Of Song and Water (18 page)

“If it's a good day, I sometimes – ”

“Don't,” she says. “I don't want you to explain.”

“It's not – ”

“I'll get my jacket.”

He grabs her arm. “It's my hands,” he says. “It's because of my hands.”

The words fill the room like a broken melody, like an echo that overlaps and multiplies, refusing to fade. He leans forward, perched on the edge of the sofa, and sees objects and furniture, the lamp, photograph, and table, beginning to move. Everything turns and slides away until nothing remains but a floor of cracked asphalt.

In front of him, as if he were on his hands and knees, as if he were crawling or being dragged, is a flash of black steel. He feels a warm grip on his forearm, picks up the scent of well-barbered men. And then he sees her, the woman whose name he's forgotten, standing off to the side, wearing what she's worn all night, a tight, thin, and sleeveless shirt with a low neckline. His eyes follow her arms and shoulders. He likes the lean definition. He wants to trace with his tongue the texture and shadings of her middle-aged skin – the lovely imperfections of experience. It's unnatural, he thinks. I've lost my hands and feet, but I can't refuse this obsession.

It's late and the air is cool. Her hard nipples press against the shirt. There's a gray shadow where her face should be. What color were her eyes? What shape were her lips? His mind is a blank, though he'd flirted with her for hours, working hard to attract and then keep her attention, her gaze. He thinks he'll lift his hands and rest them on her breasts, but he can't move.

He hears the dull sound of a latch closing or opening, perhaps a dead bolt being thrown. In the smooth expanse of black steel is a sudden void, a gap that widens like a mouth yawning. A man in a dark suit and a red tie steps in front of the woman.

He'll fill the gap and close it.

 

HE OPENS his eyes to a room without black steel. He sees no woman in a sleeveless shirt. Jen is the only one with him now. She looks like a friend in
mourning; her gestures are careful and tentative, almost ceremonial. She holds his right hand and examines the swollen joints. “Your fingers used to be long and straight and lovely,” she says. “I didn't realize. I didn't see – ”

He tries to slip his hands beneath his legs, but she won't let him.

“Is it arthritis?” says Jen.

“Something like that,” he says.

“What is it then? What do the doctors say?”

“They say it's unfortunate.”

She lifts his left hand and turns it over. She rubs. She tries to smooth and straighten his bones.

“Is there pain?”

“Most of the time. I take pills.”

“When did it start?”

“It didn't start,” he says. “Not in the way you're thinking. It just happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It just happened.”

AT THE old Detroit club, guests in loud colors drift in after nightfall. They slowly turn black, white, silver, and gray. A man wearing a pinstripe suit but no tie emerges from the dark recesses of the stage. Holding a vintage guitar, he takes a few tentative steps, casts about like a lost child, and then nods and comes to rest on a high wooden stool.

He plays “Do Nothin' Till You Hear from Me,” the bald crown of his head and his round Calabrian face floating in the spotlight like a pale moon. Despite the steady illumination, half his countenance is dark, a pool of deep shadow formed by the heavy brow, large nose, and thick mustache. In the corner of his mouth is a stocky cigar that somehow stays lit from one song to the next. Every now and then a wisp of smoke curls upward and dances above his ear.

Coleman sips his martini. He feels good. His tailored suit wears like a pair of jeans and a casual shirt. At the next table, a woman in a formal white dress and a cropped evening jacket turns her head at regular intervals and glances in
the direction of the door. Her long straight hair is black, swept to one side, and secured with a silver clip.

“Are you expecting someone?” says the woman. “A friend, maybe, or a lover.”

He recognizes the rising and falling of her words, the round vowels and soft consonants. “I'm waiting for Bogart,” he says.

“Funny,” she says. “I'm waiting for him, too.”

The music of her voice makes her all the more captivating. He wants to say something funny and profound, a line that she'll consider unexpected, altogether fresh and flattering. Instead, a waiter shows up, hovering above the tables like a devoted genie.

“Again,” he says, handing the waiter his glass. “And a champagne cocktail for the lady.”

The waiter disappears.

The woman tilts her head toward the stage. Her face is round. The olive perfection of her skin seems smoother and darker in the club's soft light. “It's a lovely guitar,” she says.

He nods. “It's a Gibson L5. I believe it's the same one he played back in '74.”

“I meant the music,” the woman says.

He rubs the knotty fingers of his left hand. “Joe plays like no one else.”

Beginning with her hips, the woman slides her small but perfect hands down her thighs, smoothing, as it appears, the folds of her dress. “You must know him then. You're on a first-name basis.”

“Not really. I crossed his path a few times. That's all.”

Her dark eyes return to the stage. “He's uncanny,” she says. “And with such short fingers.”

“Short but quick,” he says.

She smiles. “It's all a blur.”

The tablecloth beneath his elbow is bunched up and creased. He fusses with
it, trying to work out the wrinkles. “I can't remember how he looked the last time I saw him. It's been a while.”

“At least ten years,” says the woman.

“At least that,” he says.

The waiter seems to rise up from between the tables. “One vodka martini with olives,” he says. “And one champagne cocktail.”

Joe plays the last notes of “Do Nothin' Till You Hear from Me,” and the club rumbles with applause. He gets up to leave, but the MC, speaking from somewhere above the stage, calls him back. “Let's hear it for Joe Pass,” says the MC's voice.

“Thanks,” says Joe. He takes the cigar out of his mouth. “I'm happy to be here.” He smiles. He has the look of a man who's just finished a fine Italian meal. He starts playing. The tune is “Sophisticated Lady.”

“That's lovely,” says the woman. “Such grace.”

