by Ami Rao
‘Don’t be facetious. It’s a serious question. You’ll be thinking of me when the time comes.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ Ameena said wryly.
‘They’re so similar, you know, theologically. Judaism and Islam.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Don’t tell anyone but I studied theology in college until junior year. I wanted to become a nun for the longest time.’
Ameena turned to her in mock horror. ‘You? A nun! I haven’t heard of anything more ridiculous.’
‘Well, I did.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, like you, I discovered fingers.’
Ameena shook her head. ‘You’re a bad woman, Whitney, pure evil.’
She smiled at Ameena as she walked away. ‘Yeah, that’s why I’m not a nun. I’m your boss.’
‘By the way,’ Ameena said to David later, on the subway downtown, ‘Whitney thinks you’re gorgeous.’
‘Oh yeah? And what do you think?’
She blushed. ‘I think… it was very nice of you to come with me tonight.’
‘Well, it was very nice of you to ask me to come with you tonight.’
‘Hey,’ she said tapping his arm playfully, changing the subject masterfully, ‘so what’s this thing with New Yorkers and oysters?’
2.4
A series of text messages the following morning:
A: You online?
D: hi!
A: Hi
A: Jazz question
D: yes?
A: I have…
D: sure
A: Are you really good?
D: huh?
A: I mean, do people who matter think you are?
D: good?
A: Yeah. How good are you, really? Who am I dating?
D: me
D: (hopefully)
A: Skilful evasion
D: not at all
A: Tell me?
D: at?
D: analytic philosophy?
D: discursive argument?
D: branding flavored yogurt?
D: racquet sports?
D: lovemaking?
A: Stop!
D: but i was just getting started ;)
A: At your music
D: how good am i at my music?
A: Yes
D: i don’t have the answer
A: ?
D: the answer
D: is in the music
A: Ok
D: solely in the music
D: the rest…
D: it almost doesn’t matter
A: What matters?
D: what matters?
A: Yes
A: What matters? A list…
A: Please
D: you’re asking me…
A: Yes
D: …what matters?
A: Yes
D: that is not a jazz question
D: that is a lying-in-bed-post-orgasm question
A: Blimey!
D: is that like, oh my?
A: Oh my!
2.5
By the following week, the heat was oppressive. As they did every year, New Yorkers celebrated the first month of summer, and then they moaned and sweated and wished someone had a dial they could use to turn it all down.
David and Ameena spent their spare time indoors with the windows open and the fans on, Ameena creating art in her apartment, David making music in his. They saw each other at night, venturing out like night birds when the darkness descended, and a breeze cooled the air and the heat disappeared into the ground in a big billow of steam, into all the millions of manholes that dotted the city streets.
It was a happy summer, that summer, with David and Ameena working towards something, both of their own, and also of their togetherness, and there was a tension in the uncertainty, and a certain excitement, but also a feeling of expectation; the kind of hope that makes us all, from time to time, feel glad to be alive.
2.6
‘Do you ever feel,’ Ameena remarked offhandedly when David came to sit with her between sets, ‘that this isn’t your music to play?’
Ameena had started watching David perform with more and more regularity. Occasionally, but not always, David would mention when he was playing and where, and occasionally, but not always, he would see Ameena in the audience. Whenever he did, however, he would – not occasionally but always – feel lifted by the sight of her, by her presence. And Ameena too – not occasionally but always – would feel glad to be there, her gladness extending from a growing love for David, but also for jazz itself, for its expression and its freedom and its power to elicit such rapture.
That night, David was playing as a stand-in for the regular pianist in a band – a trio – at a club, up in Harlem.
‘Woah, where did that come from?’ David raised his arms, palms facing forwards. On his face was a look of such complete shock that Ameena was taken aback by it.
‘Sorry, did I upset you? I didn’t mean to be insulting in any way.’
‘Jazz is my life, Ameena.’
Anger, just a touch, but she’d never heard that before, not in him, not towards her. It felt new and strangely unsettling.
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just… Nothing. It was an irresponsible thing to say, I’m so sorry…’
David shook his head, brought the arms down, because it’s not like she’s the first person to ask that question or think it or whatever. He said, ‘You know what, don’t apologize. It’s a fair enough thought to have. I’m just surprised it came up that’s all, kinda out of the blue like that.’
‘No… I was just looking at you guys up there… you know and…’
‘And I’m the only white guy?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘White Men Can’t Jazz?’ David said, seeing the funny side.
‘No, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to have political arguments,’ Ameena said, looking mortified, ‘with you of all people.’
David touched her shoulder. ‘Don’t be silly, we’re not arguing,’ he said lightly, but then she saw his face grow serious. ‘You know, let’s say I even started to think like that.’ He looked at the two musicians standing a little way in front of them, chatting casually to a couple in the audience. ‘That would be my own insecurity speaking, a whole bunch of imagined issues related to how I view my jazz skills, and those guys would be the first to set me straight. That is my political argument. And that is the beauty of America, and of the black community, and of this music.’
She nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said clutching her glass with both hands.
‘Stop looking so aghast, honestly! Put that glass down. You’re gripping it so hard it’s going to break. Listen, please, I’ve always believed, that if you think it, it’s good to express it.’ He shrugged. ‘That way, at least there can be a conversation about it.’
‘Okay,’ she said again but put her drink back on the table, the dark honey-coloured liquid swimming around a single prismatic cube of ice like a miniature, undiscovered galaxy.
It’s a strong drink. The higher up you go on this island, Peggy had once warned her, the stronger the drinks. They are way up in Harlem tonight and she’s feeling it. Any higher and I’ll be flying, she thinks dryly.
It isn’t just the whisky, the whole place is oozing character. Original floors, panelled walls, small electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling in festive clusters like glowing grapes. Framing one wall, a line of tables, a threadbare maroon carpet in the centre, and along the other wall, an impressively well-stocked bar, serving, as Ameena discovered, some seriously potent alcohol. The bandstand – where the action takes place every night – sits just there in front, so there’s no physical separation between the musicians and everyone else. Very democratic, Ameena thinks approvi
ngly of the set-up, very, ‘this-is-jazz’.
‘Come here,’ David was saying now, as he placed her sideways on his lap, with his arm round her shoulder, and he marvelled once again at how light she was, how petite. ‘Serious conversation. You know how, that very first time you watched me play, we spoke about syncopation? Well, here’s the other half of your history lesson. If jazz got its syncopation from ragtime and Dixieland and all the different forms of New Orleans music, it got something else from blues – its capacity to uplift you. Listen to jazz, there’s so much of America in its origins; American culture lives in it. And New Orleans was where it all first came together – the blues, black church music, Caribbean music, European marching band music, piano music – all of it, to create the roots of jazz. Then it travelled and evolved, from Dixieland, through swing, through the 40s, through New York City bebop, through Coltrane, through post-bop, into the modern jazz you’re listening to tonight – its history is the glory of American life! This is African-American music that I play, and you can’t ever forget that, which doesn’t mean that you can’t play it – there’s a difference.’
His words made her glance towards the other two musicians, who were laughing at the minute with a pretty waitress in a short dress. He’s right, she thought, these are genius musicians affirming their humanity.
Ameena had met the bassist before on more than one occasion – a young, handsome Trinidadian with a great smile. David played with him regularly and often spoke about his ‘support’ – it’s kind of like the binder in paint, it holds it all together, he’d explained. The bassist caught her eye then and flashed her that great smile. She nodded and smiled back.
The drummer, she met for the first time earlier that night, after the second set.
‘You were so good,’ she said appreciatively.
‘You good too,’ he replied with a wide grin, ‘just fine.’
‘Was he flirting with me?’ she asked David later.
‘Probably,’ David laughed. ‘He’s ninety-four by the way.’
‘Get out!’
‘I’m totally serious.’
‘But… how?’
He shrugged, still smiling. ‘Genes, music, sex, religion, who knows!’
‘Right,’ David was saying now, swinging her round on his lap, so she was turned facing him, ‘end of serious conversation.’ He picked up the whisky glass to hand back to her, then, on a whim, examined it carefully and brought his own mouth to the exact spot where her lipstick had marked the minute geography of her lips.
He took a swig and instantly grimaced.
‘Wow,’ he said, ‘that’s a serious drink.’
‘I know,’ she said, tingling from the romance of what he’d just done.
And now it’s like everything is fine between them and twenty minutes earlier she had just asked a question out of ignorance and he had felt the need to point that out, but she knows she had pressed a button, and the button had activated what we all have inside us, the thing that protects us, the thing that makes us want to impress other people, while really only trying to impress ourselves. But at the same time, for some reason, she doesn’t feel particularly insulted by it, either by his apparent intellectual superiority or by his need to point that out. In fact, she is moved by what he is saying, both the story and the telling of it. There is nothing false about any of that. It is lovely.
He is touching her hair now, running his fingers through the individual strands, feeling their weight.
‘You know, Ameena, when I listened to jazz for the first time all those years ago, I fell in love with what I was hearing without knowing anything about the musicians, their racial, ethnic, cultural backgrounds... nothing. I just felt the power of the music in some kind of elemental way. What’s important, for anyone who likes to listen to this music, but particularly for me as a wannabe jazz musician, is to respect the beauty and the history of its tradition. And the soulfulness of the music itself and the magic of how it’s done.’
‘That much I know,’ she said, sighing, ‘and it’s beautiful.’
‘It is. It’s why I fell in love with it.’
‘Thank you for explaining.’
‘Thank you too, for wanting to understand.’
‘So,’ she said, reaching for his arm that he had placed loosely round her shoulder and bringing the back of his hand to her mouth, ‘speaking of how it’s done, when you’re up there and your eyes are closed and your mouth is open, in that oh-so-sexy way, what are you thinking?’
