Herzensbrecher / Heartbreaker

Herzensbrecher / Heartbreaker

Now, we live in a world where parents, in the name of liberalism, give their children the most ridiculous names - names of future pop stars and icons, unforgettable, but nonetheless, entirely stupid. But Ryder, I’d to admit, was a pretty cool name.

We met last year in Munich, Germany. I’d just been promoted to Senior Marketing Executive for Apricot Tree Publishing House and had been given the opportunity to oversee the coordination of the book tour for our latest client. It had been three tedious days of standing beside neglected bookshelves, listening to Yvette Morey read the opening of her debut novel, The Widow’s Revenge, to an audience of three or four at most. I might as well have arranged a coterie. Initially, planning the tour had been a thrill. Morey, I believed, had written the manuscript with such wit and grit, I felt it was only right to splash out on the promo when it finally got the green light. I worked my butt off and booked the best spots for the greatest exposure. But, meeting Morey was anticlimactic to say the least. Her voice was what I would imagine a sloth would sound like, if it could speak, whilst reading the encyclopedia. My sentiments, I perceived, were shared by the entire room. This could quite literally be the end of my career, I feared. So, when my assistant Michel and the team heard that my favourite band of all time MOOD was in town, and knowing how much I idolised them and needed something to cheer me up, they booked the concert tickets and off we went. And that’s where I met him: Ryder.

Ryder had one of those golden complexions that made it hard to place his origin. His hair was black, thick and coily at the root to indicating someone in the family was of African descent. His eyes were round and hazel and flashed a brilliant green under the synthetic light of the bar. What made him even harder to identify was his accent; it was an amalgamation of British and South African with an occasional French affectation. He was gorgeous and I wanted him.

Ryder was there for MOOD too. In the crowd, we stood side by side, and I could already smell his cologne - a deep oak mixed with the rich scent of sweet brandy. When the music rose, his luminous eyes widened and looked at me as if to say this is it, are you ready? We jumped in the arena, drinks filled to the brim in plastic cups sloshed into the atmosphere around us, our feet smashed into the ground, reverberating against the walls before we leapt into the air to do it all over again. My hand had found its way hidden within his, he was helping me jump higher now. I could see the lead singer belting into the mic, her hand raised into the air. Los geht's! Los geht's!

We collapsed into the beaten down sofa near the emergency exit doors when it was done, grateful for the occasional draft of cold air. Our hearts were still racing from the excitement that somersaulted through our veins. That’s when he told me his name was Ryder and he lived in Berlin, mostly. Just here for the night to see MOOD. Only bought the tickets yesterday. Yes, on impulse. Tomorrow is never promised. I write music. Sing a little bit, but mostly play background on my guitar. Would you like to see it?

I felt strange following a very, very attractive man out onto the parking lot to see his guitar. He opened the van with some difficulty, explaining the car was a rental and he had brought his stuff on a whim, hoping he’d get the chance to play.

You can play for me, I managed to say.

We were sitting on the floor of the van next. I could tell the cold air had turned my lips a purple shade of grey, but I wouldn’t have dreamed of moving an inch. His fingers, oblivious to the icy temperature, were dexterous. They moved quickly but affectionately along each string. Each note harmonised perfectly with a boyish raspy voice I could kill for. He sang about a girl he once knew and loved, but had forgotten her name.

That’s beautiful, I said, after he had finished playing. My name is Halle by the way. Halle Omphalodes. Like the flower.

OM-PHA-LODES. Ryder enunciated slowly, as if he were imprinting my name into his long term memory. How could I ever forget that?

What followed next wasn’t exactly your typical fairy tale story. We exchanged numbers and soon began to text like crazy. I felt like a teenager, my furtive eyes were perpetually glued to my phone, desperately craving after another message. Wild sensations erupted with each dopamine hit. It got so intense, even Michel noticed how distracted I was getting at work. He had to cover for me at least twice. Within a few months, I had purchased a flight from Berlin to London in Ryder’s name. I knew a guy who had a spare room and owed me a favour. Michel connected me with a producer he used to work with who rented out his studio on weekends. I booked some hours in Ryder’s name and told him he had a month to write something good and that he’d have to fund any additional studio time on his own. Ryder was shocked and understandably grateful, and I was, undoubtedly, head of heels, in love.

I would see Ryder nearly every day. Most days, he’d be playing his guitar on the floor of his box size room, writing and editing bits until they were perfect. I’d order take out because he didn’t know how to cook, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have time to. Every minute of every hour he had to spare was poured into music. And I’d be sitting right beside him with my laptop discarded, drinking in every part of Ryder. At times I felt useless, like an accessory to his big masterpiece, but never the real focus. I wanted to leave and abandon him to his music and dreams. But Ryder sprung up quickly and blocked the door. He said, an artist cannot function without his muse, ever. And so, most nights ended with us sprawled on the floor, lost in each other's arms. I could never get enough of those bright green eyes.

