paul heard the girl ask: "Will we be together?" and she was answered: "Always." That couple was Paul and America.       Paul woke up. His heart wasn't beating as hard as in the dream. McCartney got out of bed and began pacing the room. He knew for certain that this dream was part of his and America's journey, her doing, so it was not unlikely that Miss Zami, head of some special society, would haunt him at night.