stone arabia: a novel by dana spiotta

7/31/2019 STONE ARABIA: A Novel by Dana Spiotta

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In this novel about siblings, music, teen desire,

and adult decay, Spiotta reaches ever deeper,tracking her characters sweet, dangerous

American dreaming with glorious precision.

sam lipsyte, author of the ask

Transfxing. . . as though Nabokov had writtena rock novel. - entertainment weekly

Dreamlike. . . haunting. - jennifer egan

From the frst page I was won overby Spiottas intelligence, charm, and empathy.

I loved it.

patrick dewitt, author of

the sisters brothers

Gritty, intelligent. . . a work o visceral honestyand real beauty.

kate christensen, author of

the astral

An essential American writer. jonathan dee


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Te beauty or which I aim needs little to appearunbelievably

little. Anyplacethe most destituteis good enough or it.

Jean Dubuet, Landscaped ables,

Landscapes o the Mind, Stones o Philosophy

I just wanna stay in the garage all night.Garageland, the Clash,

written by Mick Jones and Joe Strummer


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She always said it started, or became apparent to her, whentheir ather brought him a guitar or his tenth birthday. Atleast that was the amily legend, repeated and burnished into

a shared over-memory. But she did really think it was true:

he changed in one identiable moment. Up until that point,

Niks main occupations had been reading Madmagazine andmaking elaborate ink drawings o dogs and cats behaving like

ar-out hipsters. He had charactersMickey the shaggy mutt

who smoked weed and rode motorcycles; Linda the sluttish

aghan who wore her hair hanging over one eye; and Nik Kat,

his little alter ego, a cool cat who played pranks and escaped

many close calls. Nik Kat addressed the reader directly and gavelittle winky comments about not wanting you to turn the page.

Denise appeared as Little Kit Kat, the wonder tot. She had a

cape and ollowed all the orders Nik Kat gave her. Nik made

a ull book out o each episode. He would make three or our

copies with carbon paper and then later make more at some

expense at the print shop, but each o the covers was createdby hand and unique: he drew the images in Magic Marker and

then collaged in pieces o colored paper cut rom magazines.

Denise still had Niks zines in a box somewhere. He gave one


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copy to her and Mom (they had to share), one to his girlriend

o the moment (Nik always had a girlriend), one was put in aplastic sleeve and led in his fedgling archives, and one went to

their ather, who lived in San Francisco.

Nik would take his athers issue, sign it, and write a limited-

edition number on it beore taping it into an elaborate package

cut rom brown paper grocery bags. He would address it to Mr.

Richard Kranis. (Always with the word Kronos written next to itin microscopic letters. Tis alluded to an earlier time when each

person in Niks lie was assigned the name and identity o a god.

Naturally his dad was Kronos, and even though Nik had long

ago moved on rom his childish myths-and-gods phase, their

ather orever retained his Kronos moniker in subtle subscript.)

Nik would draw all over the package, making the wrappingpaper an extension o the story inside. Ater he mailed it o to

his ather, he recorded the edition numbers and who possessed

them in his master book. Even then he seemed to be annotating

his own lie or uture reerence. Sel-curate or disappear, he

would say when they were older and Denise began to mock

him or his obsessive archiving.Denise didnt think their ather ever responded to these

packages, but maybe he did. She never asked Nik about it. Her

ather would send a couple o toys in the mail or their birthdays,

but not always, and not every birthday. She remembered

him visiting a week ater Christmas one year and bringing a

carload o presents. He gave Denise a little bike with removabletraining wheels and sparkly purple handlebar tassels. But the

most signicant surprise was when he turned up or Niks tenth

birthday.


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Nik and Denise lived on Vista Del Mar about two blocks

rom the Hollywood Freeway. Teir mother rented a small whitestucco bungalow. (In his comics Nik dubbed the house Casa

El Camino Real, which later became Casa Realpronounced

ray-al or reel, depending on how sarcastic you were eeling

and they ound it orever amusing to always reer to it that way;

eventually even their mother called it Casa Real. By the time

Nik was in high school, he had become one o those peoplewho gives names to everything: his car, his school, his bands,

his riends. One who knew him wellsay, Denisecould

tell his mood by what nickname he used. Te only things that

didnt get nicknames were his guitars. Tey were reerred to by

brand namesthe Gibsonor by categoriesthe bassand

never as, say, his axe, and he never gave them gender-specicpronouns, like shes out o tune. Giving nicknames to his gear

seemed unserious to him.)

When they rst moved in to Casa Real, Nik had his own

room while Denise shared a room with her mother. Later on

Denise got Niks room and Nik made the back dining room

with its own door leading outsideinto his spacious masterbedroom/smoking den/private enclave. Later still he would

commandeer the entire garage. Nik stapled carpet remnants

on the walls and made a soundproo recording and rehearsal

studio.