It wasn’t long before reality kicked in. He needed money. By day, Ryder worked out of a truck parked by Kilburn Station, selling cheap coffee, hoping to steal the budgeting consumers from his richer competitors. By night, he hopped from bar to bar, singing and playing his guitar wherever they would let him. I, fortunately, didn’t lose my job after Munich. But, I did have to work twice as hard to make up for the gallons lost over the epic fail of The Widow’s Revenge. Visits to Ryder's became irregular and our texts to one another arrived less and less. After a year, that too seemed to fizzle out. Every night I’d search his name on Youtube, just Ryder, to check what he had been up to. Each time he sang the same familiar songs: A Boy Can Dream, Up all night, The Young Pilgrim. But, never any song about a girl whose name he couldn’t remember or could never forget. Definitely none about a girl called Omphalodes. Like Omphalodes flowers, I hid myself in Ryder’s shadow, watching him create from a distance. I hardened my heart and threw myself into the next project.

Later, I heard he left the flat and didn’t even bother to leave a forwarding address. Occasionally, I’d see his name pop up on my Youtube searches. Belgium. France. Manchester a few weeks ago. Then, I blocked his name from my searches but allowed myself the guilty pleasure of watching a pixelated recording of him singing in the back of a van in Munich. When I closed my eyes, I could almost smell his sweet brandy scent.

After another year, I began working with Yvette Morey again on her new novel. I read it all in one sitting, finishing the final pages on a Sunday morning. It was about an artist who paints a thousand canvases before he loses all function of his fingers - it was heartbreaking. I was sceptical at first to say the least, would this be a disaster like her debut? But to my astonishment, the novel Time’s Up hit record sales for the third week in a row! Morey and I had been given a second chance. To celebrate, I took my team out for drinks. It was a difficult project, but we beat the odds! I ditched my blazer and blouse back at the office and threw up a black t-shirt and my leather jacket. The music at the bar was live but the atmosphere was still mild; slowly loosening the mental cogworks of corporate workers. We’d order two rounds already and just as I was about to order the third, I heard his voice.

It was the voice of the man that had sung me to sleep on most lonely nights. But hearing him here, after so long, in the flesh, unearthed something in me. His voice had matured. No longer the breathy voice of a boy trying to find his own way. From the speakers flowed the sound of a man, a low husky sound that brooded wantonly to the chords of his guitar.

I could feel the alcohol swirl within my empty stomach. I needed to get out of there and into the fresh air. I found myself standing by a brick wall a few yards away from the bar entrance. I was panting hard and still that was not enough to quieten my maddening soul. Was it really a shock I felt this way? I had seen him countless times over the years, albeit, through my laptop screen. I was a friend, a supportive friend, a friend who wanted to be so much more than friends! A friend who had been left behind. Wouldn't a more appropriate emotion be anger? This was, after all, my city he had invaded.

I thought of the girls in the bar right now. Swooning over him, falling in love with the man behind the guitar. Been there, done that, bought the damn t-shirt! Yes, it was his voice that had caused me to believe in him and his music, but it had always been his charm as well. But everyone knows, charm is definitively deceptive. That’s what you get when you idolise mortals.

I sucked in my fears and returned to the bar. Another band was playing now, something a little more upbeat. Had he gone, so soon? But as I got closer to our table there he was, sitting in my seat, laughing with my team.

Halle, remember Ryder, said Michel. From Munich. A couple of summers ago?

Ah, yes, Halle… it’s been a while. How have you been?

Not used to being speechless, never lost for words in front of my team. I gritted my teeth and responded, I’m well thanks. And then added, on impulse, Haven’t heard from you since you were distributing weak coffee in North West London - how’s that going?

If it wasn’t for the live band, I could swear I could hear a penny drop. Ryder looked visibly hurt but did his best not to show it.

Haven’t done that in over a year. I’m signed now, Ryder said.

Oh wow, that’s great. Very great news. Where are our drinks?

You didn’t order any yet. Do you want me to- Michel offered.

No-no, don’t be silly. I’ll go and get them. It’s on me, I said and shuffled away from the table. I didn’t wait for Michel to interject. I felt my body swim through the crowd, my limbs seemed to stretch and elongate itself as I pressed my way forward.

Four beers and two G&Ts, I asked.

I’ve upset you, haven’t I? It was Ryder. He was standing next to me at the bar. His shirt was slightly open, revealing golden flesh. But created, golden things were never intended for our worship.

Make one of them a double, please.

Halle?

Halle. So, you do remember me? I’m not just some girl you randomly met in a German parking lot.

I never said you were.

Well, that's the impression you left back there with my team.

The bartender placed the round tray of drinks before us and took the payment. Ryder waited for the transaction to go through, his teeth nibbled on his bottom lip.

We lost contact, Halle.

You stopped replying.

I was ashamed. I couldn’t rely on you for everything. You had already done so much. How could I ever pay you back? I was going to call you… but I didn’t. And every day I didn’t call made it harder to man up and pick up the phone.

I nodded my head, understanding but not understanding at the same time.

I’m sorry Halle. You know I don’t think. I just do.

He was smiling now. He was a spark before my eyes, illuminating everything around me with a magnetising glow that burned deep inside me. But like all sparks, it had the propensity to turn into a giant blaze of fire or, as they so often do, fizzle out and die.