Celebrity Chekhov (4 page)

But one winter day after drinking hot tea in the office, Keith Urban went out into the yard without his cap on to see about sending off some timber, caught cold, and was taken ill. He had the best doctors, but he grew worse and died after four months' illness. And Nicole Kidman was a widow once more.

“I've nobody, now you've left me, my darling,” she sobbed, after her husband's funeral. “How can I live without you, in wretchedness and misery! Pity me, good people, all alone in the world!”

She went about dressed in black and without makeup. She hardly ever went out, except to church, or to her husband's grave, and led the life of a nun. It was not till six months later that she opened the shutters of the windows. She was sometimes seen in the mornings, going with her cook to market for provisions, but what went on in her house and how she lived now could only be surmised.

And yet, there was evidence to assist in this surmise. For one, there was the sudden reappearance of Brad Pitt, who came by now regularly to drink tea with Nicole Kidman and read the newspaper aloud to her. There was also the fact that, meeting a lady she knew at the post office, Nicole Kidman said to her: “There is no proper planning for buildings in our town, and that's the cause of all sorts of problems. One is always hearing of a foundation that sinks into the snow, or a roof that is torn off by wind. The fitness of domestic buildings ought to be as important as that of people.”

This was clearly an opinion she had acquired from Brad Pitt, though she claimed it as her own. It was evident that she could not live a year without some attachment, and had found new happiness in the lodge. In anyone else this would have been censured, but no one could think ill of Nicole Kidman; everything she did was so natural. Neither she nor Brad Pitt said anything to other people of the change in their relations, and tried, indeed, to conceal it, but without success, for Nicole Kidman could not keep a secret. When he had visitors, and she poured out tea or served the supper, she would begin talking of gables, of levees, or missions to treat onchocerciasis. Brad Pitt was dreadfully embarrassed, and when the guests had gone, he would seize her by the hand and hiss angrily:

“I've asked you before not to talk about what you don't understand. When we actors who enjoy architecture and activism are talking among ourselves, please don't put your word in. It's really too much.”

And she would look at him with astonishment and dismay, and ask him in alarm: “But, Brad, what am I to talk about?”

And with tears in her eyes she would embrace him, begging him not to be angry, and they were both happy.

But this happiness did not last long. Brad Pitt departed for what he said was a distant place. And Nicole Kidman was left alone.

Now she was absolutely alone. Her father had long been dead, and his armchair lay in the attic, covered with dust and lame of one leg. She got thinner and plainer, and when people met her in the street they did not look at her as they used to, and did not smile to her; evidently her best years were over and left behind, and now a new sort of life had begun for her, which did not bear thinking about. In the evening Nicole Kidman sat in the porch, and heard the band playing and the fireworks popping in the theatre, but now the sound stirred no response. She looked into her yard without interest, thought of nothing, wished for nothing, and afterward, when night came on she went to bed and dreamed of her empty yard. She ate and drank as it were unwillingly.

And what was worst of all, she had no opinions of any sort. She saw the objects about her and understood what she saw, but could not form any opinion about them, and did not know what to talk about. And how awful it is not to have any opinions! One sees a bottle, for instance, or the rain, or a man driving in his car, but what the bottle is for, or the rain, or the man, and what is the meaning of it, one can't say, and could not even for ten thousand dollars. When she had Tom Cruise, or Keith Urban, or Brad Pitt, Nicole Kidman could explain everything, and give her opinion about anything you like, but now there was the same emptiness in her brain and in her heart as there was in her yard outside. And it was as harsh and as bitter as wormwood in the mouth.