For his tenth birthday, Nik wanted to go to the movies with

a couple o riends and then have a cookout in the backyardwith cake and presents. Tat was the plan. Nik wanted to see

Dr. Strangelove, but Denise was too little, so they went to the

Campus on Vermont Avenue to see the Beatles movie A Hard


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Days Night. Nik was a bit o a Beatle skeptic; he had the 45s,

but he wasnt sure it wasnt too much o a girl thing. Te movieerased all his doubt. Denise remembered how everything about

it thrilled themthe music, o course, but also the ast cuts,

the deadpan wit, the mod style, the amused asides right into

the camera. Te songs actually made them eel high, and in

each instance elt permanently embedded in their brains by

the second repetition o the chorus. Tey stayed in their seatsright through the credits. I it wasnt or the party, there was no

question they would have watched it again straight through.

When Denise reluctantly ollowed Nik out into the

aternoon light, it shocked her to discover the world was just

as they had let it. Tere it stood in hot, hazy, Beatle-ree color.

No speed motion and no guitar jangle. But it didnt matter,because they still had the songs in their heads, and they knew

they would go to see the movie again as soon as they could.

Tey took the bus to Hollywood Boulevard to look at records.

Ten they walked rom Hollywood Boulevard up to Franklin,

and Nik began to sing the songs rom the lm a cappella; he

could perectly mimic the phrasing o each Beatle vocal. Nikcould also imitate the Liverpool accents, and he already knew

some o the lines by heart (We know how to behave! Weve had

lessons!). Tey walked single le through the tunnel that went

under the reeway (Hes very ussy about his drums, you know. Tey

loom large in his legend). Nik and Denise were still movie-drunk

when they turned onto Vista Del Mar.Teir athers car sat in the driveway, a white Chrysler

Imperial. Nik started to run down the block.

Tey ound him in the backyard with their mother. He


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hadnt brought his girlriend, and he was wearing a sport coat

even though it was very warm in the late-aternoon sun. Nikran over to him and they hugged. Denise only stared at him.

She was tiny or seven, with delicate eatures. She didnt look

like a baby, but more like a perect miniature girl. She hadnt

seen her ather in a long time, and she truthully didnt eel

very amiliar around him. He got up and grabbed her around

the waist with both hands. He was very tall. Denise wouldalways have trouble remembering his aceshe could see it

in photographs, but she couldnt conjure it as it looked in real

lie. She could distinctly recall the eel o his hands gripping

her. He lited her up and squeezed her to his chest. Ten he

put her in the ledge o one bent arm and brushed her cheek

with his hand. Sot, he said, and grinned. In photos Denisesather looks like one o those character actors rom the ties:

he is tall and broad and has exaggerated eatures. He is not

unhandsome. He has clear olive skin and dense shiny black

hair. But he also looks a little bloated around his eyes and nose,

and he looks older than he should. Now when she studies

photos o him, he appears to be a man well on his way to anearly heart attack, a man who clearly ate and drank too much.

But when he held her then, she noticed only how good he

smelled, how big his body was. When he held you, he became

your entire landscape. She elt shy, but she let him carry her,

kiss her cheek, and gently tug her braids.

Nik and Denise would later agree that their ather was awul.He randomly appeared and then one day he was just gone

orever. He would have been a great uncle, Nik said to her the

last time they had discussed it. Te perect present-carrying


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once-a-year uncle who can give you a report on how big you are

and then wrestle with you or a minute beore pouring himsela scotch and leaving the room. Teir ather let their mother

when Nik was ve, so he had some memories o living with

him. Denise was two and had none. And beore Nik turned

eleven, their mother would wake them one Saturday morning

and tell them their ather had died. Nik would cry, sitting in his

pajamas on the couch. Denises mother also cried. Denise hadto go to her room and stare at the picture she had o her ather

in her photo album. She really had to concentrate: Hes dead,

and I will never, ever see him again. And nally, staring at his

photo, she, too, began to cry.

He couldnt stay or the birthday cookout. He was in town

on business. I wanted to surprise you, he said. Ill just stay ora drink.

He sat in the sun and drank rom a tumbler o ice and

bourbon. He smoked a cigarette and sweated in the shadeless

yard. He wore a big ring on his nger that caught the sun and

sparkled. Nik and his riends drank Cokes and they spoke in

embarrassed hushes, glancing at Niks ather. Teir mothercooked the hamburgers on the grill. Denise urged Nik to open

his presents.

Not yet, her mother said, ater the cake.

I have something you can open now, her ather said. He

got up with a smile and went through the gate to the ront,

where his car was parked. Tey all stared at the gate until hecame back, lugging a large black leather guitar-shaped case. He

carried it to where Nik stood and put the case on the grass in

ront o him. Nik stared down at it. Although he had given Nik


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nice gits in the past, the size and weight o this git indicated

an extravagance beyond any they had previously experienced.Open it, son.

Nik unbuckled the case and hinged up the top. Te

lacquered rosewood gleamed in the sun. Teir ather reached

down and pulled the guitar up with one hand on the neck and

the other hand under the body. Mother-o-pearl was inlaid on

the ngerboard between the rets, and there was matching inlaytrim along the edge o the body and an inlay rosette around the

sound hole. He handed it over to Nik, who pulled it to his chest.

