At night he made the rounds. If there was someone really great in town he would sit at the same bar all evening and listen to him; otherwise he made the rounds, one club after another, not drinking much, just listening to the music and talking to the musicians. Then, toward morning, he would go with them to eat—down the street to the Brasserie Civet or halfway across Paris to a place in Montmartre that served spareribs and barbecued chicken.
What was best though was to hang around the bar of his own hotel, the Noir et Blanc, in the late afternoon during a rehearsal or a closed session. At these times everyone was very relaxed, telling funny stories, drinking Pernod, and even turning on a bit of hashish or marijuana, passing it around quite openly, commenting on its quality. Murray derived a security from these scenes—the hushed camaraderie and the inside jokes. Later, in the evening, when the place was jumping, Murray kept himself slightly apart from the rest of the crowd—the tourists, the students, the professional beats, and the French de bonne famille—who all came to listen to the great new music. And always during the evening there would be at least one incident, like the famous tenor-man’s casually bumming a cigarette from him, which would prove Murray’s intimacy with the group to those who observed. Old acquaintances from Yale, who happened in, found Murray changed; they detected in his attitude toward them, their plans, and their expressed or implied values a sort of bemused tolerance—as though he were in possession of a secret knowledge. And then there would be the inevitable occasion when he was required to introduce them to one of the musicians, and that obvious moment when the musician would look to Murray for his judgment of the stranger as in the question: “Well, man, who is this cat? Is he with it?” None of this lessened Murray’s attractiveness, nor his mystery, no less to others, presumably, than to himself; but he was never too hard on his old friends—because he was swinging.
WHEN THE Negro pianist Buddy Talbott was hired, along with a French drummer and bass, to play the Noir et Blanc, he and his wife had been in Paris for only three days. It was their first time out of the States, and except for a few band jobs upstate, it was their first time out of New York City.
Toward the end of the evening, during a break, Murray went into the men’s room. Buddy Talbott was there alone, in front of the mirror, straightening his tie. Their eyes fixed for an instant in the glass as Murray entered and walked over to the urinal; the disinfectant did not obscure a thin smell of hashish recently smoked in the room. Murray nodded his head in the direction of the bandstand beyond the wall. “Great sound you got there, man,” he said, his voice flat, almost weary in its objectiveness. Buddy Talbott had a dark and delicate face which turned slowly, reluctantly it seemed, from the glass to Murray, smiling, and he spoke now in soft and precisely measured tones: “Glad you like it.”
And, for the moment, no more was said, Murray knowing better than that.
Although Murray smoked hashish whenever it was offered, he seldom took the trouble to go over to the Arab quarter and buy any himself; but he always knew where to get the best. And the next evening, when Buddy Talbott came into the men’s room, Murray was already there.
They exchanged nods, and Murray wordlessly handed him the smoking stick, scarcely looking at him as he did, walking past to the basin—as though to spare him witness to even the merest glimpse of hesitancy, of apprehension, calculation, and finally, of course, of perfect trust.
“I’ve got a box, man,” Murray said after a minute, by which he meant record player, “and some new Monk—you know, if you ever want to fall by. . . .” He dried his hands carefully, looking at the towel. “Upstairs here,” he said, “in number eight. My name is on the door—‘Murray.’”
The other nodded, savoring the taste, holding it. “I’d like to very much,” he said finally, and added with an unguarded smile, “Murray.” At which Murray smiled too, and touching his arm lightly said: “Later, man.” And left.
