There is a musician here endowed with the most brilliant, most enchanting and perhaps the most profound talent: George Gershwin. His worldwide success no longer satisfies him. He is aiming higher. He knows that he lacks the technical means to achieve his goal. In teaching him those tools, one might ruin his talent. Would you have the courage, which I wouldn’t dare have, to undertake this daunting responsibility?
Ravel
She gave the note back to Ravel, who folded it and slid it into his breast pocket. “I shall mail it from the hotel.”
When Duke Ellington approached their table, George introduced him to Ravel. A tall man with a thin moustache, a checked suit, and a black tie, Ellington smiled graciously. “Honored,” he said with a bow. George moved to accommodate him at the table and ordered a glass of straight bourbon, Ellington’s preferred beverage. “So what do you think of our jazz, Monsieur Ravel?” asked the Duke.
Ravel lit a cigarette. “I do not yet understand what jazz is.” He puffed. “Perhaps that is why I love it.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the Duke. “It is the answer of those of us who grew up admiring composers like yourself, but were denied the right to play in legit theaters. So if we can’t perform under Toscanini’s baton we’ll make our own damn baton. And that baton is beating out a rhythm Beethoven and Wagner never heard of. It’s called swing.”
“The rhythm of freedom,” agreed Gershwin.
The waiter refilled Ravel’s wine glass.
“But can you define swing?” asked Ravel.
“I will do so this very evening,” Ellington told him. “Just stick around.”
George waved to a friend. “Hey, Oscar!”
Oscar Levant, frowzled but attractive, spotted him and escorted his taller, red-headed female companion to their table. “George Gershwin, Margaret Manners,” he introduced her. “Let’s see,” Oscar added, pointing to each, “Duke Ellington, Kay Swift, Maurice Ravel: Margaret Manners, the head-turning dancer, singer, and actress who’s taking Broadway by storm. Hey, make room for the lady, will you?”
Delighted that a man she had never met knew her name and recognized her face, Kay slid sideways. Levant sat next to her, Miss Manners beside Ravel. “Oscar’s a keyboard wiz,” said George. “Like Kay here, only he’s from Pittsburgh. Which is, of course, no small difference.”
“I’m also a composer,” Oscar reminded him. “Like you.”
“We’re all composers, here,” said George. “Well, almost all of us,” he added with a wink at the sultry Miss Manners.
“Say, Monsieur Ravel,” asked Oscar with the nonchalance of a shopper requesting advice on hats, “I’ve noticed some people play your “Jeux d’eau” rubato while others give it an almost Bach-like mechanical flavor and I’m wondering, which approach do you prefer?”
Kay expected Ravel to say, why, rubato, of course, meaning with a fluid, variable, dream-like meter in the late-Romantic tradition, but Ravel offered a more cryptic answer. “Bach never marked his music meccanicamente so far as I am aware.”
Oscar ordered a glass of moonshine for himself and “something sweet and sparkly for the dame, to match her personality.”
The dame, Miss Manners, flashed the requisite smile at Oscar and added a sidelong glance at George, who seemed oblivious. Ellington excused himself and sauntered back to the stage, where he dedicated the next number to “Monsieur Maurice Ravel, the celebrated French composer, and my friend George Gershwin, who needs no introduction in this crowd.” To his orchestra he added, “Let’s show Monsieur Ravel what swing means,” and struck up a brisk “I’m Gonna Hang Around My Sugar.”
George excused himself and wandered off. Minutes later, Margaret rose. Oscar and Maurice concentrated on the music while sipping their beverages. Kay looked for George in the crowd.
When George returned he said, “Forgive me, fellas, but I have to catch some z’s.” He glanced at his watch. “Early business and all that. Oscar, can you escort Kay to her place, and Monsieur Ravel to his hotel?” He slapped a fifty-dollar bill onto the table.
“How could I say no to that?” said Oscar, eyeing the excessive sum.
“I’m ready to leave, too.” Kay started to rise.
“You’ll be fine, Kay,” said George. “Just don’t let these rascals mess with you.” He pecked her on the nose and turned toward the door.
