The King of Ragtime

by Larry Karp

  “I wouldn’t do that yet, Dad. If you say anything to Berlin before we’ve figured out what really happened and what we should do about it, he’ll go after Waterson like a banty rooster. And if you think we’ve got a mess now, imagine what would happen then. Martin and Scott might have to move in here permanently.”

  An uneasy smile flickered around Lamb’s mouth. “I don’t suppose the three of you happened to look around in Waterson’s office, did you?”

  Stark’s and Nell’s sheepish faces were answer enough. Stark coughed, then got to his feet. “I’ll go back down there, and do just that.”

  Nell stood, but her father motioned her back into her chair. “I’m sorry, Nell, I really am, but I think you need to stay here. What if Joplin wakes up the way he was before, and doesn’t see you?”

  She shook her head. “After one of those episodes, he sleeps for hours, then wakes up perfectly calm. Maybe a little confused, but that’s all.”

  Stark pulled out his pocket watch, grunted. “Almost two o’clock. The outside door is going to be locked, so I’ll have to talk my way past that watchman who thinks I’m Waterson. It’ll be easier if I’m alone. I’ll tell him I didn’t realize till I got home that I didn’t get all the papers I needed.” Wry grin. “That five dollars I gave him looks more like a good investment every minute. Besides, my dear, you ought to get some sleep before you need to leave for work. I’ll take you home, then go back downtown to the office.”

  “Dad, tomorrow is Sunday.”

  Stark looked stunned. “I’d completely lost track.”

  Lamb was already on his feet. “I’ll get a taxi and see Nell back to her place. That will save you going back and forth, and it’s no trouble for me. I can go to late mass tomorrow.” Lamb offered a hand to Nell, who allowed herself to be pulled up out of her chair.

  “Very well.” Stark extended a hand. “Nell, if you please, I’ll take that office key.”

  Nell picked up her pocketbook from the end table, opened it, took out the key and dropped it into her father’s hand. He picked up the photo of the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder principals, and without another word was out the door, Lamb and Nell right behind him.

  ***

  Stark peered through the glass door into the little lobby of the Strand office building, and there was the watchman, asleep in his chair, feet up on his desk. Stark rapped at the door. The watchman stiffened, raised his head, then shaded his eyes and peered toward the door. Stark motioned him over. The man got up, stretched, limped to the door; as he focused on Stark, a broad smile came over his face. Stark pointed at the lock, mouthed, “Open up.”

  The watchman pushed the metal bar, then opened the door far enough for Stark to squeeze through. “Mr. Waterson,” the little man said. “Don’t you b’lieve in sleepin’ of nights?”

  Stark laughed, and clapped him on the arm. “When I can…Why, I don’t even know your name. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Naw, don’t be. I just be the night watchman, no reason you’d know my name. But it be Jasper, Jasper Billings.”

  Stark took the man’s hand and squeezed. “Well, pleased to meet you, Mr. Billings, and I regret having to disturb your sleep. Unfortunately, I’ve got a fair bit of work that’s got to be done by Monday morning, and I didn’t take all the papers I need.” He lowered his voice, spoke confidentially. “My wife was tired, and…well, you know how it goes.”

  Billings cackled. “Oh, I sure ’nough do. I been married forty-nine years, and my wife is the best sort of woman. But when she get tired of bein’ where she don’t want to be, I knows about it, clear as the beard on your face. Well, you go right along, Mr. Waterson, I don’t want to be holdin’ you away from your work.”

  “And I don’t want to be holding you away from your sleep.” Stark and Billings enjoyed a man-to-man laugh. Then Stark pulled a bill from his pocket and held it out to Billings. “My apology for disturbing you.”

  Billings scrutinized the money. “Oh, now, Mr. Waterson. You already give me one fiver tonight.”

  “And now I’ve given you a second one. Buy your wife a nice little present, why don’t you?”

  The watchman grinned, then tucked the five-dollar bill into his shirt pocket. “I just might buy my wife a little present at that, Mr. Waterson. I just might. Thank you so much. You are too kind.”

  Stark smiled. Not really, he thought.

