The Magic Keys

by Albert Murray

  On the other hand, however, I could also have pointed out that I had always thought of him as being more involved with becoming a composer and conductor than with becoming an instrumental performer as such. Because that was what had always come to mind when I had remembered seeing him in the main reading room of the library when he was not on duty at the circulation desk. Because he would always be sitting at a table all by himself doing copy work of sheets of music.

  When he began reading that night, it was very much as if I were back down on the campus in central Alabama with my old roommate again. Because it was during that first autumn term that he said what he said about tune in the head and voice on the page. He was not talking to me, he was talking to himself, and he said it twice. We were sitting across the room at our individual desks with our backs to each and we were working on our first assignment in English Composition 101. You could supply your own title, but the theme was first-person singular. And the objective was to introduce yourself to your classmates. So we did not discuss what we were going to write about ourselves, and I did not ask him what he was chuckling to himself about from time to time.

  But when his paper turned out to be the one Mr. Carlton Poindexter chose to read aloud to the class as the best example of what the assignment was supposed to do, I was not surprised. And I could still hear my roommate’s voice on the page even as Mr. Carlton Poindexter was reading it in his own voice. And when I said what I said about it when we were back in the dormitory that night, my roommate said, Tune in the head, voice on the page applied even when the narration was in the third person. Because even when it was in the first person or even the second person it was not really your ordinary, everyday voice. It was your yarn-spinning, lie-swapping, tell-me tale and so your storybook-time voice.

  And so, while I sat listening for his tune in the head as Taft Edison went on reading, I also found myself remembering how I became aware of the narrative voices on the pages of the list of novels I began reading on my own during that first fall term, starting with the voice of Henry Fielding, the author of The History of Tom Jones, the Foundling, among the academic classics and that of Ernest Hemingway among the serious contemporaries because part of his current novel in progress was being published in current issues of the leading fashion magazine for men in those days.

  Before that fall I could identify some authors with books and short stories but only because I remembered what and/or who they wrote about, not how they wrote, although I was very much aware of the fact that some were considered to be serious and important, and some were popular but not important, although sometimes sophisticated and dismissed as pulp cheap trash. But beginning with my roommate’s paper for Mr. Carlton Poindexter’s first assignment I became aware of the function of literary craftsmanship as never before.

  So as I sat back in the deep, overstuffed armchair that night that many years later listening to Taft Edison read from the typescript of what was to become his first novel, it was as if my old roommate and I were in Atelier 359 once more. And when Taft Edison paused at the end of his first excerpt, took off his glasses, and I said what I said about how it already sounded and about tune in the head and voice on the page, he said, The problem as I see it with this stuff is how to get our old down-home kind of lying and signifying to function as literature.

  Then he said what he said about documentation and implication. Look, man, he said as he stood up and moved over to the table where the drinks were, obviously you want the readers to be wherever whatever the action is. Because you want them to witness whatever you want them to witness from a specific physical point of view and listening post. But as important as that is, basically what you are really working for is not just precise or realistic documentation but implication. Man, the very act of writing a story is always a matter of a certain amount of lying and signifying. Think of camera angles, microphones, and the sound track in movies. You don’t just describe the people, the places, the weather, and least of all the actions exactly as they were. You reshape whatever has to be reshaped to make the point you try to get across to the reader.

  He interrupted the reading only long enough to make one bar-sized shaker of what amounted to one and a half martinis each, and then he spent the rest of the time reading one passage after another without comment, skipping forward, but not in strict chronological order with some sequences being flashbacks to incidents that he had intentionally skipped over and others that suggested a larger context but could stand alone as short stories (which always exist in a larger continuing frame anyway).

  When he finished the last selection I still did not know what the central story line was, but I did not ask him about it because I knew that the main thing he wanted from me was my opinion of the relative suitability of each section for magazine publication. So I said what I said about him being into something special both as subject matter and in terms of tone and rhythm. I said, The only problem that the editors would have would be the choice between titillating sequences and self-contained short-story-like episodes. I said, Man, you might have given up the trumpet, but damn, if you gave up composition.

  And he said, Well, we shall see. There are two publications involved. One is a slick paper monthly and the other is a literary quarterly. I’m not naming names, but I’ll let you know how it turns out.