Ellington broke into a “Down in Our Alley Blues” that dripped with New Orleans remoulade flavor. But Kay felt increasingly restless. And then: “What happened to Margaret?” she asked no one in particular.
The men exchanged a glance.
“She’s a showgirl.” Oscar shrugged. “Or should I say, a show-but-don’t-tell girl.”
With a rising sense of dread, Kay looked down into her drink.
An hour later, in a cab he’d hired to drive the three of them home, Oscar turned to her. “You haven’t fallen for this big shot, I hope. I have nothing but respect for George as a musician, a composer, a painter. The guy’s an idiot savant, what can I tell you. But this settling-down business he has not figured out. He’s got songbirds falling out of the trees.”
“Are you implying that women are just playthings for George?” asked Kay.
“I’m saying celebrity is a disease,” replied Oscar. “And he’s got it bad. You and I are lucky in that regard. At least so far. Though I could use a little less luck and a little more notoriety.”
With an unsteady hand Kay removed a cigarette from its package. Oscar lit it for her. “I’d hate to see a talented, one-in-a-million dame like you get bruised.”
She blew a cloud of smoke out the window.
As the cab drew to a stop in front of her home Oscar patted Kay’s hand. “Take a couple aspirin. Get a good night’s sleep. This is just a node.”
She frowned. “A node?”
“One beat in the magnificent concerto of your life.” He winked.
* * *
Returning home a little after eleven, Kay found Jimmy in the parlor puffing on cigars and drinking cognac with guests. “Right on cue, Kay.” He rose to introduce her. “This is Elisabeth and this is Carl. You know Edgar already. They’d like to hear ‘Little White Lies.’ ”
Carl had a thin moustache and slicked-back hair. Elisabeth’s eyes were the hue of Connecticut mud; she wore bright lipstick and a gray dress. Together they presented the appearance of two fashionable individuals of limited means, eager to make an impression on a renowned banking institution. Edgar, impeccable and subdued, was an associate of Jimmy’s and a friend from college.
“Of course,” agreed Kay, stifling her inner turmoil. What is George up to?
As they walked toward the piano, she whispered to her husband, “Why don’t you let me do the singing.”
Despite her inebriation and fatigue, or perhaps because of it, she played and sang “Little White Lies” in a fluid, Gershwinesque manner. Her fingers felt as sloppy as warm Camembert. No one seemed to notice—except Jimmy. He frowned for the briefest moment. Her fingers stumbled. But when she finished, all he said was, “Now, ‘When The Lights Turn Green.’ ”
Again, she played and sang.
“These are a kick,” commented Carl.
“Smashing,” said Elisabeth.
“Splendid,” said Jimmy. “Then we’ve clinched the fundamentals. Let’s talk again Monday.”
After he escorted them to the door Jimmy swung around to face his wife. “What’s bothering you, Kay?”
“Nothing,” she said.
Jimmy looked at her with concern, then said: “Carl and Elisabeth were looking to finance a show. Normally I wouldn’t get within a football throw of this kind of investment. But Kay, it pains me to see your songs floundering like,” he searched for a simile, “like flounder. On the shore.”
“The Hotel Astor show,” she reminded him, “didn’t get us far.”
“Then let’s keep trying, shall we?” He returned to the parlor, where he snuffed out all three cigars. “It’s about exposure. And
more exposure.”
Kay picked up his cognac snifter and drained it. “They have a book?”
“That and two nickels.” Jimmy turned off the lights and escorted her upstairs. “It’s called Say When, by Calvin Brown. A Harvard man and a decent wordsmith.” Before retiring to his bedroom he added, “I’m under no illusions, Kay. Some shows turn ridiculous profits, others crash and sink. I’m not aware of any way to predict these things. It’s on a par with gambling and I’m not going to stake our roof on it. But again, this is not about the money.” He held her shoulders and kissed her.
* * *
Soon after her head collided with her pillow, the alcohol lulled her into a carefree sleep where thoughts of Margaret Manners and Oscar Levant faded. A few hours later, though, she woke. She tried turning onto her left side and her right side, and staring at the ceiling, to no avail.