  ***

  He let himself into the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder offices, walked to Berlin’s room, re-hung the photograph over the composer’s desk. Then he went to Waterson’s office, saw the bank of floor-to-ceiling shelves facing him, and instantly felt exhausted. There had to be hundreds of manuscripts there, hours of work. Unruly piles of paper covered the big oak desk, the top of the oak file cabinet, and a good deal of the floor. Stark shook his head. Think, man! Waterson was a fool, but he wasn’t stupid; he wouldn’t have left Joplin’s music out in the open. Check the desk and the file cabinet.

  He started with the drawers on the left side of the desk. No luck. Nor on the right, until he got to the bottom drawer, where he found a sheaf of papers held together by a metal clip. At the center of the top page, in large, flowery print, was the word, IF; beneath, in smaller, but no less ornate letters, was written, A Musical Play In Two Acts, by Scott Joplin. Stark riffled the pages; words and musical notes flew past his eyes. He marveled at his good fortune. He could be back at Lamb’s with his find inside half an hour, wake up Joplin and give him the good news.

  Perhaps there was time to patch things up with the composer. Seventeen years earlier, the two of them had done a mighty deed in Sedalia: “Maple Leaf Rag” had changed the face of American music, and in the process, redirected Stark’s life. At the age of fifty-eight, he’d found what he’d been looking for all the years he’d been on earth, and from that day forward, he’d campaigned ferociously for the music and the men who composed it. Talented men, but none who could rightly be bracketed with Scott Joplin. Joplin was a gift from Nature to humanity, and Stark should have taken account of that. Damn it, Nell had been right all along. He should have published both of Joplin’s operas, Guest of Honor back in ‘03, and Treemonisha, eight years later, and then made every effort toward getting the operas performed. But instead, he’d behaved like any mundane businessman, worrying over the finances of his company to the point of driving Joplin away by insisting he could no longer pay royalties. Had Stark heeded his daughter’s advice, how different Joplin’s current situation might be, not to mention his own. Stark Music Company, that small specialized midwestern music publisher, might now be at the forefront of development of a whole new form of classical music, a living demonstration of what could happen when a Caucasian and a Negro join forces in good faith. Through his timidity and caution, Stark had managed to throw away the opportunity of a lifetime. Make that two lifetimes.

  But he still lived, and so did Joplin. How much longer for either, no way to tell, but all the more reason to act now. He’d talk to Nell, and between them, they’d persuade Joplin to let Stark Music publish If. Then they’d get the composer to see the wisdom of having Tom Turpin put on the show in St. Louis. And that would be only a start. How long could it be before Lester Walton was clamoring to have it on his stage at the Lafayette? Then, those money-grubbing Shuberts would see the dollars flowing in Harlem, and put on the show in a Broadway theater. If Joplin didn’t live to see it all, at least he could die like Moses on Nebo, knowing he’d been successful. Stark would need to take a loan to get the plan moving, but he owed Joplin that and more.

  The old man took a step toward the door, but then set the manuscript onto Waterson’s desk, and lowered himself into the chair. He couldn’t wait till he got back to Brooklyn to get at least a little sense of what he’d found. He removed the clip, slipped the title page to the back of the stack, began to read.

  Not halfway down the first page, he felt blood drain from his face, but pressed on. By the second page, his hand shook so badly he cou
ld barely read the words. Partway down the fifth page, he stopped, quickly rearranged the pages in order, reattached the clip, then sat still, staring, seeing nothing. Only when he noticed water dripping onto the top page did he realize he was weeping. A moment before, he’d felt young again, a vigorous man of forty, ready to run uproariously through a world of opposition, smash down walls, leave no adversary standing. Now, he felt older than eternity.

  He forced himself to his feet, shuffled out to the waiting room, took a moment to pull himself together. Then he picked up the telephone, gave Nell’s number to the operator, and scuffed the soles of his shoes against the floor until he heard his daughter at the other end. “Hello? Dad?”

  “Yes, hello, Nell. Were you asleep?”

  “Of course not. I’m waiting to hear how you made out.”

