Now and Forever

  Now and Forever

  Somewhere a Band Is Playing & Leviathan 99

  by

  Ray Bradbury

  Somewhere

  Some stories—be they short stories, novellas, or novels—you may realize, are written as a result of a single, immediate, clear impulse. Others ricochet off various events over a lifetime and come together much later to make a whole.

  When I was six years old my father, who had an urge to travel, took our family by train to Tucson, Arizona, for a year, where we lived in a burgeoning environment; for me, it was exhilarating. The town was very small and it was still growing. There’s nothing more exciting than to be part of the evolution of a place. I felt a sense of freedom there and I made many wonderful friends.

  A year later, we moved back to Waukegan, Illinois, where I had been born and spent the first years of my life. But we returned to Tucson when I was twelve, and this time I experienced an even greater sense of exhilaration because we lived out on the edge of town and I walked to school every day, through the desert, past all the fantastic varieties of cacti, encountering lizards, spiders and, on occasion, snakes, on my way to seventh grade; that was the year I began to write.

  Then, much later, when I lived in Ireland for almost a year, writing the screenplay of Moby Dick for John Huston, I encountered the works of Stephen Leacock, the Canadian humorist. Among them was a charming little book titled Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town.

  I was so taken with the book that I tried to get MGM to make a motion picture of it. I typed up a few preliminary pages to show the studio how I envisioned the book as a film. When MGM’s interest failed, I was left with the beginning of a screenplay that had the feeling of a small town. But at the same time I couldn’t help but remember the Tucson I had known and loved when I was six and when I was twelve, and began to write my own screenplay and short story about a town somewhere in the desert.

  During those same years I kept encountering Katharine Hepburn, either in person or on the screen, and I was terribly attracted by the fact that she remained so youthful in appearance through the years.

  Sometime in 1956, when she was in her late forties, she made the film Summertime. This caused me somehow to put her at the center of a story for which I had no title yet, but Somewhere a Band Is Playing was obviously evolving.

  Some thirty years ago I saw a film called The Wind and the Lion, starring Sean Connery and with a fabulous score by Jerry Goldsmith. I was so taken with the score that I sat down, played it, and wrote a long poem based on the enchanting music.

  This became another element of Somewhere a Band Is Playing as I progressed through the beginnings of a story which I had not yet fully comprehended, but it seemed as if finally all the elements were coming together: the year I spent in Tucson, age six, the year I spent there when I was twelve, the various encounters with Katharine Hepburn, including her magical appearance in Summertime, and my long poem based on the score of The Wind and the Lion. All of these ran together and inspired me to begin a long prologue to the novella that ultimately followed.

  Today, looking back, I realize how fortunate I am to have collected such elements, to have held them ready, and then put them together to make this final product, Somewhere a Band Is Playing. I have been fortunate to have many “helpers” along the way. One of those, in the case of this story, is my dear friend Anne Hardin, who has offered me strong encouragement over the past few years to see this novella published. For that she shares in the dedication of this work.

  Of course, I had hoped to finish the novella, over the years, in order to have it ready in time for Katharine Hepburn, no matter how old she got, to play the lead in a theater or film adaptation. Katie waited patiently, but the years passed, she became tired, and finally left this world. I cannot help but feel she deserves the dedication I have placed on this story.

  Somewhere a Band is Playing

  for Anne Hardin and Katharine Hepburn,

  with love

  CHAPTER 1

  There was a desert prairie filled with wind and sun and sagebrush and a silence that grew sweetly up in wildflowers. There was a rail track laid across this silence and now the rail track shuddered.

  Soon a dark train charged out of the east with fire and steam and thundered through the station. On its way it slowed at a platform littered with confetti, the tatters of ancient tickets punched by transient conductors.

  The locomotive slowed just enough for one piece of luggage to catapult out, and a young man in a summer dishrag suit to leap after and land running as the train, with a roar, charged on as if the station did not exist, nor the luggage, nor its owner who now stopped his jolting run to stare around as the dust settled around him and, in the distance, the dim outlines of small houses were revealed.

  “Damn,” he whispered. “There is something here, after all.”

  More dust blew away, revealing more roofs, spires, and trees.

  “Why?” he whispered. “Why did I come here?”

  He answered himself even more quietly, “Because.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Because.

  In his half-sleep last night he had felt something writing on the insides of his eyelids.

  Without opening his eyes he read the words as they scrolled:

  Somewhere a band is playing,

  Playing the strangest tunes,

  Of sunflower seeds and sailors

  Who tide with the strangest moons.

  Somewhere a drummer simmers

  And trembles with times forlorn,

  Remembering days of summer

  In futures yet unborn.

  “Hold on,” he heard himself say.

  He opened his eyes and the writing stopped.

  He half-raised his head from the pillow and then, thinking better of it, lay back down.

  With his eyes closed the writing began again on the inside of his lids.

  Futures so far they are ancient

  And filled with Egyptian dust,

  That smell of the tomb and the lilac,

  And seed that is spent from lust,

  And peach that is hung on a tree branch

  Far out in the sky from one’s reach,

  There mummies as lovely as lobsters

  Remember old futures and teach.

