Your Orisons May Be Recorded Read Free Page A

nobody calls with a problem you might actually be able to solve. So of course the line flashes.
    â€œHello, you’ve come through to the heavenly host, how can I help you today?”
    â€œI’m trying to find my way to heaven.”
    I appreciate directness at the end of the day. There’s an answer for this in the manual, filed under “Convenient Fictions.”
    â€œThat’s great,” I say. “You’ve come to the right place. The path to heaven is hard, but it starts within all of us. May I take your name, sir?”
    â€œBenjamin— Sorry, is this the right number?”
    The client’s voice is young, male, run through with booze and the lightest scent of self-loathing.
    â€œYou did say you were interested in getting to heaven, sir?”
    â€œYes, that’s right. I’ve been looking for it for an hour now.”
    â€œWell, it’s wonderful that you’re making an effort, sir. Unfortunately, it usually takes longer than an hour to find one’s way to heaven. Many people spend entire lifetimes and more in the search.”
    â€œIt says on Google Maps that it’s just off Charing Cross Road.”
    â€œI assure you, sir,” I say, “heaven cannot be accessed from the Charing Cross Road. May I ask how you came to God in the first place?”
    â€œI’m not religious. I’m looking for Heaven. I’ve got a sound test there in twenty minutes. Look, I’m sorry, I really think I’ve got the wrong number. Sorry for wasting your time.”
    â€œNo, wait,” I say, because a thought has occurred to me. “Let me put you on hold for a second.”
    I slam on the mute button and whisper across the cubicle at Gremory, “Is there a bar or a club called Heaven somewhere in London?”
    Grem nods. “Oh, another one of those. I’ve got the address written down somewhere.”
    He slides a Post-it across the desk. I unmute the caller.
    â€œThank you for holding, sir. You want to turn off down Villiers Street, toward the river, and it’s under the arches on your right.”
    â€œGreat. Thanks.”
    â€œIs there anything else I can help you with?”
    Dead air.
    â€œWell, uh,” says Benjamin, “I’m having trouble with this song I’m writing. It’s about love. Love and death. And anger. Love and death and anger.”
    I sit up straight in my chair.
    â€œWould you like to talk about it?” I say. “We could talk about it for a while.”
    â€œIt’s just that I’m afraid all the time,” he says, and his voice has receded to a trembling note, a quaver. “I’m afraid of the songs. I’m afraid of the songs I could make, and I’m afraid of not making them. It’s stupid.”
    A meaty thud. He’s smashed his head against something, on purpose.
    â€œDon’t do that,” I say. “Please don’t do that. I can help.”
    â€œWho are you?” asks Benjamin.
    I can hear his heart, the broken-bird flutter of it. His breath on the line.
    I have had so many names.
    â€œI’m listening,” I say. “I’m listening.”
    *   *   *
    We’re not supposed to Worldwalk during the working week, so Gremory and I hang out on top of Centre Point, the dirty-white 1960s monstrosity that squats mantislike above Tottenham Court Road Tube Station.
    â€œBest view in London,” says Gremory. “Mainly because it’s the only place you can’t see Centre Point. You want some of this?”
    He’s sucking on a finger-joint stub of spliff, exhaling thick smoke that sweetens the traffic fumes rising from the street.
    â€œI’m okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
    â€œSeriously,” he says, “I’m not trying to pressure you, but I really think it’d be good for you to smoke this stuff occasionally. Chill you out a bit.”
    â€œReally, I’m good with just