Nik stared down at it.

He nally spoke in a reverent whisper. Tank you. And

that was it.


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ThE ChRONIClES

July 1, 2004

Dear Ada,

It is nearing midnight, and I cant wait to leave this travesty

o a day behind. It was not good or happy or kind. It took a long

time to get here, and it will take a long time to leave. Be warned, I

eel disoriented. But I will proceed in the nest aith I can muster.I must take care. Because, as we know, memory all too easily

accommodates the corruption o regret.

You may surmise that I have had something to drink. Tis

might make you think I am being hyperbolic or histrionic or that

word that makes all women o my age cringe, hysterical. As i my

hormones or my uterus (the Greek word or womb is hustera, etc.)

were the engine o my writerly ablutions. Tats not it. Mostly I am

writing because I know and see things no one else does. Because I

have to. It is my job, my assignment. I am on the verge o elation.

Liberated. Part o me eels relie, I cannot deny it.

I will elaborate, I promise.

Oh, or Gods sake, Denise said, barely audible in the

empty room. Is this really what she was let with? Another

overly elaborated joke?


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How peculiar this eels: beore tonight I never imagined I

would try to write about anything, much less this. I dont meanI dont understand why people write. Written words demand the

deep attention that spoken words just arent entitled to. Writers get

to pull something solid out o our relentless, everyday production o

verbal mucilage. A writer is a word salvager and scavenger and

distiller.

As you know, I have occasionally xated on wordsI love totalk and sometimes words come out with embarrassing urgency. I

can eel them as almost physical things as I push breath into them.

Tis, I am araid, is a consequence o solitude. Spoken words become

extravagant and magical, and I admit that I have, on more than

one occasion, caught mysel speaking my thoughts aloud, as though

vocalizing them gave them an extra reality, but I dont think Iever elt any urgent expressive needs about actually writing words

down. No desire to extrude something that would endure beyond

my mere mortal squeak. Except now, when writing them down

seems not to be about cheating the given human terms but instead

simply a way to relieve my isolation. Te artistic impulse, wrote

Colette, even more than the sexual impulse, breaches the barriers.So be itsmash these walls down. Raze them to the cellar.

Denise stopped reading and took a long breath. And then

another. She swayed and steadied hersel against her brothers

desk. She realized she had been holding her breath as she read.

And standing. She pulled out his desk chair with her elbow.She did not put the letter down. She held it in her hand, her

index nger and middle nger keeping the last page distinct

rom the rst. She sat on his chair and leaned toward his desk.


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Her damp hair stuck to the back o her neck. She should take

a sip o water, something. Denise read on to see what Nik hadDenise say next.

Te simplest answer and probably the most accurate answer

is that Niks art was his lie. And I dont know what that means

about a lie. I have always resisted artistic impulses o any kind. I

always believed that i you werent good, what right did you haveto do it? Tis question dates back to when I did try, or a time, to

be an actress. A deliverer and even exalter, I imagined, o all those

delightully rescued and worked words, phrases, and sentences. At

seventeen I even enrolled in a very exclusive acting workshop. You

didnt know this, did you? But I must coness my initial appearance

there, like many things in my lie, was accidental. Te class metat an equity-waiver theater on Melrose Avenue every Wednesday

night. He was a amous teacher; he coached serious movie actors. He

would be hired to be on set during important scenes. He held secrets,

we were led to believe. And despite how clich this may sound, I

was not even intending to audition or his class. I was there with a

riend who wanted to audition. My riend Avril (who burned to bean actor rom the moment she saw Judith Andersons repulsive-yet-

compelling perormance in Hitchcocks brilliant domestic torture

lm Rebecca), wanted to go and I came along to help her. We did a

scene rom Done by Hand. I played Janice. I knew nothing about

acting. I had no desire to act. But, in the same way a broken clock is

right twice a day (I apologize or another clich), anyone can act or

one scene i the one scene happens to require the exact comportment

with which you are naturally inclined to when on stage. So in this

specic role, in this specic scene, my ontal rush o propulsive ear,


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my prickly sel-strickenness, and my strangled underlaugh that

was (and still is) a result o what Sigmund Freud identied asthe liminal dilemma between the intense desire or supplication

and the concurrent need or masochistic provocation all combined

to create an illusion o a brilliant stage presence, bursting with

potential and uture possibility. All o which I didnt havenot as

an actor, certainly.

So I was astonishing, a dazzling creature o tangled, alluringcomplexity. For ve minutes, at seventeen, in the Barbara

Stanwyck Teater on a Wednesday.

I said my last line, blurted it in a manic breath. I heard the

amous teacher say, Stop there. I elt dampness leaking under my

arms; I was glistening with what I would have guessed is called

op sweat; I could even eel a trickle down the side o my neck. Iopened my eyes (they must have been closed or the entire last line).

