It’s said that, on a particularly hot night, in the shadow of magnolias, talking together on the terrace of a hotel in the United States, Oscar thanked Norman for a gesture he’d made: he’d stood up to the owner of a hall who insisted that whites be placed in the even-numbered seats, and the blacks in the odd, as was the custom in those parts. Despite the guns, the chains, the baseball bats, and the avalanche of insults from some rednecks, Norman stood firm, thanks to the complicity of the police, whose higher-ups he’d brought onside, thanks to some generous bribes. The impresario shrugged his shoulders, and this apparent indifference made a big impression on Oscar, who right then began pondering, as he confessed to those close to him, what the scandalmongers were bruiting about concerning Norman: that his antiracist campaign was all a sham, since he was interested in, and guided by, nothing more than his lust for money. After a moment, Norman gestured to him to come closer and murmured in his ear that, in a collaboration like theirs, everyone had to do his part. It seems that, although he knew what he was implying, Oscar asked him to be more precise. Norman sat back in his chair, tilted his hat back on his head, and looked around him again so that all the lights from the streetlamps were reflected in his gaze. Have I not kept my word? he asked, in a voice as mellifluous as the note from an oboe. Did you not get everything you wanted? O.P. nodded with a frightened air, after which Norman mumbled a sentence whose last words, it appears, are the only ones he understood: Art T. If the ogre, as you call him, is in our line of sight, we’ll never reach the top, right? Oscar didn’t assent right away, too preoccupied, it seems, remembering a saying that was a favourite of his mother’s: the cat steps differently when he wants to catch a rat.
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It was about that time when Oscar, it appears, began to have a dream about running into Art T. leaning at a bar alone, mum as a frog, his gaze focused obstinately on the beer in front of him, totally indifferent to the revolver being pointed directly at him. Invariably, O.P. ended up panicking, his heart loud in his chest and perspiration coursing down his cheeks. When he fired point blank, Art did not crumble, he just sat there as if nothing had happened and didn’t even deign to look his way. In another dream, Oscar was walking on a bridge, large stretches of which were hidden in thick fog. When he met Art by chance, he went up to him and tried in vain to throw him into the water below. Every nightmare left him starting upright in bed, all in a sweat, panting as if he’d just run a hundred yard dash. Marguerite, waking, asked him if everything was all right. A bad actor, he said of course, I’m fine, and turned his back.
One night, when Oscar was rehearsing in a Manhattan bar, it’s said that a young man came to tell him that the great Bud P., who defined bebop piano at that time, was playing a stone’s throw away at another bar and that he’d be more than honoured if Oscar were to sit in on his show. Ordinarily, after each performance, Oscar wanted only one thing: to go and find Marguerite under the hotel room bedcovers to breathe in the aroma of dark, wet spruce that emanated from her recurring dreams. However, so as not to offend this fellow musician, who was known for his extreme sensitivity, he decided, it seems, to find his way to the bar in question, if only for half an hour, and to make his presence felt. The room, smaller and darker than that where he himself performed, was packed with enthusiasts spellbound by Bud’s energetic, dissonant, and angry playing. Oscar sat down at the very back and ordered a soft drink. When Bud spotted him out of the corner of his eye, he asked the public to warmly applaud the fabulous pianist who was honouring them with his presence, and he dedicated his next piece to him, which inspired Oscar to raise a glass to his health.
His playing soon had Oscar deeply perplexed. Was he mistaken, or was Bud embarking on a long introduction to “Tenderly,” the piece everyone identified with Oscar ever since the beginning of his career? Was it, again, his imagination that was playing tricks on him, or was Bud now mimicking his all-powerful left hand, his wry touch, and his impetuous runs up and down the scale? When he heard Bud’s first chuckle, then those of his followers—even more wounding—he had the awful feeling that his ears had begun to bleed. After a few measures, certain now that this fool was having him on, Oscar rose and left. He wandered into the night, where every vehicle that passed seemed bent on attacking him personally. How to respond to such an affront, rawtid? In the end—and perhaps that’s what he found hard to grasp—it’s written in the stars that sooner or later someone will pave the way for the envious and the indolent who look at hard-won success and choose to call it “luck.”
