The Mystery of the Blackbird

      America still hadn't shown up. Paul didn't understand if he was waiting for her or not. The story had begun to captivate the old man, though he didn't want to admit it. The dream wouldn't leave McCartney's head. Apart from its realism, Paul found nothing special in it. He had thought long and hard about its simple content but didn't give much weight to his guesses. They would come in time, or maybe right when America came, Paul knew.       But he didn't know why he couldn't prevent their journeys, why he constantly set off after America. Why did she hold so much power in her hands? Where was she from? Who was she? That answer, too, would come with time and with America.       Suddenly, the image of America, who had turned to the window, waiting for the Beatles to appear, flashed by. Paul realized that before him was not the group's young director but a guide through universes.       "America?" Paul asked timidly, half-rising as if it might not be her.       "Yes," answered America, turning her head to the right. She looked at the man over her shoulder and, with a short, sad smile, added, "and I'm glad to see you too."       "No, America, you've misunderstood," Paul hurried to explain the opposite, "I don't await our meetings and I don't rejoice in them."       The girl, still smiling, turned to the window and said:       "One shouldn't forget that I know a lot about your thoughts."       Paul shuddered at this phrase.       "Now we'll find ourselves in my house again," America warned. "You liked it, right?"       "Well, yes," Paul admitted even this with difficulty.       McCartney stood up and, together with America, began to watch what was happening outside the window. Everything, except for a crow flying in the distance, was motionless, and the withered autumn nature suddenly grew younger into the yellowing greenery of September. The old man didn't immediately understand that the view from the window was not the same. He looked around the room, which belonged to America Zami's house.       Paul looked around for the phantom America but didn't find her. It became frightening to be far from home without her, the guide from world to world, although Paul felt she was somewhere nearby. McCartney was near the hostess's bedroom, the door to which suddenly opened. America, who had dashed out, instantly rushed to the stairs and didn't even run down them but literally flew. This surprised Paul, and he went down after her. Finding himself on the first floor, he discovered the girl had taken her favorite spot by the counter and was writing something on a small piece of paper. McCartney couldn't contain his curiosity and moved closer to read the message. It was all very simple: "I love you. Your Ami." Leaving the pen on the table and folding the paper four times, America threw a black cloak over herself, took a small purse and headed for the exit.       Paul didn't notice how he ended up in a train compartment. He looked out the window: Liverpool Station, familiar firsthand. The compartment door opened with a characteristic clatter, and Miss Zami appeared. She took the seat opposite McCartney. "Are we going to London?" Paul asked himself. The train, swaying, creaked and set off. The platform slowly moved backward, the station clock drifted past Paul, on which you could see the time—five to eleven—and immediately forget it, passengers flew past the window faster and faster. Liverpool views appeared under a low and heavy gray sky, splashes of fine rain clung to the glass one after another.       The train entered London that same minute, gradually slowed down, and stopped. Something under the carriage seemed to "exhale", and America, who had been silent the whole way, rose from her seat. Paul followed her, struggling to make his way through clumsy, angry, and dawdling passengers and their suitcases. Sir McCartney followed the girl through the station building and out onto the street. America almost dissolved in the crowd, but Paul, like a real spy, didn't lose sight of her. The girl walked purposefully, cutting through the human flow like an icebreaker, while the man literally forced his way through everyone, pushing himself forward. "I probably really frighten people who don't see me but feel me?" Paul supposed. Suddenly a terrible thought flashed through his head: "What if they do see me?"       Soon Paul broke free from the crowd's embrace. America was still walking ahead. After passing two houses, Zami turned left, and Paul lost her. Frightened, he quickened his pace, then finally ran to the corner, cursing America for making him run after her. Here he realized he was on Abbey Road. "If only all boring routes ended so quickly! And how did I not recognize these places?" thought Paul, catching his breath after the short run. He and America walked two more blocks to the studio. The girl nimbly jumped up the steps to the entrance door and disappeared behind it. Paul had to pick up his pace again. Suddenly the old man began to hesitate, remembering yesterday's lesson on jumping into cars without opening the door. He had to sneak into the studio without attracting attention, and there was no choice how to do it. Paul stepped back, squeezed his eyes shut, took a run, and jumped through the door. "How does this work?" McCartney couldn't understand, looking around for anyone who might have heard his intrusion. "You walk through walls but don't fall through the floor? America will have to explain everything!"       Meanwhile, America hadn't gone far, and Paul caught up with her again. They walked down a corridor into some unseemly room. There was a grand piano there, and near it lay a pile of cases and a disassembled drum kit. Any minute now, the Beatles and Brian were to come here to collect their things and continue their tour of English cities. America began looking for Paul's guitar case; fortunately, it was on top. The girl, clicking the locks four times, opened the case. There, comfortably nestled in a velvet bed, lay that very Hofner violin bass guitar. "Does she want to steal it?" Paul got scared. Footsteps were heard in the corridor. The girl hurried. She found a note and slipped it under the guitar. Then, returning the case to its original position, she left the room.       "In August, on the guys' tip, Brian and I hired Mal Evans and Neil Aspinall, whom we knew from Liverpool. Then, Brian and I discovered the number of pre-orders for the single 'She Loves You' and were stunned, realizing that two years of labor were beginning to more than justify themselves," Paul no longer interrupted America, claiming he knew the course of events—he was already correlating the differences and similarities and discovering that the latter prevailed. "I couldn't always go on tour, at least the British ones. There was a lot to do in London, and at that time, it also involved the damaged theater, which I practically had to deal with alone because there was little hope for the director of Westfield," America's voice was heard as Paul went outside.       "Where are you?" asked McCartney, lifting his head.       "That's not important," Zami said. "By the way, you should return to the studio. It's starting to rain."       A drop fell on Paul's nose. He saw that the sky had sunk very low and hung almost over the rooftops. While McCartney was studying the sky, another drop hit him in the eye.       "Ow!" exclaimed the man, rubbing his eyelid. "America, where did you disappear to? When will you be back?"       But then it started dripping even harder, and McCartney decided to return to the building.       "America? And where did you live in London?" Paul asked in a loud whisper, addressing the ceiling. "With Brian?"       "No, with my cousin." Paul jumped in fright because America was already standing next to him.       "Good Lord, don't scare me like that." The old man pressed a hand to his chest. "With whom, again?"       "With Allyna, my cousin," the girl repeated patiently.       "Wha-what? Allyna? In your family, is it not customary to give children normal names?" McCartney joked, but Ami ignored it:       "A reply letter from Paul came to her address."       "And how did he find out that address?" Sir wanted to pry out all the details. Probably still pitifully trying to prove that America had made it all up. Or he himself had.       "How-how," America didn't hide her surprise at such an absurd question, "I gave everyone Liverpool and London addresses and phone numbers. Just in case anyone had a question. Or wanted to complain about Brian."       "So, you were the 'kind mommy,' and Brian was the 'strict daddy'? Interesting," Paul even laughed at the thought.       "Something like that," America smiled.       McCartney noticed they were standing right in the middle of the corridor. Young Paul appeared from afar. The old man stepped aside so the younger one wouldn't walk through himself.       "Have they come for their things yet?" asked Sir McCartney.       "No, for the 'With The Beatles' album session."       "Wow, time flies here..." noted the old man.       The phantom couple was briskly passed by America in the same black cloak. Zami in a sparkling dress beckoned Paul to follow. They entered a spacious hall where The Beatles had rehearsed numerous times, even old McCartney confirmed this to himself.       In the center of the room stood a tall, handsome Paul. His face, though tired from concerts, shone with happiness and youth. He stood by a table on which lay an open newspaper, engrossed in reading the news. A guitar hung on a strap over his shoulder, on whose neck Paul rested his right hand. In his left hand, he held a cup and occasionally sipped tea from it.       America stopped at the room's threshold and, smiling, observed McCartney's few movements. He didn't notice her, but at one point, he quickly glanced towards the door, noticing nothing. The guy corrected his oversight in the same instant and turned towards the girl. A radiant smile stretched from ear to ear. McCartney put the cup on the table and removed the guitar. America walked into the room.       "Hello," Paul said almost inaudibly, reaching out to kiss the girl. She leaned towards him.       "Hello," she whispered. "How are you?"       "Great!" exclaimed Paul. "And you?"       "Same. I'm glad we'll spend a few days together, and I really don't want to go back to Liverpool."       "Poor thing..." Paul drawled, hugging her. "Torn between two cities..."       "It's fine," Ami smiled. "First, I'm always waiting for you in Liverpool. And second, I'll be on tour with you all October. Okay, I'm going. See you."       "Wait!" exclaimed the youth and pulled the girl to him. "A goodbye kiss!"       Zami and McCartney reached for each other and kissed. America, watching the young ones from the side, was surprised not to hear the old man's disgusted exclamations. But she rejoiced too soon, hearing a quiet: "Will this end soon?"       America broke away from the kiss and headed for the exit. The happy McCartney called after her: "See you." The girl responded with a smile. Meanwhile, George, John, and Ringo walked in single file down the corridor. America greeted each with a hug and moved on.       The three entered the room where Paul had long been. Ringo went to wipe down the drum kit, George, turning to the wall, tuned his guitar. John looked at Paul with a smirk.       The phone ring, which had already tired old Paul, was growing louder. The outlines of the room, faces, textures, and colors blurred and merged, only to reassemble into the interior of America's house, where she appeared in person at the same moment. She came out from the door under the stairs, drying her hair with a towel, approached the phone, and picked it up.       "Ami, hi!" Paul's enthusiastic voice came through. "Leaving for Liverpool in the morning. Expect me tomorrow evening."       "Hi-hi!" the girl also rejoiced. "I'm always waiting for you."       "I thought so!" Paul laughed. "And I missed you a lot, but you'll find out about that tomorrow."       They said goodbye on that note, and America began preparing for Paul's arrival. Sir Paul watched as the girl bustled about, wiping dust, moving things around, washing the floors. Putting on a record by the Miracles, whom the Beatlesloved very much, she began preparing tomorrow's dinner. Then, tired from her cares, she turned off the lights and went upstairs.       The house sank into the autumn night gloom. McCartney felt a surge of strength, finding himself in complete darkness. He wanted to wander around the house a bit and, like a true ghost, scare the sleeping hostess. But looking at America, he got scared. She glowed like a night light. As if lit from within—garlands placed in the hollow space. Her skin, through which veins didn't show, was white as untouched snow, like the skin of a porcelain doll. Paul's heart pounded, and he realized again that before him was a person long dead. And he wasn't the true ghost here, she was.       America turned her head towards him, unnaturally, like a doll, without moving the rest of her body.       "If you want to walk around the house—do it as carefully as possible," she said in a half-whisper. "At night, we're more vulnerable because we attract more attention."       "Yeah..." the frightened Paul croaked and decided to sit on the sofa. While he was walking towards it, it began to grow light with swift force. When the old man reached the sofa, it was completely bright.       Paul drew a breath to steady his spirit. The Spirit... that spirit made this short night as terrible as in the old days. Paul had many terrifying nights, united by one sequence. The first time—when his mother died, and he became afraid to sleep. It seemed to him he saw her dead face in the outlines of the interior, which took on particularly distorted forms at night. This only passed after meeting John, who, twenty-three years later, became the culprit of the second series of nightmares. McCartney dreamed of everything back then: John being shot in front of a crowd, a coffin with his body being transported around the world so all fans could say goodbye, Paul being shot, Paul singing "All My Loving" over the dying John, and he didn't find out for a while that it was this very song that played on the radio at the very moment John died. There was a lot of it all, and each time Paul woke up and couldn't understand what was better now: to end the nightmare by waking up or not to wake up at all. He would wake Linda, and she, half-asleep, would say: "Darling, it will pass, it's just a dream."       The last time, Linda herself kept Paul from sleeping. He almost never slept in the last months of her life, although Linda herself was cheerful despite the severe pain. Paul watched his wife at night as she slept peacefully under painkillers. And after her death, he couldn't sleep peacefully because Linda... Sir McCartney crossed out these thoughts. It's still too painful to think about it.       The pink sun gently illuminated the kitchen. The pleasant soft light added even more coziness to this beautiful house. Paul looked out the window, stretching towards the gentle star, which from time to time dispelled all the scary dreams and unpleasant thoughts.       The stairs creaked, and Ami descended unhurriedly. The clock showed seven. "Early bird," McCartney thought. America, packing something into a small backpack, left the house. "Why isn't she having breakfast?" Paul noticed.       The pink light left the walls, freezing as a white square on the floor. Soon the sun rose high and again approached the horizon from the other side of the house. Paul didn't even have time to think about how quickly the sun had moved across the sky, only looking questioningly at America, as if to say, "where did you learn to do that anyway?"       "No, of course, there were days in my memory that flew by quickly," he couldn't help but said. "But on such days, I was so busy that I simply didn't notice the time. And here I was just sitting in one place!"       Paul laughed, and America appreciated his remark with a light chuckle. While they were laughing, the hostess was already opening the door to the house. In an instant, she set the table and reheated the prepared fragrant dishes, at which Sir Paul immediately began to lick his lips.       "Damn, why am I not Paul McCartney? I would have devoured everything in an instant!" McCartney complained. America burst out laughing, which helped Paul realize what he had said.       "Sir, even beef?" America said in surprise. "But Paul, you're a vegetarian!"       McCartney hesitated and didn't answer.       America, bustling about in the kitchen, disappeared upstairs. You could hear her hurriedly walking around the bedroom, apparently choosing an outfit. Soon the girl came downstairs, dressed in a long-sleeved black velvet dress. Paul, without realizing it, was enchanted, examining America's bare legs. That was the plan, but Ami was aiming at young McCartney, who at that very minute rang the doorbell. America joyfully jumped to the hallway and let the guest in.       "Come in," said the hospitable America. "Hang your coat here, the bathroom is under the stairs."       "Hello," Paul kissed the girl on the cheek. "You look enchanting. And it smells so delicious!"       America smiled and thanked McCartney. Soon the youth sat down at the table.       "Ah!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Oh, beef! How did you know?.."       "From reliable sources," Ami smiled. Paul started dinner. America ate too, but sparingly.       "You know, America," began Paul, cutting a piece of steak, "you were sorely missed in London. Not only I noticed, the guys talked about it a lot. So, we're really looking forward to you joining us."       "Soon I'll settle everything and be devoted to you," America promised.       "And I missed you very much," McCartney admitted without embarrassment. "Believe it or not, but I thought about you constantly. And that, by the way, positively reflected on the performances!"       Zami told how the time in Liverpool between the institute and the theater, temporarily relocated by her efforts, had passed. Meanwhile, McCartney devoured everything the girl had prepared, and she cleared the table. Returning, she sat next to Paul and placed a hand on his knee. McCartney looked the girl in the eyes.       "I think it's time," America said innocently, indicating the second floor with her eyes.       "And what's there?" McCartney asked, not understanding.       "Well... there's a parlor..." Ami took her chosen one by the hand and pulled him upstairs.       "My God, again," thought McCartney from the future. The sound of rain was heard. Paul looked out the window and saw a cloudy autumn morning. "Well, here we go, time jumps again!" The piano sounded: Paul was thoughtfully picking at the keys. A sleepy America in home clothes came downstairs.       "Darling, why aren't you sleeping?" she asked touchingly, approaching him and hugging him from behind.       "Ami, how timely! Look what I came up with! Listen."       America stood by the piano and leaned against it. Paul started playing chords. Sir McCartney didn't immediately identify the earliest version of "Yesterday" and put a palm to his face. "Oh no, not this," the old man said quietly. "I hope you sing it as 'la-la-la'."       "Scrambled eggs..." the lad sang the melody that later became world-famous. "O my baby how I love your legs..."       If America hadn't just been awakened, she would surely have repeated old McCartney's actions. Meanwhile the musician, finished his awkward little song and stared at the girl.       "Well, I'll probably change the lyrics. I put in the first ones for easy singing. It came to me in a dream, and I came down right away to play it so I wouldn't forget, and now it seems like I stole it from someone. What do you think?" America yawned sweetly. "Oh, I probably woke you up," Paul was embarrassed.       "It's fine, I'll go back to bed later..."       "So? Did I steal it from someone?"       "It seems like it's reminiscent of something, but no, I don't know such a song."       "I trust your ear!"       "But sure, if you decide to work on it, it's better to rewrite the lyrics," America hurried to add.       "You're right," McCartney admitted it easily.       "And you probably haven't had breakfast?" Paul firmly answered: "Haven't had breakfast." "Then I'll expect you at the table in ten minutes."       The second America, sighing, went into the dark room, which old Paul never visited. McCartney got up from the soft sofa, where he had sat long enough for his legs to go numb. The old man swayed slightly, standing unsteadily on his numb legs. Paul took a few clumsy steps and stopped halfway, rubbing his knees. Then he took a few more steps and stopped at the room's threshold again. His shins began to tingle unpleasantly, then the tingling spread to his whole legs. This process was quite painful for McCartney, and he promised himself not to sit so long on sofas anymore, especially unfamiliar ones.       The room Paul found himself in was a guest bedroom. To the left of the entrance stood a wide sofa (a sofa again!). To the right, a drying rack stretched across half the room, behind which a dusty TV cowardly hid. America made her way through the drying rack to the TV, behind which a second window, curtained, glowed dimly. Grasping the edge, she slightly moved the curtain aside and looked out into the yard.       "Soon, all the other Beatles will strive to get to America's house," the girl was telling. "The next to visit her will be George Harrison. On his way to the city, his tire will burst, and, by a twist of fate, he'll end up right opposite my house. He'll ask for help, and I'll ask him to stay for tea, as it will start to rain."       Paul didn't notice that at this time, another America was talking to someone on the phone. He only heard one phrase:       "Drive up, I'll open the gate now."        didn't understand how George could call America, and then remembered the payphone that stood lonely on the opposite side of the road from the houses.       "A few years later, John Lennon will crash into a pole in the same spot where Harrison's tire burst," the girl recounted and turned to him.       Paul came out of the dark room and, through the open door, saw the girl opening the gate. George's car slowly, slowly drove into the yard, and when it was completely on the property, America closed the entrance. Paul went outside. It was drizzling again—autumn, nothing to be done. McCartney approached the garage, where Zami and Harrison had already entered. Paul followed them and found himself in a room with a small platform. McCartney stopped briefly, examining the peculiar little stage. Opposite was another door leading directly into the garage.       It was cold and damp in the garage. Few extraneous things were stored: a shelf with six jars of jam and a rope coiled like a sleeping cobra in the corner. The man saw more items related to the car: tires, a toolbox, a gasoline canister, and a brush for cleaning snow off the car. "No way I believe she fixes the car herself," McCartney chuckled to himself.       "Here, there's everything you might need," said America, walking around the garage. "If anything, come into the house."       "Okay, thank you," said George, looking gratefully at Ami. The girl left the garage.       Paul wanted to take a closer look at the room with the stage, reminiscent of those basements where The Beatles' journey began. Some wires and planks lay on the stage. In the corner, among cardboard boxes, stood a disassembled drum kit. McCartney climbed onto the stage. He looked around the room and sighed doomedly. Then silently jumped off the stage and went into the house.       The rain picked up, and soon it began to pour heavily. America went out onto the porch and started calling George. He replied that he was almost done, but Zami convinced him to finish later. George, very wet, ended up in the house.       "Sorry, George, but you'll have to undress," the caring America insisted. "Your clothes need to be dried."       "Ami, it's kind of awkward," Harrison was embarrassed.       "I'll get you a blanket, you can wrap yourself in it."       The girl disappeared into the closet and pulled out a blanket. George, still embarrassed, went to the bathroom. America brewed tea.       "I hope nothing happens between them?" Paul became concerned.       "Only a strong friendship," Zami answered, almost not lying. Paul continued observing.       George came out of the bathroom, wrapping his thin, bony body in the blanket. America invited the guest to the table for tea.       "America, thank you," the guy thanked the hostess. "What would I do without you."       "Don't mention it," the girl replied, sitting down. "It would be worse if you got sick."       "No, I'm not just talking about that," George shook his head, "I'm talking about everything. And the car, and the work," George took a sip of hot tea, "and the tea is delicious. Can I look at the records?"       Mr. Harrison noticed several shelves with records in the dark room and a shelf above the piano.       "Of course, you can."       George began carefully examining the record spines. The rain kept pouring and pouring, turning America's house into a cozy island of life.       "Oh, Chuck Berry, Smokey Robinson, Buddy Holly. Our musical tastes match... Oh, jazz!" George exclaimed, moving further and further along the shelves. "You can learn a lot about a person by their musical taste. And by their home library..." the guy mused.       "That's true," Ami confirmed. "Though everything that belongs to a person can tell about them. The contents of the fridge, the house, the yard, the car. And I'm not talking about material well-being."       "Yes, yes, exactly," George agreed, turning to America. "And this list could be endless. But there are no fewer things that tell you absolutely nothing about a person."       George and Ami launched into a long philosophical conversation, during which they agreed or disagreed, put forward many hypotheses and axioms. Harrison looked at America with admiration. The girl kept brewing more tea.       The rain ended, and the last autumn sun shone through the windows.       "America, thank you for a wonderful day," Harrison thanked. "But I can't trouble you for long. So, I'll go."       "As you wish. And thank you," the girl smiled.       "I think George fell in love," McCartney guessed, watching Harrison head to the bathroom with his gaze.       America ignored Paul's guess and continued speaking like a documentary narrator:       "The very next day, Paul and John visited this house. One significant event happened there, which you'll learn about now."       There was no trace of George, and America was diligently writing something in a notebook, sitting at the kitchen table. Sometimes she uttered parts of words aloud. The girl was so immersed in her task that it seemed if a helicopter landed in the yard, she wouldn't notice. But things were different: when someone knocked on the gate, America got up from the chair, finished the sentence standing up, and left the house.       "Who's there?" asked the girl.       "It's us, your friends!" America recognized John's voice. John was clowning, so his voice sounded squeaky. "Hungry friends!"       Ami opened the gate.       "So, what are you hungry friends doing on the outskirts of Liverpool?" asked the girl, not yet letting the freezing John and Paul in.       "Taking a walk!" Lennon answered, stretching his thin lips into a smile.       "Interesting, where are you walking here—there are no clubs or pubs nearby!" Ami let the guys in. "Come in."       The boys entered the house. America warned the guests that she hadn't prepared anything, and there was only cookies and cheese sandwiches for tea. Lennon and McCartney agreed to both. Zami's empty fridge was instantly emptied completely. Then the guys asked America for a guitar; she even brought two—she had started keeping a guitar for Paul with mirrored strings. The guys began composing something right there in the kitchen. Ami was somewhat struck by their audacity: barging into the house, eating everything, forgetting about the girl's presence, and not leaving. They were animatedly discussing something, singing, playing, writing in notebooks, and this distracted America, who finally understood they were writing a new song, which actually pleased her, and she began sweeping the kitchen, eavesdropping.       Soon the musicians stopped fooling around and concentrated on the music. McCartney and Lennon sang, asking the girl if she would allow a young man to take her hand? The young man could hardly live without it.       "Guys," Zami finally couldn't help herself, catching a moment of lesser concentration. "I'm very flattered that you're writing a song at my place. But allow me to ask you something. Who kicked you out of the house?"       "Oh, sorry, we didn't explain the situation. Assholes," John smirked. "All of Paul's neighbors have gone crazy: one is pounding the wall with a sledgehammer, another's kid is wailing, upstairs they decided to move furniture. And at my place, there's the wife, Julian... you see, not a creative atmosphere. But here, it's picturesque. Blessed silence, privacy... Wanna listen?"       "I do," America sat down in front of John and Paul.       Lennon counted to three, and the guys sang the new song. In unison for now, but towards the end, Paul began building a second harmony:              Oh yeah, I'll tell you something,       I think you'll understand.       When I say that something       I wanna hold your hand.              "Well done, guys!" America praised. "Oh, would you mind going to the grocery?"       John and Paul exchanged glances. Ami, in payment for the unexpected raid, sent the guys with a list to the store. She herself was already afraid to go, as it was dark outside, and they could be sent to the deserted village shop without fear of being torn apart by fans. As soon as the guys disappeared, old McCartney realized he was already tired and, lacking strength, refrained from comments. Sir Paul's eyes began to close, everything around seemed unreal, sounds faded, and soon the man fell asleep. He slept so deeply that no dream dared disturb him.       In the morning, Sir Paul woke up as if sick, finding himself in his own bed. His throat didn't itch, but his head hurt terribly. As if his brain had piled all its weight onto his eyes and the back of his head. McCartney didn't want to think this was a side effect of traveling. He didn't want to get tired of this dream. But because of the headache, Paul couldn't get up, and he decided to lie in bed all day, even if America came. He lay and thought about yesterday's last scene, how much it resembled his youth, which remained outside the lenses of video cameras. Ami was showing him many interesting things, and it was all new. Every old man wants to relive his youth, and if youth is like Paul McCartney's—you want to return it doubly or not lose it at all. America knew what to hook onto.       Paul closed his eyes and dozed off. Dozing—still the same dream but closer to the border between eternity and a moment, and much more sensitive, even subtle. The old man heard America come in but didn't remember it. Ami's appearance was a surprise to him. "I probably only closed my eyes for a minute," thought McCartney.       America handed Paul a tray with a teapot and a cup. Paul looked up at the girl with pitiful eyes. She nodded and poured something into the cup. Paul smelled the fragrant aroma of herbs. Melissa, mint... Mint, melissa... Tea with melissa and mint. "This will give you strength. Drink," Ami said tenderly. He felt a strong urge to obey. Paul looked at the girl: her lips weren't moving. Who then uttered that phrase? Puzzled, Paul took a sip. And couldn't help but drink the whole tea in one gulp. He poured himself more, then more and more, until the last drops fell from the teapot's spout. Paul felt better.       Paul got out of bed. His head hummed a little, but the pain was gone. He even made his bed for the first time in a long while and sat on the edge.       "Feeling better?" America inquired sympathetically. Paul nodded. "Are you still interested in seeing my meeting with John?" Paul nodded again. "Then watch."       As if by the wave of a magic wand, Paul found himself in a spacious white hall. He saw many young people everywhere, drinking champagne or wine. Trays with luxurious dishes glittered on the tables. Serious ushers stood at the hall entrance, checking invitations. Paul began walking around the room, looking for a familiar face: there were many—all Liverpool musicians and artists were known to McCartney—including Rory Storm, whose real name was Alan. The old man was amazed, seeing his former rival for the first time in many years. Paul had once dated his sister, Iris. McCartney mentally wished Rory's soul rest in peace. And after all, The Beatles had taken Ringo from him!       That very moment Ringo himself appeared. He was walking around the hall, gulping down glasses of water. Paul saw that Starkey wasn't feeling well. Why no one paid attention to this remained a question for McCartney. Richard, who was clearly dizzy, approached one of the tables and leaned on it with both hands.       "Can I help you?" the girl standing nearby worried. Paul recognized America in her.       "Oh, no-no, thank you..." Starr politely refused. "Just tell me, where is the..." Ringo switched to a whisper, "toilet?"       America pointed the way. Ringo immediately retreated. "A fun introduction," thought McCartney. Ami unhurriedly drank champagne, lost in thought. John appeared nearby as if he had grown out of the ground.       "Miss, have you seen a guy with blue eyes? About this tall," John pointed to his shoulder, significantly underestimating the drummer's height. "He's got a nose like this and looks exhausted."       America tensed slightly and paled because she and John were acquainted through correspondence. She handled the group's affairs but had never appeared before them.       "His name is maybe Ringo?"       "Bingo, Ringo! And what's your name?"       "If it helps you find your friend, then America Zami."       "And my name is Europa Abracadabra!" John burst out laughing. "So where is he?"       "He went to the restroom," America pointed with her glass the way Starr had gone.       "See you, milady!" John threw over his shoulder, leaving. America began looking around, hoping not to catch any of The Beatles, and hastily left the event. Paul, sensing her mood, also sadly trudged after her, but once outside the hall, laughed out loud at Lennon's answer. Soon the joke stopped being funny, and the old man fell silent. He walked down a dark corridor.       "Well, you're quite the partisan, of course."       "Though you remember John yourself, never shy about saying something ambiguous or extra at the wrong moment."       Paul approached the backstage of the stage.       "The performance before the Queen!" it dawned on him. America, who wasn't nearby, was undoubtedly a master of metamorphoses, metaphors, and leading one story to another. McCartney acknowledged this.       The stage was empty, and the Prince of Wales Theatre hall was gradually filling with spectators. Paul noticed America between the opposite wings in tapered trousers and a sweater with a camera hanging around her neck. McCartney decided to cross the stage to get near America and The Beatles. With determined steps, he crossed the stage and remained unnoticed, which made him grin.       "We just returned from a tour in Sweden, where, despite the beginning of a climatic winter there, we were received warmly in a Scandinavian way. This trip told us that we were awaited beyond the British Isles. Brian and I were already planning a trip to Paris and, of course, to the USA, but more on that later."       The musicians were nervous, revering the Queen. Every English boy was in love with Elizabeth. Ten years ago, all of them, every single one, watched her lavish coronation on TV, spellbound.       Brian and America, around whom the Beatles nervously circled, worried about the guys no less, perhaps even more. Brian shared with America that his stomach hurt from nerves. America had the jitters and periodically went to check the hall to see how many spectators had gathered.       The echo ran that the Queen had arrived, and the guys froze in anticipation, concentrating and barely breathing. They received the command to go on stage and take their places. The musicians lingered backstage for a moment, Brian and America blessed them, and they decisively rushed to the microphones. The sound operator connected the guitars and disappeared. "Begin!" commanded the director. To the first sounds of "From Me To You," the curtain rose.       Paul listened to the performance, not taking his eyes or ears off it. He couldn't stop admiring the group. He knew Her Majesty would highly appreciate them, but nevertheless, he experienced the same excitement as when he himself stood on that stage. And how pleasant it was to become an eyewitness to The Beatles' charm! Yes, he had watched their recordings many times, but in person, their magnetism was thousands of times stronger. Paul didn't miss a single note, a single word, a single movement of the guys, as if they were creating real magic before the public's eyes.       The Beatles finished "Till There Was You" and bowed elegantly. John approached the microphone. Sir Paul tensed in anticipation of the upcoming moment.       "For our last number, I'd like to ask your help." John bit his lip in anticipation of the dangerous phrase. "The people in the cheaper seats, clap your hands."       Laughter was heard from the hall. America tensed.       "And the rest of you, if you'd just rattle your jewellery," Lennon said with a smile. America held her breath in fright. Brian shook his head.       But the spectators continued laughing and applauding. After the concert, The Beatles, Mr. Epstein, and Miss Zami went to an audience with Her Majesty, but Sir McCartney no longer accompanied them. He stood on the stage facing the empty hall and tried to savor the taste of youth.       "Paul," America was standing behind the left wing. "We need to go back to Liverpool."       Paul took one last look at the hall's seats. Of course, not the stadiums he performed in now. But these halls of the sixties—were much dearer to him because they couldn't be returned. McCartney trudged after America to her house.       Zami and McCartney came out from behind the wings into a long corridor. America headed towards the door at its end. Paul hurried after the girl. She unlocked the door with a key, and they ended up in the girl's kitchen. The man looked back and saw no corridor there: only a pantry filled with important and not-so-important things.       Young McCartney came into the kitchen. A cup of coffee and a plate of porridge awaited him on the table. "Oatmeal porridge, sir!" Paul exclaimed cheerfully. The doorbell rang. From the second floor, tapping a dotted rhythm with her feet, America descended, jumping over the last two steps. The girl opened the door; a handsome, tall man with short-cut black hair stood on the threshold. This alarmed McCartney-senior (the younger one didn't dare show himself yet).       "America, hello," the guest spoke. Hearing the beautiful male voice, the breakfasting Paul also perked up his ears. "I came by because," he pulled a newspaper from behind his back. "You know, Leah and I don't read newspapers, but someone put this in our mailbox."       Ami took the soft, flannel-like newspaper in her hands. The issue was dated October fifteenth; it was almost the end of November. The article's headline was loud: "The Youngest, The Most Beautiful, and The Selfless Director of Liverpool." A significant part of the page was occupied by a photo of a charmingly smiling Zami.       "Oh-oh," America drawled with interest. "Maxi, can I keep it for myself?"       "Of course, you can," Maxi answered. "I'm going now."       America, engrossed in reading the small article about herself, closed the door. Sir Paul sneaked up behind Ami and also studied the article.       "What's there?" young McCartney jumped up from his chair, approached the girl from the right, and, sipping coffee, also joined the reading.

The Youngest, The Most Beautiful, and The Selfless Director of Liverpool

      It recently became known what happened to the Liverpool youth theatre "Fortuna". After the fire on July 16th, the building is being restored. The actors are forced to prepare for Christmas plays in the Liverpool Philharmonic building. The Philharmonic took in the troupe thanks to the efforts of the theatre's young director, America Zami. More about her personality was told by the theatre's artistic director, Greg Westfield:       "America worked for us as a costume designer from the age of thirteen," Mr. Westfield recounted. "Then I noticed her student production of Oscar Wilde's 'The Importance of Being Earnest' at Liverpool University and invited her to join the staff. You see, for a theatre to be youth-oriented, the plays need to be directed by youth. And I'm glad that America represents this part of the population for us. When she came, she was only nineteen."       We inquired about the decision to hire a female director.       "In this case, it's absolutely not important," Westfield answered promptly. "America has as much courage and determination as many men lack. She boldly began trying innovative staging methods. Additionally, after the first season, she organized a summer school, practically integrating our theatre with a young actor's theatre. I've known America for a long time; she's always been like this. Not every man is as active as this fragile lady."       On that fateful day, the summer theatre school was holding its classes. Miss Zami, who had recently celebrated her twenty-first birthday, turned out to be the only theatre employee who came to the fire site. Showing courage and bravery, the girl helped rescue children from the burning building.       "We value America very much," added Greg Westfield. "She makes an invaluable contribution to the theatre's development."       Moreover, we want to note that this girl is not only the most valuable director of the "Fortuna" theatre but also a fifth-year student at Liverpool University in the Philology and Linguistics department.       Currently, the fire inspection is conducting an investigation. Preliminary versions are not being announced.       Meanwhile, we wish the theatre a speedy return to its native venue, and America Zami—further successes and victories!

