What We Leave Behind (17 page)

When the waiting turned into an hour, I got up from the couch and scanned my surroundings, searching the walls for a sign of some kind. I’d been in enough entertainment offices by now to know what I’d find; the indulgent office with expensive art by some up-and-coming contemporary artist, or the self-promoting offices with giant life-size framed posters of their films or their artists, some housed with small-screen televisions of various videos or films that made them legendary. This office was different. There were no accolades garnering the walls, no self-serving tactics to lure in clientele, and no minimalist artistry, just tasteful, warm touches. Returning to the couch, I closed my eyes, and rested my head against the pillows.

“You must be Jessie Parker.”

The voice came out of nowhere. I hadn’t even heard approaching footsteps, but the words caused me to jump, seeking out the person behind the deep, penetrating voice.

“I’m Marty Tauber,” he said, holding his beautiful hand out to me.

“Mr. Tauber,” I repeated.

“Marty is fine,” he said, his enormous hand engulfing mine in one hurried grasp.

“Call me Jessica,” I responded, freeing myself from childhood.

“Jessica.”

I couldn’t believe I was shaking hands with Marty Tauber. He was, after all, one of the most famous producers in town and one of the top executives at SixthSense.

“I’d heard you were beautiful, and tall!”

I felt the blush crawl across my face, feverishly emerging from the place it had laid dormant for years. The pictures I had seen in the trades hadn’t done him justice. Sure, he was good-looking, but there was a realness about him that the camera didn’t capture, this energy that surrounded him and bounced off the walls. He wasn’t much taller than I was, but his charisma added inches to his height. He was in the category of men who could have the leading role in a film, become the next big star, the country’s sexiest sex symbol. When he walked into a room, people stopped talking and not so much because of his looks, but because of the way he carried himself, this elusive charm. I knew this because he had barely spoken, and I was riveted.

“No wonder my instructions were to leave you alone until you were of age,” he said while appraising me.

“Do we have a mutual acquaintance?” I asked.

“I think we do,” he said. “Does the name Adam Levy mean anything to you?”

Hearing Adam’s name caught me off guard, and I wouldn’t let the surprise unhinge me. “You knew him?”

“Everybody knew Adam, and I had the pleasure of working on different projects with HiTide for years. Adam’s label always had the best repertoire in the business, still does, notwithstanding the fact that he was a close friend, a mentor, so to speak, and one of the few genuine guys in the business.”

“Yes,” I said sadly. “He was.”

“Come, follow me,” he instructed, waving me toward a back hallway and into a private elevator. His hand rested on my shoulder, and I smiled at him as we rode in silence.  My composure had all but escaped me with the mention of Adam Levy.

We reached the top of the building, and I followed him down a narrow corridor through two large doors that opened to a sprawling office. “Have a seat,” he began, as he found his way behind a massive mahogany desk, and I took mine on the espresso, suede chair across from him. A hoarse voice came over the intercom; I studied his features as he took the call. Marty Tauber was easy on the eyes with salt and pepper gray hair, steel blue eyes, and a strong, tanned face. I guessed him to be younger than Adam Levy had been. He was dressed in jeans and a white Lacoste, and the casualness of his clothes helped me to relax.

“I don’t want any interruptions for the next half hour, Marla,” he said to the intercom as he hung up the phone. Then he turned to me. “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, so let’s get to it. I’ve always admired Adam. He was a friend and his love for this industry matched my own. I started in music, hugely obsessed with it, and if not for my comparable interest in film, I would have taken him up on his several lucrative offers to work alongside him at HiTide, but I didn’t want to pigeonhole myself at one record label when I could work with all the labels and their music. So, having kindly rejected his offers and pleas to come onboard, we started SixthSense, Jeff Walker and I, and well, you know, the rest is history.”

Jeff Walker was only one of the most talked about directors in town. Every movie he touched translated into millions of dollars in box office revenue worldwide. The casual way Marty spoke of him, like he was a household name, was almost as jarring as hearing Adam Levy’s name again after all these years.