Little by little the town grew in all directions. The road became a street, and where the theatre and the timber yard had been, there were new turnings and houses. How rapidly time passes! Nicole Kidman's house grew dingy, the roof got rusty, the shed sank on one side, and the whole yard was overgrown with docks and stinging nettles. Nicole Kidman herself had grown plainer and older; in summer she sat in the porch, and her soul, as before, was empty and dreary and full of bitterness. In winter she sat at her window and looked at the snow. When she caught the scent of spring, or heard the chime of the church bells, a sudden rush of memories from the past came over her, there was a tender ache in her heart, and her eyes brimmed over with tears; but this was only for a minute, and then came emptiness again and the sense of the futility of life. The black kitten rubbed against her and purred softly, but Nicole Kidman was not touched by these feline caresses. That was not what she needed. She wanted a love that would absorb her whole being, her whole soul and reason—that would give her ideas and an object in life, and would warm her old blood. And she would shake the kitten off her skirt and say with vexation:

“Get along; I don't want you!”

And so it was, day after day and year after year, and no joy, and no opinions. Whatever the cook said, she accepted.

One hot July day, toward evening, just as the cattle were being driven away and the whole yard was full of dust, someone suddenly knocked at the gate. Nicole Kidman went to open it herself and was dumbfounded when she looked out: she saw Brad Pitt, grayer and dressed more plainly. She suddenly remembered everything. She could not help crying and letting her head fall on his breast without uttering a word, and in the violence of her feeling she did not notice how they both walked into the house and sat down.

“My dear Brad Pitt! What fate has brought you?” she muttered, trembling with joy.

“It is good to see you, Nicole Kidman,” he told her. “I have retired from both acting and from thinking about architecture, and moved back to this part of the country. I am reconciled with my wife, you know.”

“Where is she?” asked Nicole Kidman.

“She's in the city with the kids. I have come here to look for lodgings for my youngest son, a place where he can stay while he goes to school.”

“Good gracious, my dear soul! Lodgings? Why not have my house? Why shouldn't that suit him? Why, my goodness, I wouldn't take any rent!” cried Nicole Kidman in a flutter, beginning to cry again. “He can live here, and then I will get to see you at times, when you bring him or pick him up. Permit me that kindness, at least. Oh dear! How glad I am!”

Next day the roof was painted and the walls were whitewashed, and Nicole Kidman, with her arms akimbo, walked about the yard giving directions. Her face was beaming with her old smile, and she was brisk and alert as though she had waked from a long sleep. Brad Pitt's wife arrived—a beautiful lady with full lips and a peevish expression. With her was her little boy, who was ten although small for his age. And scarcely had the boy walked into the yard when he ran after the cat, and at once there was the sound of his gay, joyous laugh.

“Is that your cat?” he asked Nicole Kidman. “When she has little ones, can I have a kitten?”

Nicole Kidman talked to him and gave him tea. Her heart warmed and there was a sweet ache in her bosom, as though he had been her own child. And when he sat at the table in the evening, going over his lessons, she looked at him with deep tenderness and pity as she murmured to herself:

“You pretty pet! . . . My precious! . . . Such a fair little thing, and so clever.”

“ ‘An island is a piece of land which is entirely surrounded by water,' ” he read aloud.

“An island is a piece of land,” she repeated, and this was the first opinion to which she gave utterance with positive conviction after so many years of silence.

Brad Pitt's son began going to the school. His mother departed to visit her father overseas. His father used to go off every day and would often be away from home for three days together, and it seemed to Nicole Kidman as though the boy was entirely abandoned, that he was not wanted at home, that he was being starved, and she carried him off to her lodge and gave him a little room there.

And for six months the boy lived in the lodge with her. Every morning Nicole Kidman came into his bedroom and found him fast asleep, sleeping noiselessly with his hand under his cheek. She was sorry to wake him.

“Come,” she would say mournfully, “get up, darling. It's time for school.”

He would get up, dress, and say his prayers, and then sit down to breakfast, drink two glasses of juice, and eat a bagel or an apple. All this time he was hardly awake and a little ill-humoured in consequence.

“You don't quite know your math,” Nicole Kidman would say, looking at him as though he were about to set off on a long journey. “What a lot of trouble I have with you! You must work and do your best, darling, and obey your teachers.”