  “Well, I’ve got Joplin’s music, and…before we say anything to him or anyone else, we’ll have to lay a little groundwork. I’m sorry to keep you awake…but it’s…”

  “Dad, is something the matter? You sound awful.”

  Heavy sigh. “I’m afraid we’ve got ourselves quite a little dilemma, my dear. I’ll see you at your apartment as soon as I can get there. Good-bye.”

  He walked down the stairs to the ground floor, waved to a smiling Jasper Billings, and walked out. He made a move toward hailing a taxi, but shook his head no, executed a sharp left turn, and marched up Broadway, toward Seventy-second Street.

  ***

  Nell’s face was drawn; her eyelids drooped. Stark’s heart skipped a beat. “Nell, I’m sorry—”

  “Where were you, Dad? I was worried, the way you sounded on the phone.”

  “I walked.”

  It took her a moment to process that, then she laughed out loud. “You walked all the way up here from Forty-seventh Street?

  “I’m sorry I worried you, Nell. But the walk did me good.”

  “Oh. Well, all right, then. Now that you’re here, are you going to tell me just what it is that has you so upset?”

  Stark opened his mouth to tell her to not be impudent, but instead, he held up the manuscript as if it were an article of holy writ. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” he said. “We’ll look at it together.”

  “But haven’t you already—”

  “Only the first few pages. Act One. ‘What Did Happen.’ Act Two is ‘What Might Have Happened—If.’”

  She nodded. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, is it?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s not.”

  ***

  They’d read no further than Stark had on his own when Nell looked at him with such hurt in her eyes, the old man flinched. “Oh, Dad, this is awful. ‘John Stark told Scott Joplin, now you write more rags, more of those fine classic rags, and have patience with both the world and me. Perhaps we’ll go with your music to France, where the color of a man’s skin does not seem to matter. And in time, people will come around, first over there, then over here, because what is thought fine on the Continent is always thought fine here. People everywhere will say, why this is first-class music, twenty-four carat through and through. They’ll play it at concerts, for people of refinement and taste, who will swear it is the equal of anything by Beethoven and Schubert and Brahms. And then, these people of refinement and taste will say, why does this gifted and brilliant composer of classic ragtime music not write an opera? And that will be the time for you to write your opera, Joplin, and I will publish it, and…’ Dad, this is a tune? A musical-show tune?”

  “I have to believe that was Joplin’s intent.”

  “Where’s the music?”

  “In the back. He’s got the dialogue and song lyrics first, then the music.”

  She flipped pages, then studied the first sheet of music manuscript. “But this looks…I need to play it.”

  Stark stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Let’s read some more first.”

  “All right.” She sat back down.

  As they read, first one, then the other, groaned. “Dad, Dad…‘Scott Joplin should stand on a street corner, his cap on the ground at his feet, a basket of apples in his hand, and a sign across his chest, BLIND MAN. The poor fellow can not see what a success he is. He has done precisely what he set out to do, made raucous barrelhouse ragtime over into a true art form. Can he not hear? Is he deaf, as well as blind? In the barrelhouses, they make sport of his classic ragtime. Play it fast! Add notes! Bang away, hard as you can, with the left hand! Take away the measured beauty that soothes the soul, replace it with a savage appeal to the base animal spirit. But poor Joplin can not see what a compliment this is. He turns out better and better work, ever more polished and more complex, putting those barrelhouse players to greater shame with every piece he writes. But he doesn’t notice, the poor seller of apples, blind and deaf on a street corner in New York.’”

  “Like a parody of opera lyrics,” Stark muttered. “Look, here’s a duet—Scott Joplin and Joe Hayden? Joe Hayden? Is he that far gone? He must mean Scott Hayden.”

  “No. Remember, Joe was Scott Hayden’s brother. He died young, and it was his widow, Belle, who Scott Joplin married.” Nell grabbed the top few pages, began to read aloud.

  “‘Joe: Joplin, you was a fool. A fool, to marry Belle. How many years you saw her go stompin’ out the room when my brother and you start to play? You knew she don’t care for music, but you went and married her anyway.’

  ‘Scott: I thought she would like my music.’