  For a moment he felt his eyes tremble and shut tight, as if to change the lines or make them fade.

  Then, as he watched in the darkness, they formed again in the inner twilight of his head, and the words were these:

  And children sit by on the stone floor

  And draw out their lives in the sands,

  Remembering deaths that won’t happen

  In futures unseen in far lands.

  Somewhere a band is playing

  Where the moon never sets in the sky

  And nobody sleeps in the summer

  And nobody puts down to die;

  And Time then just goes on forever

  And hearts then continue to beat

  To the sound of the old moon-drum drumming

  And the glide of Eternity’s feet;

  “Too much,” he heard himself whisper. “Too much. I can’t. Is this the way poems happen? And where does it come from? Is it done?” he wondered.

  And not sure, he put his head back down and closed his eyes and there were these words:

  Somewhere the old people wander

  And linger themselves into noon

  And sleep in the wheat fields yonder

  To rise as fresh children with moon.

  Somewhere the children, old, maunder

  And know what it is to be dead

  And turn in their weeping to ponder

  Oblivious filed ’neath their bed.

  And sit at the long dining table


  Where Life makes a banquet of flesh,

  Where dis-able makes itself able

  And spoiled puts on new masks of fresh.

  Somewhere a band is playing

  Oh listen, oh listen, that tune!

  If you learn it you’ll dance on forever

  In June…

  And yet June…

  And more…June…

  And Death will be dumb and not clever

  And Death will lie silent forever

  In June and June and more June.

  The darkness now was complete. The twilight was quiet.

  He opened his eyes fully and lay staring at the ceiling in disbelief. He turned in the bed and picked up a picture postcard lying on the nightstand, and stared at the image.

  At last he said, half aloud, “Am I happy?”

  And responded to himself, “I am not happy.”

  Very slowly he got out of bed, dressed, went downstairs, walked to the train station, bought a ticket and took the first train heading west.

  CHAPTER 3

  Because.

  Well, now, he thought, as he peered down the tracks. This place isn’t on the map. But when the train slowed, I jumped, because…

  He turned and saw a wind-battered sign over the flimsy station that seemed about to sink under tides of sand: SUMMERTON, ARIZONA.

  “Yes, sir,” said a voice.

  The traveler dropped his gaze to find a man of some middle years with fair hair and clear eyes seated on the porch of the ramshackle station, leaning back in shadow. An assortment of hats hung above him, which read: TICKET SELLER, BAGGAGE MASTER, SWITCHMAN, NIGHT WATCHMAN, TAXI. Upon his head was a cap with the word STATIONMASTER stitched on its bill in bright red thread.

  “What’ll it be,” the middle-aged man said, looking at the stranger steadily. “A ticket on the next train? Or a taxi two blocks over to the Egyptian View Arms?”

  “God, I don’t know.” The younger man wiped his brow and blinked in all directions. “I just got here. Jumped off. Don’t know why.”

  “Don’t argue with impulse,” said the stationmaster. “With luck you miss the frying pan and hit a nice cool lake on a hot day. So, what’ll it be?”

  The older man waited.

  “Taxi, two blocks, to the Egyptian View Arms,” said the young man, quickly. “Yes!”

  “Fine, given the fact that there are no Egyptians to view, nor a Nile Delta. And Cairo, Illinois, is a thousand miles east. But I suppose we’ve got plenty of arms.”

  The old man rose, pulled the STATIONMASTER cap from his head, and replaced it with the TAXI cap. He bent to take the small suitcase when the young man said, “You’re not just going to leave—?”

  “The station? It’ll mind itself. The tracks aren’t going nowhere, there’s nothing to be purloined within, and it’ll be some few days before another train takes us by surprise. Come on.” He hoisted the bag and shuffled out of the gloom and around the corner.

  Behind the station was no taxi. Instead, a rather handsome large white horse stood, patiently waiting. And behind the horse was a small upright wagon with the words KELLY’S BAKERY, Fresh Bread, painted on its side.

  The taxi driver beckoned and the young man climbed into the wagon and settled himself in the warm shadow. The stranger inhaled.

  “Ain’t that a rare fine smell?” said the taxi driver. “Just delivered five dozen loaves!”

  “That,” said the young man, “is the perfume of Eden on the first morn.”

  The older man raised his eyebrows. “Well, now,” he wondered, “what’s a newspaper writer with aspirations to be a novelist doing in Summerton, Arizona?”

  “Because,” said the young man.

  “Because?” said the older man. “That’s one of the finest reasons in the world. Leaves lots of room for decisions.” He climbed up onto the driver’s seat, looked with gentle eyes at the waiting horse and made a soft clicking noise with his tongue and said, “Claude.”

  And the horse, hearing his name, carried them away into Summerton, Arizona.

  CHAPTER 4

  The air was hot as the bakery wagon moved and then, as they reached the shadows of trees, the air began to cool.

  The young man leaned forward.

  “How did you guess?”

  “What?” said the driver.

  “That I’m a writer,” said the young man.

  The taxi driver glanced at the passing trees and nodded.

  “Your tongue improves your words on their way out. Keep talking.”

