He couldn’t look into Clara’s eyes for days after that. And then he got over it. And slept with Julia again. And a few more times, inching himself closer to the Courtyard deal each time. He carried on the affair until the Courtyard deal was awarded to Nigel Penn.

Silvio hated himself so much after the announcement was made that he fled down to New Orleans for a week. He drank himself into the mouth of the grave. It took Clara a long time to forgive him for that stunt. And she didn’t even know about Julia Cummings.

Dylan gazed impassively on an entire world that was condemned, from New Orleans, the home of the blues, to Jerusalem, the site of the apocalypse. And every blues singer who had ever condemned the world’s heartless ways was summoned to witness the desolation.

As the song progressed, it seemed as if Dylan were becoming possessed by the ghosts of all those bluesmen. He was just the vessel for invisible multitudes with their choleric chords and righteous riffs. Every time his fingers stabbed the piano keys, another blues singer was summoned.

In celebrating the spirit of those powerful bluesmen, Dylan had actually become one of their number. He could not sing the blues like McTell could, but no one else could sing the blues like Dylan could either. A few years later, Dylan would try to shrug off this almost perfect performance, telling an interviewer that he didn’t think he’d recorded the song right. The howling ghosts of the bluesmen would have disagreed with him.

Silvio smiled as the final chords disappeared. The Columbia studio faded back into the bedroom.

He was looking forward to getting a chance to talk to Lucy. As he got to know her better, as he grew gradually fonder of her company, he felt like he was shovelling a bit more dirt into the graves of his own past. Burying the ghost of Clara, Julia and Nigel.

And burning the ghostly plantations hidden in New York.

Suddenly I turned around
And she was standin’ there,
With silver bracelets on her wrists
And flowers in her hair.
                           "Shelter From The Storm" Bob Dylan

Silvio sat in Lucy’s kitchen, slowly pouring himself a glass a wine. In the sitting room, the Beatles’ “Day Tripper” played softly.

Silvio looked up when he heard someone coming into the kitchen.

Lucy was dressed in a dark blue suit and a white blouse. Silvio couldn’t decide whether it was the outfit or Lucy’s short haircut that made her look so slim and lively this evening.

“You look a bit lost,” Lucy smiled, “sitting in here on you own.”

“I’m fine, Lucy,” Silvio laughed. “I’m just helping myself to some wine. Anyway, you know what I’m like. I’d be happy to sit in a corner and not say a word all night. Though that wouldn’t be sociable, would it?”

“God, Silvio, you making me feel like I’m intruding on your space,” said Lucy, in mock anger. “Would you prefer it if I left you alone?”

“Not at all.” Silvio sipped some wine. “When you think about it, though, we all spend an awful lot of time talking bullshit. That was one thing I hated about New York. Everybody had to be talking all the time. They were afraid that if they shut up for just one second, they’d disappear, the silence would devour them.”

“We do all tend to babble a lot.” Lucy poured a glass of wine, smiling gently. “You would get tired at times listening to the rubbish people go on about.”

“Not everyone is like that, though.” Silvio gazed into his wine, searching for the right words. “Remember when we were in the pub last Monday night? We sat in silence a lot of the time and we didn’t feel embarrassed.”

“But what must people have thought of us? Two people apparently brooding over their drinks in silence. They must have thought we were two corpses looking for a funeral.”

Lucy’s  laugh echoed in the kitchen.

Silvio liked the sound. It was like hearing a fond song from childhood. It reminded him that New York hadn’t been all shadows.

He winced as Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” began playing.

“Oh, come on,” Lucy laughed. “I’ll have no musical snobbery at my party. I happen to think that Neil is wonderful. At least he can sing, unlike that awful Dylan thing you’re so taken with.”

“There’s a funny story about Dylan and Diamond.” Silvio could picture Dylan singing “Forever Young” on stage in San Francisco at The Last Waltz, looking mythic and ridiculous. “They were both playing at a farewell concert for The Band. Diamond gave some typically watery performance of some useless song. However, he thought he was hot shit. He came off stage and told Dylan he’d have a hard time topping that performance. Dylan suggested that all he’d have to do was go out on the stage and fall asleep.”

“Why? Was he tired?” A mischievous grin spread across Lucy’s face. “I don’t suppose anyone would have noticed the difference if he was asleep on the stage.”

Silvio found it hard to be offended at Lucy’s joke. He would have murdered Charlie if he made a joke like that.

Also, Silvio was uncomfortably aware that part of Dylan’s 1978 stage act was inspired by Neil Diamond’s shows. Dylan had even attended one of Diamond’s concerts in Las Vegas, carefully studying the performance. It was always disconcerting when your heroes lapsed into bad taste.

Then again, everyone has a secret fondness for some hopeless case or other. Silvio made sure that no one knew about his secret Phil Collins CD collection.

“Anyway, Silvio,” said Lucy, glancing over at the couch were Charlie and Bill were talking. “I’d better mingle, as they say. I’d apologise for leaving you on your own, but I know damn well you prefer it that way.”