Avril stared at me, her lips quivering. Her ace was red and she

was clearly on the verge o tears. Was I that bad? I could eel the

whole room on the edge o a deep intake o breath, and then into the

breach came an avalanche o intense applause. What a thing, Ada.

Te rough din o all that sudden hand-smacking: you actually caneel it as well as hear it. It is an assault; it is as i they are trying to

break in to you somehow. Tey are laying a claim to whatever it is

you just created. I nearly ainted.

Te teacher appeared out o the dark and mounted the stage.

He waved his hand at the audience and the applause abruptly

stopped. His ace betrayed no apparent pleasure or displeasure: it

was a studious, controlled expression. (One should expect nothing

less rom an acting teacher than control o the ace.) Ten I realized

his intent, his concentration, was xed. And it was not xed on


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Avril; it was xed on me. I was along to merely assist, but I was

asked to join the workshop on the spot and Avril was not.Looking back, I must concede there was a little more to it than

my coincidental impersonation o a gited actor. Te more to it that I

am alluding to is the way I looked. Tis is a sketchy thing to discuss,

but I was rankly pretty in a very actressy way. I had that extra-

pretty shine that seems to x to actors, a shimmery charisma that

you cant miss even i the actor has unwashed hair and no makeupon. I saw Cary Grant, once, at the Beverly Center on a Saturday

aternoon. He was silver-haired, way past his heyday. Yet he was

that extra-shiny thing, a gorgeous old man, not at all like anyone

else there. What is more, he seemed to suck up all the attention in

the place, he was like a black hole, drawing curiosity and desire like

matter toward innity. And it had nothing to do with ame, atleast not or me, because I didnt even recognize him. I noticed him

beore I saw everyone whispering and I discovered who he was. A

young woman pushed the shopping cart as he strolled alongside;

he appeared conspicuously unaware o the gaze o others as he

attended a cantaloupe with an outstretch o his cashmere-covered

arm. His power came rom his electric prettiness, his extra glow.I we were all in a painting, he would have one o those intricate

halos around him, gilt-traced, radiant. Tats exactly what it was,

a radiance that elt holy. At least as holy as one could eel shopping

at the Beverly Center on a Saturday aternoon. I nearly stopped

and applauded as he walked by. We all nearly did.

My extra-prettiness was a minor version o that. I had the

regular, symmetrical eatures o a pretty girl. I had the slim yet

plush gure o the standard object o desire. And on top o that

I had this little sparkly extra thing, the thing that makes people


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think you ought to be an actor, the thing that makes everyone sneak

disbelieving glances at every detail o you. (Does the exquisitehollow o her philtrum meet her lip at exactly the most alluring

depth? Yes, it does. Do her tiny pale earlobes hang only halway

beore attaching in the most elegant and demure way? Oh yes.

And so on.) I still have some remnant o that kind o beauty, but

even I know that it really peaked or me at around seventeen.

Some women grow into their peak beauty: they are deep, powerulcreatures. Some women seem to miss it entirely, the sum o their

pieces becoming somehow less than is really air. My mother was in

the latter category. Her attractiveness had always elt unrealized.

She was teen pounds away, or she needed a new haircut, or

clothes that t her better. But that was an illusion. She just didnt

add up in quite the right way, and no matter what she did, therewould always be something just out o reach or her. She was a

woman who always appeared past her peak but who actually never

had a peak. And then other women, like me, peak very early. It is

a subtle distinction. I mean, I was still quite pretty at twenty-ve.

I am still reasonably, wearily pretty at orty-seven. (Way prettier

than I need to be, especially now that I am a writer.) But when Iwas on stage at the Barbara Stanwyck Teater, in that audition

or that very exclusive acting workshop, it was natural or people

to mistake me or a born-to-be-a-star type. I looked like someone

whose abulous peak was yet to come. (Because what peak beauty

ever reads like a peak? It must all be becoming, it must all be a leap

into the uture or a woman.)

He, the amous teacher Herbert Mintov, stopped the applause

and we all stood there. He ignored Avril and looked into my ace.

I remember he cupped my ace with his hands, but I am sure that


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cant be right. Tat would be creepy. Herbert was ull o all sorts

o character aws, but he would never have made the mistakeo appearing creepy. So he didnt actually touch me, but he did

something that was an appropriate teacherly version o that,

something along the lines o opening a hand toward me, nodding

sagely at me, and saying I was invited to join the class. As I recall,

nothing was said to Avril, and so it was with the brutal terms o

the acting world. How could I reuse? I had no idea what I wasgoing to do in this lie. When you grow up in Los Angeles, sooner

or later it occurs to you that acting could be your calling. Especially

i you were more or less recruited, Schwabs-style, into the thing.