“Adam thought very highly of you. He made that clear the last time we spoke.”

“I never saw you at the hospital.”

“That’s because the old man wouldn’t let me or any of his friends visit. However, we spoke on the phone often, and, like I said, he saw something in you, potential.” He held up the cassette tapes I’d given Adam for his birthday, the ones with my favorite songs, the ones I’d emptied myself onto.

“You could sell these compilations in today’s market. You picked an excellent blend of music. Maybe you weren’t aware of it at the time, but he was. He knew you had talent.”

Marty Tauber smiled, the corners of his lips turning upward. “Adam’s lawyer drafted this document that I was to adhere to upon his death.”

I eyed the suspicious piece of paper he held in his hands.

“In an unobtrusive manner, I was to keep close tabs on you, follow your education, watch behind the scenes as your career path unfolded. He’d always assumed you’d go into film and/or music, and as I witnessed, he was correct.”

I fumbled in my seat at the idea of being followed, my life being scrutinized beneath a magnifying glass. I said, “He always told me to do what I loved.”

“It’s a good thing you did, because that’s where I come in. Your dossier is quite impressive. Stellar reports from former employers, exceptional recommendations from your professors. What struck me the most were the two short films you worked on. They were decent stories, although similar in theme and tone. I was able to get my hands on copies without the music so I could watch your individual work, and then I watched with your music. I thought your music selections were perfect.”

I took my time exhaling so as not to scare him with the tumult of anxiety I’d been holding in.

“I especially liked the lovemaking scene in
Butterfly
. All that pent-up sexual energy. The choice to shoot in black and white, showing the lovers’ hands and obscure angles of their faces and bodies was a brilliant touch. It was tender and simple, naked, both literally and figuratively, and when I watched with the music, that Pavarotti song really brought it all together, with the man whispering the words in her ear, softly, erotically. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. That’s how all lovemaking should be.”

They were actors and actresses in a tale I’d created, but hearing Marty talk about it, I was abashed and naked to his smiling blue eyes. He had described my most intimate moment, took a peek into my soul, and perhaps even at my body. “They say,” he began again, “we create in art what is closest to us, what we think we know best. Is that true about you?”

I averted my eyes, avoiding the question that ignited forbidden thoughts.

“Nonetheless,” he said, “you’ve accomplished impressive work, and that’s what we’re looking for—someone with your vision, someone who has her finger on the musical pulse, someone who can leave the audience captivated. 

“What I’m offering you is an integral role at SixthSense.”  His long, smooth fingers clasped together and rested on the desk in front of him. “Music supervisor. You’ll work directly with the executive in charge of music, overseeing all aspects of music for our films and their soundtracks.”

I reflected over the pile of resumes I’d just finished printing at Kinko’s, the unreturned phone calls, the stack of classifieds that had accumulated over the weeks, ripe with job possibilities, and the fact that Adam Levy saw something in me; with a souvenir from the past, doors were opening.

“Are you serious?” Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I recognized how adolescent they sounded. Things were moving quickly, so quickly one had to be guarded, cautious, and I still had my master’s degree to think about, which paled compared to the opportunity that Marty was presenting.

“If you’re going to work here, there are two things you’ll need to know about me. One,” he said, holding up a finger, “I never lie. Two,” this time two beautifully manicured fingers, “I never go back on my word. I gave Adam my word, and I’m making good on it. There’s one stipulation, though. I need you to start right away because we’re shooting in Barcelona next week, and I want you to read the script before we leave. This could be the biggest film of all of our careers.”

There was a mirror to my right I hadn’t seen when I walked in. My likeness was reflected in it—the tailored suit, the self-assured smile. Marty Tauber dwarfed me in expertise, and for one split second, his expectations of me caused my eyes to question myself.

“What do you say? Can I welcome you to our team?”

I wanted to say let me think about this one, uh, yes, but I decided against mindless humor. “Thank you, Mr. Tauber. This is an incredible opportunity, one that I’m very grateful for. I’d be honored to join your team.”

“Please, I told you, call me Marty.”

