The Museum of Modern Love(27)

Levin had been thinking of ideas for his next album. He’d retrieved something he’d begun a few years before, a suite for orchestra—almost a little symphony—of four movements. He had an idea for an opera too, one drawn from an early film score he’d done for Tom.

‘I have an offer for you. It’s not cars and guns.’ Hal’s voice was too loud in his ear. ‘As your agent, I need to remind you that people move on fast in this game. Two years is a long time between drinks. Time to jump, Arky.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Levin. If it had been a director he’d worked with before, they wouldn’t have come to Hal first. And if it had been a big money deal, Hal wouldn’t have called, he’d have come to see him. So he waited, half irritated he’d bothered to respond to the email.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Hal. ‘You know how Disney teamed up with the Japanese company—Studio Ghibli?’

‘A disaster in my mind. Why would Ghibli allow that? Watch how clichéd everything will get.’

‘Well . . .’ Hal paused, as if he was about to argue, but instead he continued. ‘Now Warner is quietly undertaking a few explorative projects with a company called Izumi. The one they want to talk to you about is an adult fairy story.’

‘Ah.’

‘Turns out Seiji Isoda, the director, is a fan of your work. He thinks you’re the man for the job. He’s been working for years to get the project up and then, voila, Warner comes along.’

‘It’s an animation?’

‘Yep. But Warner, Levin! And it’s for adults, not kids.’

‘So is it more like Ghost in the Shell?’

‘Not really. It’s a myth. It’s pretty unusual. I’m sending you the script over now. It could be good. They’re certainly keen to have you. Call me when you’ve read it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Arky, that means call me tomorrow. And turn your phone on. This isn’t the Dark Ages.’

When he switched off his phone again, it occurred to him that Hal hadn’t mentioned Lydia. That must have taken something. Hal was very fond of Lydia and Alice. The day Lydia had her stroke, he’d called Hal and cried on the phone. Hal had come over, brought wine and cheese, and listened to the whole saga. Levin didn’t remember the detail of the night, but he did remember Hal hugging him at the door. The next day the legalities were made clear, and Levin cut himself off. Yet today they had spoken as if everything was normal. There was something reassuring in this pretence. The Hollywood adage of fake it until you make it. He and Hal had faked it, and it had been okay.

They met in Hal’s office. There were blizzard warnings from Washington to Long Island. Schools were closed, airports too. Hal had sent a town car to pick him up. It was 11 am and already the day was concrete, the sky ash above the Chrysler Building beyond the boardroom windows.

Two twenty-something women and a thirty-something man in a blue pinstripe accompanied the young director. Levin felt unbearably old. This was partly to do with having watched The Who do the half-time entertainment at the Super Bowl the day before and thinking that being an ageing muso looked like hard work.

Isoda himself looked all of seventeen, with straight shoulder-length hair and sculptural Japanese features. Levin immediately felt like they’d met before. Tom had been like that. An instant connection.

Isoda spoke careful English with a captivating catch in the vowels. Hal hadn’t been exaggerating. He did, it appeared, know all Levin’s work. Had every album—even Light Water, which must have taken quite some doing. And he’d seen every film.

The young director smiled and said without apparent guile, ‘I think the work you did with Mr Washington was intriguing. Very interesting scores. It must have been a great loss. I admire the partnership you created. And I admire your composition very much. If you give me this opportunity, perhaps we might take a first step in collaboration together.’

The woman in a blouse patterned with cartoon apples looked at Levin and said, ‘Joe Hisaishi wasn’t available, so Mr Isoda thought of you.’

Levin blanched. Joe Hisaishi? It was like not being able to get Howard Shore and thinking on who would do next. Nobody came after Howard Shore and nobody came after Joe Hisaishi. Like Clint Eastwood or Ennio Morricone. John Williams. Randy Newman. As composers, they lived in their own stratospheres. Levin had always wanted to be in that league. Believed he was good enough to be and was surprised that it hadn’t happened by now. Maybe he was that good and nobody realised it. Like Van Gogh or Prokofiev. Or maybe he wasn’t. That troubled him so much he refused to think about it. Now someone wanted him to score a fairytale?

‘As you know from the script, it’s a myth, a fable. We want you to evoke an ancient forest removed from time, and yet bordered by a world that threatens it.’

‘I’ve read the script.’

‘Yes. Did you ever see a fish become a woman?’ Isoda asked gently. ‘When you were a child?’

‘No,’ said Levin.

‘I think I did, once. It’s what made me love this story. I felt like it was my story. I have spent a lot of time in forests and it feels as if time does really begin there. Maybe stories too. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, through the wave that runs for ever . . .’

What sort of Japanese child read Tennyson? Levin wondered. The world had got very mixed up.