THE HASH seemed to have a nice effect on Buddy’s playing. Certainly it did on Murray’s listening—every note and nuance came straight to him, through the clatter of service at the bar and the muttered talk nearby, as though he were wearing earphones wired to the piano. He heard subtleties he had missed before, intricate structures of sound, each supporting the next, first from one side, then from another, and all being skillfully laced together with a dreamlike fabric of comment and insinuation; the runs did not sound either vertical or horizontal, but circular ascensions, darting arabesques and figurines; and it was clear to Murray that the player was constructing something there on the stand . . . something splendid and grandiose, but perfectly scaled to fit inside this room, to sit, in fact, alongside the piano itself. It seemed, in the beginning, that what was being erected before him was a castle, a marvelous castle of sound . . . but then, with one dramatic minor—just as the master builder might at last reveal the nature of his edifice in adding a single stone—Murray saw it was not a castle being built, but a cathedral. “Yeah, man,” he said, nodding and smiling. A cathedral—and, at the same time, around it the builder was weaving a strange and beautiful tapestry, covering the entire structure. At first the image was too bizarre, but then Murray smiled again as he saw that the tapestry was, of course, being woven inside the cathedral, over its interior surface, only it was so rich and strong that it sometimes seemed to come right through the walls. And then Murray suddenly realized—and this was the greatest of all, because he was absolutely certain that only he and Buddy knew—that the fantastic tapestry was being woven, quite deliberately, face against the wall. And he laughed aloud at this, shaking his head, “Yeah, man,” the last magnificent irony, and Buddy looked up at the sound, and laughed too.
AFTER THE set, Buddy came over and asked Murray if he wanted a drink. “Let’s take a table,” he said. “My old lady’s coming to catch the last set.”
“Solid,” said Murray, so soft and without effort that none would have heard.
They sat down at a table in the corner.
“Man, that sure is fine gage,” Buddy said.
Murray shrugged.
“Glad you like it,” he said then, a tone with an edge of mock haughtiness, just faintly mimicking that used by Buddy when they had met; and they both laughed, and Buddy signaled the waiter.
“I was wondering,” said Buddy after the waiter had left, “if you could put me onto some of that.”
Murray yawned. “Why don’t you meet me tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I could take you over to the café and, you know, introduce you to the guy.”
Buddy nodded, and smiled. “Solid,” he said.
BUDDY’S WIFE, Jackie, was a tall Negro girl, sort of lank, with great eyes, legs, and a lovely smile.
“What we’d like to do,” she said, “is to make it here—you know, like live here—at least for a couple of years anyway.”
“It’s the place for living all right,” said Murray.
MURRAY WAS helpful in much more than introducing them to a good hash connection. Right away he found them a better and cheaper room, and nearer the Noir et Blanc. He showed Jackie how to shop in the quarter, where to get the best croissants, and what was the cheap wine to buy. He taught them some French and introduced them to the good inexpensive restaurants. He took them to see L’ge d’Or at the Cinémathèque, to the catacombs, to the rib joint in Montmartre, to hear Marcel Raymond speak at the Sorbonne, to the Flea Market, to the Musée Guimet, Musée de l’Homme, to the evening exhibitions at the Louvre. . . . Sometimes Murray would have a girl with him, sometimes not; or on some Sundays when the weather was fine he would get someone with a car, or borrow it himself, and they would all drive out to the Bois de Boulogne and have a picnic, or to Versailles at night. Then again, on certain nights early, or when Buddy wasn’t playing, they might have dinner in Buddy and Jackie’s room, listening to records, smoking a piece of hash now and then, eating the red beans and rice, the fish, ribs, and chicken that Jackie cooked. The most comfortable place in the small room was the bed, and after a while the three of
them were usually lying or half reclining across it, except when one of them would get up to put on more records, get a drink, or go to the bathroom, everything very relaxed, not much talk, occasionally someone saying something funny or relating a strange thing they had seen or heard, and frequently, too, just dozing off.
Once Murray bought a pheasant, had it cooked, and brought it up to their room, along with a couple of bottles of chilled Liebfraumilch, some wild rice, asparagus, and strawberries and cream.
Jackie was quite excited, opening the packages. “You’re too much, baby,” she said, giving Murray a kiss on the cheek.
“What’s the grand occasion, man?” asked Buddy, beaming at him.
Murray shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to dream one up,” he said.
“I guess we will,” said Buddy smiling, and he started slicing up a piece of hash.
Afterward they lay across the bed, smoking and listening to music.
