The Museum of Modern Love(28)

Levin sifted through the sketches they had placed in front of him. A slender raven-haired woman standing by a river. The woman leaping into the river transforming into a fish. A white bear holding a child tenderly.

‘These illustrations, they’re amazing,’ said Levin.

‘Thank you,’ said Isoda.

‘They’re yours?’ Levin asked.

Isoda nodded.

‘You know I haven’t done an animation before.‘

Isoda’s eyes, dark as wet stone rested on Levin. ‘And I have not made a feature film before. Spirited Away is also an animation. Not really for children. You know this movie?’

‘I have a daughter,’ said Levin. ‘She was a Studio Ghibli fan.’

‘So what’s our timeframe?’ Hal interjected, glancing at Levin and motioning with his head encouragingly.

‘As you can see, Mr Isoda is at work on the animations now,’ said Apple Shirt. Her small perfect mouth was painted with mauve lipstick. ‘Mr Isoda will do all the key drawings for the animation team to develop. He has also written the adaptation from the book.’

The second woman, in a yellow silk shirt, nodded and spoke. ‘Studio Izumi has placed great trust in Mr Isoda.’

‘I am a great fan of Hayao Miyazaki,’ Isoda said. ‘Who of course writes, draws and directs all his own films. This time I am taking something from literature, but if it is successful perhaps I will be lucky enough to direct one of my own scripts.’

‘So, the timeframe,’ said Apple Shirt in response to Hal’s question.

‘I think the expression is that you either have time or money. It’s a small budget. So we would like to give you time, Mr Levin,’ said Isoda seriously. ‘I imagine that is usually quite rare.’

Levin nodded.

Yellow Silk said, ‘The studio is developing several projects consecutively, and quite truthfully, Kawa is the one Warner is least interested in. But Mr Isoda intends to prove them wrong.’

Apple Shirt slid a DVD across to Levin. ‘This is some of Mr Isoda’s previous work. Music clips. Some shorts. His work on several games. These are for you.’

‘That being said,’ began the man in the pinstripe suit. Until then he had been silent but now he spoke in an unexpected Bronx accent. ‘It’s February ninth. We’re scheduled to have animations completed by the thirtieth of April and we would like the initial score by the twentieth of May. When Mr Isoda is happy, we’ll discuss with you how the thing is going to be orchestrated.’

Isoda nodded and smiled at Levin. ‘I would like us to build the music and pictures together.’

‘And if it gets a release date?’ Hal asked.

‘That depends on Warner,’ said Isoda. ‘I’m hoping next February, when people are ready for something a little more . . . thoughtful after the Christmas blockbusters.’

‘And you would prefer to record in New York?’

‘If that is your preference. Or you could come to Tokyo.’ Isoda smiled. ‘I would very much like to record in Tokyo, but of course that will create some difficulties for you, Mr Levin. Maybe I can take you to our forests. Let’s discuss this as we proceed.’

Levin considered the album he’d begun toying with. But maybe, just maybe, he could still do it around the edges. It would be good to work. It might bring some sort of structure.

Isoda said, ‘Mr Levin, if you will agree to do the soundtrack, I’ll do everything I can to make you proud.’

Levin stared at the young man with his eager face.

‘Just a moment,’ he said, and left the room. He found the bathroom, closed the door of the cubicle and leaned his head against the tiled wall. He couldn’t say why he began weeping, only that he thought this was possibly the saddest moment of his life.

There was something so ridiculously innocent about Isoda and his hopefulness. Levin thought of the first film score he’d ever worked on, and how he, too, had done it with so much hope. Did he still have hope? How could he do this without Lydia? He wanted her home. But if he had her home, he’d never be able to say yes to this film or the next. That was the decision she had made for him. Now he had to make something of that. Otherwise the price was too great.

The wall was cold and white against his cheek. He gripped it as if he was floating on a plank in a wild sea, and wailed silently.

After a short while, he gathered himself, opened the cubicle, washed his face at the sink, paper towelled his face and hands, pushed back his hair. He looked bad, he realised. But suddenly it didn’t matter. If they thought he was a little unhinged, they were right. He walked down the empty corridor and went back into the meeting room.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said.





‘MY LAST DAY,’ JANE SAID, pulling a face.

‘What time is your flight?’ Levin enquired.

‘Five pm. I’ll stay as long as I can.’

Levin thought to tell Jane that he could hear, just beyond the strain of human ears, music playing inside the square. The sort of music that happens when children run through water, or a flock of birds takes off above a lake into an evening sky, or when sunshine strikes the petals of flowers. Sometimes he thought he heard a sitar or the clear melody of the oud, with its half-pear back and its broken neck. He had once been a boy in Seattle trying to catch the music of the wind. Now he was a man stretching his fingers towards his potential before it slipped from his grasp.