As you might have guessed, my acting career went steeply,

vertiginously downhill rom that rst brilliant peak. Herberts

mistake soon became clear to me, Herbert, and the other students.(But not Avril, o course, because we were no longer riends. She

was convinced, and she could have been right, that I upstaged and

displaced her. Tat she never had a shot. Which might have been

true, but it certainly wasnt on purpose. And my reusing Herberts

invitation would not have urthered her cause in any way, that

was clear. I do think it gives the lie to one acting clich: it isnttrue that i you surround yoursel with brilliant actors you will

only look better. What is true is you will look weaker. All other

actors are your enemy, tarnishing and interrogating your aura o

holy radiance. What you need is to be surrounded by serviceable,

competent journeymen. Avril learned that and so did I.)

I hate, so deep in this little digression, to insert yet another actor

clich, but i Im here or anything, it is or truth, or disclosure, or

the ull story, no matter how tacky that ull story might make me

seem. It will all, in the end, gure in to the decisions I have made


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recently. All mistakes lead to urther mistakes: all we can do is make

a plausible, causal accounting. And maybe I can be excused or thepredictable trajectory o my actors journey. Here it is: I did have an

afair with Herbert. O course I did.

But I really should get back to the story o Nik, I should have

said how all o this pertained to Nik. Nik, unlike me, never had

a doubt about who he was or what he wanted to do. He didnt

wait or people to tell him what he was good at. He didnt just goalong with some authority gure the way I just joined Herberts

acting class because I was invited. I dont think you could atter

Nik into doing something he didnt eel all the way through him.

But me, I had to say yes to Herberts ofer, and then I had to sleep

with Herbert, too. I dont need to invite your disgust by going

into the details o our lurid assignations. I did start it, I think itis important to be truthul about who initiated things. I knew

Herbert wanted me, that was obvious. So I started an afair with

him because I elt sorry or him. I was such a terrible actress, he was

so completely wrong about my potential, and there he was, stuck

with me in class. I brought the whole place down. I was so stif and

sel-conscious on stage that I made everyoneall these talented,ambitious actorshate acting. Tey would watch me do a scene,

and they would think: I hate acting, I hate actors. I quit. I know

this was how they elt when they watched me. When you arent good

at something, you just make everyone despair about anything ever

being good again. Tat is why Gertrude Stein said Bad art smells

human in all the wrong ways. And bad stage acting is the worst

o allyou are stuck right in the room with the embarrassment

o the actors ailure. You become a party to the ailure. And there

I was, in this room ull o very talented actors, actors who could


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take you to the depths o anyones soul. Actors willing to enliven

the most hated skins, actors capable o impersonatingo inusingpersonhood intowhatever words some dark little writer piled up

on a page. And they did it with esh and spirit, they did it with

breathing, they did it with nely elucidated human detail. Tese

actors were Zen geniuses, seless beings capable o both extreme

control and earless spontaneity. Tey could listen and react to each

other, and yet they were disciplined in their devotion to text andcoherence. Tey observed every little sel-revealing tic and gesture.

Tey had such endless insight into the compelling whys and ways o

human behavior. Tey prized the integrity o the souls they created;

they were earless.

Except, o course, when they watched me.

Or even worse, when they had to perorm with me. I embodiedtheir rediscovered ear. As the class continued, my bad acting

became more and more elaborated and intricate. I have to be

exact about thisi there is any possible accomplishment in these

sentences, it dwells in exactitude. So here is not just how bad I

was but how I was bad: I wasnt lazy. I memorized my lines (by

rote and repetition, by groping, by blind will). I wrote notes in themargins. I thought o Motivations. Objectives. Actions. As-is. I

dutiully penciled them in. I had, I believe, deep insight into the

characters I was assigned. I would go to the library and do research.

When I was supposed to have pleurisy, I read every detail o what

pleurisy does to you (it creates a heaviness in your lungs, labored

breathing, and knielike cutting pain in your chest). I read about

the Depression. I read about St. Louis. I worked hard at my acting.

I am, i nothing else, an extremely hard worker. I have always

worked hard because I have always had to.


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You must understand something: Nik and I went to crowded

urban public schools. We lacked supervision, parental or any otherkind. Necessarily, our education was an act o autocarpy. We didnt

know a thing we didnt teach ourselves. Nik ound a way to revel in

his sel-conjured education and even saw it as his strength. As the

twelth-century literary genius Abu Jaaar Ebn ophail wrote in

his primordial epic novel, Philosophus Autodidactus: Te eral

child will develop the purest orm o creativity. But or me it wasdiferent: my eral childhood let me hounded by doubt. When you

are sel-taught, you get a lot o things wrong. You mispronounce

words because you never actually heard anyone speak those words

aloud. You use what linguists call hypercorrect language that is in

act not correct, like stickingwhom all over the place. Or you use

the rst-person subjective pronoun I even when you should use therst-person objective pronoun me because you think the wordme is

only or selsh children. You try to never say the wordlike, because

you cant be sure how to do it without thinking about it. You learn

to second- and triple-guess your instincts, which can really change

how you make your way through the world. You are slow because

you have to take the long way around to everything. No utterancecomes without labored preparations. None o this weighed on Nik,

but I always ound it humiliating that I didnt even know what I

didnt know. So my hard work, unlike Niks, was underwritten by

a kind o despair. I worked desperately hard, you see? I couldnt give

up. I was determined to at least be a rigorous ailure.