Lucy went back into the sitting room, where Paul Simon was urging everyone to listen to the sound of silence.

Silvio hadn’t been entirely honest with Lucy.

He found conversational silences just as awkward as everyone else did. Only this afternoon, he had been queuing in the shop for his newspapers. A talkative young woman in front of him started chatting to him. She was relentlessly complaining about the hot weather, as if it had a personal vendetta against her. Silvio had nodded and smiled sympathetically as she rambled on. Then suddenly, she stopped talking and looked at him expectantly, awaiting his deep insights into the matter.

Silvio could have just smiled. Or sighed hopelessly at the opaque intricacies of the weather situation. But he felt obliged to say something.

The woman continued to stare at him, eyebrows raised. Silvio felt as if the TV cameras from ten international networks were on him. The entire world tuning in live, watching him, waiting for some memorable quote.

“Well,” he eventually stammered, “I suppose... er... there’s... um... not a lot we can... eh... really do about it... The weather, I mean... ah... I guess we’re... well... you know... I suppose... stuck with it...”

The woman had just poured out her heart about her weather-related emotional trauma and all Silvio could do was state the obvious to her. She glared at him as if he were the most unfriendly old man she’d ever met. She turned away from him in disgust.

Silvio considered apologising to her, but he knew he’d only mess it up. He just stood there in mortified silence, feeling the eyes of the world pierce into him.

That was why he was not eager to jump blithely into some facile conversations with his neighbours. He was afraid that he’d say something stupid to someone and convince everyone that he really was as crazy as they seemed to think he was. It was better to wait in silence until he got comfortable.

Meanwhile, in the sitting room, Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want To Be With You” was playing on the stereo.

Silvio could hear Lucy laughing at something Bill had just said. Lucy had an infectious laugh that tended to explode in your face. It wasn’t like Clara’s laugh at all, Silvio thought. Clara’s laugh was always more of a gentle giggle that creased up her face and made her eyes water. It didn’t blow your ears off, but instead crawled into your ears like a caterpillar and tickled your brain. Especially if you were in bed with her and the room was dark.

Some nights in Ellington House, Silvio would lie awake in bed, remembering Clara’s giggle, and wait to feel that tickle. He knew he never would. It was always just a memory, never an experience relived.

Silvio was considering slipping away from the party when he saw Kathleen approaching. Silently cursing her timing, he poured another glass of wine.

“Hiya, Silvio, are you having a good time?” Kathleen’s askew grin indicated that the edges of sobriety were beginning to blur. “What are you sitting here in the kitchen on your own for?”

Kathleen sat on a chair beside Silvio. She was wearing black jeans and a light green top. Kathleen was thirty-two years old, with short blonde hair and full figure, but some days she looked older. This was one of those days.

“Sometimes, I just like to sit back and observe things,” Silvio smiled. “You can enjoy things as much by just observing.”

“You wouldn’t want to spend too much time watching Bill!” Kathleen grabbed a sandwich and looked around the room. “Bastard would put years on you just looking at him, the mood he’s in tonight. He looks like he’s been chewing a lemon all evening. Some old slapper must have told him to shove it where the sun ain’t gonna shine anymore. He’ll probably have tennis elbow in the morning, because I don’t want him coming near me with that sour face on him.”

“Tennis elbow?”

“Wanker’s cramp. His hand is the only person who doesn’t tell him to fuck off when he’s feeling randy. It’s his best friend in the world. He carries a photo of it in his wallet.”

“I see.” Silvio grimaced involuntarily. He was in no mood for Kathleen’s crudity. “Okay.”

“Jesus, I’m glad I ate before coming here,” Kathleen said, through a mouthful of sandwich. “These miserable little things wouldn’t fill a baby ant.”

“I thought they were quite nice, actually.”

“Well, we all know what your taste is like, Silvio. Anyone who can spend years listening to that crotchety old dreary shite is bound to have impaired senses.”

“Very funny,” said Silvio, sourly.

“His voice always reminds me of a frog with laryngitis.” Kathleen was obviously warming to her theme. “I was going out with a guy a few years ago, before I hooked up with that wreckage on the couch over there. He was one of these intense, silent, politically active pains in the arse. All black clothes, moody cigarettes and infestations of goatees.”

“Sounds like a charming young man.” No wonder he dressed in black, going out with you. “How come you’re no longer with him?”

“He was mad into Dylan also.” Kathleen made this sound like the worst infection imaginable. “He took me to one his concerts in The Point a few years ago. Christ, he really knew how to show a girl a good time!”

“Dare I ask how you enjoyed the concert?”

“What the hell was there to enjoy?” Kathleen shook her head at the memory. “Dylan spent the entire night squawking some rap song in Norwegian. He sounded like Yogi Bear’s asthmatic uncle. Christ, it was like listening to a crocodile trying to recite the Gettysburg Address.”

“And did your… friend enjoy the show?”

“He spent the whole show staring intently at the stage, his ears quivering with excitement. He found it spiritually moving on a social and political level, or some such bullshit. Told me that Dylan was still a profound protest singer.”

