And there was the catch, really. Because I knew what Nate didn’t, that people like Peter Beckman aren’t normal. “After that day, I don’t fly anymore. And I don’t really work like that. Neither did Henry.”
“Please. We’re not talking about producing some pop album, we’re talking about a grieving family. And some intellectual property of value to the world at large. You could have called.”
My mother’s words echoed in my head. He could have called. He owed me. But before I could pile on, Beckman replied to Nate with a light tone, brushing off his accusations as if he was talking to a small child. “My whole job as an artist is to create a big production out of something. It’s in the job description: create a mountain of magic out of a molehill of crap. It’s what I do. It’s what Henry did.”
This riled up Nate. “I get it. Your artistic sensibility is way too refined for straightforward interaction,” Nate snapped, the stars in his eyes now gone.
“When I couldn’t reach Suzannah initially, I decided I’d do what my friend had asked of me. Henry asked me to keep the notebooks for ten years. So that’s what I did. It made sense to me at the time and it still does. I did what Henry asked.” Peter carried on, turning to me to explain. “I spent years in a protracted legal battle with my label, my bandmates, and my distributors. Agents and managers took advantage of me. And it soured me on the whole idea of that whole world. Plus, I prefer to take care of business myself. It’s more honest.”
But Nate wasn’t done. “Was it more honest to bring Joan to Paris under false pretense and then stage a robbery, threatening her safety and career? How is that more honorable than picking up the phone?”
“Stop. Please, stop. Thank you. I’m standing right here, so I don’t need defending . . . ,” I said, resting my hand on Nate’s shoulder, but looking over at Beckman, “or whatever justification you’re spouting. I can’t believe you didn’t think my father’s death changed the equation.”
The two men fell silent, as if there was no response solemn enough to follow my statement.
I was still trying to process what I’d read and heard. My mother and I had spent the summer of 2001 preparing to turn over my father’s papers to the museum, to begin the process of building his legacy as my mother saw fit. It had been her idea to start the Henry Blakely Library and find a permanent home for his source materials, the notebooks being the centerpiece, of course. My father appeared to be in agreement, at least that’s what I recall from our conversations that summer. He was enthusiastic, engaged. At least that’s what I recalled.
But it was a decade ago and the circumstances of his death changed every memory I had of him, good or bad. Every memory turned bittersweet and foggy, like they were filmed through a lens covered in Vaseline, sharpness dulled. Maybe to ease the pain.
Had one weekend away with his buddies changed his mind about the library? Or had he been reluctant all along, not wanting to stand up to my mother. I made a mental note to ask Tai about his recollections. He had been new at the WAM then, but involved in the acquisition of the papers and the new piece of art. Maybe my father was dragging his feet. “I have so many questions about everything, including why and how I’m here right now. But I need some time alone with my father’s work. Can I get that?”
“Of course,” Nate answered.
“Yes, anything you need. And, Nate, I appreciate your passion.” Beckman turned to me. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’m sorry about your father. I miss him every day. But now that you’re here, I hope you’ll give me more time to explain. I’m . . . not always so good in the moment . . . one-on-one.” Beckman’s tone was on the edge of sincere, but I knew it was a lie. If he wasn’t good in the moment, my mother never would have called him a bright burning firework. “Now, we’re going to leave you alone, Joan. I’ll have Marianne bring in a glass of wine and some food.” Beckman walked around the room, flicking on a few extra lights, enhancing the dramatic shadows on the rough-hewn walls, revealing a room of beauty and comfort.
In the back corner, there was an exquisite statue of Joan of Arc, probably hundreds of years old. I’d never seen it before, in a photo or in person. On a beautiful wooden book stand next to the statue was the Panthéon Sketchbook, looking like it had always been there. Beckman saw me staring at it. “We’ll talk.”
He clapped Nate on the shoulders in an exaggerated gesture of masculinity. “Come on, mate. Do you like music? I’ll give you a tour of the studio. Had Cage The Elephant in last week. Have you heard their stuff?”
“I have. Good band,” I heard Nate say as they walked out of the room, trying hard to maintain his distance, but I knew Beckman would win him over with one look at the studio.
But me? Not so sure.
As soon as the door closed, I finally let out a deep breath and closed my eyes, to allow myself to feel anything, as if I were going to get a sign from above. I’m not sure what I expected. Spontaneous tears from the Joan statue? Sparks from the notebooks? Hearing voices like my namesake? There was the smell of dried lavender, the crackle of the fire, and a knock on the door as Marianne entered with food and drink. I shook to attention.
“I’ll put it here,” she said in accented English, indicating a table in the corner. “Not near the special books.”
“The special books?”
“Yes, that’s what Monsieur Beckman calls them. The special books. He works with them in his studio most of the time,” Marianne said. “Merci, madame.”
Works with them in his studio? What could Peter Beckman be doing that had any connection to my father’s work? Maybe Marianne’s meaning was lost in translation. Or maybe Beckman’s reason for keeping the notebooks was less about his old friend and more about himself. I added that to my mental checklist of questions about what I now thought of as the Blackbird Era.
I had a million thoughts racing through my head, like the fact that my father didn’t want to be immortalized before he was gone, but right now, I needed to focus on one sliver of time: the Bright & Dark years.
I approached the table and searched for the books from 1978 to 1980. I estimated where that era might be in my father’s numbering system, knowing that he made many more notes in his early working days than in his later days. That last summer, while I was cataloging, I remember him tapping his head and the left side of his chest, explaining, “It’s all in here now. Not so many calculations, lots more educated guesses. I had no faith in my work when I was younger. Now I do.” I started at #14 and hit pay dirt at #19, opening to a page with a rough sketch of Sacré-Coeur and the statue of Joan.
My father’s notebooks weren’t diaries. He didn’t write down his feelings or what he was wearing, like a teenaged girl. I didn’t find anything along the lines of Why doesn’t Suzi like me more than Peter? There were so many cute girls at the party!
They were a collection of images, numbers, maps, lists, pertinent words and phrases, and other small inspirational quotes. But nothing that confirmed what my mother had told me.
Still, having just been in Paris, seeing his hand-drawn renderings of the famous Frémiet statue or the alcove at Notre-Dame was poignant. I found the page that Beckman had included in the last clue, the drawing of my mother at Impasse Ronsin. I took it all in, finding new meaning in his notes that read faith before reason; blood red, diamond white; glowing from within; alone with her God; young, young, young; strength, strength, strength. I am not afraid. I paged slowly through notebook #19 and opened notebook #20. A few newspaper clippings fell out, yellow and brittle, along with an envelope. When I flipped the envelope over, I found that it was addressed to Suzannah, but not in my father’s handwriting.
I opened it right away. A magazine article and a letter to my mother from Beckman. I read the letter first:
25 December 2003