John WATERS

      "Wow! You're a hero!" exclaimed Paul.       "A lot of exaggeration," Zami said gloomily.       "Come on! You're famous now!" McCartney encouraged the girl. "I'm even jealous of you. But why didn't they interview you, not that old geezer?"       "What are you saying, this is his minute of glory. Let's not deprive a person of that pleasure."       "Let him enjoy it, you'll have thousands more interviews. By the way, who was that guy?"       "That's my neighbor, Maxi. Lives with his wife in that house," America pointed with her hand to the window above the kitchen sofa. "His wife is twenty years older."       "Twenty years older? Crazy," Paul started finishing his porridge.       The day again passed quickly and unnoticed before old McCartney's eyes. Now Ami was already standing in front of the stove preparing dinner, and Paul sat on the sofa reading some book, sometimes commenting on it loudly. Sometimes the comments weren't very witty, and the oil in the pan hissed at them aggressively in response. Paul mimicked it, which made the oil even angrier and hissed louder.       "America," the lad suddenly addressed not the oil but the girl. "I feel so good with you... You should move to London to live with me."       Ami took the pan off the stove and turned off the fire.       "Paul, we've talked about this a lot." The girl waved her hand in front of her face to disperse the hot air. "I have the institute here, I'm already missing a lot. It's easier for me to come to London from time to time."       Both men were very surprised by America's refusal. Both understood that she wasn't easy to approach, but for some reason, they expected a typical fan reaction from her.       "Then marry me!" Paul said as if he weren't making a proposal but throwing down a challenge.       America, exhaling, sat down next to the guy on the sofa.       "Paul, you're very precious to me, but now is not the time, believe me." The girl hugged McCartney's shoulders. "First of all, we need to be together longer, get to know each other, go through different situations, try to build a shared life."       "So America herself was against their wedding! That's news," old McCartney was surprised.       "But whatever you think now," Zami continued, "I love you very much."       America kissed him on the neck. Paul turned to Ami.       "And I love you," he smiled and kissed his beloved.       "By the way," America's voice was heard at the window. The old man got scared again, suddenly seeing the girl, "spending time with The Beatles, I started thinking about a film. We discussed it with Brian and decided it was a great commercial idea. The outlines of a script started coming to me. In Sweden, our team was accompanied by another person—writer and screenwriter Alun Owen, with whom we wrote the script for a film under the working title 'Beatlemania'. Though, it didn't reflect on the film, only my name was in the credits in a few places."       "That's wonderful, of course," the old man said, clutching his head, "but my head hurts again."       "Shouldn't you see a doctor?" the girl inquired.       "Can't you heal me?" Paul remembered the morning melissa.       "Alas, I have the right to heal by no means all things or all people. Otherwise, you would now see alive those whom cancer took after 1995," America felt clearly bitter at this thought. Paul sighed heavily. "And now I'll send you home."       Paul, to his surprise, noticed his head didn't hurt but he was very sleepy. The room he returned to was cool and fresh from the open window. The old man undressed, lay down in the soft bed, and fell into a sweet, sweet sleep.       He dreamed something very pleasant and gentle. Sometimes, waking up in the morning, you can't remember what you dreamed that night, but by the aftertaste in your soul, you feel and understand it was something good. Bad dreams almost never come without a trace: they imprint, cut into consciousness with a clear picture and don't leave the mind for a long time.       In the morning, Paul was overcome by such sweet drowsiness that he didn't want to open his eyes at all, let alone get up—just to dream and dream. Paul curled up in the blanket like in a cocoon and sank into small, cramped and kind, and sometimes absurd dreams. And no admonitions could tear him away from these intermittent, more photo-like in a diascope, dreams. These were the sweet meetings with the past echoing in him.       America appeared rather late, but that didn't stop her from spending a lot of time watching the sleeping McCartney. He tossed and turned for a long time, and at one point, noticing America's shadow, he opened his eyes wide.       "What time is it?"       "Twelve minutes to two," the girl answered without looking at the clock.       "A lot," said Paul and started getting out of bed. "Turn away."       Ami snorted and turned her head away. Five minutes later, the old man was dressed.       "Let's go," he said, adjusting his collar.       "You haven't had breakfast," America reminded.       "It's fine," Paul waved it off. "I'm fed up with your stories! Actually, I slept well, so I don't want to eat."       America gave the man a look that seemed to say: "Well, see."       "Forecast for today: I tell you about my friends and relatives, after which we'll go to Allyna, my cousin."       Surprisingly, Paul was fine with everything, as he indeed knew little about the girl. And friends would say a lot about who she is. Maybe he could catch America in being a fiction, or a reality show host, or a hacker who has hacked reality.       Zami again took out her small coffee-colored projector, already familiar to Paul, and placed it on the table. A bright blue screen lit up in the air. Then a slideshow began. The first slide had the title "Chris Jackson." The slides only had photos; America herself narrated all the information. Chris had thick, lush dark hair and sad, expressive features.       "You already know about Chris; a few days ago in the film, you didn't like her statement about early The Beatles. Sadly, that's a verbatim retelling of her words. That episode was described accurately and in detail in my book, but that's not the point now. Chris was two years older than me, born and lived in Liverpool. We met in early 1958 at the 'Junior Sight Liverpool' newspaper editorial office. The newspaper quickly closed—in 1959. But we managed to go on a work trip to Berlin during this time.       Chris was a very well-read girl and a staunch supporter of live communication. She would have had a hard time living in the era of the Internet and mobile phones, as she communicated exclusively in person or by paper mail. I think that's why we gradually forgot each other—it became hard to stay in touch. And in 1982, Chris died, which I learned about very, very belatedly.       Remember the hall where young Liverpool artists and musicians gathered? Rory Storm was there, Ringo and John noticed me... Five years before that, the first meeting of the city's creative youth society was organized in Liverpool. Back then, anyone could come to the evening, entrance and exit were free. That evening gave me the main people in my life. Billy Carmelite," different photos of one young man appeared on the screen. He was a blond with a smooth bob, thin lips, a long nose, and small blue eyes, reduced by the diopters of his glasses. Billy resembled Ray Manzarek, The Doors' keyboardist, "was born in 1941 in Liverpool. A talented poet and musician. The first person I met that evening. Was related to you and me, by the way, more precisely, a brother-in-law, but more on that later. Played in the super-group The Night," Paul began recalling groups with that name but couldn't remember any. "Unfortunately, died September 30, 2013.       Peter, simply Pete, Orange," a photo of a dark-haired, pale guy with chubby cheeks appeared on the slide. He looked into the lens also with small but black eyes, as if trying to hide under thick eyebrows. "Look, he was long and thin as a rake all his life but with chubby cheeks. Born October 9, 1938, in Newcastle. We met at that same Liverpool evening, but Billy and Pete were childhood friends and had actually come from Newcastle. Because Orange was born earlier than all The Night super-group members, he was often called 'old man' and many variations by his colleagues. A virtuoso guitarist, composer, multi-instrumentalist.       Ompada Ovod," a girl with large sparkling eyes and full lips appeared on the screen. Paul chuckled again at the strange name. Thanks to later photos of the girl, Paul understood she had dark blonde hair with a reddish tint. "Our meeting was completely accidental: Ompada was born and lived in Oxford, and ended up in Liverpool completely by chance, mixing up trains in London. Having no money, she wandered around the city all day. And learning about the evening where some received material assistance, Ompada went there, where she met me, Billy, and Pete, who married her on July 6, 1963," a photo of Ompada with John Lennon appeared on the screen. "Ompada really liked John, she admired him. Ompada is an excellent portrait photographer, author of many of our photos, but she is even more talented in clothing design, and her company 'OwoDream' has been feeding her family since the sixties to this day. Pete and Ompada live happily in Oxford and London, raising grandchildren.       Allyna Kristie," America's cousin, a red-haired, fragile girl, appeared on the screen. She had small beautiful lips but large laughing black eyes with mischief. Her face was dotted with tiny freckles like droplets. "Kristie, almost like Agatha Christie," Paul thought. "My cousin. Born in Liverpool, lived in London from age nine. Throughout her life, she helped and supported me. We both have one half-sister each, both much younger than us. A very talented artist and photographer. We're going to her now."       The room grew cold, and the white walls turned into America's lightly snow-covered yard. From the house, dragging a bag of things, walked young McCartney, looking back; America followed him and closed the door behind her. Paul stood in place.       "Come on, come on," America said, urging the guy on.       "I see you so rarely, and our rare coinciding days off, instead of resting at home alone, we spend on a trip to your sister," Paul was perplexed.       "You'll like them," America assured. "Alas, these are the only relatives I can introduce you to."       The girl caught up with McCartney, and he put his arm around Ami. Thus they disappeared into the garage. By evening, their car entered London. Learning that the relatives' apartment was near Buckingham Palace, both Pauls were surprised.       "Not a bad setup," Paul smirked.       Wet, elusive fine snow was falling. The young people, tired from the long road, got out of the car and began stretching their stiff limbs. Paul started catching snowflakes with his tongue. America smiled and patted the engrossed guy on the back, saying, "Come on, come on. Allyna will go crazy now." "You're such a bore!" Paul said jokingly and followed America into the house.       Allyna lived on the fourth floor. In some places on the stairwell, bulbs buzzed and flickered. Paul stumbled over the high steps, which he couldn't always see in the semi-darkness, and barely restrained himself from starting to swear. It was much easier for old Sir McCartney: he was as if carried through the air. McCartney-junior, however, impatiently waited until they reached the fourth floor and each time hopefully searched for the number on the wall between the doors, and if he couldn't make it out, asked America, and she patiently named it. When the couple reached the right apartment door, it seemed to Paul he hadn't climbed four floors but a whole nine.       America barely touched the doorbell. Rustling and footsteps were heard, then the door lock began clicking. The door opened only a little because the hostess had the chain on.       "Ami, who's with you?" the girl whispered suspiciously.       "Ally, I didn't warn you... It's a safe company," America said through the crack between the door and the frame. The door closed and immediately opened again. McCartney's features were barely distinguishable in the gloom, and Allyna didn't immediately understand who had crossed the threshold after her sister.       "How was the drive?" the girl inquired.       "Good," Paul answered, taking America's coat off. Ally found this voice very familiar.       "And what's your name, young man?" Allyna asked to confirm her guesses.       "Paul." The guy extended his hand. Allyna looked at her older sister reproachfully. Ami shrugged. Kristie didn't respond to the guest's handshake.       "Paul, you get undressed, and I have a couple of words for my sister. The bathroom is straight ahead." Allyna grabbed America by the shoulder and dragged her to the kitchen.       Ally took a matchbox from the table and with a deft movement pulled out a thin match. The girl struck the match sharply against the side of the box, and it instantly lit. A cigarette unexpectedly, like an illusionist's trick, appeared in Allyna's hand. Kristie took a drag as if wanting to quickly meet the red ember rapidly moving from the start of the cigarette towards the filter. With a light wave of her hand, she extinguished the match. The silence continued.       "You see, Ami," Allyna shook the ash off into a glass ashtray, "he's a famous person. In the future, he'll become even more well-known." The girl took a drag and exhaled smoke. "There will be so many temptations before him, you can't even imagine. He could hurt you."       Allyna said this in a low, calm voice as if she were at least thirty years older than her sister. However, she was a nineteen-year-old student of short stature—almost a head shorter than America. But she always sounded convincing, and Ami listened to her.       "Ally, my dear sister, a person doesn't have to be a celebrity to have many temptations and hurt others. And I won't let myself be offended."       Allyna reached for her sister and hugged her.       "Okay. Call your star," she said slyly.       Hungry Zami and McCartney sat down to dinner. Allyna asked how they met, and Paul, non-stop, told everything from beginning to end and complained about how rarely they saw each other. After the guest finished his story, Ally told about her no less diverse life: about university, friends, family, and the antics of her younger sister, about the funny tenant renting a room from the family. The girl spoke so vividly and spiced it up with sharp remarks that both Paul and America, accustomed to her sister's manner of speech, rolled with laughter.       Unexpectedly, a woman about forty with platinum hair tied in a bun appeared in the kitchen. Her stern gaze, sliding over those sitting at the table, began to express mixed emotions.       "America!" the woman pretended to ignore the famous guest and hurried to the girl.       "Mary!" Zami stood up, and the relatives hugged. "Paul, this is my aunt, Ally's mother, Mary Ramon. Mary, this is Paul."       "Hello, Paul. Very nice," shortly said Mrs. Ramon. Paul half-rose and kissed Ami's aunt's hand. "Of course, I understand everything, but I have a child there who can't sleep because of you."       Paul, Ami, and Ally promised to be quieter, and Mary returned to her room. Soon the promised silence began to be violated, causing Mary to regularly peek through the arch into the kitchen. In the end, the young people quieted down, frightened by every rustle after which Mrs. Ramon could appear. Closer to night, Zami and McCartney, tired from the journey, began to nod off, and Ally started thinking about their overnight stay. When they entered the room, it turned out there were some problems. The room had only two single beds and a non-unfoldable bed chair. Allyna couldn't disturb her parents, so she presented McCartney with a choice: sleep on the floor or in cramped conditions with America, and Paul immediately answered: with Ami. The light in the room went out.       Old Paul began wandering around the room waiting for America. The room suddenly lit up with moonlight. The old man turned and, noticing America floating opposite the window, got scared. The girl, passing through the glass, ended up in the room.       "Stop scaring me like that!" Paul was either angry or just frightened.       "Sorry. At night, everything looks more frightening. And this is even more inherent in me," Zami shrugged. "Let's return to Liverpool."       Pitch darkness dispersed, and Paul found himself in America's yard. The hostess came out of the garage, sorting through a stack of letters, and walked slowly towards the house. The girl with an indifferent look moved envelopes down and suddenly raised her eyebrows in surprise. In the "from" field stood the name George Harrison. "Must be something important," thought America.       America was unfolding George's letter, walking to the porch. The contents stunned America:       Dear America,       I'm writing you a very important letter that may shake your friendly attitude towards me. But I think it's important to tell you this. From the very first meeting, I can't stop thinking about you. I think I've fallen in love with you. When you appear, all space around transforms. When you travel on tour with us, they become a real holiday. It's not as interesting with any girl as it is with you. I don't know if you have mutual feelings for me, but even if not, I'll be happy just to be your friend. I wouldn't want to lose a person like you.       Respectfully, George       Fortunately, Paul wasn't nearby—the Beatles were touring the country with Christmas shows. America hastily hid the letter in the envelope and hurried into the house. "Well, well..." thought McCartney, "A heartbreaker!" America sat in the kitchen all evening, reading receipts and answering letters, but George's letter gave her no peace. "And I invited them for Christmas..." Paul unexpectedly for himself heard Ami's thoughts.       The girl went upstairs and soon came down, holding some thick notebook. America approached the piano, above which hung a finishing tear-off calendar. Next to it, Ami placed this very notebook; in it, Paul discerned a tear-off calendar for 1964. Pots and pans appeared on the stove, making the kitchen warmer. As if on cue, snow swirled serenely outside the window. America herself didn't notice how the sky turned blue.       A loud knock on the tin fence sounded, and the girl, throwing a shawl over her dress, rushed out of the house into the frost. Transparent clouds of steam came from her heated skin. America opened the gate, behind which stood the first guest. Ami squinted slightly, as it was dark outside, and made out Paul. The youth and the girl rushed into each other's arms.       "I missed you so much, my love," McCartney whispered into the girl's head.       "I missed you too," the girl whispered back.       "And now quickly into the house, or you'll freeze now," Paul said more sternly.       McCartney and Zami entered the house. While the girl turned away, Paul took a gift from his coat's inner pocket and discreetly placed it under the fir tree standing in the dark room. Candles burned on it in the old-fashioned way, filling the room with the smell of paraffin. America asked Paul to undress. The guy had arrived earlier than scheduled to spend more time with Ami. America promised to spend more time with the group in the new year and reminded again that she had a lot of work at the theatre. "And what's the point of working so much..." McCartney smirked. America looked at him from under her brows, as if to say: "Look who's talking!"       The couple didn't manage to be alone for long—Ringo and George joined their company, driving into the yard in Starr's car, who decided to pick up his friend. The house immediately became noisy: Ringo and Paul cracked jokes, laughing louder at them than George and America; George quietly strummed the guitar, America finished preparing the festive dinner.       "Guys, maybe we'll have a drink while the Lennons aren't here?" Paul suggested, rubbing his hands. "Well, you, Macca, as always!" old Paul exclaimed to himself.       Snow began to fall heavily, and the blue sky behind the snow curtain could no longer be seen. Through the snowflakes, like from two bright spotlights, the light of the Lennons' car headlights broke through; five minutes later, they were on the threshold, bringing frosty air into the house.       "And here we are!" John noted his appearance. George, Paul, and Ringo rushed to the hallway, greeting Cynthia, whom they hadn't seen for a long time. A little Julian sat on the girl's arms, looking around. The guys started playing with him. With the arrival of the Lennons, the loudest of whom was the head of the family, the house became noisy and finally came to life.       "Glad to see you, guys!" Cynthia exclaimed. "But where's the hostess? I must meet her!"       America was blocked by the guys surrounding the new arrivals. They parted, though Paul continued playing with cheered-up Julian. The girl carefully handed the baby to McCartney and approached Ami.       "Ami, hello. I'm Cynthia. John told me many good things about you. Thank you for inviting us. Nice to meet you!"       "Nice to meet you too." The girls smiled at each other. "Let me show you the room I've prepared for you."       "Oh, that would be very helpful, Julian needs to be put to bed. Paul, give the child back," Cynthia addressed McCartney.       "I can't," Paul pressed his cheek to the baby's smooth cheek, "he's so soft and warm..."       "You have no choice," Mrs. Lennon laughed, reaching for her son.       "Good night, Jul," Paul said goodbye to the younger Lennon. "Go to Mommy."       Miss Zami and Mrs. Lennon went upstairs. America helped lift Julian because Cynthia was afraid of stumbling on the unfamiliar staircase.       "You have a nice house," Cynthia remarked, looking around. "Warm and cozy."       Ami thanked the guest and began playing with Julian while Cynthia unpacked. In the corner stood a unfolded crib, which Zami had prepared specially for Julian. Cynthia was flattered by this and couldn't find words to thank the hostess. "America, you shouldn't have!" Cynthia exclaimed.       Mrs. Lennon went to the bathroom adjoining the bedroom to change. Julian was bubbling saliva but suddenly started fussing. Cynthia, having dressed up, jumped out at the cry.       "You look great," America said over the baby's cry.       "Thank you," Cynthia said, rocking her son.       Soon Julian's peaceful sniffling was heard. He looked sweet in his sleep, like all sleeping children. America gazed at the creation of John and Cynthia, whom the child resembled equally strongly.       "Yes..." Cynthia drawled, as if agreeing with Ami's thoughts. "You know, America, I'm worried for you. It won't be easy for you with The Beatles. It's much easier for Brian—they're men. But girls will envy you. You'll be in their sights... But if anything, you can count on our help."       "Of course, yes, thank you," Ami said awkwardly. "Shall we go to the guys?"       A knock was heard on the room door.       "Ladies," Paul's head appeared in the doorway, "we're already hungry."       "We're coming down." The girls headed to the impatient Beatles. The cheered-up young people sat down at the table. "Pour!" they demanded. "So you wanted to eat or drink?" America asked ironically, taking out bottles of cognac, wine, brandy, whiskey from the pantry. "I wish I were in their place," Sir McCartney licked his lips.       Everything quieted down a bit when the friends started eating: mouths were busy. Only the clatter of cutlery on plates was heard. No one talked about work, though there was much to discuss: the trip to Paris in January and the USA in February, preparations for filming "Beatlemania," over whose script America and Alun Owen had long labored, the success of the "With the Beatles" album released in November.       "Pity Brian isn't here," Ringo said, chewing salad.       "Come on. I'm a bit tired of him," John objected. "He's such a bore. Everything is fine as it is."       "Okay, I'm starting to not like this," America intervened. "Let's look at the gifts we prepared for each other."       America invited everyone into the room where, blazing with candle fire, stood a fir tree. A pile of gifts huddled under it. "How did it all end up here?" McCartney wondered aloud. "Christmas magic," Ami smiled and looked out the window, beyond which the blizzard no longer raged: a calm night stood, lulling the gloomy snowdrifts and little children. "Oh, John, how sweet," George was touched, "picks with the letters of my name. You're a true friend!" Harrison rushed to hug Lennon. "Ah, come on," John modestly said. Thanks for the wonderful gifts sounded everywhere, and sometimes the Beatles impulsively threw themselves into each other's arms and made noise. Then they continued their gathering at the table.       Christmas night began to gradually put everyone to sleep, and it was time for America to prepare everyone's sleeping arrangements. Lennons settled peacefully in her room, George also went upstairs to the sofa in the parlor, Ringo settled in the dining room, and Paul—in the dark room. Ami, to throw dust in the Beatles' eyes, didn't make her bed immediately. First, she went to the Lennons to explain the nuances of the bathroom adjoining the bedroom and wish them good night. George looked expectantly at the bedroom door, wanting to talk to America.       America, so as not to wake the dozing house, quietly slipped out of the bedroom and tried not to creak the floors. But from the darkness came a whisper: "America?" The girl whispered: "Yes, it's me."       "I want to talk to you," Harrison said quietly.       America hesitantly approached and sat on the edge.       "You got my letter?"       "Yes, George, I did. I have to tell you," America exhaled, "that I don't reciprocate. You're very pleasant and likable to me, but my heart is taken. Be assured, you're not losing anything this way but gaining—a faithful friend in me."       George was silent. Not even his breathing was audible. "Well, you guys are something," Sir Paul thought.       "I'll be your faithful friend too, Ami," he promised. In the darkness, the promise sounded sincere, though in this, America couldn't be sure, not seeing his eyes. They hugged tightly. Wishing each other good night, Ami went downstairs, where Starr was snoring loudly. The girl unfolded a cot in Paul's room and lay down next to him. Paul stroked Ami's head for a while until he fell into sleep; she couldn't fall asleep for a long time, thinking about the eventful day.       In the silence, calm snoring was heard. Sir Paul sat down on a chair. He liked what he saw. "I wonder what's next on the agenda?" he thought to himself.       "Paris," America's whisper was heard, and an accordion sounded in the distance.       "Paris..." Paul drawled, licking his lips.       "I see you're starting to like it?" America, holding a red rose in her hands, cut through the gloom with her glow.       "Well... it's okay, nothing special," Paul still didn't want to admit it.       America smiled and closed her eyes. Now she looked not so much frightening as beautiful, holding the bud of a red rose in her palms, light as down.       "You need to go there," Ami pointed to the right with her hand. Instead of the room where young Zami and McCartney were spending the night, was a double door. Paul tried to extract memories of this door from the depths of his memory. "How could I forget!" the old man exclaimed to himself. "The 'George V' hotel room!" Sir Paul hurried inside.       The room smelled of strong cigarettes, and a tea set was on the table. First, Sir Paul saw John standing by the window, sipping tea. Paul sat in an armchair reading a newspaper, and George settled in an armchair opposite.       "I really need Brian! I really need Brian!" George said anxiously.       "What for?" Paul was losing patience, apparently having long tried to find out from Harrison why he so urgently needed the manager.       "It's not important. Why did he need to go to the airport?" George was also barely holding on.       "If I knew!" Paul buried himself in the newspaper again.       From the bedroom, rumpled Starr came out, barely moving his feet, rubbing his eyes, muttering: "Good morning." The guys looked back at the drummer.       "Oh-oh, the ghost of Hamlet's father," John said sarcastically. Starr just waved his hand. John went to the dressing table, where stood a carafe of water, and poured Ringo a glass. "Here, take it. You should wash up and comb your hair, or when Brian comes, he won't be pleased."       "But first, I need him!" George inserted his word.       These calls worked well. The hotel room door opened, and Epstein appeared on the threshold with a suitcase in hand.       "And here I am. With a surprise!" Brian said intriguingly, and America peeked out from behind his back. The guys gasped and approached the girl to hug her.       "We didn't think you'd come here!" John exclaimed.       "As you see—I'm here!" America smiled.       "Alright, guys. Treat America to tea and get ready for the concert," Epstein commanded and left. Ami sat in the armchair where George had been sitting before her, and he poured green tea from a shiny teapot.       "Of course, in Paris, we should drink wine, not tea," Harrison said, pouring himself tea as well, "but we have a concert."       "And the liver won't hold out if we pour wine into ourselves around the clock for three weeks," John said, sitting on the sofa nearby. "We're quite the drunks—mama don't worry."       "And how do fans love you, such alcoholics..." America smirked and thanked George for his care.       "And in France, we're not very welcomed," John shared. "We perform for a week, and these messieurs in suits sit with such faces as if we're playing a chess game. But on the other hand, there's a plus: you can walk the streets calmly and hear each other on stage. And you, by the way, are you coming with us now?"       "No, I'll go with you tomorrow; today I'll unpack and take a walk around the city." America took a sip of tea.       "Why don't you take a walk around the city with us?"       "You see, my parents lived here in the thirties. I want to walk around their places alone. But I'll definitely take a walk with you."       "I see," John nodded and slapped his knees. "Okay, we gotta go."       The guys didn't leave the room immediately: they fussed for a long time, looked for something, made noise. Brian peeked into the room, reminded them it was time to leave, and left—until the next warning. Once he even asked America: "Are you holding them up?" Soon the guys left, and Ami went out.       "America, did your parents really live in Paris?" Sir McCartney asked, lifting his head to the city's gray January sky.       "They met here. Lived here until the war," America walked next to Paul. "Dad served as an engineer in some company, and mom worked as a journalist. Rain introduced them—both forgot their umbrellas that day and hid in a pastry shop. They met there and got married right before the war."       "And you were born in Liverpool?"       "No, not in Liverpool."       America fell silent. Paul thought he had asked too much. Two ghosts from different dimensions walked lonely along the Champs-Élysées.       "Actually, the story of my appearance is quite mysterious. No documentary evidence remains. Mom died early, and Dad and I only grew close shortly before his death. I could learn the whole truth only there, beyond the bounds of infinity, but I can only reveal what is officially known. I remember some things from Mom's stories. My parents got married in the summer of 1939 in Paris. Both sensed the approaching war, understood it would come to France before the new year, and decided to evacuate. My mom was born in Poland, and they went east, closer to her parents, to try to take them to England. How far they got is unknown. Most likely, the war caught them in the northwestern part of Poland. I was born in the summer of 1942 in a Jewish ghetto. My mom was by no means a typical-looking Jew. You saw Mary Kristie? She's a copy of my mom, a blonde with green eyes. Father, half-German, asked to go into the ghetto with her. In the first days, he, a talented engineer, developed a plan for an underground passage for escape. At least one other ghetto where a tunnel leading to safe territory was dug is known—the Novogrudok one.       This turned out to be an incredibly complex venture. My father supervised the work. The digging progressed slowly. Daily hard labor for the Wehrmacht in a penal regime exhausted everyone, but in the evenings, they gathered and put all their remaining strength into the digging. Though not everyone believed in Father's venture, no one abandoned the task because everyone wanted to die free. Everyone knew that even if they couldn't bring the matter to an end, their stubborn resistance already made them free.       There were fewer and fewer people. The Nazis conducted mass shootings. My parents were lucky at all stages. In June forty-two, I was born. Mom was called in for interrogation, asked where the child was, since they took all infants and killed them. She answered that the child was born dead and was buried. They beat her and sent her home. Mom, yielding to a premonition, hid me with neighbors, and the next day, soldiers came with a search. Surprisingly, they didn't look for the grave and exhume the body.       I didn't have to gag my mouth with a rag: my first cry was quiet and short, and all the first months of my life, I didn't cry and was silent. My parents worried but managed to get used to it, hoping to find out everything from doctors in freedom.       By December, the passage was dug. We fled, but few escaped with us. Many of those who dared to escape lay down on the ground and never got up.       How did my parents manage to sail to Britain? How did they not end up in a ghetto again? But the fact that in November 1943, a steamer docked at the port of Liverpool, from which my parents disembarked with me in their arms, is indisputable. And I stopped being silent, relieving my parents of reasons for worry."       Paul couldn't utter a word. He believed America, at least, he very much wanted to believe her. He couldn't comprehend the thought that such things happened in life, that before him was a person who had escaped that meat grinder. Paul was silent, deprived of the gift of speech. He trudged through cool Paris, trying to grasp what he had just heard.       "Ami... forgive me for this difficult question."       "Don't worry."       Paul and America returned to the Hotel George V when it got dark and went up to the Beatles' room. Everywhere they found themselves, space filled with noise, turning into a farce; the guys smoked, snacked on local delicacies standing on the coffee table, joked, and bantered. America entered the room unnoticed.       "Ritchie, Ritchie," Paul called to Ringo passing by, snapping his fingers.       "Why do you call him like that?" America intervened from the doorway. "My neighbor goes out into the yard in the mornings and calls: 'Ritchie, Ritchie,' and his Yorkshire terrier runs towards him, wagging its tail joyfully. Ringo isn't a dog—he's your drummer, your support."       "The most emotional speech from America in all our acquaintance with her," John said sarcastically.       "Now I have someone to defend me!" Ringo exclaimed proudly, putting his arm around Ami's shoulders.       "Quite the man," John grumbled, "found something to be proud of."       "Ami, shall I pour you some wine?" George interrupted the guys, holding a dark green bottle. America sat down and said: "With pleasure." Paul glanced at the girl from under his brows. An elegant stream of red wine poured from the bottle's thin neck. "Here's cheese," George pushed a dish towards the girl.       "And you were definitely a success with them," Sir Paul said to that America who could hear him, but she wasn't nearby again.       George asked America how she was doing, and soon John and Ringo joined them, everyone got involved in the conversation. Brian entered the room and joined the others.       "Look at the photos we took on the walk." America handed Sir Paul a stack of photographs. "You definitely haven't seen this."       Paul took the photos and began sorting through them, looking. The photos were indeed unfamiliar to McCartney. The first was George, holding a camera to his face; as the old man understood, Harrison had a similar photo with America somewhere. On the second, Paul was caught, raising his left eyebrow, making his face looking questioning-haughty. On the third, Ringo, looking at his feet, walked on tiptoe across the floor tiles, trying not to step on the lines. On several subsequent photos, The Beatles made faces against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower, but old McCartney was most touched seeing the Beatles standing arm in arm.       Something in McCartney trembled slightly when he saw a portrait of America herself. Her neck was wrapped in that autumn scarf, only the front strands were pulled out from under it, under which you could see a camera strap. The girl smiled, looking softly into the lens. "George managed to photograph me before I took that photo with him," Ami explained. "Good shot," Paul almost said and sent the photo to the bottom of the stack.       "On one of the last days, you and John wrote 'Can't Buy Me Love'."       "Right. We tried to write something better than 'From Me To You'. George didn't immediately understand this song. And why did you behave so coldly in Paris?"       "We were hiding our relationship. Of course, when the guys didn't see, this happened."       Before Sir Paul appeared the backstage of the "Olympia" hall. America, thinking about something, stood in silence almost by the stage. Footsteps were heard on the wooden floor. Ami shuddered from someone's touch on her shoulder: it was Paul leaning his chin.       "You know, Ami, you've been here for a week, and I still miss you. Like a habit," he said quietly. "You become more and more beautiful from meeting to meeting, and I love you more and more."       "And I love you very much, Paul." America didn't look around in fear of seeing any of The Beatles. The girl brought a cigarette, which was smoking unnoticed in her hand, to her mouth and took a drag.       "Oh, give me," Paul asked, and America brought the cigarette to the bassist's mouth.       The figures of Paul and America suddenly scattered and disappeared. Before Sir McCartney, emptiness blackened. Everything began to take on the outlines of America's house. From afar, like the whistle of an approaching train, the doorbell sounded closer and closer. Soon everything fell into place, the world became real again. The stairs creaked, and sleepy Zami descended.       "America," neighbor Maxi stood on the threshold. "Good morning. Sorry for waking you, but here's another article about you."       The man handed Ami, wrapped in a blanket, an issue of a well-known capital newspaper.       "Let's see," America said with interest, studying the newspaper.

The Girl from Merseyside

In October last year, the Liverpool newspaper "Morning Liverpool" published an article titled "The Youngest, The Most Beautiful, and The Selfless Director of Liverpool". Journalist John Waters told readers about America Zami, who at nineteen became a director at the theatre "Fortuna". The "England Daily" editorial office found out that America Zami is not only a director and a student at Liverpool University but also an agent of the popular group The Beatles.       While the girl is accompanying the group on a tour of France, we cannot interview her, but we learned some details about her collaboration with The Beatles. She offered her candidacy in the autumn of 1961, practically never meeting the group members for a business conversation—the discussion went by mail. In December of that year, the group's current manager, Brian Epstein, tried to sue America for the right to produce The Beatles, but the court process ended in a mutual victory. Epstein and Zami influenced the group's image in 1962, then musician and conductor George Martin, working in the repertoire department of the "Parlophone" label, joined them. Despite all this, America met The Beatles only in the spring of 1963.       It is also known that the girl was born in Liverpool in June 1942.       We should take a closer look at this mysterious person whom everyone discusses but no one has seen. It is quite possible that this girl is a fictional character invented for advertising the group.