Her mind raced. She was not thinking about “Little White Lies” or Jimmy’s show business experiment. Not even about music. She was thinking about where she stood and where she was going. About George. About Jimmy.
She would have preferred not to devote a moment’s attention to questions of desire, sexuality, intimacy, or love. But now they mattered more than anything. More than melody. More than applause. The paradox involved in loving two men but not being able to love either fully, and not feeling loved in a satisfying way by either, was tearing her apart. Was she at fault, for harboring impossible expectations of others, and of herself?
All three of them—she, George, and Jimmy—had grown up in more-or-less traditional families. Although the customs differed in name and flavor—Protestant Christian, Shtetl Jewish, Court Jewish—their notions of morality were similar. Marriage was a holy sacrament. People strayed. Such errors were shameful but human.
Jimmy saw all this as hypocrisy. In his view, to stray was indeed human but not shameful. Like Prohibition, all the moralistic preaching through the centuries amounted to nothing but ninety-eight-point-six-degree wind. George saw marriage as a distant goal, something to aspire to but possibly never reach. For Kay, physical desire and romantic entanglement were of a piece. That was the problem. That, and an aching dissatisfaction with the status quo that had been increasing since long before the Rhapsody in Blue premiere. All this was complicated by the fact that Jimmy was a debonair, decent, generous man. Not without his flaws, certainly. His wandering, geographical and emotional. His smugness. His certitude that his analyses of—well, of everything—were accurate, which his triumphs in school, business, and society had seemed to vindicate. His need to feel admired. His difficulty accepting defeat.
She had to admit to herself, though, that George was a rascal too. Yes, she had plugged herself into him, or him into her, through music. So had millions of others. Such was the power of melody, its universality, its ambiguousness. In the vigor and lyricism of a Rhapsody in Blue or a New York Concerto his audience discovered a canvas on which to illustrate feelings and dreams. But like dreams, sounds emerge one moment only to disappear the next, as George had observed at Bydale. Not the ideal foundation on which to construct one’s hopes. She wished she could stifle her feelings but as Adele Astaire had pointed out, for people like her, emotions always trumped reason. To try to talk herself out of them would be futile. At the same time, she had no claim on George—as long as she was married to another man.
Finally, little by little, these real-world preoccupations yielded again to sleep and dream-world imagery. She was standing in a line at the docks. An enormous ship loomed before her. The placard in front of the gangway read “Nineveh.” She had never heard of such a place. Someone was singing somewhere. It sounded like a scratchy record. Caruso, perhaps, or Jolson?
* * *
Bleary-eyed in a slim shift, wearing a cloche hat and clutching a matching handbag, she took a cab the next morning to George’s apartment. She feared she might catch George red-faced in the arms of that floozy, Miss Manners or whatever her real name was. More likely, George’s valet would turn her away. But nothing of the sort happened. Paul escorted her up to George, who was hard at work with his brother Ira just as on any other morning.
“Get an earful of this, Kay!” He played an ascending progression that combined major and minor seventh chords with a dash-dot, dash-dot beat.
“Daah dah-daah dah,” Ira sang gayly. He gestured as if turning a wheel.
George played the progression again. “I got some-thing,” tried Ira. And he tried again: “I got some-thing.” And then he asked, “What do I got? I got daah-dah.”
“What you’ve got?” tried Kay. “You’ve got music.”
Ira tried it. “I got mu—sic. Works!”
“That’s it!” shouted George.
They played it through again, with Ira singing “I got music, I got music, I got daah-dah Daah da daah daah dada daah daah.”
That was how they worked. Unlike other songwriting teams, in which one man—always a man—wrote the lyrics, and another devised the music, George and Ira collaborated on every note, every syllable. George invented the melody, which often included a rhythmic hook. Ira found a mood and a few words to match. Then he concocted the rest of the lyrics around that nugget. If Ira’s lyrics turned out more rueful than George’s music but otherwise fit, they would slow the song down. Other times they would speed it up, or modify the chords or the key. They would further adjust the text, word by word. Matching the music to the lyric was like tuning a saxophone to a flute until no space was left between the pitches.