“I saw Joe in Philly,” he says. “He played ‘How High the Moon' all by himself. No bass. No drums. He played it fast. And he didn't cut corners. He was probably forty or forty-five in those days. I was just a kid.”

The woman smiles. “It makes me crazy when I see someone doing a thing that's impossible.”

“Why?” he says.

“I lose my grip. I think I can do it, too.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“It's not for everyone, you know.”

“Of course not.”

“In the end, it may be the province of one person – perhaps only two or three.”

“I suppose.”

“So, where does that leave the rest of us?”

Too much talking, he thinks. I'm missing the song.

“There are limits,” says the woman. “Throwing yourself against them is crazy. And when you find there's no greatness, only tricks and imitation, then you punish yourself – or someone else.”

He scratches his neck. He feels perspiration inside the collar of his shirt. He excuses himself and walks through the sea of small tables, up three steps, and past the bar.

The men's room smells like citrus. He loosens his tie and splashes water on his face. He combs his hair straight back and checks the lines of his beard. Maybe she'll leave, he thinks. But that's not really the thing he wants. He likes having someone to talk to. He tries to button his collar but his hands won't cooperate. He stretches his fingers and tries again. It's no use. He leaves his shirt open and takes off the tie.

He passes the bar, looks over at his table and then at the stage. He observes the empty stool and the Gibson L5 bathed in soft light. He hears the calm murmur of voices, an occasional wave of laughter. He sees that the woman has rearranged things to make room for a visitor, a man with a high forehead and dark hair. They give the impression, sitting in apparent silence, of being together, as if they were old and respectful lovers.

He envies the white dinner jacket and the black bow tie. Taking the long way around, he can't discern the man's face from across the room, too much shadow and smoke.

“Pleased to meet you?” he says, glancing at the woman, his manner both cautious and proprietary.

The visitor gets up and offers his hand. “Likewise.”

He can't return the man's grip, but he's glad to discover that this lothario, putting aside the forehead and, perhaps, the eyebrows, isn't Bogart at all.

“You look relieved,” says the man.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought you were someone else.”

“He's a composer,” says the woman, “a songwriter.”

He takes in the man's full measure. “Interesting,” he says.

The songwriter nods. He looks cool and composed, entirely suave, but then he orders another bourbon and the dam breaks. “Okay,” he says, lighting a cigarette. “I'll come clean and tell you I'm more a lyricist, a poet, than anything else, but I find melodies up here, too.” He taps the side of his head. “It's hard to do words and music. There isn't a single rhyme in “Moonlight in Vermont.” You ever notice that? You think it rhymes because of the music, but it's all tennis without a net because the net's no longer important. You can't separate the music from the words or the words from the music – and that, my friend, is sublime.” He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. “Let's talk tunesmiths. Some guys write catchy. Others write schmaltz. A few go for a song that's smart. But then there's a handful – the top-hat class – that set out for the sublime. Jerry Kern's in that territory, and Irving Berlin. Hoagy Carmichael and Billy Strayhorn, of course. And who can touch Gershwin or Ellington? You can't always hear where they're going, so it's better just to close your eyes and hang on for the ride.”

The woman sips her champagne cocktail. “What territory are you in?” she says.

“I don't know,” says the songwriter. “But I know where I'd like to be. Sometimes my own stuff sounds like Strayhorn or Kern. I worry about it. But, like I said, I'm better at words than music. My motto is, ‘Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.'”

“I'd rather talk music than poetry,” says the woman. “It keeps a respectful distance. I've never understood those big bullish writers who go around explaining how they write poems. It's like going around and explaining how you sleep with your wife.”

The songwriter rubs his high forehead and says, “I've tried a lot of things.
You have to make a living; you have to matter in the world before anyone takes you seriously.” He slips his hand beneath the lapel of his dinner jacket, reaching for the inside breast pocket, and pulls out a seed packet. “Let me tell you about my little business. It's called ‘Please Plant This Song.'” He reaches into more pockets and winds up with eight seed packets on the table. He turns over the seed packet for sunflowers. “Printed on the back of each packet,” he says, “are the lyrics to a song. For a long time, I took all eight and stacked them up and tied them with a ribbon and sold them as a set. Each song – or I should say poem – has something to do with the flowers that grow from the seeds. I've got more poems than I can use: lyrics about Van Gogh, Custer, the
Titanic
, Golgotha, karma, winos, the Hindenburg, John Donne, Ulysses, oranges, Jesus, Baudelaire, the New York Yankees, Captain Ahab, Kafka, and Sidney Greenstreet.” He pauses to catch his breath. “I've got plans, you see, for a second set of eight. But these'll do for now.” He regards the products of his labor, and, for a moment, his face fills with wonder. “In this set, for example, Van Gogh goes with sunflowers, John Donne with bluebells, and Ahab with white peonies. The whole thing works like this: You buy the packets and you plant the seeds in the ground and you read the poems and plant the ideas in your mind and before long you're growing your own songs like flowers.”

The woman's hand reaches across the table and settles on the packet bearing a giant blue hydrangea. She picks it up. She turns it over and reads. “This is wonderful,” she says.

“It can't be,” he says, spinning the olive in his drink. “Read it out loud.”

She leans forward. “‘The Sidney Greenstreet Blues,'” she says. “‘I think something beautiful . . .'” But then she breaks off. “I can't do it. Here. Read it yourself.”

He takes the packet and sets it on the table. “I'm glad it's short,” he says. “My eyes and this light aren't made for an epic.” He leans back in his chair until the words come into focus.

“I'm surprised,” he says, looking at the woman and then at the songwriter. “I like it. It has a quality I like.”

“Thank you,” says the songwriter. He picks up his glass and finishes his bourbon in one swallow. “I gotta hit the road,” he says.