by David Fulmer
"You a friend of his?" a voice said.
Valentin turned to see a Creole attendant, medium-brown, in white shirt and trousers, standing in the archway. "Is he getting any better?"
"No, but I think he's fine the way he is," the attendant said. "He don't cause us no trouble."
"Is that all he does?"
"Yeah, well, pretty much so, yessir." The attendant paused for a moment, then came up with a curious smile. "'Cept you know there was this one thing happened," he said. "This been a few weeks back, it was a Sunday afternoon. We had this here orchestra from town playin' in the ward. While they was playin' their tunes, Mr. Bolden didn't pay no mind, he was just walkin' up and down like he do, there in the back of the room. Then those fellows stop playin', you know, and put their instruments down." The Creole lowered his voice secretively. "Well, I see Mr. Bolden walk up there to where their chairs is at, and he goes and picks up this horn." He laughed quietly. "I ain't never seen him do nothin' like that before, y'understand, so I'm watchin' him, wondering what is he up to ... and he took that horn and carried it over to the window."
Valentin stared at the attendant, thinking: I know this. I know this story from somewhere.
The man said, "Well, he put it to his mouth and I say, my Lord, is he gonna play that thing?"
Valentin, now rapt, said, "Did he?"
"Well ... I don't know if he played, but he made some kinda noise out of it," the Creole said. "And everybody looked around, you know, like who is makin' that ruckus?"
"Then what happened?"
"Well, one of the other 'tendants walked over there and took the horn away. Mr. Bolden didn't fuss, didn't do nothin'. He just looked out that window for a long time, and then he went away." The Creole shook his head. "I can't for the life of me figure out what he thought he was doin'."
They turned to watch Buddy creep away down the long, shadowy corridor. "He was calling his children," Valentin said. "He was calling his children home."
Though he went to see Nora now and again, that day in October was the last visit Valentin paid to Jackson State Hospital for the Insane. He believed that King Bolden would never leave those grounds, would never come back from the still, silent, empty place he had made for himself.
He was correct. Twenty-four years later, Charles Buddy Bolden died quietly, in his sleep. He was buried in an unmarked grave near the hospital grounds.
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AFTERWORD
I drew on a variety of sources for this narrative. Three in particular are recommended. The first is Storyville, New Orleans by Al Rose (The University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa, AL) for its panorama of the District throughout its colorful history. The second is In Search of Buddy Bolden, First Man of Jazz by Donald M. Marquis (Louisiana State University Press, Baton Rouge). It is the only definitive study of this enigmatic genius. Finally, Richard Gambino's Vendetta (Doubleday, New York) documents the drama of the lynching of Italian prisoners in New Orleans' Parish Prison in 1891.
Additionally, I wish to thank Dr. Bill Meneray for the use of relevant materials from Special Collections department at the Tulane University Library, as well as those unnamed others who supplied additional threads to this tale.
—DAVID FULMER
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