That night, he woke Marguerite to spill out everything that was weighing on his heart. When his mistress advised him, between two yawns, to forget that story, not to take it so seriously, because there were jealous people everywhere and there always would be, he felt that his suffering left her cold, and he got up and slammed the door to go and join Norman G. at the hotel bar. The incident with Bud P. seemed to amuse his impresario, who, without being aware of it, concurred with Marguerite: he had not seen the last of that envy-ridden clique. With this foul bog of rancour still brewing inside him, Oscar launched into a diatribe against Bud P. and his music, snatches of which were overheard by several late-night drinkers. They claim that O.P.’s rage drew gales of laughter from Norman, who in response, told him what he knew about that strange individual: that he was unstable, and into drugs up to his ears. A scrapper, he broke with everybody, always over trifles; he was an egoistic monster, a lunatic. Norman patted Oscar’s hand and told him not to worry, he’d take care of it. And on that note, he ordered two more whiskeys on the rocks.
A few days later, after a show, he was told that Miles D., a trumpet player very much in vogue, had that very day declared on the radio, at an hour when there was a large listening public, that Oscar clearly had a lot to learn about the blues. He was not from the United States, where jazz was born, that much was obvious. What was more, he plagiarized just about everyone in sight, had no originality, and was bone lazy. As Oscar sank into a state of bitter despondency, Ray and Herb urged him to ignore the spiteful remarks; but that was easier said than done, because, to all appearances, Miles D.’s words echoed constantly in his head. Back in his hotel room he told all this to Marguerite, but she, not daring to say anything now for fear that he would explode, just answered in monosyllables, which Oscar took for indifference, and he slammed the door again, this time to go and take the air. While a mean wind was heralding the imminent arrival of winter, he brooded and reflected on a human nature abruptly revealed to him in all its shabby spitefulness. From this point on, a favourite strategy of those who wanted to denigrate his music was to espouse the trumpeter’s argument that he had no roots in jazz, ignoring all those whom old Jackson always ordered us to remember: the West Indians who helped invent this divine music in the American South early in the century.
It’s said that a few months later, as he was sipping his coffee at home and leafing through the paper, Oscar choked and sprayed brown liquid onto his shirtsleeves and into his wife’s face on learning that Bud P., the mad pianist, had just died of tuberculosis. As Beverly was swabbing herself off with a towel, Oscar recalled, not without remorse, his impresario’s words, declaring that he would “take care of” Bud. As his wife tried to hold back her tears, he found himself wondering—while unconsciously smearing jam on his face with his fingers—what power this man had. Bloodseed, was his mother right about him? It wasn’t the first time he’d noted such a coincidence, he’d already heard about the disappearance of three people who’d had differences with Norman G. In all cases, the authorities found their bodies only months later, one in a dump, one in a rocky riverbed, and one in an obscure alleyway in a sordid Chicago neighbourhood. It was said that two of the victims had not long before injected themselves with dope that some mysterious and providential soul had left on their doorsteps.
Meanwhile, every time he came back to Montreal, Oscar confessed to his friends that the city was a bit more unrecognizable. The new mayor had initiated
a “big clean-up,” as the papers called it, and he was targeting the jazz bars, with their share of bootleggers, pimps, and bookmakers. Just one stroll was enough for Oscar to see the changes underway; not only were the bars closing, but they were being replaced by clubs where francophone chansonniers performed, such as the one he came across one night, a dignified gentleman with a scarf around his neck, strumming his guitar, and singing about a driverless train speeding northwards. And the papers were saying that the French Canadians were organizing to try to free whole sections of the population from poverty, under the inscrutable gaze of the old Chef, who—and here, the papers were silent—on the one hand blew on the embers of nationalism in his fiery speeches, and on the other made dubious deals with English Canadian businessmen and the priests.