“I suppose it depends on your definition of protest. These terms can be…”

“I can tell you, there was plenty of protesting in the audience. Along the lines of ‘Shut up and give us our fucking money back!’ Of course, the goatee was in heaven. This was the best evening of his life. Which gives you an idea how sad that bastard’s life was!”

Phil Collin’s “In The Air Tonight” shimmered across the room.

“There’s another whining bastard,” Kathleen groaned. “Mr ‘I’ve got millions in the bank and still can’t get my hole’. But at least he can sing, sort of.”

“I won’t argue with you on that.” Silvio had no intention of telling Kathleen about his secret CD collection. “Your problem, Kathleen, is that you just don’t understand what Dylan’s trying to do with his voice. You see…”

“For God’s sake, I don’t think Dylan understands what he’s trying to do with his voice. And as for his guitar playing! I’ve never seen anyone lay into the strings with such reckless abandon.”

“Every performer is looking for the lost sacred chord,” Silvio smiled. “The chord that will thrill…”

“Jesus, I’d be happy if he’d just master a few of the basic ones. He plays the guitar with all the skill that a fish rides a bicycle.”

“Thanks for that completely meaningless analysis.” Silvio was finding the conversation hard going, so he poured another glass of wine. “You should become a music journalist.”

“Speaking of which, I saw a photograph of the lovely Mr Dylan in Hidden Beats a few months ago.” Kathleen shuddered. “Has someone recently pulled him inside out? And he appeared to have a centipede crawling across his face.”

“That’s his moustache. It’s part of his Vincent Price look.”

“God, I don’t think even the Prince of the Undead could look as scary as he does.”

“Oh, what a big moustache you have.”

“All the better to frighten you with, my dear,” replied the wolfman.

Something in the moonlight definitely still hounds him.

“It suits him,” Silvio said. “I think he looks like a riverboat gambler.”

“I think he looks like he’s out on day release from the asylum.” 

“I can see there’s just no talking to you,” Silvio sighed. “May as well save my breath.”

“God Almighty, you’re as much fun as Bill tonight, Silvio.” Kathleen assaulted another sandwich. “I’m only joking with you. Can’t you have a little fun?”

Silvio suddenly realised why he didn’t like Kathleen. The party setting obviously caused something to click in his brain. And the almost flirtatious way she told him to have a little fun.

“You remember how to have fun, don’t you?”

The last time a woman had flirted with him and told him to have fun at a party was a long time ago. 1973, in fact. In Queens, New York. At another tedious Albert & Stone dinner party. She too had been just over thirty. And she too had short blonde hair. There the similarities ended, admittedly, but it was enough to connect the chains in Silvio’s brain.

“We all need to have fun now and then.”

Julia Cummings lived in an apartment in Flushing. She told Silvio that she wanted him to get the Courtyard deal. He was the best person for it. All she had to do was say the word and his name would be on the dotted line.

“I mean, it is supposed to be a party, after all,” Kathleen laughed. “Though I’m beginning to wonder.”

All Julia wanted from Silvio was a fantasy she had harboured for some months. Since meeting him, in fact. And Silvio agreed. He wanted the contract that badly. His desire was as burning and uncontrollable as hers.

So he rang Clara and told her that he wouldn’t be home that night. And when the other guests had left, he followed Julia to Flushing. And forgot about Clara. As his tongue explored the inside of Julia’s mouth, he even forgot about Julia. All he could think about was that Courtyard contract. Even when he woke up in her bed next morning. Even when he went home to Clara.

“You’ve gone very quiet, Silvio.” Kathleen grabbed a bottle of beer. “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing. I’m just thinking about the past. You look like a woman I once knew in New York.”

“Oh really?” Kathleen grinned. “Were you in love with her or something?”

“God, no!” Silvio had never, not even for one second, been in love with Julia Cummings. “She was just someone I knew.”

“We all remind someone of someone, I suppose. You kind of remind me of Matlock. Or is it Grandpa Simpson?”

“Jesus, you really are spoiling me with compliments! What are you going to tell me next? That I remind you of some corpse you saw when you were a child?”

“I actually never saw any corpses when I was a child. I was lucky that way.” She glanced darkly at Bill. “Though I’ve made up for it by going out with the living dead for the last few years.”

Silvio glanced at the couch. Bill looked desperately miserable. He’d just let out a sigh that rippled the fabric.

“I’m sure he’s not all bad.” Silvio decided that small talk might take his mind off Julia. “There must be life in the old boy yet.”

“I suppose you’re right. A corpse wouldn’t get on your bloody nerves as much as that bastard does. Do you want to know what his latest trick is? He has taken to learning how to play the fucking harmonica now. Can you believe that? A salesman trying to be a blues musician! And the noise out of him when he tries to play it. Sounds like the last wail and testament of a cat dissolving in acid! He was stuck in a traffic jam one day when he decided that he wanted to learn how to play it. His most sublime ideas always hit him in the car.”