“Oh, do leave me alone!” the boy would say.

Then he would go down the street to school, a little figure, wearing a big cap and carrying a satchel on his shoulder. Nicole Kidman would follow him noiselessly. When he reached the street where the school was, he would feel ashamed of being followed by Nicole Kidman, he would turn round and say, “You'd better go home. I can go the rest of the way alone.”

She would stand still and look after him fixedly till he had disappeared at the school gate.

Ah, how she loved him! Of her former attachments not one had been so deep; never had her soul surrendered to any feeling so spontaneously, so disinterestedly, and so joyously as now that her maternal instincts were aroused. For this little boy with the dimple in his cheek and the big school cap, she would have given her whole life, she would have given it with joy and tears of tenderness. Why? Who can tell why?

When she had seen the last of the boy, she returned home, contented and serene, brimming over with love; her face, which had grown younger during the last six months, smiled and beamed; people meeting her looked at her with pleasure.

“Good morning, Nicole Kidman. How are you, darling?”

“The lessons are not difficult, but they load the students down with homework,” she would relate at the market. “In the first class yesterday they gave him some algebra and also Spanish. You know it's too much.”

And she would begin talking about the teachers, the lessons, and the school books.

At three o'clock they had dinner together. In the evening they learned their lessons together and cried. When she put him to bed, she would stay a long time murmuring a prayer; then she would go to bed and dream of that faraway misty future when the boy would finish his studies and become a doctor or an engineer, would have a big house of his own, would get married and have children. . . . She would fall asleep still thinking of the same thing, and tears would run down her cheeks from her closed eyes, while the black cat lay purring beside her: “Mrr, mrr, mrr.”

Suddenly there would come a loud knock at the gate.

Nicole Kidman would wake up breathless with alarm, her heart throbbing. Half a minute later would come another knock.

It must be a telegram, she would think, beginning to tremble from head to foot. The boy's mother is sending for him. Oh, mercy on us!

She was in despair. Her head, her hands, and her feet would turn chill, and she would feel that she was the most unhappy woman in the world. But another minute would pass, voices would be heard: it would turn out to be Brad Pitt arriving for one of his short stays.

Well, thank God! she would think.

And gradually the load in her heart would pass off, and she would feel at ease. She would go back to bed thinking of the boy, who lay sound asleep in the next room, sometimes crying out in his sleep:

“I'll give you a piece of my mind! Get away! Shut up!”

Chapter 8
Hush

E
MINEM, A WRITER OF HIP-HOP RECORDS, RETURNS HOME LATE
at night, grave and anxious, with a peculiar air of concentration. He looks like a man expecting a police raid or contemplating suicide. Pacing about his rooms, he halts abruptly, ruffles up his hair, and says in the tone in which Laertes announces his intention of avenging his sister: “Shattered, soul-weary, misery on my heart, and then to sit down and write. And this is life! Nobody has described the agonizing pain in the soul of a writer who has to amuse the crowd when his heart is heavy or to shed tears on command when his heart is light. I must be playful, coldly unconcerned, witty, but what if I am weighed down with misery, what if I am ill, or my child is dying?”

He says this, brandishing his fists and rolling his eyes. Then he goes into the bedroom and wakes his wife.

“Kim,” he says, “I am sitting down to write. Please don't let anyone interrupt me. I can't write with children crying or cooks snoring. See, too, that there's tea and bacon or something. You know that I can't write without tea. It's the one thing that gives me the energy for my work.”

Returning to his room, he takes off his coat and boots. He does this very slowly; then, assuming an expression of injured innocence, he sits down to his table.

There is nothing casual, nothing ordinary, on his writing table, down to the smallest trifle, everything bears the stamp of a stern, deliberately planned program. Little busts and photographs of distinguished rappers, heaps of paper filled with scribbles, part of a skull by way of an ashtray, a sheet of newspaper folded carelessly, but so that a passage is uppermost, boldly marked in blue pencil with the word “disgraceful.” There are a dozen sharpened pencils, so that no accidental breaking of a point may for a single second interrupt the flight of his creative fancy.

