The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

Interlude: View from The Lift

INSTRUCTION TO READER:
Open book.
Open window.
Let the story fly out.
Wait for it to return as a butterfly.
Or rain.
Or revolution.

Yoko had an irrational fear of riding in lifts. She'd never mentioned it to anyone -- why give power to fear? Fear is just imagination wearing uncomfortable shoes and, anyway, it usually didn't interfere with her day-to-day life.

But this one, this lift in the office building in Soho:  it gave her pause. She tried to ignore the slight rattle as the doors opened, like old broken bones shifting against each other. It was as if this lift knew her secret, recognized her unspoken worry as she stepped cautiously inside.

But she was Yoko Ono. She did not let boxes in the sky have power over her.

So she stepped inside, ensuring that her face was calm. She was always calm on the outside, but inside was a different story. Inside is where truth hides, waiting to be found.

She wore black wool trousers, a black jumper, and a luscious black fur coat that John had given her for Christmas. She often wore all-black ensembles, mostly because she liked the idea that black contained all the colors. When she got bored of all black, she switched to all white, which contained no colors at all. Two sides of the same coin, spinning, spinning, spinning.

Her hair was boyishly short, the result of a publicity stunt a month prior in Denmark. It had started with John wondering if the couple could move around more freely if they were less recognizable. Which no, they could not, since their new appearance was reported in the press within a week. And it had ended the week prior with them trading their shorn locks for a pair of Muhammad Ali's boxing shorts.

Yoko removed her black sunglasses as she pressed the button for the sixth floor and glanced discreetly at the fashionably-dressed woman huddled in the corner of the lift. She looked almost as if she wanted to disappear into the wall, a feeling Yoko had had many times. Her head was bent forward as she rummaged through her purse, but something about her seemed vaguely familiar.

The lift began to rise slowly as Yoko let out a deep breath. She stared down at the carpeting on the floor, which was a bizarre zig-zag pattern that reminded her of an art deco hotel in Tokyo that her father had once taken her. Yoko-chan, look at the floor, he had said. But he meant look at the art because everything is art if you decide it's art.

The woman behind her cleared her through politely and shifted her weight. Yoko was used to being recognized everywhere -- long hair, short hair, what did it matter? -- but usually people didn't speak to her if she wasn't with John. And, if they did, it was usually to say unpleasant things that they wouldn't say aloud if he were by her side.  So, she was surprised when the woman spoke, her tone resigned but polite.

"Hello, Yoko."

Something about the cadence reminded her of an evening, long ago, when she had first visited the studio at EMI with John. She'd been nervous, not only because she wasn't sure if she was intruding but also because it was the first time she'd seen John's friends as one-half of JohnandYoko. All she remembered about that night was that everyone had kept staring at her up in the control room, and that Paul had taken the piss out of her name. Hell-O Yok-O.

Standing there in the lift that rattled like broken bones, Yoko peered over her shoulder to take in Alice McCartney, who wore a long skirt in a batik print, a mauve blouse and a loose, unstructured coat. She had that half-smile on her face, the one that could mean anything and which covered all manner of sins.

Yoko felt a familiar twinge of annoyance that plagued her anytime she saw Alice. Despite the fact that the woman had never been anything short of polite and semi-kind, Yoko couldn't shake the feeling that Alice never had to prove herself to the world. She existed and that was enough. She'd never had to scream to be heard. She smiled that half-smile, and the world listened.