Norman G. didn’t at all like the idea that French Canadians might hold the reins of power and urged Oscar to move to Toronto, a city, he argued, that was not burdened with the French language, where the jazz scene was expanding, and where, no small thing, money grew on trees. Was the decision as easy to make as it seemed? Was he not sensitive to the obvious sorrow in the family at the prospect of his leaving? Did he wonder if he’d be able to go on creating there with the same energy? Probably he dismissed those considerations with the back of his hand, since he already saw himself as a rocket that was steadily drawing away from the earth, one whose momentum, for the moment, had something exhilarating about it. Besides, as he had long since acquired the habit of throwing himself into his work to forget his cares, one might conclude that that is exactly what he did. He moved his little family into a wealthy Toronto suburb while secretly renting an apartment downtown for Marguerite. Beverly, who suspected what was going on behind her back, was no longer reluctant to say things as she saw them: I know that the faithful wife wears the worn clothes, O.P., I’m not dumb.
One winter night, during his last number in a Washington bar, he was fighting off sleep, the sweat was coursing down his temples and onto the keyboard drop by drop, his fingers were sliding around, and false notes kept intruding into his playing. It was one of those days when he wasn’t comfortable and when his music held no magic, as he confessed to his friends. While the public, which you had to believe was being rocked to sleep as well, was applauding without much enthusiasm, Ray gestured with his head so he’d look towards the bar’s front door. When Oscar saw the misshapen, ogre-like silhouette, he ventured, it seems, a tired smile. For months he’d been accepting all invitations to play in Washington and Los Angeles, the two cities where Art T. appeared most often.
When the show was over he joined Art, who was there with his distinctive, involuntary grimace, just like in the photos, sitting at the bar in front of a glass of beer with an ample head, exactly as in Oscar’s dreams. The ogre vigorously shook his hand and gave him a falsely nonchalant embrace, as if they already knew each other. Oscar played better when he was falling asleep, Art said to him, because then the unconscious, that devil, threw reason to the winds. But he shouldn’t try to dethrone him, he was the king, and if he had to fight bare knuckle to defend his title, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second. At these words, Oscar went cold, while Art contorted with laughter. The barman followed suit, as did all the other drinkers around, after which Oscar had no choice but to join in the collective hilarity. According to what he confided to one of his friends, Art was worse than he’d imagined him: he was a monster of vanity, plagued by a competitive urge that he barely bothered to camouflage behind a gruff, brash facade.
As soon as Oscar offered an opinion on a city or a fellow musician, Art took a large swig of beer and cut him off, as if he found what he had to say inexpressibly tedious. When Art paused for breath, Oscar chanced a look, and each time Art was glaring at him, as if to say that despite his blindness, he too still had an eye. It has to be said that Art—this was well known—tended to associate courtesy with honesty, viewing the former as the source of the second, and demanding that everyone respect it, with the notable exception of himself. And when Art asked if he wanted to continue the discussion elsewhere, O.P. didn’t hesitate to say yes. Was he respecting to the letter the well-known adage dear to Norman G.’s heart, which stipulated that you had to keep your friends close to you and your enemies even closer?
The party took place in a neighbourhood populated exclusively by breddas, and in fact, Oscar saw nothing but breddas in the vast, dimly lit apartment. It seemed to be a crowd made up primarily of artists, who, after their shows, came to chat over a beer and ribs grilled on a back balcony barbecue by a cook who, in spite of the bitter cold, was dressed only in overalls. After lifting the needle off the turntable, Art announced, while massaging Oscar’s neck, that here in his company was a young man who had come to fame by interpreting almost all the pieces that had brought glory to himself ten years earlier. But not to worry, he’d long since chalked it all up to inexperience and forgiven the offence, a remark that elicited scattered laughter. The young man, he went on, was a marvellous pianist who was now going to show them what he was made of. There followed a burst of applause, after which Oscar, once again, had no choice but to approach the piano and attack the keys at a furious pace, because in these duels the whole point was to make an impression. Except that he felt like he was playing in a vacuum, spitting into the wind, and his music’s magic didn’t function, especially since he was being assailed by Art’s potent breath, with its smell of garlic, alcohol, and tobacco.