Eminem throws himself back in his chair, and closing his eyes concentrates on his subject. He hears his wife shuffling about in her slippers and lighting the burner beneath the teapot. She is hardly awake; that is apparent from the way she fumbles the knob of the stove. Soon the hissing of the teapot and the spluttering of bacon reaches him.

All at once Eminem starts, opens frightened eyes, and begins to sniff the air.

“Is that gas?” he groans, grimacing with a face of agony. “That woman will kill me yet. How in God's name am I supposed to write in such surroundings, kindly tell me that?”

He rushes into the kitchen and breaks into a theatrical wail. When a little later his wife, stepping cautiously on tiptoe, brings him a glass of tea, he is sitting in an easy chair as before with his eyes closed, absorbed in his lyrics. He does not stir, drums lightly on his forehead with two fingers, and pretends he is not aware of his wife's presence. His face wears an expression of injured innocence.

Like a girl who has been presented with a costly necklace, he spends a long time posing to himself before he writes the title of the song. He presses his temples, he wriggles, draws his legs up under his chair as though he were in pain, or half closes his eyes like a cat on the sofa. At last, not without hesitation, he stretches out his hand toward the paper, and with an expression as though he were signing a death warrant, writes the title.

“Can I have some water?” he hears his daughter's voice.

“Hush, Haley!” says his wife. “Daddy's writing! Hush!”

Eminem writes very, very quickly, without corrections or pauses. He scarcely has time to turn over the pages. The busts and portraits of celebrated rappers look at his swiftly racing pencil and, keeping stock-still, seem to be thinking: You really are at it!

“Sh!” squeaks the pencil.

“Sh!” whisper the rappers, when his knee jolts the table and they are set trembling.

All at once Eminem draws himself up, lays down his pencil, and listens. He hears an even, monotonous whispering. It is Dr. Dre, who furnishes him with many of his beats. He has come into the house and is speaking softly to Kim.

“Dre, come on!” cries Eminem. “Couldn't you please speak more quietly? You're preventing me from writing!”

“Very sorry,” Dr. Dre answers. “But maybe you should close the door if you don't want to hear people.”

“But then how would you hear me?”

“That wouldn't be important,” Dr. Dre says. “You wouldn't need to speak to me. You wouldn't even know I was here.”

“Why are you here?” Eminem says. “It's almost midnight.”

“I wanted to see if I left a key-chain drive here yesterday. It has some work I was doing for Snoop.”

After finishing two more songs, Eminem stretches and looks at his watch.

“Three o'clock already,” he moans. “Other people are asleep while I must work!”

Shattered and exhausted, he goes, with his head on one side, to the bedroom to wake his wife, and says in a languid voice:

“Kim, I need some more tea! I feel weak.”

He writes till four o'clock and would readily have written till six if his subject had not been exhausted. Making the most of himself and the inanimate objects around him, far from any critical eye, tyrannizing and domineering over the little anthill that fate has put in his power are the honey and the salt of his existence. And how different is this despot here at home from the humble, meek man he secretly believes himself to be.

“I am so exhausted that I am afraid I won't sleep,” he says as he gets into bed. “My work exhausts the soul even more than the body. I had better take a pill. God knows, I'd like to one day be done with this. To write to make a release date that someone else has set? It is awful.”

He sleeps till twelve or one o'clock in the day, sleeps a sound, healthy sleep. How well he would sleep, what dreams he would have, if he could somehow entrust others with the writing of his albums!

“He has been writing all night,” whispers his wife with a scared expression on her face. “Shh!”

No one dares to speak or move or make a sound. His sleep is something sacred, and the culprit who offends against it will pay dearly for his fault.

“Hush!” floats across the house. “Hush!”