Herbert did try his best with me. He patiently and clearly

expounded the techniques o controlling your body as an actor. I did

his Movement exercises. I did his Breathing exercises. I did Sense-

Memory exercises. I hummed, I shook out my limbs, I plid.


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But.

Nothing could override my continuing and enduring awulness.For all o my eforts and Herberts eforts, I actually started to get

worse. But that isnt exactly true. I couldnt have gotten worse, that

wasnt possible; it was just the longer my attempts at acting went

on, the more hopeless it elt to do it. My actual perormances were

strikingly consistent and uniorm: I would get on stage with all o

my hard work behind me. I would carry it all out there. I didnt goblank or anything like that. Here is precisely what happened every

time: nothing. I couldnt take all that underlie, all that between-

the-lines annotation, all that hard-willed work and alchemize it

into any elt thing. I couldnt eel. I couldnt make anyone else eel.

As Herbert said once, in exasperation (in bed, actually, ater we

had had perectly ne sex), It is make-believe, dont you get it?You just have to make me believe. You can get away with whatever

you want i you can make me believe it. Which I couldnt do, and

Herbert could not teach me. I thought o it all, I even thought o not

thinking, but I elt nothing, convinced no one. At last I quit. When

I nally told him I was done with it, I didnt just eel relie, I elt a

deep release, a reprieve rom being so horribly bad.But now I understand that I had it all wrong. Te issue isnt,

Am I good enough? No. Te issue is, Do I not have any other choice?

Will and desire dont matter. Ability doesnt matter. Need is the

only thing that matters. I need to do this.

Enough, Ada darling. Im way of subject and I dont seem

to have managed my task very well. You will say, You havent

explained, why didnt you do something i you knew? And you are

right, I did know. And you are wrong, I shouldnt and couldnt

have stopped anything. I will try to make you see that. I will try


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Dana Sptta

20

again ater I sort things out. And Ada, despite my rambling and

middling sel-recriminations, dontplease dontpity me. OrNik. As Gloria Steinem once said, Pity is simply hate without the

respect.

Yours always,

Ma

Denise stuck the letter back in the envelope glued to thepage under the taped-in, cut-out typed heading July 1, 2004.

Tis was not a letter rom Denise to her daughter, Ada. It

was a sham, a hoax, a put-on. Tis document was rom Niks

Chronicles. Denise ound it there, as she was meant to. Tis

was a letter, written by her brother, in her styleor his conjured

style o heror his Chronicles. He did a rather ascinating andpainul acsimile o Denise, a witty, brutal parody o her. For her,

actually, because Denise was pretty much the main audience or

the Chronicles (besides Nik himsel, o course). He exaggerated

her pretensions, her diction, her grating trebly qualities. He

made un o her memory skills. (Denise took supplements to

aid memory. She did brain exercises. She convinced hersel thather ability to remember was speedily evaporating.) She pressed

her hand against the open binder. She smoothed the page and

could eel the weight and chunked thickness o all the pasted-in

entries. Te sun had come up, she could see a aint glow at the

seams o the garage door and in the small row o windowpanes.

She should call someone. What would she say? She tucked theopen binder under her arm and climbed up the ladder through

the trapdoor to Niks apartment. She made a cup o coee with

Niks plug-in percolator. She pulled back the black curtain on


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SToNe ArAbiA

21

one o the east-acing windows. Te pink edges o the dawn

made the scrubby desert oaks look carved in light. It was veryquiet. No coyotes or cars. She sat down at his desk with her cup

o coee and pulled the volume o the Chronicles toward her.

She took the aux letter out and read it again.

He didnt really exaggerate her digressive tendencies, she

couldnt argue with that. All that ridiculous acting stu. She

had taken one acting class and she wasnt that bad. She wascommonplace bad. She was much more commonplace in all

respects than this Denise-on-steroids that Nik created or the

Chronicles, which she knew was never meant to be about the

acts or actual lie out in the world.

As or the ake quotes, she got a kick out o those. Tat

was Niks signature aectation or her, his marker o anythingrendered in her voice. Te made-up quotes were her attributes,

like Saint Lucy always appearing with her eyes on a plate,

but the reerence was only understood by Denise, only really

understood in the context o the entire Chronicles, and so,

nally, a prooundly elaborated private joke between them.

What was he getting at with some o this? Nik threw littlepebbles and they pinged against the glass; his versions o the

two o them kept very close in their own weird-logic way. Tere

was no question that she would have to call Ada next. She would

have to account or her actionsor lack thereoto Ada. She

must delineate, with some exactitudeas he ironically put it in

his ake letterthe truth o their sadness and troubles.It was also accurate to say that Nik reveled in his solitude

and Denise did not. She gured that was the rst thing that

separated themthat and when she began to become his


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Dana Sptta

22

audience. It wasnt just that Nik got a guitar rom their ather.