  “I’ve heard rumors about Summerton.”

  “Lots of folks hear, few arrive.”

  “I heard your town’s another time and place, vanishing maybe. Surviving, I hope.”

  “Let me see your good eye,” said the driver.

  The reporter turned and looked straight on at him.

  The driver nodded again.

  “Nope, not yet jaundiced. I think you see what you look at, tell what you feel. Welcome. Name’s Culpepper. Elias.”

  “Mr. Culpepper.” The young man touched the older man’s shoulder. “James Cardiff.”

  “Lord,” said Culpepper. “Aren’t we a pair? Culpepper and Cardiff. Could be genteel lawyers, architects, printers. Names like that don’t come in tandems. Culpepper and, now, Cardiff.”

  And Claude the horse trotted a little more quickly through the shadows of trees.

  The horse rambled through town, Elias Culpepper pointing right and left, chatting up a storm.

  “There’s the envelope factory. All our mail starts there. There’s the steam works, once made steam, I forget what for. And right now, passing Culpepper Summerton News. If there’s news once a month, we print it! Four pages in large, easy-to-read type. So you see, you and I are, in a way, in the same business. You don’t, of course, also rein horses and punch rail tickets.”

  “I most certainly don’t,” said James Cardiff, and they both laughed quietly.

  “And,” said Elias Culpepper, as Claude rounded a curve into a lane where elms and oaks and maples fused the center and wove the sky in green and blue colors, a fine thatchwork above and below, “this is New Sunrise Way. Best families live here. That’s the Ribtrees’, there’s the Townways’. And—”

  “My God,” said James Cardiff. “Those front lawns. Look, Mr. Culpepper!”

  And they drove by fence after fence, where crowds of sunflowers lifted huge round clock faces to time the sun, to open with the dawn and close with the dusk, a hundred in this patch under an elm, two hundred in the next yard, and five hundred beyond.

  Every curb was lined with the tall green stalks ending in vast dark faces and yellow fringes.

  “It’s like a crowd watching a parade,” said James Cardiff.

  “Come to think,” said Elias Culpepper.

  He gave a genteel wave of his hand.

  “Now, Mr. Cardiff. You’re the first reporter’s visited in years. Nothing’s happened here since 1903, the year of the Small Flood. Or 1902, if you want the Big One. Mr. Cardiff, what would a reporter be wanting with a town like this where nothing happens by the hour?”

  “Something might,” said Cardiff, uneasily.

  He raised his gaze and looked at the town all around. You’re here, he thought, but maybe you won’t be. I know, but won’t tell. It’s a terrible truth that may wipe you away. My mind is open, but my mouth is shut. The future is uncertain and unsure.

  Mr. Culpepper pulled a stick of spearmint gum from his shirt pocket, peeled its wrapper, popped it in his mouth, and chewed.

  “You know something I don’t know, Mr. Cardiff?”

  “Maybe,” said Cardiff, “you know things about Summerton you haven’t told me.”

  “Then I hope we both fess up soon.”

  And with that, Elias Culpepper reined Claude gently into the graveled driveway of the sunflower yard of a private home with a sign above the porch: EGYPTIAN VIEW ARMS. BOARDING.

  And he had not lied.

  No Nile River was in sight.
r />   CHAPTER 5

  At which moment an old-fashioned ice wagon with a full dark cavern mouth of frost entered the yard, led by a horse in dire need of his Antarctic cargo. Cardiff could taste the ice, from thirty summers long gone.

  “Just in time,” said the iceman. “Hot day. Go grab.” He nodded toward the rear of his wagon.

  Cardiff, on pure instinct, jumped down from the bread wagon and went straight to the back of the ice wagon, and felt his ten-year-old hand reach in and grab a sharp icicle. He stepped back and rubbed it on his brow. His other hand instinctively took a handkerchief from his pocket to wrap the ice. Sucking it, he moved away.

  “How’s it taste?” he heard Culpepper say.

  Cardiff gave the ice another lick.

  “Linen.”

  Only then did he glance back at the street.

  It was such a street as could not be believed. There was not a roof on any house that had not been freshly tarred and lathed or tiled. Not a porch swing that did not hang straight. Not a window that did not shine like a mirrored shield in Valhalla halls, all gold at sunrise and sunset, all clear running brookstream at noon. Not a bay window that did not display books leaning against others’ quiet wits on inner library shelves. Not a rain funnel spout without its rain barrel gathering the seasons. Not a backyard that was not, this day, filled with carpets being flailed so that time dusted on the wind and old patterns sprung forth to rococo new. Not a kitchen that did not send forth promises of hunger placated and easy evenings of contemplation on victuals contained just south-southwest of the soul.

  All, all perfect, all painted, all fresh, all new, all beautiful, a perfect town in a perfect blend of silence and unseen hustle and flurry.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” said Elias Culpepper.

  Cardiff shook his head, his eyes shut, because he had seen nothing, but imagined much.

  “I can’t tell you,” said Cardiff, in a whisper.

  “Try,” said Elias Culpepper.

  Cardiff shook his head again, nearly suffering with inexplicable happiness.