Soon, Art nudged his hip, sat himself down on the bench beside him, and added his own melodic bass line, instantly animating the guests gathered round. When Oscar ceded the entire keyboard to Art, his vigorous playing released liberating cries, joyously incredulous laughter, and applause that bit by bit modulated into an orgy of whistles and exclamations. After a while the apartment became such a carnival scene that Oscar, if you could believe what he later said, saw, as he cast his eyes around, that all the celebrants were now sporting brightly coloured clothes. Bloodseed, had the ogre planned all that? Were all these people part of a plot to lure him into this trap? When Art finished his piece and passed his hand through Oscar’s hair, he waited quietly on the bench hoping for a tap on the shoulder—which never came—to tip him off that the whole sequence of events had been arranged in advance.
In his interviews, Oscar avoided any hint of a conflict with his rival, but various confessions he made to those close to him lead one to believe that this episode had him questioning himself for weeks. If it was clear that his music was grounded in a technique superior to that of Art T., it was nevertheless more sober and restrained. Art’s playing bore the mark of raw authenticity, and his own, a studied beauty that was in some sense artificial. During a breakfast in one of the rare diners in the South open to blacks as well as whites, Ray and Herb, for all their reassurances regarding the quality of his improvisations, could not make him back down: compared to his music, that of the ogre seethed with life, reeked of sweat, exposed the naked man in all his stark reality. Some claimed that he deliberately overstated his own belittlement so that his collaborators would buoy him up. Whatever the case, if before meeting him Oscar disliked Art, now he despised him fully. He flipped the page when he came across a picture of him in the newspaper, he shut off the radio when it was broadcasting his music, and if festival organizers were so unwise as to suggest they play a duo together, he flew into a rage that surprised him more than anyone else. Still, one night, talking with Norman, he agreed that he should cultivate his “friendship” with Art, if only to keep abreast of his projects. It’s said that in those days he often spoke to Art on the phone, conversations in the course of which he pretended to take an interest in his health, while promising, at Norman’s suggestion, to send him cases of Canadian beer, whose woodsy aroma the ogre particularly fancied.
It’s also said that in Norman’s company Oscar underwent a change. If they found themselves in a restaurant his eyes clouded, his lips went dry, his palms dampened. And he sat on the edge of his chair, as i
f to prepare himself for any eventuality. When his impresario got up from the table, he immediately followed suit, often spilling a glass of water or sending a knife to the floor. Apparently, it was only Norman’s presence that made him so nervous. If by chance they were in the company of other musicians and Norman was in a party mood, he ordered bottle after bottle of champagne, with Oscar eyeing him closely.
Often, tired of being always on his guard, Oscar’s tongue loosened, and he described the excessive workload his tours demanded of him, with their burden of afternoon and evening shows, not counting the Spartan exercises he always imposed on himself in the mornings. He may have exaggerated somewhat, inventing scenes whose lead player was an intransigent bar owner, unforeseen snowstorms that prevented him from arriving on time for a show, and sleepless nights due to exhaustion. While the other musicians kept their peace, watching closely for Norman’s reaction, the man in question gazed about him wearily as if waiting for Oscar to spare him and be done with this nonsense, as was his wont with “his musicians.” Oscar sometimes ventured, in conclusion, that the afternoon shows were a bit much, no? While the others waited for the man to lay into him, Norman just studied him for a long time from behind the lazy spirals of his cigarette smoke and entertained his suggestions with an interest that drew chuckles from the others, but of course, in the days that followed, brought no alteration to O.P.’s schedule.
Which is why in time Oscar became more withdrawn and mistrustful. You go with dogs and you get fleas, said his detractors. Especially since it was a millionaire, and even worse, an American. Oscar’s admirers claimed that no, as it was with everyone, maturity brought with it a certain vigilance, that was all.
It was then that, weary at last of the pretence, Oscar decided to level with Beverly, and he confessed straight out that he’d had a mistress for years, with whom he now wanted to live openly. Beverly reacted with remarkable stoicism; she asked him only to continue to attend to her needs and those of the children. Oscar consented at once, doubtless relieved to be absolved of his feelings of guilt in exchange for an allowance, and the discussion ended with an embrace. His detractors, who noted that on that day he left home whistling, saw in his behaviour the influence of his impresario.
Oscar Page 9