‘Ameena, are you drunk?’ David said, his face breaking into a smile.
‘Drunk? Me? Never! Is it wrong to ask my jazz pianist lover what he’s thinking when he’s doing something he loves doing even more than when he’s doing me?’
He shook his head, laughing now. ‘Okay, you’re drunk. But nope. Not wrong at all. What am I thinking? Ah, let’s see. Hmm… well, if you really want to know, I am trying to, as best I can, hear and react to every single note that is being played by the bass and the drums – and myself – at every single millisecond.’ He snapped his fingers twice. ‘It’s this kind of interpenetration… a constant conversation, you hear each other’s music and you respond, so everything that I play is a reaction to everything that I just played and that everybody else is playing, in that moment. And that’s the beauty and the challenge of this music – it pushes us, and we push it back.’
He nodded. ‘Yup. Great jazz is made by multiple people playing together with that kind of necessity and mindset. So, there’s no room for anything other than that.’
Then he paused and looked at her. Her mouth on the peak of his knuckles was wet and warm. ‘Except maybe, sometimes, but just very occasionally, for you.’
2.7
The place was Back Bay in Boston and fifteen-year-old David, who had taken the Peter Pan up from Rhode Island to watch a band perform at a famous jazz club that night, walked into the music section of a well-known bookshop and picked up a book called Jazz: How to Become One of the Greats.
He was flicking through the pages when a voice whispered softly in his ear, ‘You’re wastin’ your money.’
David flipped round and noticed, standing behind him flicking through the pages of some other book – a recipe book, apparently of French cuisine, Bouillabaisse: The Definitive Guide, it said on the cover – a man in dark glasses even though, David observed, it was rather dark inside the shop.
David stopped flicking through the pages.
‘Me?’ he said nervously.
‘Yeah! You’re wastin’ your money,’ the man repeated, looking down at a picture of a giant orange crustacean. ‘That title? That’s all wrong.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s like this: think Miles learned to play by readin’ a book?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Coltrane?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Charlie Parker?’
‘No, sir.’
‘By spendin’ hundreds of dollars sittin’ in a classroom?’
‘No, sir.’
He nodded his head vigorously. ‘Right. That’s right. Ain’t nobody learned no jazz by readin’ a book like that.’
Then he looked David up and down and his tone softened somewhat.
‘You know what? You seem like a nice boy. Hardworkin’ too. Do yourself a favour. Get outta here, go find someone who’s got these tunes on a tape an’ copy ’em. Listen up – ten tunes, alright: “So What, Moanin’”, “Autumn Leaves”, “Blue Bossa”, “Summertime”, “Straight”, “No Chaser”, “Take the A Train”, “Cantaloupe Island”, “Blue Train”, “Freddie Freeloader”. You listenin’ boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘You got ’em? In your head, I mean?’
‘I… I think so,’ David sputtered.
‘Good,’ he said, sounding pleased to hear that. ‘That’s the first lesson learned already the
n. Now all you gotta do is find ’em. Then copy ’em. Then listen to ’em. Then listen again. And then again. Then go out an’ play with other nice boys like yourself. That’s how you learn jazz. Wanna be great? Here’s a secret: The greatest jazz musicians are those who produce the best music together. The bandstand is their book. That’s the secret, you can thank me later.’
It was a few weeks gone when David was back in Boston to watch another band at Wally’s that he looked at the man in the dark glasses on stage and understood that he had learned one of the most valuable lessons in his jazz education from one of the greatest living percussionists of all time.
2.8
When it came to her art, Ameena liked to work in private, in solitude, but sometimes, though rarely, she let Peggy watch.
‘They all look so calm,’ Ameena had observed of the musicians at a classical concert that she had recently gone to with David – a friend of his was playing the piano and had invited them – ‘so unperturbed, even in a hall chock-full of people. How?’
‘Vodka shot,’ David had replied with a straight face.
Ameena had looked at him horrified. ‘No!’
David had smiled at the look on her face. ‘Sometimes. Or whisky. Swig of whisky. Weed. Valium. Whatever it takes. It’s psychology at the end of the day.’ He tapped the side of his forehead with two fingers. ‘All in the mind.’
‘You too?’
‘Sure, sometimes. But more these guys. It’s not easy to display such spectacularly perfect technique in front of two thousand people every night. Mine’s a different kind of musicianship, I don’t need to achieve that level of perfection technically like these guys do, and by technically, I mean their ability to execute material perfectly at the instrument without making any mistakes and having perfect sound and never missing a note, night after night after night. Different brain-state. Make a mistake in a jazz gig, not many will notice; make one in a string quartet and everybody will.’
She had nodded. ‘I’d be terrified. I’m not sure I could ever do what you guys do, put yourself out there like that – you’re so… exposed! For the longest time, I never even signed my name on my artwork. Even now, I have to paint alone, and in a place where no one is watching me.’