  ‘Joe: Because your music was special? Different from everybody else’s?’

  ‘Scott: She was a good woman, Joe. A good woman was what I wanted. What I needed.’

  ‘Joe: A good woman? Well, I guess she was what they call a good woman. Had good manners, talked fit for a white woman high in society. But such a cold heart. The way she used to talk! Did you not feel a chill when you put your arms around her?’

  ‘Scott: I thought—’

  ‘Joe: That you was gonna melt the ice in her heart, just the same like I thought. You thought you was better’n me, more special some way, just like your music. You found out different.’

  ‘Scott: Now, Joe it was not anything personal.’

  ‘Joe—What you say? You go in bed with my wife, and then you tell me it ain’t nothing personal?’

  ‘Scott: She was not your wife then, Joe. You were dead. Dead men don’t have a wife.’

  ‘Joe: (laughs). Ha-ha-ha. With that woman, neither do a live man. And when that live man find out she no more be his wife than mine, he go and be the biggest fool ever. He decide if she have a baby, then maybe things be different. What ever was you thinkin’? Didn’t you have no eyes? She already had a baby—my son. And she care so much for him, she leave him with his grandma and grandpa to go and live with you in Miss Hawkins’ boarding house. But you think your baby gonna be different. Your baby gonna be special. Fool!’

  ‘Scott: My poor baby. If she had only lived—’

  ‘Joe: (laughs again). That baby never was gonna live. Not with the wedding present I give Belle.’

  ‘Scott: So it was you after all. I did wonder. The doctors told me that sickness had to come through the mother—’

  ‘Joe: Oh, yes. That puny baby, that was Joe Hayden’s present to his wife for her second wedding. Just to show no hard feelings. Nothing personal.’

  ‘Scott: Joe, you should be ashamed. You should be damned to hell for such evil work. She was a good woman. A decent woman.’

  ‘Joe: And ain’t that the real reason why you married her? Tell me, now, ain’t I right? Belle could put on airs with the best of them, act more respectable than the Queen of England. And that’s what you wanted, Scott. A respectable wife. So respectable that white people would look at her with her fine talk and her elegant manners, and then they’d hear your music and say, well now, oh my goodness gracious, what respectable music this colored man do write. Why, his music be so respectable, I can’t tell no way that he be a coal-black nigger.’
r />   ‘Scott: Joe, I won’t have you talk like that.’

  ‘Joe: Then I be on my way, and shame on you, Scott Joplin. Here and I give my wife a nice wedding present to share with her new husband and their baby, just to show there’s no hard feelings, nothing personal, and then he talk so bad to me. What’s the matter, Scott? Ain’t you enjoyin’ my gift? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.’

  ‘(As Joe laughs, Scott puts his hands over his ears and staggers off stage. Act One, curtain).’”

  Nell laid the pages on the table as though they might have been made of thin, fine china. She looked at her father; he looked at her. Neither spoke. At last, Stark turned back the top page of Act Two. Nell leaned forward, started to read. “‘Scott Joplin: Mr. Stark, I need to speak to you regarding a matter of the greatest importance.’”

  Stark tightened his grip on the edge of the table.

  “‘John Stark (sitting back in his armchair, looks at Joplin over the top of his newspaper, then lowers the paper and removes his spectacles). A matter of the greatest importance, you say? Well, whatever it is, you’ve got my full attention. Say on.’

  ‘Joplin (sits opposite Stark, shifts one way, then the other, in the chair): I’m very pleased with the way our business association has progressed. “Maple Leaf Rag” will be available to the public in just a few days, and your publishing company is an actuality. I foresee a fine future.’

  ‘Stark (laughs): Mr. Joplin, I’ve never heard you so hesitant in your speech, so careful of each word you say. Are you trying to ask whether there’s a place for you in the firm? What position might you be considering?’

  ‘Joplin: Thank you, sir, but that is not what I’m trying to ask. I’m no businessman, as well you know. I am a composer of music, and I hope to write many fine works that you and your company will publish. (deep breath). You’re about to relocate in St. Louis. I would like to do the same.’