“It’s funny, isn’t it,” said Murray, while they were listening to Billie, “that there aren’t any great ofay singers.”
The others seemed to consider it.
“Anita O’Day is all right,” said Jackie.
“Yeah, but I mean you wouldn’t compare her with Billie, would you,” said Murray.
“Some of the French chicks swing,” said Buddy absently, “. . . Piaf . . . and what’s that other chick’s name. . . .”
“Yeah, but I mean like that’s something else, isn’t it,” said Murray.
Buddy shrugged, passing the cigarette, “Yeah, I guess so,” he said, sounding half asleep; but his eyes were open, and for several minutes he lay simply staring at Murray with an expression of mild curiosity on his face.
“Murray,” he asked finally, “did you want to learn piano . . . or what?” Then he laughed, as though he might not have meant it to sound exactly like that, and he got up to get some wine.
Jackie laughed too. “Maybe he just likes you, baby—ever think of that?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Buddy, making a joke of it now, pouring the wine, “that ought to be considered.” He was still smiling, almost sheepishly. “Well, here’s to friendship then,” he said, taking a sip.
“You’re making me cry,” said Murray in his flat, weary voice, and they all laughed.
Then it was time for Buddy to go to the club.
“I’ll make it over with you, man,” said Murray, slowly raising himself up on the bed.
“Stick around,” said Buddy, putting on his tie. “Nothing’s happening there yet—you can come over later with Jackie.”
“That seems like a good idea,” said Jackie.
Murray sat there, staring at nothing.
“It’s cool, man,” said Buddy smiling and giving Murray an elaborate wink of conspiracy, “it’s cool. I mean, you know—make it.”
“Solid,” said Murray, after a minute, and he lay back across the bed again.
“See you cats,” said Buddy, opening the door to leave.
“Later,” said Murray.
“Later, baby,” said Jackie, getting up and going to the door and locking it. Then she went over to the basin and began brushing her teeth.
“That was a funny thing for him to say, wasn’t it,” said Murray after a minute, “I mean about did I want ‘to learn piano, or what?’”
Jackie moved the brush in a slow, languorous motion, looking at Murray in the mirror. “Well, it’s very simple really. . . . I mean, he digs you, you know—and I guess he would like to do something for you, that sort of thing.” She rinsed her mouth and held the brush under the water. “I thought he made that part of it pretty clear,” she said, then looking directly at him. She crossed over to the dressing table and stood in front of it, straightening her dress; it was a cream-colored jersey which clung without tightness to all of her. She stood in front of the glass, her feet slightly apart, and touched at her hair. He watched the back of her brown legs, the softly rounded calves, tracing them up past the cream-colored hem behind her knees into their full lean contours above—lines which were not merely suggested, but, because of the clinging jersey and the way she stood, convincingly apparent.
“That’s a groovy thread,” said Murray, sitting up and taking the glass of wine Buddy had left on the night table.
“Oh?” She looked down at the dress reflexively and again at the mirror. “Madame what’s-her-name made it—you know, that seamstress you put me onto.” She sat down on a chair by the mirror and carefully wiped the lipstick from her mouth with a Kleenex.
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” said Murray.
“Glad you like it, Murray.” The phrase had become an occasional joke between the three of them.
“I was by the Soleil du Maroc this afternoon,” he began then, taking a small packet out of his shirt pocket, unwrapping it as he leaned toward the light at the night table, “I just thought I would twist up a few to take to the club.” He looked up at her and paused. “I mean, you know, if there’s time.”
Jackie’s head was cocked to one side as she dabbed perfume behind an ear and watched Murray in the mirror. “Oh there’s time, baby,” she said with a smile, “. . . make no mistake about that.”
When Murray had twisted one, he lit it and, after a couple of drags, sat it smoking on the tray, continuing to roll them carefully, placing them in a neat row on the night table.
Jackie finished at the mirror, put another record on, and came over to the bed. As she sat down, Murray passed the cigarette to her, and she lay back with it, head slightly raised on a pillow against the wall, listening to Blue Monk.