Kay slammed the keyboard cover, almost hitting George’s precious fingers before he pulled them away. “George, did you bed that tramp?”
Ira looked down.
“Who?” asked George with a frown.
“The so-called Margaret Manners, who has none.”
“What are you blabbing about?”
Kay shot him a don’t-you-dare-lie-to-me stare. “Well, did you? Did you make love to her?”
He shook his head. “She made love to me!”
Kay stepped closer and slapped him. “I will not have you toying with my heart.”
George brought his hand to his cheek. “That’s not what I was toying with.”
Another cheap joke. Another weak effort to laugh off her pain. “Oh, yes, it was,” said Kay.
“See ya later, fellas,” mumbled Ira as he left.
George stood up. His dark eyes probed hers. “She’s just a girl, Kay. A nice showgirl. Nothing to get steamed up about.”
“A girl! Is that how you think about women? About me?”
“What does this have to do with you?”
She stared at him, her hands clenched. “You left with her, George. Everybody saw. Why’d you have to humiliate me?”
George frowned. “Humiliate you?”
“Oh, drop it. You’re all the same. How could I have been so blind?”
She collapsed into a leather chair. For the first time, she and he were standing on opposite rims of the gender divide, which suddenly gaped as wide as the Grand Canyon. They could hardly hear each other.
He sailed across that chasm and landed in front of her, kneeling. “Kay, you’re married. Jimmy’s an upstanding fellow. I never promised anything, did I? But that dancer last night, I’ve got no illusions. Hell, she’s got no illusions. She’s not you, Kay.”
Kay covered her face with her hands.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby,” added George removing her wet hands from her eyes. “My life is a cannonball. Someone fired it in the middle of a war. Always flying and I have no idea where I’ll land. But when I do I sure hope you’ll be nearby.”
She sniffled.
“Meantime,” he added hastily, “they’re calling me to London. Oh, Kay!’s busting the box office over there, just like it did here. Everyone’s hollering for an interview. Then, back to Paris. They’re asking me to perform the New York Concerto. And I’m going to study with Nadia Boulanger.”
Oh, Kay! She knew the songs. She had transcribed them. She knew the s
tory, too, which revolved around the romantic misadventures of a certain Jimmy and a certain Kay, set in a milieu of unlimited wealth, drunken revelry, and Prohibition law enforcement. At the show’s peak, in the midst of the tomfoolery, Kay soliloquizes:
There’s a somebody I’m longing to see.
I hope that he turns out to be
someone to watch over me.
That song was a tease. George knew Kay was waiting, and wanted her to know he knew. In New York, “Someone To Watch Over Me” was the chart topper of the show. The world was celebrating her turmoil.
“I’m happy for you,” she said in a small voice. “Have a good trip.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Two weeks later, Elisabeth and Carl were holding auditions for Say When. Kay so wanted this to be an exhilarating time for her and Jimmy, but the director and producer stipulated that the financiers were forbidden to assert oversight rights. Precisely two of their songs, “Little White Lies” and “When the Lights Turn Green,” would be interpolated.
Having experienced the preproduction of A Connecticut Yankee Kay understood the process, which involved ruthless self-criticism and the willingness to alter every detail, depending on what happened when dance shoes hit floorboards.
Dick Rodgers, not a particularly generous man, was touting Kay as the best rehearsal pianist in New York. Nevertheless, the producers of Say When barred her and Jimmy from pre-production. Jimmy, ever the optimist, consoled her that their purpose was to hear their songs performed on a Broadway stage.
Only when the night of the dress rehearsal arrived did Kay and Jimmy learn that their two songs had been dropped in, rather than showcased. The audience applauded politely but Kay listened in vain for the uproarious response she had expected. The show as a whole was only mildly entertaining; the audience response, tepid.
Kay wondered how this could have happened, what could have gone so wrong. Everyone involved in Say When was experienced, hardworking, and ambitious. How could all of them, pooling their resources, have failed so miserably? Elisabeth and Carl had been convinced they had a hit.
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