Free Pinball by Jerzy Kosinski

have to trigger in him a longing for you. For your understanding of him. If you can succeed in doing that, he’ll show up to claim you soon enough.”
    “My understanding of him?” she repeated. Then, folding her arms over her breasts, she exclaimed, “You’re a composer, Patrick; you have more understanding of him than I’ll ever have! In one of your old interviews you said that music was ‘the only spiritual accomplishment of your life’! In another, you said, There is anguish that only composers recognize in each other.’ Think of his music, Patrick! His music is his spiritual address. It might tell us who he is!” She halted—excited—then went on. “Why can’t you figure out who influenced him as an artist. Was it a particular composer? A music teacher? Someone who determined his choice of instruments or his arrangements? A particular engineer or sound expert or one of those new electronic music wizards? Can’t you find out who he is from his music?”
    Her enthusiasm and her line of thought were contagious.
    “I could try,” said Domostroy. “Goddard’s melodies and harmonies and rhythms and musical forms probably tell more about him than his handwriting or his astrological charts or the lines in his hand. So do his lyrics.” He paused. “For instance, one of his songs is called ‘Fugue.’ Now, of course, in music,
fugue
signifies contrapuntal imitations, but in psychiatry it means a state of flight from reality. Such things may indeed tell us much more about Goddard than, say, we would be likely to deduce from his looks.”
    “What do you mean, from his looks?” She rose on the bed and hovered over him.
    “I mean, he is not about to come to you as Goddard. He might be anybody.”
    “What if I have already met him?” she said. “What if that tall creep next door who always says hello to me is Goddard?”
    “If he is, he certainly won’t admit it—even to you. If he’s remained in a state of fugue and secrecy all this time, you don’t expect him to walk in, shake your hand, and introduce himself as Goddard, do you? And I’m sure his everyday voice sounds quite different than his recording one—as is the case with so many other pop singers. A lot of work has gone into Goddard’s staying hidden, and a lot of money comes out of it. He, or the people behind him, are not about to give that up just because of a clever letter from an amorous fan. Even if he likes your letter and is tempted to meet you—in person—he or his associates will probably send someone to check you out, to make sure you’re not trying to set a trap for him.”
    “Send whom, for instance?”
    “Who knows? A man, a woman, even a couple. Anybody—a guy making a pass at you at a cocktail party, a door-to-door saleswoman, even the creep next door! We don’t know who works for him! In fact, if Goddard does fall for you, I’m quite certain he would have to come to see you incognito, as an ordinary man, without ever admitting to the handicap of his success, wealth, and feme—or to any knowledge of your letter. You might make loveto Goddard, listen to his heart—or the story of his life—and never know he’s Goddard.”
    “You mean that after my magic letter is sent off, I have to embrace every ordinary slob who makes a pass at me because he might be Goddard?” said Andrea.
    “You might have to, yes. And when you do, try to figure out if he is the one who read your letter.”
    “But I don’t want to share my body with any ordinary slob.”
    “In that case, you might miss altogether the chance of knowing Goddard. What if the sole reason for his invisibility and secrecy—and his success—is that he enjoys being an ordinary slob?”
    She considered the idea in silence. Then she said, “Where do we send the letter?”
    “Care of Nokturn Records,” said Domostroy.
    “Doesn’t Nokturn get hundreds of letters to Goddard every day?”
    “They probably do. There’s no other place to write him. Nokturn even