Nik took it, grabbed hard at it, and never let it go. Tey divergedearly, and ater that there was no changing or stopping him.

From where she sat at his worktable, Denise could see his

original guitar perched on a stand in the corner. An Orlando

with a rosewood body just like a Martin. Nik had taken good

care o it. She knew he elt there was some destiny to the day

he received it: the Beatles, the guitar, the last time they wouldsee their ather. She knew because Nik elt there was destiny

in everything. Te story was part o his legend: he hadnt even

wanted a guitarit never occurred to him, he would claim with

a laugh. And yet it changed his lie. Which was true, it did

change him. It took him over like a disease. From that very

evening he would not quit with that Orlando.He used to sit by his record player and listen over and over

to the same song until he gured out how to play a particular

lead. He didnt read music or learn music theory. But Nik had

a capacity or dogged devotion. He was doglike, really, the way

a dog will chase a car it can never catch or will never tire o

retrieving a ball you throw. He would come home rom schoolor a party or a date, and he would automatically pick up his

guitar, in just the same kind o habitual and nearly compulsive

way Ada would run to her computer. Many times Denise

remembered trying to tell Nik something and he would still

be playing his guitar, working something out with ngers and

string. It irritated her, the way he would sit there, then say, Yeah?And nod as she spoke, but still stealing glances downward, his

let hand depressing strings, his right hand clutching a pick,

just touching the pick to strings without strumming. He was


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SToNe ArAbiA

23

showing Denise this great amount o attention and respect by

not actually strumming. She said, one time when she reallywanted him to listen, Could you just put your guitar down?

and he looked at her as i shed asked him to put his arm down.

As it turned out, he was not the worlds most brilliant guitar

player. He was good, good enough or songwriting and singing,

which were the things he really cared or. He worked at learning

the guitar and achieved a high level o competence. Nik taughthimsel everything about playing, even taught himsel the act

that he was not ever going to be a virtuoso.

Te actual demise o Nik as possible guitar hero came in

1973. Nik had just begun to play out with his new band, the

Demonics. Previously there had been some jam sessions with

school riends, but the Demonics were his rst band to venturepast the garage. He had a bass player, Sam Stone, and a drummer,

Mike Summer. (Or maybe it was Dave Winton rst and Mike

later?) Tey had scored a regular gig opening or bands at this

shitty club called the Well. Tey played early in the evening

when no one was really there, kind o a ll-in thing. But it was

a great opportunitythey were just beginners. Tey still hadthese long shags and they were a little pimply and peeled. Nik

was always pretty good-looking, but he hadnt ound his look

quite yethe was still in the developmental stages. He was on

the verge o good-looking. Denise went to all o the gigs even

though she was sixteen and well under the legal age. She just

slipped in as part o the group. She ound a perch near the stageand olded her legs and arms until she elt nearly invisible. Te

Demonics played the same ten songs over and over. Although

Nik had already written hundreds o songs by this point, the


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Dana Sptta

24

only ones they had rehearsed and could even play at all were

these ten airly simple songs. Ater a ew weeks o their boringset, Nik tried to introduce new songs. But something wasnt

working. Tey would just ade on the stage, already sick o

themselves. Ten they would get some minuscule amount o

money and mope around the edge o the perormance area.

Teyd stay or the next band i they could, but the club knew

the Demonics were all underage and they werent supposed tohang out ater the gig. One night, though, they did manage to

stay or the next band, the Cherries. Tere were our o them

drums, bass, and two guitars. Tey all had short hair (or that

time) and wore collared, short-sleeved tennis shirts buttoned all

the way up and tucked in to their beltless, tight, fat-ront khaki

pants. Nobody looked like that yet.Speed preps, Nik whispered, staring at them. Te singer

hardly touched his guitar and spent most o his time closed-

eyed at the mic, hurling words into the dark. He would hold

a chord and then wave his right hand at the strings at crucial

moments, giving an underll to their sound. Te other guitar

player, the taller, sweatier one, played the leads and sometimessang harmonyhis singing kicked in about as oten as the lead

singer swiped at his guitar. Tey played seven hard, ast, close

rockers. Tey wiped the Demonics o the stage. Nik knew it,

Denise could tell by how he studied them.

From that moment on, he ocused on his songwriting. He

recruited ommy Skate to play lead guitar or his shows. Andthe rest was history. He understood he wasnt ever going to be

one o those great live guitar players, no matter how hard he

worked on it. He didnt spend orever fogging his ailures. He


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SToNe ArAbiA

25

moved things along. Denise slowly began to realize how deeply

serious he was.Te Demonics grew to be a pretty decent live band. But Nik

preerred composing to perorming. He never stopped writing

new songs. As devoted as he had been to learning the guitar,

his obsession with songwriting trumped everything. He wrote

in notebooks, he wrote while he watched V, and yes, he wrote

even while someone was trying to talk to him.Yeah, he said, nodding, but with that dazed noncommittal

style the true nonlistener adopts.Im agreeing with youjust a

crapshoot, but why not?But Denise knew the songs were really

good, so she couldnt mind all that much. She gured thats just

how artists were.