William SMITH

      The article amused America.       "They got it wrong, they got it wrong... But William Smith is right about one thing. This America Zami is a fictional character!"       Maxi laughed.       "America, do you really work with The Beatles? Leah and I like them. Maybe you could give an autograph?"       "I work with them, but I won't give an autograph until you and Leah come to visit me!"       "And you drop by to see us!"       As soon as America saw the neighbor off, the phone rang.       "Hello?" Allyna's voice sounded. "Guess who I just read about in the newspaper?"       "And on February seventh, The Beatles set off for the USA," America said clearly. Paul understood he was no longer at home but at Heathrow Airport, from which a plane with the group was soon to depart. In the distance, Sir McCartney made out an approaching black cluster of people in front of a roaring crowd of seeing-off fans, journalists with cameras, and police. The people began to approach, and when they passed him, the old man discerned Cynthia's light coat, pressing against her husband as much as she could, George carrying two heavy bags, himself, smiling confusedly, America walking slightly ahead of Brian, and finally, Ringo; the photographer and the Maysles brothers, who were filming a movie about the group, and Mal Evans. Sir Paul, as if he were a journalist himself, followed the crowd to the plane's steps. He felt the solemnity of the situation, which he felt, living that day then, being almost twenty-two. Soon, all who were to fly were on board the humming plane.       Everyone took their seats. America sat with Brian, taking the window seat; behind them were John with Cynthia, Ringo with George, and Paul. The plane began humming even louder.       "So, guys, how do you feel?" Epstein turned to the Beatles.       They all simultaneously gave thumbs up. Brian laughed.       "You see, Ami, everything is so good that our chatterboxes decided to become speechless."       Four pairs of eyes looked at the manager disapprovingly. "Scary!" Brian said in a theatrical whisper and sank into his seat. The plane hummed very loudly and slowly backed away. In one instant, everyone was overcome with a feeling as if the plane would drive onto the highway and, maneuvering among cars, rush the group to New York by land. The airliner turned unhurriedly, drove a bit, and stopped. "We've arrived," John stated gloomily. Everyone burst out laughing. The plane took off and, like a bird, lifted off the ground. There was a howling in their ears.       The plane pointed its nose almost vertically upward. The guys closed their eyes from the headache. Everyone was silent, as if afraid to scare something off. The airliner gained altitude, and the earth, resembling a volleyball, began to slowly fall downward. The plane's nose cut through a cloud, like an icebreaker cuts through spring ice, rose very high, and leveled off.       "You know, it's funny," John said loudly so both the guys and Brian with Ami could hear, "America is flying to America!"       "We're all flying to America!" came Paul's joyful voice from behind.       "Hurray!" the guys exclaimed.       "It's very interesting how they'll receive us there," George expressed.       "Brian, how much longer to fly?" John asked.       "John, we've been flying for less than an hour," Brian was stern. "Think about it."       "America, don't forget to tell Owen to include my phrase about 'Turn left at Greenland' in the script," John asked, leaning over the back of the seat. Ami nodded. Ringo's laughter was heard. A cute stewardess offered the passengers drinks. Brian took coffee, John complimented the girl's eyes. Cynthia looked at her husband plaintively. It became noisy.       "Bria-an!" Paul drawled, and the manager, spilling coffee, jumped up.       "What's wrong?" Epstein asked anxiously.       "How much longer to fly?"       The manager, sighing, looked at his watch.       "Five hours, sixteen minutes." And sat down. "Oh, I spilled all the coffee!" Brian lamented, getting irritated.       George stealthily crept up to Epstein and whispered:       "How much longer to fly?"       Usually not distinguished by a fiery temper, Brian couldn't take it.       "Are you in cahoots?"       "You can tell he's Jewish right away. Answers a question with a question," John chimed in, earning a withering look from the manager.       "Okay, everyone sit down!" Brian demanded. "There are five hours fifteen minutes left to fly. If I hear the question 'How much longer to fly?' in the next two hours—I'll turn the plane back to hell."       Ringo walked past the seats.       "Stop!" Brian ordered. Starr shuddered and stopped. "Came to ask for the time?"       Ringo, like someone arrested, raised his hands. Soon the guys dozed off, and Sir McCartney didn't notice how he fell asleep. He woke up when the plane began its descent. He slept sweetly during the flight, but it became even sweeter from the thought that now Paul, after more than half a century, would relive one of the key moments of his life. The windows were covered with a veil of gray clouds, and soon the ocean appeared, and beyond it—land, American land.       Everyone's ears got blocked again, even more unpleasantly than during takeoff. America found caramel candies in her backpack and handed them out to the guys and Cynthia, but it didn't help much. Very soon, New York appeared, its even streets clearly discernible from the air. The plane, like an eagle, circled over John F. Kennedy Airport. The final goal was visible—the runway, like a black scab in the middle of the snow.       The flight was coming to an end. The plane spent its last seconds in weightlessness. The landing gear smoothly approached the asphalt and finally connected with it softly. Everyone stared out the windows as if at TVs without lenses. Young American girls were standing everywhere, hysterical from the realization that the plane with The Beatles had landed in their homeland.       The plane stopped and, exhausted, quieted down. Some wild howling became audible. The Beatles exchanged glances for a long time, trying to understand what it was: it was five thousand American fans who had come to the airport to meet the group screaming.       "We worried for nothing," John pronounced, waiting for the door to open. "We're popular here too."       The door opened, and the howling became a hundred times louder. Someone was chanting: "Bee-atles! Bee-atles!" The guys solemnly descended the stairs, waving their hands. Their every movement caused a new wave of loud delight. The quartet was followed by Brian, America, and all the rest. The guys stood for a long time, surrounded by fans, whom the police strongly held back.       The guys were truly inspired. Each of them firmly understood that a very important moment was happening in their lives. If before, American culture had penetrated English soil, inspiring young men, including future Beatles, to listen to and cover songs, now British music had crossed the ocean and caused a stir in America.       It seemed they stood here, in the cold, for an eternity, smiling at young men and girls. But just a couple of years ago, they couldn't have imagined that at New York airport, five thousand devoted fans would meet them, shouting words of adoration louder and louder and waving posters. Camera flashes chattered. They had to stand in the cold a little longer to bow to the eager American public.       Finally, several cars drove up, and the Englishmen got into them. The Beatles expected two eventful weeks and only four performances. Teenagers in T-shirts with photos of the Beatles under their coats stood along the road. At the Plaza Hotel, a chorus of children's voices chanted: "We want The Beatles! We want The Beatles!"       Soon everyone was in the hotel room. Due to the large number of people, a hubbub arose in the room. The Beatles began calling their relatives left far in England, covering their free ear with a finger. George explained what songs the group would perform at the concerts and what plans they had for the trip. Mal warned the guys that they would soon go to Central Park and disappeared. George, who finished his phone call, approached Ami.       "Ami, I think I caught a cold. My throat and head are hurting."       "You shouldn't have started this," John, smoking nearby, threw in.       America put the back of her hand to the guitarist's forehead.       "No fever." The girl took out a few leftover candies from her pocket. "Take these for now. Go to the bedroom and rest; I'll order you some tea."       "What's going on?" Brian asked in confusion, entering the room.       "We'll go to Central Park without George—he's caught a cold. So it doesn't get worse, let him rest."       "We shouldn't let him fall apart completely," Brian said upset. "So, it's time to go. Let's gather, guys!"       The guys didn't hear the manager's command immediately, so Brian, Mal, and America had to approach Paul, Ringo, and John to remind them about the trip personally.       The Beatles, temporarily turned into a trio, went to Central Park, barely slipping past the fans. They were accompanied by many people—Sir McCartney couldn't remember the names of even half of them. Journalists still pursued them. Then they returned to the hotel and lay down to rest after the long flight. Morning came quickly for Sir Paul because there was no night again. George got back on his feet, and the group, giving two interviews along the way, went to rehearse for "The Ed Sullivan Show." The old man followed them everywhere. Another day flew by unnoticed, ending with a cheerful evening in the hotel room. Paul remembered how long and eventful the days seemed in his youth: waking up early seemed to lengthen the day, and all day it felt like evening had already arrived. In the journey America organized for Paul, time passed very quickly.       The evening of February ninth arrived, on which the group performed on "The Ed Sullivan Show." Everyone sat in the room on pins and needles, waiting for the taxi. But if Epstein, Zami, and Evans had patience, the guys just swayed in their coats around the room. "I advise you to take off your coats, or you'll sweat," Brian said in a strict mother's voice. Ringo turned on the radio to one of those stations that played The Beatles around the clock in honor of their arrival in America. America came into the room and announced the taxi's arrival, and the guys rushed to the exit.       Sir Paul didn't have time to look back before he found himself in the hall of "The Ed Sullivan Show." Ed Sullivan loudly introduced the group, and the girls, making up most of the audience, screeched. Paul had forgotten how deafening this screech was; since The Beatles' concert at the Cavern, it had become even louder. The guys, who couldn't hear each other—let alone themselves—didn't show it. It seemed nothing upset them.       "Sir Paul," the old man heard America's voice, "you still haven't eaten anything."       America handed McCartney some paper-wrapped package. Paul looked at it distrustfully. Ami nodded, and the man decided to take the unknown something. Unwrapping the paper, he understood the girl had brought him a vegetable sandwich.       "Knowing your next question, I'll say: it's so vegan that you won't find a more vegan sandwich anywhere, ever. Enjoy your meal."       "Thanks for the care," Paul grumbled and pounced on the sandwich.       The crowd roared even louder. McCartney devoured the sandwich in an instant, smearing his mouth with mustard and ketchup. America silently handed the old man a napkin, and he used it, chewing the crunchy cucumbers.       "And now we're off to Washington." America took the sandwich wrapper in her hands, and two lumps, like snow, instantly melted in the girl's cold palms, spilling meltwater on the floor.       "Oh-oh..." Paul was surprised. America hurried out of the hall. The door led directly to the station. Paul noticed the figures of the Beatles heading towards the train. Behind them invariably walked Brian and America, photographers, and many, many more people. McCartney remembered: that day, the flight to Washington was canceled, and The Beatles went to the capital by train. Paul remembered the concert in Washington; the memory of it floated in his memory so shallowly, like in an ocean, as if McCartney had played that concert yesterday evening. How could he forget it: because George in one interview admitted his fondness for chocolate candies, the musicians were pelted with them, and they, due to their hardness in flight, turned into stones.       "George, because of whom it all started, even had his eyebrow cut," America said.       "I don't remember that."       Before Paul appeared the concert hall where The Beatles were already singing in full swing. A real candy hail was raining down on the group. Wrappers rustled in the girls' hands, some candies opened in flight. The moment when a large hard candy hit George in the left eyebrow went unnoticed until blood started oozing from the wound. George bravely finished the song, and during the break, wiped the wound with a handkerchief. During the next song, blood still flowed. Sir McCartney went backstage, and the first thing he came across were Brian and America arguing.       "Brian, he needs help," the girl was eager to get to the stage.       "We need to wait until they finish playing," Epstein held Zami by the shoulder. "Not much left!"       Between songs, George wiped the blood with his handkerchief again. Paul, understanding the situation, announced the last song. Candies still fell onto the stage like a rockslide.       "Calm them down!" America was beginning to lose her temper. "This could end badly!"       Brian left. George behaved as if nothing had happened, holding steady on stage, even dancing a bit. The long-awaited final chord sounded, the musicians bowed and left backstage. America rushed to George, applying a rag previously soaked in cold water to his eyebrow. "How are you feeling?" the worried Ami asked. The guys surrounded them. However, jealousy was readable in Paul's gaze, but he was powerless: first, America was only providing first aid to the musician; second, he couldn't just reveal their romance. Paul saw with what tenderness George looked at America; he had caught these ambiguous glances more than once. "Thanks, America," the guy smiled. "I'm fine." "Pass the alcohol, please," Ami asked, and they handed her a prepared bottle, and the girl moistened the rag. "This will be unpleasant," America said concentratedly, applying the disinfectant to the abrasion. George was silent, but his gaze showed he was pierced by a stinging pain. America gently blew on the wound. "Guys, appreciate our mommy," John said instructively.       "A sweet episode," slipped from Sir Paul's tongue.       "But not everything was so cloudless," America reminded. "Upon arrival in New York, my first face-to-face meeting with one of the unsightly sides of Beatles life happened."       Paul was no longer backstage but in the corridor of the Plaza Hotel. In the distance, either Ringo's or John's guffaw was heard. The Beatles were returning from the concert at Carnegie Hall. They ended up in the living room of their suite. Only Brian and America entered after them.       "Guys," Brian spoke in an official tone. "Tomorrow we're going on vacation to Miami. But first, I'd like to give you a small gift. I know you've worked hard and are tired, and I offer you some entertainment," Brian opened the door, and eight call girls entered the room: six blondes and two brunettes. "Choose any and go get some privacy."       America, sitting in the corner, quietly got up from the armchair and slipped out of the room unnoticed under the approving "Ooh!" John especially grew bolder: Cynthia had flown home yesterday. America locked herself in her room. Now a bout of jealousy washed over her like cold water from a bucket. The girl gulped air and couldn't start breathing, not knowing what was happening to her.       Someone knocked on the girl's door. "Come in," America said in a strange voice, and Brian appeared on the threshold.       "America, come to my room for some tea?"       John peeked from behind Brian's back.       "Bri, we're short on space—three rooms, and there are four of us."       America jumped off the bed, throwing out: "Use mine."       "Thanks, Ami! Ringo, come in!" John waved his hand.       Ami crossed the corridor and decisively entered Epstein's room. The girl sat in an armchair in front of the coffee table, on which stood a teapot, steaming from the spout, and two cups. Brian sat down next to the girl, pouring her tea.       "I know, America, what you're feeling. Believe me," Brian spoke calmly. He had Jewish wisdom and a peculiar charisma, although America found Epstein much more handsome than the average Jew. He always spoke very delicately, without straightforwardness. America understood perfectly well what he meant. "I suffer from all this myself... Such is life. At first, it's somehow hard to accept. Drink some tea, calm down."       America began drinking green tea in small sips, staring into space.       "Sorry I didn't warn you. Let them rest," Brian also took a sip of the healing drink. Epstein's homosexuality now united him with Ami.       "They're grown men, it's natural," America said calmly.       Moans began to be heard through the wall. America's hands involuntarily began to shake so much that hot tea started pouring over her hands. She continued pretending as if nothing was happening.       "Ami," the man couldn't look at his colleague, who herself didn't understand what was happening, and approaching her, took her hands. "Everything's fine! Everything's fine! So... tea won't help. We're going to the bar to drink whiskey."       Brian pulled the girl by the hands, and she stood up. Soon Ami and Bri were at the bar on the first floor. America began gradually coming to her senses.       "Thank you, Brian," America said gratefully. "I don't know what came over me myself."       Brian smiled at the girl.       "Never mind. Things happen."       America and Brian sat on a sofa in the lobby half the night, telling each other about life, and towards morning, the girl fell asleep, lying with her head on Epstein's lap.       "I don't understand what's so bad about it," Sir Paul spread his hands. "You're just a prude."       America, standing opposite Paul, was silent.       "I even felt uncomfortable myself. Let's watch something more pleasant. As far as I remember, we're flying to Miami?"       "You're right." The sound of waves roared behind Paul's back. McCartney turned, and beyond the glass entrance doors, there was no black New York night, but a blue ocean was churning.       Paul left the hotel and was immediately embraced by the warm Florida air. McCartney blissfully exhaled and closed his eyes. He walked forward, eyes closed, feeling the dry hot sand give way to wet and cold. Anticipating a light swim, Sir licked his lips. But the further he walked, more he understood he was walking as if on smooth ice. The old man opened his eyes and realized he was standing on the water about ten meters from the shore. "What the hell?" McCartney exclaimed, shifting from foot to foot.       A crowd of half-naked people appeared on the shore. Paul came closer and made out four Beatles in swim trunks, shirts, and headwear. Clutching hands, they ran into the water. Coming closer, McCartney could also see the fans watching from the shore and America lying in a deck chair with a book. The girl was in a blindingly white elongated shirt. The Beatles splashed for a long time, forgetting about Zami, then came closer to the deck chair and began urging her to join.       "America, why are you bored? Come with us!" Ringo called her first.       "The water here is so cool," Paul splashed Lennon again.       "No, I'm fine here," America delved into the book and hardly looked at the musicians.       "Come on, A-ami, you pro-omised," the Beatles drawled in unison.       "A bit later."       The guys decided to misbehave a little. They came ashore, picked up the girl from different sides, and carried her to the water. America only managed to throw the book onto the deck chair so it wouldn't be drowned. "Light as a feather," Ringo said. "Made specially to be carried in arms," George continued the thought.       The guys put the girl on her feet almost at the very shore and began splashing water on her and hitting the surface with their hands so salty spray would hit America.       "Ah, right!" America said jokingly and, crossing her arms, pulled off her tunic and threw it on the shore, remaining in a black one-piece swimsuit. "I challenge you: who's first to the buoy?"       The girl pointed to a yellow ball hiding behind blue waves and hurried to swim away. The guys exchanged glances, threw unnecessary rags on the shore, and hurried to catch up with her. Only George overtook America.       "The winner puts America on his neck and swims to shore with her!" John, catching up with Paul and Ringo, suggested. "Pity the winner isn't me."       "Aren't there too many conversations about me?" America asked. "Actually, I'm afraid George might break under me."       Paul, it seemed, wasn't bothered by the situation at all.       "Ami, you're so light!" Ringo objected.       "Well, I can carry you in my arms," after these words, George's head was engulfed by water. America soon felt Harrison's hands on her legs: George took America under her knees, and with his other arm, wrapped around her waist. "Hold on tight to my neck!"       "George, no, don't!" America exclaimed, wrapping her arms around George and feeling his loud breathing.       "Yeah, McCartney, they're taking your beloved away, and you don't bat an eye! The King of idiots," old Paul snorted. "America, am I understanding correctly, now will be the filming of 'A Hard Day's Night'?"       "You understand correctly," America nodded. "But before the first filming day in London begins, the guys will stop by my place."       Paul didn't notice how he ended up in America's house again, and the first thing that caught his eye: the thinning tear-off calendar above the piano. It seemed to have a red "1" burning on it, and below, perpendicular to it, two words: "March" and "Sunday." America was reading a book, half-lying on the sofa. The gate creaked in the yard; the girl didn't pay attention, thinking the wind had picked up. But it wasn't the wind; it was a tornado called "The Beatles." Four familiar voices made noise, and Ami rose. When the doorbell rang, the girl had to get up from the sofa. Through the peephole, America saw Paul, and in the background—Ringo running towards the garden.       "Milady, would you kindly attend a modest performance of a quartet of troubadours who will sing exclusively for you?" Paul said respectfully instead of a greeting.       "I accept the invitation, milord," America smiled slightly and nodded. McCartney extended his hand to the girl; she didn't even throw on an autumn cloak, as it was an amazingly warm day for early spring. Paul and Ami went to the garden, where near the decorative pool stood The Beatles with acoustic instruments. Ringo sat on a chair, holding two white bongos. Paul, as America guessed, was the lead singer. He stood before the accompanying trio and nodded.       George on lead guitar came in, extracting low, deep sounds from the thin strings. Then—the rhythm section of bongos and John's guitar. After three refrains, Paul's velvety voice sounded, and on the harmonies, like a harp, George's guitar sang along. One could only dream of this: "The Fab Four" singing a love song in your yard!       I give her all my love —       That's all I do.       And if you saw my love —       You'd love her too.       I love her.       America's heart pounded, reminding her whom the song was dedicated to. Then it went into a modulation and slowed down a bit. At this pre-sunset hour, the romantic chirping of crickets and cicadas was missing. The final refrain sounded, and the song ended on a major chord. The group bowed, and Paul ran up to America, standing mesmerized at the edge of the pool. He picked her up and threw her into the water.       "Are you an idiot?" Lennon got angry. "The water's cold!"       America disappeared under the water and didn't surface. Bubbles hissed and popped on the surface. Paul looked into the water anxiously:       "America? Ami? Where are you?"       George sneaked up behind McCartney and avenged America: pushed him in the back. Splashes flew in all directions. Ringo and George burst out laughing. McCartney's sputtering head appeared above the water.       "Now I'll show you!" Paul swam to the edge of the pool and pulled George by the pant leg. Harrison lost his balance and plopped into the water. John took off his watch and with a cry of "Ee-hey! I'm the walrus!" took a run and jumped in with the guys.       "I'm not with you!" Ringo laughed. Ringo was prone to colds, so he decided not to yield to temptation.       America came out of the garden. The guys splashing in the cold water suddenly froze in surprise.       "Unfortunate Beatles missing the pool in Miami?" she asked. "Alas, it's not as warm here."       "Ami... How did you... You were just..." the guys babbled confusedly, looking back at the pool.       "Get out. And how can you sing with such blue lips?" the girl joked.       The guys clambered out of the water. Their heavy suits sagged and clung to their bodies. America invited them into the house, and they, trembling, entered.       "Sorry, Mom, but I'll have three naked Beatles in my house now," Zami said, putting a hand to her chest. "Quickly into a hot shower, and hang your suits on the heating coil."       America went upstairs to change into dry clothes and find at least a fig leaf to cover the guys' manhood.       "Good thing I didn't swim," Ringo said contentedly, sprawling on the dining room sofa. Paul was the first to dart into the bathroom. "That's not fair!" John exclaimed. "It is! I dove first," McCartney announced from behind the door. America gave the guys blankets and fluffy bath towels and went to wash up upstairs. Coming down, she found the waiting John and George and invited them to go up to her shower. The guys hurried upstairs, skipping steps.       America brewed thyme tea with honey for everyone, including Ringo. Soon Paul came out, John and George joined, and the hostess put them under a warm blanket in the room with the TV and handed them a tray with cups. The guys, obviously, asked to turn on the TV; boxing was on, which quickly captivated them. Ringo preferred to chat with Ami, who was frying cottage cheese pancakes. The oil often spat onto the girl's hands, and she constantly jumped away from the stove. The guys began to smell the aroma of the upcoming dinner coming from the kitchen and exchanged glances, guessing what Zami was cooking.       America entered the room with a tray on which stood a wide dish with pancakes and cups of cocoa. The guys let out a contented "Ooh!"; John and Paul rubbed their hands. Ringo stood in the doorway.       "Guys, I swear by Chuck Berry: these pancakes are awesome."       "We do believe!" Paul said, greedily biting into a rosy pancake.       "Oh my goodness, and what divine cocoa!"       "Yes! I've never tasted better in my life!"       The next day at Paddington Station, the filming of the film known to the world as "A Hard Day's Night" began. A commotion arose: girls in the crowd chirped in anticipation of meeting their favorite group; the film crew bustled back and forth excitedly; many people crowded around Ami, each with their own question; The Beatles were late; trains hissed, departed, arrived; the announcer made announcements; passengers walked around the cordoned-off filming area discontentedly and grumbled because the barriers hindered access to the platform. Sir Paul pushed through the crowd closer to Miss Zami. Now it was especially visible how much she didn't resemble her contemporaries, as if flown in from the future: a loose knit sweater emphasized the fragility of her body, narrow trousers—thin legs, and hair tied in a ponytail—a long neck. That very image of a businesswoman working in the not-yet-mastered-by-women profession of director, McCartney noted not for the first time. She carried this status proudly and noticeably differed from her contemporaries. Also, from her speeches on dates with Paul, he understood she would set feminist trends in these revolutionary sixties and acknowledged this girl's strength and courage.       The Beatles appeared, and the crowd joyfully cheered and applauded. The guys waved to their colleagues and went to America on the platform to hear the first instructions. The girl, concentrating on work, greeted the guys. They were brought coffee.       "Today you'll have to run a lot," America began telling about the plans for the first filming day. "This crowd will chase you; in the end, you'll run to the station, where you'll meet Paul and Wilfrid Brambell, who plays the grandfather."       "Is that all?" Paul asked.       "First, play this. Now you'll work with another director, Mr. Lester. He's an experienced person and has an excellent sense of the frame. I'll work as the second director and assistant to the main one."       A short, dark-haired young man approached Paul and handed him fake beard and mustache.       "Pam, how did you end up here? You're the assistant to the head of lighting, not a makeup artist," America asked.       "Annie asked me to bring the mustache," Pam answered in a thin voice.       "But she should be the one to glue them on, not Mr. McCartney. Go back and tell her," America gave instructions, and the guy briskly retreated.       "Funny," McCartney said.       America sent the guys to the makeup artist, and the crowd went to the filming location. Soon Paul with a mustache, and then the rest, approached the girl.       "You should play Lenin," Zami smirked.       "Lennon?" McCartney asked.       "Lenin, not Lennon."       "Who's that?"       "The leader of the communist revolution," the girl adjusted the guy's collar.       A man about thirty-five with a shiny bald head approached the guys. He began shaking the Beatles' hands. "Hello, hello, if you don't remember me, I'm Lester, hmm, Richard, nice to see you," he rattled. "We're namesakes," Ringo remarked. "And that's wonderful! Well, let's first take a photo for memory, and then get to work. Denny, take a picture of us!"       The Beatles lined up: mustachioed Paul, George and Ringo, between whom America squeezed in, and John, whom Mr. Lester put his arm around.       "Thanks, Denny. John, George, Richard, let's go, the crowd is already waiting for us."       The guys retreated. Paul and America were silent in confusion.       "You know who else is in the crowd?" Ami said intriguingly. "Allyna."       "Wow!" Paul was surprised. "Unexpected. I'd like to see her."       "I invited her to earn some money. Want more coffee?"       "Wouldn't say no."       Paul and Ami had a nice chat over a cup of coffee. Three hours had already passed, and the guys still weren't appearing. The scenes were quite complex: they had to run, fall, climb, and jump. Wilfrid Brambell had already arrived, whom Paul met. Finally, tired and sweaty, the guys trudged along the platform.       It remained to shoot the last episode for today: Paul and "his grandfather" join the guys. Several takes didn't please Richard and America, but one of them finally satisfied them. The first filming day ended. Everyone dispersed to their homes, and America, meeting Allyna, went to her place.       The girl spent the whole evening at the piano, refusing dinner, to which her aunt and sister persistently invited her. She played something, fingered the keyboard, wrote in a notebook standing on the music stand. Closer to night, America wrote a song and offered to listen to Allyna. It was a piano ballad:       Cassiopeia shines in the sky.       I look at the stars and smile,       Because I really want to fly       And know that you are mine.       America's voice was mesmerizing. In all his life, McCartney had heard many mesmerizing female voices, but never a timbre like Ami's. Her contralto was so deep, tender, and feminine that Sir Paul closed his eyes.       "This reminds me of something..." Paul drawled when the girl played the final chord. "Yes, it resembles 'You Are So Beautiful'!"       "You're right, Billy Preston was partly inspired by my song. And my song became a response to..."       "'And I Love Her'," Paul finished the sentence for America.       "Yes. In the morning before filming, I came to Abbey Road and recorded a demo. George Martin was very surprised to find me there. I consulted with him on how best to release a record. He offered his help. But to release a single, it was required to fill the B-side with another song, and I began thinking about what to put on the flip side.       Before The Beatles came, Mr. Martin released radio plays and humorous concerts on Parlophone, and I, remembering this, suggested releasing my poem 'Three Days in Rainy Paris Without an Umbrella' on the reverse side. On March twenty-fourth, John's first book 'In His Own Write' was released, a day later—my first single, and the next day, the song 'Love You So' was played on the radio for the first time.       But back to 'And I Love Her'. Before filming the episode with this song, I encountered the first workers' revolt in my life."       The room in Allyna's apartment turned into the filming set of "A Hard Day's Night." The film crew enjoyed a break and coffee break. America discussed many unsuccessful takes with Richard.       "There's no place for a woman director on a film set! There's no place for a woman near The Beatles! Down with America Zami!" a high-pitched male voice declared through a megaphone.       Everyone began looking at each other in fright, waiting for what would happen now. A five-second confusion occurred; no one knew how the dark horse America would behave. Sir Paul also refrained from another caustic comment.       The girl apologized to Mr. Lester and set aside her coffee cup. She knew who said it; and he wasn't hiding, squeezing a megaphone in his right hand. It was that very assistant to the head of lighting, Pam. America walked with an even step towards the short young man. Everyone held their breath, expecting Pam's dismissal. Zami stopped at arm's length from the man.       "Mr. Ivánso, I understand why you say that. It's not easy for sexists now... I suggest you think carefully about the problem of women's emancipation. Go home, rest, and tomorrow report to work in the maintenance staff. As a cleaner, simply put."       Laughter rolled like thunder across the set.       "You're talentless; I don't wish to work for you. I quit," Mr. Ivanso turned and left, still squeezing the megaphone in his right hand.       "What happened just now?" was heard everywhere.       "Back to work!" Mr. Lester commanded.       "Yeah, not everyone loved you," McCartney found out.       "And that's not all. But now we'll meet Ompada Ovod, who, at my invitation, dropped by the set."       "This is interesting!" McCartney thought.       The sleep-deprived Beatles were carefully made up to look fresh on camera. Any minute now, the scene with the song "I'm Happy Just to Dance with You" would begin filming. America explained to the guys what they should pay attention to in this scene. Dancers crowded in a corner, waiting for their entrance. Patti Boyd walked by, clicking her heels, and George turned to look at her. The guys and America had seen more than once how George looked at the model.       "Well! Didn't expect me?" a loud female voice was heard. Sir Paul and the Beatles turned and saw a tall girl with interesting facial features and light brown hair. She was as tall as Paul, the tallest of The Beatles. Ompada approached America and kissed her on the cheek. "So, are you filming, you handsome boys?"       "And what's the name of this lovely model?" John looked at Ovod predatorily.       "Ompada Ovod, artist, fashion designer, married," America cut off the flirtations.       "John Lennon," the man extended his hand.       "Very nice. Heard a lot about you."       "Paul McCartney," and he extended his hand to Ompada.       "And about you even more," Ompada said quietly and winked. She knew about her friend's relationship with The Beatles' bassist.       Richard Lester walked by and reminded them it was time to film. America with Ompada and the guys dispersed.       "And she's even more attractive than in the photo. Only a bit too tall," Sir McCartney remarked. "And so lively."       "She's a very responsive friend, a warm-hearted person, and a wonderful mother."       The theme of the song "I'm Happy Just to Dance with You" sounded, and dancers in lush costumes jumped onto the set. Paul yawned, covering his mouth with his palm. "See you tomorrow," Zami's voice came from afar. Someone picked up the old man and carefully laid him on the bed. He heard George singing in the distance: "I'm so happy just to dance with you." Travels could suddenly tire McCartney for now.       The old man was dreaming again. A dream of those that seem to last an eternity. The whirlwind of events of the sixties was dreaming. An alarm clock rings distinctly, its dial pointing to half past six, and The Beatles get up from their beds with great reluctance. "How much longer do we have to film?" John grumbles. "And I have the biggest role!" Ringo complains. "Our mirror broke," George states and points to the doorway. There, fans are beating hysterically, but they can't be heard, "sound isn't working". John gets out of bed and goes out to the fans. Covers his ears and returns: "There, everything works." Bulky cameras drove into the apartment. "Action!" Lester shouted. America passed by with a camera around her neck.       Much else was dreamed, but Paul only remembered this. The first thought met McCartney: "What does America feel?" What does she feel, looking at the young Beatles, looking at herself, at her life in the past? What does she feel, looking at the old and completely foreign Paul? Maybe that's why she's almost never nearby?       Paul managed to have a breakfast of thick oatmeal porridge and try to write a poem, but only what he had already written sometime came out. Beatles songs spun in his head one after another—from "I Saw Her Standing There" to "Now and Then." Some of them spun again and again.       Wind rose in the garden, trees rustled. Did that mean America would appear now, like Mary Poppins, with the change in wind? There was something of a strict nanny in her. What does America feel, not showing her feelings?       Paul looked out the window hopefully. The wind, raising leaves from the ground, calmed down. Everything settled and quieted.       "I don't appear from a change in wind," the girl's voice sounded. "How did you sleep?"       "Ahem, fine." Paul cleared his throat. "Where to now?"       "First to Allyna's house, then to Scotland."       "Let's travel!" Paul said solemnly and straightened his back. In an instant, he found himself in the semi-dark entrance of America's sister's house. Zami herself, clad in a black cloak, entered there as well. From her pocket, the girl took out a small worn key and inserted it into the mailbox keyhole. From there, the girl took out several envelopes and a newspaper, to which the sister's tenant was subscribed. One of the letters was addressed to Ami, and, slowly climbing the stairs, the girl studied the address and sender's name. She couldn't understand how this letter reached her: it came from "Vogue" magazine. The girl reached the right apartment and opened the door. Taking off her boots, Ami opened the envelope. It was an invitation to a photoshoot from a certain Tod Agmunti. Allyna came out into the corridor.       "Al, imagine: they're inviting me to pose for Vogue..." Ami said stunned. "When did they manage to find out about me?"       "Wow!" Allyna's expressive eyes widened.       "Honestly, I doubt myself," the girl took off her cloak and examined her thinned body. "Should I go?"       "Of course, you should!" Kristie exclaimed. "You're such a beauty, Ami!"       Ami looked at herself in the mirror.       "Perhaps you're right."       The filming of "A Hard Day's Night" was nearing its end. America, handling the duties of both director and producer, looked completely exhausted. Allyna rarely found her at home: America left early, returned late. The Beatles, in breaks between filming, also managed to record songs for the album and give concerts. At the end of April, the group was to give a couple of concerts in Scotland, after which they would go on a long-awaited vacation.       In mid-April, soon after the single "Can't Buy Me Love"/"You Can't Do That" took the top spot on the "Hot 100" chart, and the four subsequent ones—"Twist and Shout," "She Loves You," "I Want to Hold Your Hand," and "Please Please Me," America posed for "Vogue," meeting photographer Tod Agmunti. The issue came out at the end of the month, but two weeks passed completely unnoticed.       The day after the photoshoot, the girl stopped by Abbey Road to visit the guys. As soon as Ami entered the studio, John began boasting about a sensation:       "Imagine what funny nonsense Ringo came up with the other day? On one hand—nonsense, but this nonsense, it seems, gives us both the album concept and the film title!"       "What nonsense?"       "We were leaving the studio after dark yesterday, that Ringo didn't notice immediately. He comes out and says: 'It's been a hard day... night. A hard day's night.' We laughed, praised Ringo. And on the way home, I wrote a song."       John immediately struck the strings and sang the new song.       "We think it's the best title for the film," George said.       "That's interesting," America thought, leaning on the table. "We'll discuss it with Walter and Richard."       The song was recorded, the last scenes shot. Time flew completely unnoticed. Meanwhile, a stagnation set in for Paul and America in their relationship: dates were replaced by joint work on the set, and they didn't have time to celebrate the anniversary of their meeting. In the last ten days of April, filming ended, which the team celebrated with a small and spontaneous but solemn buffet. They congratulated the debutants: The Beatles as actors and America as a film director and co-author of the script. The debutants thanked their seasoned colleagues for the joint work: Wilfrid Brambell, Victor Spinetti, Norman Rossington, John Junkin, and others. But this was more a rehearsal for the premiere day, and now they could only hope for quality editing.       Paul and America's next meeting took place on the eve of the departure to Scotland. The girl was resting with a book at Allyina's home. The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon, and America was even more inclined to sleep. A sharp, abrupt doorbell pulled her out of a light doze. Al, who had been busy with the house all day, hurried to the door.       "Good evening, Allyna," the voice of an angry Paul was heard. "Is America home?"       He walked deeper into the corridor.       "Yes, but she's not feeling well," Al said to McCartney's back. The guy jerked the door open, entered the room, slammed the door with all his might, and approached Zami sitting in the armchair.       "Well, hello, America!" Paul stopped in front of her. "Care to explain what this means?"       Paul handed America a freshly printed issue of "Vogue." Zami herself was depicted on the cover, looking into the camera lens with a cat-like gaze. The girl flipped through the magazine with a bunch of her photos. Of course, their certain suggestiveness could be embarrassing, but it didn't cross the bounds of what was permitted. America in a black one-piece swimsuit was in a snow-white bathroom and resembled an ink blot on a notebook sheet. Ami either sat inside the bathtub, stretching out her long legs, or pressed her back against the tiled wall, and her legs were hidden by fluffy foam.       "Why are you putting your body on display? This is an occupation for dim-witted girls, not for you!"       "I do whatever I want with my body. And where did you get this magazine?"       "Cynthia bought it, saw you, showed John, and he brought it to the studio. Do you even understand for how many men you're now desirable? Of course, you have nothing to hide, but it's so frivolous..."       Ami jumped up from the armchair and pulled Paul to her by the shirtfront and kissed him. Paul's ardor began to fade, and he reached for the girl's blouse. Allyna opened the room door, and McCartney and Zami stared at her in fright.       "I'll come by later. In the morning," Allyina tactfully closed the door. "Well, you're something, guy," Sir Paul was surprised. "When Harrison carries your girlfriend in his arms, he's silent. The girlfriend posed for a magazine—he goes into hysterics."       Sir Paul came to his senses. In his youth, he behaved exactly the same, and now as if indirectly condemning himself for it. Meanwhile, the guy and the girl were already lying in bed, dozing under the dawn rays. America opened her eyes slightly, fluttering her eyelashes like butterfly wings, and stroked Paul's bare chest.       "Paul..." she didn't speak but as if sang. "Time to get up. Great deeds await us."       McCartney smiled and looked at Ami tenderly.       "Mornings in spring are always so tender..." Paul drawled, dreamily staring at the ceiling. "The chirping of birds cutting through the blue and pink cool air."       "Wonderful." America put her head on McCartney's shoulder and then rose. "It's sad to interrupt the romance of a spring morning, but we still need to stop by Madame Tussauds."       The couple got out of bed, had breakfast, and went to the Wax Museum to see The Beatles' figures. John, George, and Ringo were very surprised to find them together.       "Met on the way," Paul explained.       The guys looked at Paul distrustfully and went to inspect the figures. "Overall, look alike," the guys examined critically their wax clones, walking around them again and again. "Ringo and I are just as big-nosed, and Paul—big-eyed," John noted, sniffing the figures. "Paul could barely sit still while they sculpted him," Ringo recalled, "kept trying to get up and run away." Half an hour later, the musicians left the museum and got into the limousine prepared for them, which rushed them to the station.       The guys calmly sat in a quiet compartment and sat opposite each other. They anticipated a small tour of Scotland, after which they only had to appear on the "Around The Beatles" show, and then a three-week vacation awaited them. America said she would take up her neglected studies. For the first time, America accompanied the guys without Brian and others. As soon as the train started moving, she put her head on the shoulder of McCartney sitting next to her and dozed off.       The musicians tirelessly discussed how they would spend their May vacation. John and George planned to go to Honolulu, taking Cynthia and Patti Boyd. Ringo invited Paul to join him and his girlfriend Maureen Cox on a trip to the Virgin Islands. Paul answered he would think about the invitation.       The train tapped a clear rhythm measuredly, covering the way to Edinburgh. The guys stared at the sleeping America. Her features acquired an almost childlike serenity.       "She's so sweet..." Paul said, touched.       "What's true is true," John agreed.       "Really clever," George added.       "And overall, I fell..." Paul cut himself off in time so as not to give away, "...fellas would have fallen for her, probably, if not..."       "Paul, we're not fools," John interrupted. "Personally, I figured it out a long ago. What about you, guys?"       "And I think it's not serious with you," Harrison protested, folding his arms on his chest. "You, Paul, are an irresponsible egoist. You've always behaved with girls like a scoundrel. And it would be terrible if you hurt Ami. But America is too smart to fall for your pretty face."       The guys were taken aback by George's sudden statement, especially Paul. Even John, who doesn't mince words, couldn't formulate an answer.       "W-what's the matter with you, George?" Paul hoped Harrison was joking.       "Aren't you jealous by any chance?" Lennon looked George in the eyes.       "Why would I be—he has Patti," Paul answered for the guitarist. John shushed McCartney.       "Paul, before the conversation leads us to a fight," George began quietly but clearly, becoming a sensible guy again, "give me your word."       Paul didn't quite understand what Harrison wanted.       "Depends on what," McCartney said uncertainly. John and Ringo stared at the guys in bewilderment.       "Promise me that you will never, under any circumstances, hurt Ami."       Paul laughed, not giving weight to Harrison's words. America, sighing loudly, woke up and looked around. McCartney didn't promise anything.       Greenish sea appeared in the train window, stretching like a canvas from the horizon. The guys and America disappeared from the compartment. Sir McCartney, coming to his senses, hurried after them but found them neither in the corridor nor in the hot vestibule. The train stopped right in the middle of the beach, and McCartney had to jump from the train into the sand, cursing the acrobatic tricks. Paul brushed the yellow sand off his knees and looked back. Behind him, instead of a long train-snake, stood an abandoned carriage. "Well, well," Paul thought and walked somewhere on the hot earth, trying to remember the name of the sea he found himself on.       Paul reached a fence, behind which was a small hotel. Three blue pools stretched before him like carpets, their water beckoning with coolness. On deck chairs under a large umbrella, resembling a mushroom with its hat widely spread, Ringo and a dark-haired girl, in whom Sir Paul guessed the drummer's future wife Maureen Cox, were basking. This was another pleasant meeting with the past: Paul didn't even remember how long it had been since he saw Maureen.       Paul and America, exhausted by the heat, came out of the hotel. From their attire, Sir McCartney immediately determined they had just flown from cold and unwelcoming England: both were in trousers, Paul held a just-pulled-off sweater in his hands, remaining in a white T-shirt; on fragile America, a thin T-shirt also hung, sticking out. Ringo noticed the guests and jumped up from the deck chair. Maureen, in a fit of curiosity, raised her head and also got up.       "How great that you came!" Richard exclaimed, extending his hand to McCartney.       "And it's so hot here!" Paul complained. "How do you live here?"       "It seems that way because of the calm," Starr said. "It's fine, tomorrow there will be wind again, and we'll go out to sea on yachts. Right?"       "The Caribbean!" it dawned on McCartney. "Virgin Islands!"       "Paul, you already know Maureen," Ringo remembered the girls. "America, meet Maureen. Maureen, this is America."       The girls smiled and greeted each other.       "Well, okay, we'll go with Ami to unpack and be back," Paul said, taking Zami by the hand. Ringo and Maureen nodded and returned to the deck chairs. Paul and America disappeared behind the glass doors, and Sir McCartney followed their example. The hotel was deserted and quiet. The couple went up to the second floor via the stairs and soon found themselves in a fairly spacious and clean room.       "Unpack, and I'll smoke for now," McCartney said carelessly and headed to the balcony.       "No-no," Ami got ahead of the youth, blocking the way. "First, we'll unpack together, and then we'll go smoke."       Paul rolled his eyes discontentedly.       "And can't you unpack it yourself?"       America folded her arms on her chest and moved away from the balcony door. It seemed she gave up. Paul flung the door open and went out onto the balcony. He didn't appear for about fifteen minutes, and during that time, America managed to unpack the things onto the wardrobe shelves and change into a swimsuit. The balcony door banged, and Paul returned to the room.       "M-m, where did you put my swim trunks?" Paul asked, coming out into the middle of the room.       "Look for them, and I'll smoke for now," America masterfully mimicked Paul's careless tone and slipped onto the balcony. Paul just hit himself on the legs in anger. "Not bad," Sir Paul noted. The youth was already looking for swim trunks in the dresser drawers; fortunately, America hadn't hidden them far, simply because she didn't pursue the goal of ruining all the efforts. By the time the girl returned from the balcony, Paul had also changed. The girl silently headed for the exit, grabbing sunglasses and a towel. Paul followed her.       The Beatles were doing laps and other figures around the pool all day, sometimes surfacing to feast on juicy fruits. Closer to evening, the young people went to the calm sea. The air became cooler, but the sand was still hot. The sun no longer gave white rays but peach-colored ones, in which the outlines of faces became even more beautiful.       Ringo and Paul swam races, arguing who was faster, while Maureen and America sat in shallow water, stretching out their legs and closing their eyes. "It's nice here..." Maureen drawled blissfully. America was silent, sometimes opening her eyes to look at the clouds burning like fire-ships in the blue sea of the sky. Then Ami lowered her eyelids, sinking into a light trance.       The wind blew, and the sun, cooled, turned into a bright red disk. Paul ran out onto the shore and plopped down next to America. The girl looked at the guy: he was extending his little finger to her. Without extra words, the girl extended hers. Paul smiled and directed his gaze into the bluish sky.       "Guys, let's have some gin and tonic in our room?" Starr suggested, coming out of the water. Sir Paul licked his lips, not differing in this from his young version.       "What a great idea!" McCartney responded, jumping up. "Let's go!"       The girls slowly rose from the sand, and everyone moved towards the hotel, on which evening lights were lighting up. The couples temporarily dispersed to their rooms. America hurried to the shower to wash off the sand. Through the noise of water, the girl could hear guitar sounds. Paul was composing something. As soon as America turned the faucet handles all the way, the sounds stopped.       Paul met the girl with a frightened look, as if she had caught him red-handed. The acoustic guitar stood shamefully in the corner.       "Shall we go?" Paul asked.       "You'd better hop in the shower first," America reminded.       Paul began to refuse, and America, as proof, ran her hand through the youth's hair. Among the strands were clumps of stuck-together sand and shell fragments.       "And now imagine what's there," Ami looked meaningfully at the guy's lower abdomen. Paul sighed and reluctantly got up from the chair.       The room of Paul and America changed to the room of Ringo and Maureen. The balcony, beyond which a blue-warm night spread and cicadas sang, was wide open. The guys sat on the floor next to the door, Paul leaning against the wall, and Ami almost pressed against the guy. Only glasses, two bottles from gin and tonic, and remains of dark chocolate on foil placed on the floor separated them from Ringo and Maureen. Paul and Ringo discussed everything as if they hadn't seen each other for five years. The girls, being less talkative, preferred to listen. Maureen fell asleep on Ringo's lap, which he didn't immediately notice, enthusiastically telling about the yacht named "Happy Days," on which he, Mo, McCartney, and Zami would go out to the open sea.       The guys decided to disperse. On the way to the room, America tried to take Paul's hand, but he didn't respond. America seemed to be extending her hand to a porcelain doll, expecting it to move its fingers now, but the doll didn't come to life, and nothing happened. The guy and the girl approached the room, and Paul opened the door. They silently entered. Paul immediately went out to the balcony, grabbing a pack of Marlboros from the table. America couldn't decide to speak but went out to the balcony.       "A strange day today, isn't it?" America asked, lighting a cigarette.       "Why?" McCartney looked at Ami in bewilderment.       "Paul, I don't understand you. Sometimes I don't understand who we are to each other. You're like a pendulum all day: either towards me or away from me. Explain, please."       Paul, throwing back his head, exhaled smoke and smiled.       "Sorry if I offended you with my strange behavior," McCartney apologized. "I have a very complicated creative process here: a song is hatching but doesn't want to come out. I behaved stupidly. Sorry."       The musician spread his arms, and America hurried into his embrace. He stroked her crown with his hand free from the cigarette and promised that tomorrow would be a very good day. The couple immediately extinguished their cigarettes and returned to the room.       The wind blew, and the sun appeared over the horizon as if the wind had blown it out from there. Then it rose very high and, burning, blinded everyone. America was already standing on the yacht's stern, and the same wind blew through her blouse, tucked into trousers in the sixties fashion. The white, light yacht under the command of Captain James Paul McCartney leaned to the right, moving along the smooth sea surface.       At first, Ringo steered the yacht, guided by his expression: "Any fool can steer a yacht. Especially if he's a native of a port town!" Then Paul volunteered for the helm, Ringo grabbed the camera, and birdies kept flying out of his lens. The wind howled in their ears, blowing their hair. America looked at the wavy line of the horizon.       "Paul, let me steer a bit," Ringo's voice was heard. Paul freed the helm and approached America.       "Are you okay?" he asked, hugging the girl, and looked her straight in the eyes. Paul whispered admiringly: "How green they are... greener than the sea."       At that moment, Ringo's camera shutter clicked. McCartney and Zami turned to Starr.       "Relax! This is for my archive," Ringo reassured. "Aah," Paul drawled and, whispering something to America, went to the cabins. Soon he returned with a guitar and a notebook.       "Stinks of fuel there," he said, sitting down on the deck. "Wanna listen?"       America sat down next to him, hugging her knees. Paul struck the strings.       You say you will love me,       If I have to go.       You'll be thinking of me.       Somehow I will know.       Someday when I'm lonely       Wishing you weren't so far away,       Then I will remember       Things we said today.       It was an ode to their strange relationship with America. Obviously McCartney couldn't find peace, constantly parting with Ami, and wanted to see her as often as possible. Sir Paul understood this like no one else. He wrote this song in the same feelings, only for the no less busy Jane Asher. Jane was often dissatisfied that Paul allegedly demanded too much from her—to devote all her free time to her young man and love him. She disappeared on tours for a long time and then told numerous journalists what an egoist Paul was. The egoist himself came into a rage from this. The old man remembered how they quarreled—and it was worse than with Paul and America. Biographers most often recalled the case when he and Jane couldn't agree on an open window in silence: Paul got up and opened the window, sat back down, and the girl got up and closed it; this case surprised everyone, but it's one of the most harmless in their biography. How long did they last together, not counting all of Paul's women?       "It's very good that you're thinking about Jane," Ami suddenly said, interrupting Paul's thoughts, which he was glad about. "Soon she'll return to the narrative."       Paul didn't know if he wanted that or not.       "But for now, back to Liverpool," America gave time to think.       In the darkness Paul found himself in, four chords and his own voice, imitating Elvis's style, sounded distinctly. He sang: "I saw a girl in my dreams, and so it seems, that I would love her." Darkness began to disperse, and Paul once again found himself at Zami's house. Above the piano, the needle floating on the record sparkled, and "Like Dreamers Do" played throughout the house. America stood closer to the speakers and listened intently to the music. "Oh you, you are that girl in my dreams, and so it seems that I will love you". The song ended, and Ami moved the needle to listen to the composition again. What attracted her? Had she really not heard this song before? The girl played the song once more, listened to the verse, then licked her lips, lifted the needle, and began writing something in a notebook. What did that mean?       Rain was noisy outside the window, hindering hearing what America usually could hear: the roar of cars on the road, planes landing. It was hard to hear even the persistent knock on the gate, but Ami could; maybe her heart told her. Paul stood there without an umbrella.       "Come in," the hostess invited.       Water poured from Paul as if from a drainpipe. His hair was stuck to his forehead, the cold coat sagged and grew heavy. The youth's hands were numb, and Zami had to unbutton the buttons for him.       "Always, I have Beatles undressing," Ami said with irony.       "And who undresses at your place as often as I do? Or maybe more often?" McCartney joked.       "Brian Epstein," America joked back. "Quickly into a hot shower."       "You're wet too, so you'll come with me," the guy pulled the girl by the edge of her T-shirt.       "Oh-oh, I'm not going to watch this!" Sir Paul exclaimed, turning away.       The couple, meanwhile, was already coming out of the bathroom, clad in terry robes, and went their separate ways: America, drying her hair, went to the kitchen, and Paul—to the piano. Before sitting down, he noticed the needle frozen in the air above the record and examined the inscription.       "Wow... you were listening to our old recordings?" he asked, not turning to the girl. She was starting to prepare dinner.       "Yes, recalling something," she said, concentrating on the ingredients lying before her.       Paul sat down at the piano, struck the keys, and sang: "Scrambled eggs... Oh my baby how I love your legs..." America sighed doomedly, Sir Paul covered his face with his hands. Ami sighed again and brewed cocoa. The girl brought a mug to Paul, and he interrupted. "Finally," Sir Paul thought with relief. McCartney-junior hummed with pleasure.       "So tasty... Your cocoa is much better than mine," Paul modestly said. "You know what I thought?"       "What?" America took a sip of cocoa from her mug, leaning on the piano.       "I want to stop renting an apartment in Liverpool and live with you, coming here."       America put the cup on the piano.       "Don't you agree?" McCartney asked disappointedly.       "Why not? I'm all for it, even glad!" America sat down on the bench next to Paul. He, looking the girl in the eyes, played "Love Me Tender," but didn't last long and kissed the girl.       Sir Paul blinked, and the bench where the couple sat was already empty. The calendar pointed to June third. America stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan and thoughtfully looking at the wall. The phone rang, and America shuddered. The girl took the saucepan off the stove and, continuing to stir something on the go, approached the phone. Ami picked up the receiver and held it between her shoulder and head. Something terribly wheezed in the receiver, and Zami got seriously scared:       "America?" words could be discerned in that wheeze. "It's Ringo. America, what should I do?.. I'm letting everyone down..."       "Ringo, what's wrong?!" Ami worried. The drummer could barely speak:       "Ami... I have tonsillitis. My tonsils are inflamed. They're taking me to the hospital now," Starr wheezed weakly. "Otherwise, I could have gone on tour..."       "Why didn't you call Brian? He's geographically closer."       "Geographically... I was afraid of his anger. I'm upset, I don't know what to do, I'm letting down..."       "Ringo, Ringo!" America, to sober up her friend, slightly pressed on her voice. "Don't strain your voice. Don't blame yourself for anything and don't be upset. We'll figure it out. The main thing is for you to get better! The rest, believe me, is mere trifles."       "Thanks," he whispered.       America hung up and almost dropped the saucepan, forgetting about it. Paul came down, looking questioningly at America:       "Did something happen?"       "It did," America handed him the saucepan. "Ringo's down with tonsillitis."       Paul opened his mouth in surprise.       "I'll call London now, we'll solve this problem," America picked up the phone and dialed the studio number. "Please call Mr. Martin or Mr. Epstein..."       McCartney put the saucepan on the stove and froze in anticipation.       "Hello, Brian? There's a problem."       "America? Yes, hello. I hope not very serious," Brian tensed.       "Quite serious, even very serious," Zami exhaled. "Ringo's down with inflamed tonsils in the hospital. We need to find a temporary drummer."       Brian, after some silence, said:       "How awful... Let him get better. We need to consult with George; he'll quickly find a replacement. Wait a second."       The sound of the phone hitting the table surface was heard. In the distance, the voices of Epstein and Martin echoed. "What's there?" Paul was curious. America put the finger of her free right hand to her lips. "Sit down, eat," the girl whispered, covering the microphone with her palm. Paul noisily moved the chair away from the table, and Ami looked at the guy disapprovingly.       "Ami, are you there?" Brian asked and, without waiting for an answer, stated: "George knows a drummer, and we're a hundred percent sure he won't refuse us. Tommy Quickly was recording at EMI recently, and he had a drummer, Jimmy. He looks like a Beatle, not something alien."       "Okay. And... how will the guys play together? The first performance is already tomorrow evening."       "Don't worry. They'll manage. And George says Jimmy is accommodating and receptive. He'll listen to the recordings, they'll rehearse before the performance tomorrow. Still better than without a drummer at all."       America thanked Brian and hung up. "Finish eating, and let's go," she said, looking at her wristwatch.       "Soon we'll visit Denmark, the Netherlands, distant Hong Kong, and go to Australia," America's voice continued, but already inside McCartney's consciousness.       Paul at that very moment found himself in a hall with a set table. Shining crystal glasses waited to be filled with one of the drinks standing nearby. They stood in groups and as if discussed who would be more popular at this evening, and the appetizers sighed because they knew everything except bottled water would be used. The door opened, and Brian Epstein entered the hall, followed by unfamiliar girls about sixteen. "Sit down, girls, sit down," Epstein invited, and the guests sat at the table. "And when will they arrive?" one of them asked. "Soon, girls, soon," Brian looked at his watch. The door immediately swung open, and tired but extremely cheerful Beatles appeared, including Ringo, back in the ranks. The girls applauded and barely restrained themselves from squealing. The guys headed to Brian.       "Where did we lose America?" the manager worried.       "She'll be here soon," George said.       Brian, throwing out: "Come in," led the group to their places, and Paul was seated at the head of the table. There was a free seat between George and Brian. Epstein stood up and addressed those present:       "Guys, girls. I won't remind you why and what for we're sitting here. I'll say the girls were very lucky to win the contest 'Why I would like to be a guest at a Beatles birthday party"...       "And we're very lucky they're present at Paul's birthday," John, who interfered in the manager's speech, winked at one of the girls.       "This party, Paul, was organized by the newspaper 'The Daily Mirror' in honor of your birthday," Brian stated. At that time, quietly slipping into the hall, America sat down on the chair left for her. "We congratulate you and wish you to please us with creative successes! And now accept gifts from the girls."       The girls, as if scalded, jumped up from their chairs and rushed to Paul. Each of them handed over some present, whispered something in his ear, and kissed him on the cheek. America didn't hear what they said, but one girl didn't hesitate to say something out loud:       "Paul, don't you have anything with this lady?" the girl pointed at America. Paul looked at Ami with a gaze saying: "Well, you understand," and shook his head, smiling charmingly. "Well, great! So, I have every chance!" the girl touched the tip of the Beatle's nose with her finger and ran away. Paul turned to Ami, pursed his lips, and shook his head. America giggled.       The pile of gifts, stacked in the corner, grew, and the girls sat back down. The hungry after the concert Beatles set about the meal. After their hunger was satisfied, the guys began making toasts. John couldn't help but tease his friend, George reminded that he and Paul had known each other for a long time and thanked for everything, Ringo emphasized that they were both born in summer.       "By the way, someone else..." Paul tried to say something, but then music started playing, and a girl jumped up to Paul, inviting him to dance. Soon all the Beatles were taken apart, and only Brian, America, and a couple more girls, afraid to try their luck on the dance floor, remained at the table.       "America, let me invite you, or something," Brian stood up and extended his hand to the girl. She agreed, and Epstein and Zami went to the dance floor. Slow music started, and the girls began arguing over the right to dance a slow dance with one of The Beatles, but this privilege, by a happy coincidence, went to those not involved in the argument.       "Ami," Brian said quietly. "There's a matter... You don't know who Paul is with now? Who he's dating? He appears in public alone, and fans are starting to think he's... well, non-traditional orientation. On July sixth, there's the premiere of 'A Hard Day's Night,' and if he appears there without a companion, then, probably, it will be hard to save his reputation."       "Okay. I'll talk to him," Ami said without letting on.       The dance ended, everyone sat back down, and a two-tiered cake with twenty-two candles was wheeled into the hall. The guys let out a joyful "Ooh!" and applauded. The cake was wheeled up to Paul, and under the shouts "Make a wish!" the birthday boy blew out all the candles at once. Applause sounded with increased volume.       The cake was divided among everyone. Paul asked to give each girl a candle as a souvenir. The girls quickly devoured their pieces and returned to the dance floor, waiting for the Beatles. But they weren't in a hurry and were slowly finishing their portions.       "Jimmy Nicol, of course, is a good guy, but it's more fun with Ringo* he's family," Paul said, cutting his piece with a fork. "Without him, this party wouldn't have happened."       "Thanks, Paul!" Ringo smiled.       "By the way," Paul looked at his watch, "it's already been twelve minutes since my birthday ended, and another birthday has begun!"       The guys exchanged glances.       "Whose?" John asked, frowning and looking over the girls.       "Another summer birthday person's," McCartney spoke in riddles.       "Paul, my birthday is July seventh," Ringo reminded.       "What's that got to do with you!" Paul exclaimed. "It's Ami's!"       The guys looked at America, who approached the table.       "America, is it really your birthday today?" Ringo asked.       The girl, sitting down at the table, looked at Paul and answered: "Yes."       "And how old are you today?" John inquired.       "Twenty-two."       "So you and Paul are practically astral twins!" Ringo was surprised.       "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Brian exclaimed. "We would have organized a festive evening for you!"       "Oh, no, Bri, don't," America objected.       "We should, America, we should! And overall, stop being so modest, or life will pass you by without noticing."       "I'm serious, don't."       "Okay, don't so don't," Brian gave in.       The phantom America beckoned Sir Paul, and they went out the door. There was the corridor of Allyna's apartment. Young Ami stood by the phone, pressing the receiver to her ear with both hands, listening to the long beeps. Sir Paul looked back: behind the open door was not the noisy hall but Allyna's bedroom.       "Hello, Miss Asher?" America said hurriedly. "America Zami, director of The Beatles, calling."       "Hello, yes" Paul heard Jane's voice in the distance.       "Can we meet with you in the next couple of days for a conversation? I'm afraid it's not a phone call."       "I can make it today. And what would you like to talk about, at least approximately?"       "We're interested in your acting talent. Moreover, close acquaintance with the group should contribute to the success of the matter. Could you come to my place? I live on Jermyn Street."       "You know, no, I can't come to you. Couldn't you come to me on Wimpole Street? I'll discuss everything with you."       "Sure. Thank you," America said goodbye and hung up.       The girl put on her shoes, took her bag from the hook in the hallway, and headed for the exit. The apartment door led directly to Wimpole Street. Ami crossed the road and found herself at the threshold of the Ashers' house at number fifty-seven.       America rang the bell, but the door was in no hurry to open. The girl looked around, examining the street. Paul also looked back and didn't find the door leading from Kristie's apartment and didn't notice how the door opened.       "Are you Miss Zami?" the girl looked the guest over from head to toe. She nodded. "Come in."       The Ashers' house was aristocratically clean and tidy. Zami looked around curiously, and Paul did too. How many songs were written within these walls! The girls went into the living room and sat in armchairs opposite each other.       "Thank you, Jane, for allowing me to come," America said.       "Maybe some tea?" Jane offered, slightly rising from the armchair.       "I think not, thank you. Jane, I have a request for you, as an actress, but first and foremost—as a girl who dated Paul." Jane frowned. "Could you be his girlfriend for show for journalists? Paul has no one now, and fans think either he's dating me, or he's..."       "Paul has no one... sounds like a joke," Jane smiled. "I can help you. However, you see, I have tours, and I won't be able to appear together with Paul often. As far as I remember, you're a director?"       "Yes, I'm a director. Jane, will you be in town on July sixth? The premiere of the film with the guys' participation will be at the Pavilion. You're very needed there. By the way, remuneration won't keep you waiting."       "Money? No, don't," the actress prevented. "I'm not some prostitute. It will be in memory of past feelings. And Paul himself won't be against it?"       "Don't worry about that," America smiled and stood up. "Thank you, it was very nice to meet you."       Jane saw America off, but Paul wasn't in a hurry to leave. He went up to the room where he lived while dating Asher. In this universe, it was the same but less legendary because Beatles songs weren't written here. The same wardrobe occupying a third of the room, a single bed, and a desk. Paul sat at it and ran his palm over the tabletop. Those very feelings he experienced sitting at the table for the last time in sixty-eight returned to him.       A familiar male voice was heard in the corridor. "Surely Peter!" thinking this, Paul jumped up from the chair and ran out into the corridor. Jane's older brother was indeed walking towards the kitchen.       "Did someone come?" Peter asked, entering the kitchen.       "Yes," Jane answered, putting groceries in the fridge. "I don't remember her position, but she's connected with The Beatles. Zami is her last name."       "What did she want?" the guy walked on the girl's heels.       "To be Paul's pretend girlfriend."       Peter adjusted his glasses businesslike.       "And you, surely, refused?" Jane shook her head. "But why? He treated you like a dog."       "It wasn't him who asked for help, but America. She hasn't done anything bad to me, and I have no right to refuse her."       "And who is she to you? A friend? Maybe a sister?" Peter began raising his voice.       "Peter, thanks for the support, but I'll manage," the girl left the kitchen. Paul left the house at this point. "Peter didn't like me," he thought sadly. "I hope in this universe I won't be writing songs for him and Gordon." America was walking towards Paul.       "You will, you definitely will," she met him with these words.       "America, so you and Jane were friends?" Paul inquired.       "Much less than with Ompada. But once, Jane's support was more important to me than Ompada's. In August sixty-six."       Paul already wanted to ask what happened then but remembered the words America repeated: "All in good time."       "And now I invite you to the premiere of 'A Hard Day's Night'!"       Paul found himself at the Pavilion Theatre. The restless press crowded in front of the entrance. A limousine with The Beatles was pulling up to the curb, and journalists couldn't let them through to the entrance for a long time. Inside, in the lobby, Cynthia, Maureen Cox, and Patti Boyd were already waiting for them, discussing what they would see. Maureen and Cynthia knew much less about the picture than Patti, who acted in it. America also invited Allyna, and she managed to sneak into the theatre. The girl was noticed by Patti, with whom she had met on the set, and she offered to join the female company. Thus, Allyna met Maureen and Cynthia.       Brian helped rescue the guys from the encirclement. He made the driver understand that he had made a serious mistake by parking the car at the main entrance, not the back one, and in expressions quite harsh for Brian. The Beatles finally found themselves in the foyer.       "Hi, girls!" John greeted them joyfully and took Cynthia by the hand. Sir Paul was surprised at Lennon, who in his universe didn't bother to appear at the premiere. "And who's with you?"       "Ally Christi, America's cousin," Patti introduced the girl.       "Interesting why America didn't introduce us to her little sister herself," John winked at Ally.       Jane appeared as if ignited by red flame. No one expected to meet her, as everyone knew Paul was dating Ami, so everyone was confused except Allyna and Cynthia:       "Oh, Jane, hello," Cynthia hugged Asher, whom she had known for a long time. "What brings you here?"       "Came to support Paul," the girl took McCartney by the arm. Paul was imperturbable.       "Are you back together?" Cynthia was seriously surprised.       "We'll talk about that later, dear," her husband corrected her.       From the side of the back exit, two tall figures appeared: Ami in a loose beige floor-length dress with a belt at the waist and Brian approached the guys. Everyone turned to her. Brian was in a strict suit.       "You look enchanting today," John paid a compliment. "As do all our girls."       "Thank you, John." America and the girls hugged. "Glad to see you!"       Jane not without joy shook Ami's hand. Brian called everyone into the hall, and the gang of ten followed the manager.       Sir Paul followed them, but the door slammed shut right in front of him. No matter how much he tried to walk through it, nothing worked, and the old man only hit the wood hard. Suddenly the door opened, and McCartney was pushed aside. Everyone except John came out of the dark hall.       "And where's John?" Brian worried. "Cynthia?"       "John... oh, he fell asleep there," the girl answered and blushed. Brian burst into the hall. Five minutes later, they both came out.       "Fast you are," Paul threw sarcastically. Brian barely refrained from sending McCartney somewhere for his ambiguous phrases in Lennon's style. Very soon, everyone ended up at a party with a buffet in honor of the premiere. Songs by the group included in the film played in the background. Camera flashes, like lightning in a thunderstorm, flared up; the actors were photographed, congratulated Richard and America on their successful work, and they were photographed too.       "Friends!" Brian exclaimed, addressing the photographers. "Let's now photograph only the debutants. Not only The Beatles appeared in a film for the first time, but also America Zami."       The newcomers lined up against a purple poster backdrop: Ringo, George, America, John, and Paul. Ami took George and John by the arms.       "Congratulations!" Brian exclaimed.       "God forbid, not the last time!" someone from the crowd shouted.       The clinking of glasses sounded, and the picture melted in Sir Paul's eyes like a dream in the morning rays. The old man found himself in his room, feeling as if he had woken up from a very realistic dream in which his dream had come true.       "As a memento," America's voice was heard, handing him a photo: four Beatles in tuxedos and Ami in a beige dress against a purple background. Paul smiled sadly as if thinking about a very, very old memory. Suddenly he felt a second photo: it stuck to the first. On the black-and-white photo were mustachioed Paul, George, and Ringo, between whom America squeezed in, and John, whom Mr. Lester put his arm around. Paul smiled even wider.       "Ami!" Sir Paul called America, who had almost dissolved in the air. "Can I ask you for something?"       America looked at the old man and smiled.       "Can I have your record?"       Ami silently took the envelope from the table and handed it to the old man. McCartney studied the cover: a black silhouette of America's head in profile against a white background. Paul traced the clear contours of the silhouette with his eyes: a thin neck, the curve of a sharp chin, the fold of full lips, a slightly upturned and slightly humped nose, a high forehead. Wild hair escaped from a careless bun-ponytail, lightly touching the thin neck. Above America's head was printed in black letters: "Love You So", a song", second line, "Three Days in Rainy Paris Without an Umbrella", a poem", and in white letters at the bottom of the silhouette—"America Zami". Paul raised his eyes to America and said: "Thank you."       Ami smiled even wider and, slightly sparkling, disappeared. Paul approached the record player and took off the dusty The Doors record, hoping America didn't like them. Paul carefully took the small, black and matte, as if absorbing light, record from the envelope and got scared. Not at all because someone would hear music from another world, though that too. He was holding a thing that didn't exist at all in his familiar world. Photos that were never taken in his world lay on the table. Paul decided to leave these reflections until he got used to the fact that his world was not the only one. Paul carefully lowered the record but wasn't in a hurry to lower the needle. He turned off the light and found himself in pitch darkness. A garland hung on the wall, which the old man lit, finding it blindly. Yellow light cut through the darkness like campfire flames. Paul lowered the needle and lay down.       A piano solo sounded in the darkness, and Paul's soul warmed. America's tender voice came in, singing about the night sky and mutual love. The song sounded much more confident and softer than at Allyna's home in the spring of 1964... And if you think about it—Paul had never been in Allyna Kristie's house in the spring of 1964. Because in this universe, this girl probably doesn't exist, and Paul visits that universe with a half-century delay.       The song ended with Ami's vocalise. Paul lay in place for a long time, looking at the ceiling, which had taken on a swampy color, and thought about what he had seen. The old man didn't notice how he fell asleep.       Sir Paul was again in America's house but felt as if not in his own body. He looked at his hands, or rather, someone else's, female, thin, and very familiar... Paul began to realize he was in a dream but couldn't do anything. The actions he performed, someone seemed to dictate to him. He went down the stairs to the first floor, and blue-blue light hit his eyes as if not the sun but a spotlight was shining through the window. A male figure stood by the window. A young man was looking out. But as soon as the youth began to turn towards Sir McCartney, the light began to burn brighter, and the old man squeezed his eyes shut, shielding his face with his hands. The light weakened, and Paul opened his eyes. He was standing in a completely unfamiliar cramped room with a low ceiling, and, probably, if Paul stood on tiptoes and stretched, he would hit his head. Linda, about the age when they met, stood in the room. She looked intently at McCartney, and this gaze frightened him.       "See you soon..." Linda said in a strange voice, looking at Paul with an angry gaze now.       McCartney got scared as if he saw not his beloved deceased wife but at least the Gorgon Medusa, and woke up. What did this dream mean? What did this dream mean?! What did this dream mean?!! Paul trembled, trying to come to his senses. Was it already time to pass on? Linda calling him? Or is she against their meetings with America?       America will explain.