“Marty,” I repeated, already a good pupil.

“You’re going to love your immediate boss, everybody does. He started out just like you. He’s got passion, a hell of a lot of experience, and he’ll teach you everything you need to know: conceptualization, clearance, negotiations, editing, licensing, distribution.”

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

He smiled, a devilish grin mixed with amusement.

“You already have.” And then he gave me that big, huge hand again, and I gave him mine. Of course he’d be my boss. He had commanded the room, hadn’t he?

“Would you like to join me for lunch?” he asked.

It would have been terribly rude had I said no.

“Let’s go,” he said, “I’m starving.”

A car was waiting for us on the street when we exited the building. Marty told the driver, “The Ivy at the Shore,” and when we passed by my street on the way out west, I thought about how radically my life had changed since I left there this morning.

We took our seats at a table in the back of the restaurant, where at least half a dozen people stopped by to acknowledge one of its own. Most of them were curious. This was an envious town, a one-upmanship kind of business. Could I possibly be the next big star of one of his blockbuster movies, or, heaven forbid, his latest conquest? He introduced me to some of his friends, mindful of his words, not giving away too much. He seemed to know what they were thinking, and he played along with their carefully scripted inquiries, hiding their objectives beneath a bevy of baloney.

I said, “I can see why Adam Levy chose you as his protégé.”

“The same can be said about you. You have vision Jessica. I’ve seen it. We’re a lot more alike than you think. This business doesn’t just occupy our lives, it lives in our bones.”

“Adam and I talked about that, and here you are professing the very same thing. He warned me to be careful. He told me movies and music can become so much a part of your life, you don’t know when the film or song ends and the real world begins.”

“It’s a dangerous place to live,” he agreed. “You need to be careful about losing yourself.”

“But isn’t that what makes a great song, a great film?” I asked. “That passion, that marriage between the melody and the story?”

“Yes, to some degree. Filmmaking is a
tremendous
undertaking, from conception to premiere; all the parts are critical, and as long as every person I employ is as ardent and industrious with their craft as we are, the sum will be a stellar representation of its parts.”

His mind moved me, my interest growing.

We talked about Marty’s early days in the industry and how he moved from music to film in a rapid series of successes. He explained how the industry was different back then; budgets and boobs were inflated, and so were expense accounts. There was an
anything goes
attitude, and it extended way beyond business. “Those were the rated R years.”

We discussed music, our likes and dislikes, trends, and the important role of the music supervisor. “The position has changed, now spanning from pre-production through shooting and post-production.” And I asked the questions I’d always wanted to ask a producer: What was the most he was willing to pay for the licensing of a song? Is music another character in a movie? How much of the song influences the scene, or vice versa?  I asked because it would be difficult for me to back down on a song that I thought completed a scene. His answers were thought-provoking and honest, and beneath the star-like existence, I saw something else. The labels the media had pinned on him were likely accurate: bad boy, womanizer, hot-tempered, but the Marty Tauber sitting across from me was so much more. Here was a man who was thoughtful, passionate, and comfortable in his skin.

We didn’t stop talking until two plates of pasta landed in front of us.

“I hope you like it,” he said.

“It smells delicious.”

“Try it,” he answered, eyeing me while I twirled the noodles on the spoon.

Uneasiness crept up on me, the kind you get when someone watches you closely. I lifted the fork to my lips and took a delicate bite. Marty wasn’t eating. He was enjoying himself too much. “Am I embarrassing you?” he asked.

“It’s a bit unsettling.”

“Then you may want to put the fork down.”

After taking a sip of his water, he began. “I haven’t enjoyed a lunch like this in a long time. You’ve been a pleasure to talk with.” This was what the trades meant by charming womanizer, and it didn’t stop me from being flattered. I liked Marty. It was easy to be taken in by his compliments, but I was sensible enough to stay on course.

“You did most of the talking,” I laughed.

“No, you actually said a lot, and your questions tell me you’re not afraid to use your brain. You have a refreshing outlook. It’s a pleasure to be around someone like you. Are you okay?” he asked.