Te amazing thing was Nik didnt seem to pay attentionto anyone or anything around him and yet then he would

write something that seemed entirely to depend on the closest

attention. Like Versions o Me, his great early song about

playing poseur and then wondering why no one knew the

real you. He already let the ironic twist come in, the sel-

admonishment that made him such an appealing songwriter.When he rst played this song or Denise, they were sitting

in the kitchen o Casa Real. It was late, they had been out

at a party. Denise ollowed Nik in, drunkenly shushing each

other even though their mother was still out on a late shit

and they were the only ones home. Denise walked straight to

the pantry and took out a box o Wheat Tins. She stood withthe pantry door open and gnashed a steady stream o salty

squares between her teeth. Tis was her strategy to avoid room

spins and subsequent hangovers. She always crammed as many


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Dana Sptta

26

starches in her stomach as she could beore she made any

attempts to go horizontal. And she always woke up sixteenand resh-aced.

Nik held his guitar by the neck as he hoisted himsel up on

the old aquamarine tiled counter. He rested the guitar against

his lap and attempted to reach in his jacket pocket or his

cigaretteshe shited his pick to teeth and tried again. He then

replaced the pick with a cigarette and started to play. Denisedidnt stop eating her crackers as she walked over to the narrow

transom window above the sink and pushed it open.

Im not gonna smoke it, he said without looking up. She

put her hand in the Wheat Tins box again and watched him

strum. You want to hear a new song? he said, looking up. She

nodded, leaning against the sink. He began to play Versions oMe, and all at once Denises very amiliar but distant brother

became someone else. Tis was truly the moment when she saw

how dierent he was rom everyone else she knew, including

hersel. He, just by singing his song, could change how she

saw the world. He became a vivid human to her, someone who

understood her as yet unnamed alienation. She had, all at once,a deep aith in his perception, as he pinpointed the way she

oten elt, angry at the world or misunderstanding her while

playing at deliberately misrepresenting hersel. He stopped and

shrugged. He lit his cigarette and took a long, proud drag.

Brother is a rock star.

I love it. Its great! she said, still chewing.He smiled.

Your rst hit!

A chart-topper, Nik said, with a sarcasm about his chances


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SToNe ArAbiA

27

at success that would soon be replaced with something more,

well, unusual.Te moment stood out to Denise or other reasons as well.

She realized then that he was good at this, songwriting, in a

way he never was at guitar playing. He had gured this out,

while she was still nowhere.

Denise really should call someone.

She sat down at Niks worktable, a huge unnished pieceo wood set on two sawhorses and pushed against the wall.

His razor-point black pens o various widths and sharpened

Generals Cedar Pointe pencils were neatly lined up. Scissors,

X-Acto blades, erasers, homemade wheat paste, double-sided

photo tape, rubber cement, and ombow Mono Adhesive were

all within reach. A ream o acid-ree pure white paper, and oto the side the white Royal manual typewriter with the lazy

a that he used to type his ormal entries in the Chronicles.

Evidence o the Chronicles was everywhere around her. Te

earlier volumes were shelved in chronological order starting in

the garage downstairs (1970s2003). But he kept the volumes

o the current year in a neat row on a shel above his desk. Onthe walls near the desk she could see the ramed album covers,

posters, master images or label art, photos, and pasted-up ake

news clippings. And under her hands and all in ront o her was

Niks clear, inviting wood desk. All set up or work.

His archive oppressed her. She needed a chronicle o her

own, with her own opposite silly penchant or reality andmemory and ordinary acts. Because that was all she could

think to do with what had transpired. She must conclude it

liberated her in some deep way, and maybe it even did.


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28

ThE COuNTERChRONIClES

My disclaimer:

You can go back orever to grab a context or a brother and sister.

And even then the backward glance is distorted by the lens o the

present. Te urther back, the greater the distortion. It is not just

that emotions distort memory. It is that memory distorts memory,i that makes any kind o sense. I must simply try to recall the events

that led to our crisis (lets call it that or now). Because there were

contributing actors, things that speak to states o mind. Tere were

signs and indications and decisions with consequences well beore the

events o the last ew days. Can one make causal connections without

manuacturing narratives? Or is all memory simply the applicationo narrative to past events, and is it only human and coherent to

do that work? o begin, I must be quite clear with mysel. I must

do my best to stick to the airly recent past, without the nostalgic

digressions, to stick to exactly what happened this year, 2004, what

actually happened to us, and, well, to me.


31/31

lSCRIBNER

A Division o imon & chuster, nc.1230 Avenue o the Americas

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Tis book is a work o fction. ames, characters, places, and incidents either areproducts o the authors imagination or are used fctitiously. Any resemblance to

actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

opyright 2011 by Dana piotta

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portionsthereo in any orm whatsoever. For inormation address cribner ubsidiary

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First cribner trade paperback edition July 2012

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stone arabia: a novel by dana spiotta

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