When Murray had rolled several, he put the packet of hash away and stashed the cigarettes in with his Gauloises. Then he leaned back, resting his head on Jackie’s lap, or rather on what would have been her lap had she been sitting instead of half lying across the bed; she passed the cigarette to Murray.
“Has a good taste, hasn’t it,” said Murray.
Jackie smiled. “Yes, indeed,” she said.
“Hadj says it’s from the Middle Congo,” said Murray with a laugh, “‘C’est du vrai congolais!’” he went on, giving it the Arab’s voice.
“That’s just how it tastes,” said Jackie.
With his face turned toward her, Murray’s cheek pressed firmly against the softness of her stomach which just perceptibly rose and fell with breathing, and through the fine jersey he could feel the taut sheen of her pants beneath it, and the warmth. There was nothing lank about her now.
“Yeah,” said Murray after a minute, “that’s right, isn’t it, that’s just how it tastes.”
They finished the cigarette, and for a while, even after the record had ended, they lay there in silence, Jackie idly curling a finger in Murray’s hair. For a long time Murray didn’t move.
“Well,” he finally said instead, “I guess we’d better make it—over to the club, I mean.”
Jackie looked at him for a minute, then gave a gentle tug on the lock of his hair, shrugged, and laughed softly.
“Anything you say, Murray.”
THAT SUNDAY was a fine day, and Murray borrowed a car for them to go out to the Bois. Jackie had fried some chicken the night before and prepared a basket of food, but now she complained of a cold and decided not to go. She insisted though that Murray and Buddy go.
“It’s a shame to waste the car and this great weather. You ought to make it.”
So they went without her.
They drove up the Champs through a magnificent afternoon, the boulevard in full verdure and the great cafés sprawled in the sun like patches of huge flowers. Just past the Étoile they noticed a charcuterie which was open and they stopped and bought some more to put in the basket—céleri rémoulade, artichoke hearts, and cheese covered with grape seeds. At a café next door Murray was able to get a bottle of cognac.
At the Bois they drove around for a while, then parked the car and walked into the depth of the woods. They thought they might discover a new place—and they did, finally, a grove of poplar
s which led to the edge of a small pond; and there, where it met the pond and the wooded thicket to each side, it formed a picture-book alcove, all fern, pine and poplar. There was no one else to be seen on the pond, and they had passed no one in the grove. It was a pleasing discovery.
Together they carefully spread the checkered tablecloth the way Jackie always did, and then laid out the food. Buddy had brought along a portable phonograph, which he opened up now while Murray uncorked the wine.
“What’ll it be,” Buddy asked with a laugh, after looking at the records for several minutes, “Bird or Bartók?”
“Bartók, man,” said Murray, and added dreamily, “where do you go after Bird?”
“Crazy,” said Buddy, and he put on The Miraculous Mandarin.
Murray lay propped on his elbow, and Buddy sat opposite, crosslegged, as they ate and drank in silence, hungry but with deliberation, sampling each dish, occasionally grunting an appreciative comment.
“Dig that bridge, man,” said Buddy once, turning to the phonograph and moving the needle back a couple of grooves, “like that’s what you might call an ‘augmented oh-so-slightly.’” He laughed. “Cat’s too much,” he said, as he leaned forward to touch a piece of chicken to the mayonnaise.
Murray nodded. “Swings,” he said.
THEY LAY on the grass, smoking and drinking the cognac, closing their eyes or shading them against the slanting sun. They were closer together now, since only Buddy had gotten up to stretch and then, in giving Murray a cigarette, had sat down beside him to get a light.
After a while Buddy seemed to half doze off, and then he sleepily turned over on his stomach. As he did, his knee touched Murray’s leg, and Murray moved lightly as if to break the contact—but then, as if wondering why he had reacted like that, let his leg ease back to where it had been, and almost at once dropped into a light sleep, his glass of cognac still in his hand, resting on his chest.
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