  Then while he was jotting down notes as he put the manuscript pages back in place, I took another quick survey of his bookshelf and when he brought my hat and coat and opened the door, he said, Don’t forget to give old Rolly a call and let him know you’re up here at least for the time being. And I said I would, and the very next day I did, and I also called Daddy Royal.

  IX

  So here she is at last, Royal Highness said, as Eunice and I stepped out of the elevator and headed toward where he stood waiting outside the open door to his apartment that evening. I had told him about us when I had called him on the phone shortly after we arrived in New York back in September. And I had also called him from time to time just to keep in touch, but this was our first trip up to Sugar Hill together.

  Yeah, here she is at last. So this is the one that’s really the one, hey, young soldier, he said, putting his left arm around her shoulder as he slapped right palms with me and said, Miss Lady. Hey, what you talkin’ ’bout, young fellow? Yes, indeed. But now look here, Miss Lady. They all told me you were good-looking but ain’t none of them said a word about your being this good-looking. And with the class to go with it. Well, I guess they did mention something about class. But I guess you had them all tongue-tied.

  Then he said, Now see there, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Just look at that brush-off she just gave me disguised as a blush. You’re something else, Miss Lady. Because, you see, I know good and well you heard this old jive line before, but this is the first time you’ve heard it from the source. And that goes for this, too, he then said, and put both hands on her shoulder and gave her four mock ceremonial kisses, and still holding her shoulders at arm’s length said, A smack for all four cheeks, Miss Lady—if you get the implication of my latter clause.

  Man, he then said as he hooked arms and guided us into his living room, you got yourself some fine people here, young soldier. So you all come on in this house and make yourself at home. The rest of us will be out in a little while. I told them to go on and finish what they were doing back there and let me have you all to myself for a little while.

  Then when we helped ourselves at the bar and took our seats at the end of the couch nearest his favorite overstuffed chair, he said, You know something, young soldier? I’m still getting great reports about how you handled yourself out there when you were on the road with the band.

  It just keeps coming up, he said. Time and again. Even the Silent Partner dropped in a good word about you. Hell, I forget what the hell we were talking about, but at some point there he was asking me when I had heard from you and saying what he said about how everybody was betting on the schoolboy without even knowing or even sp
eculating about any profession or line of work in particular. He just struck everybody in that crew as somebody special, Miss Lady, a young fellow with a very high-class education that didn’t put on no airs at all and could pick up on new things like he was born knowing.

  Hell, they were not talking about getting along with him as a very young newcomer on his very first professional gig. There wouldn’t be any problem with that at all, because the man wouldn’t put you in there with all them thugs in the first place if that was going to be a problem. And then in the second place when he picks somebody they all know he already has plans for him because he represents something that he wants to fiddle (hey, dig that) fiddle around with at least for a while and ain’t nobody in there ever question the Bossman on anything like that to my knowledge. Not in that band. Hell, in that band they never know what they themselves are going to have to adjust to next.

  No, he said, looking at me while still talking to her but signifying at me even so. No, the way we all see this young soldier here is that he’s one of the ones that was gifted and lucky enough to go to college. And serious enough to make the most of it. Now he has all kinds of options to pick and choose from.

  So you see what you got yourself into, Miss Lady, he said as Stewart Anderson came in from the hallway that led to the dining room and kitchen. Eunice already knew that when Royal Highness had said what he said about the rest of us he was referring to Stewart Anderson, formerly of the old vaudeville comedy team known as Stewmeat and Small Change and his wife, Cherry Lee, née Cherie Bontemps, who were not only his business partners who ran a restaurant for him but also shared and took care of his extensive four-bedroom apartment.

  Looka here, looka here, Stewmeat Anderson said, heading straight to Eunice, who stood up to great him. Yes, indeed, he said. And then he said, I’m Uncle Stew, and I just want to say don’t be no stranger up this way, and you don’t have to wait for him to bring you back. And as for you, young fellow, what can I tell you? I’m not surprised.

  His wife, Cherry Lee, had come in then and poured herself a glass of muscatel and she said what she said about us all being from down home and gave me a peck on the cheek on the way to lock arms with Eunice and take her outside to show her the twilight view of Manhattan from the terrace. It was as if she actually had known that it was something Eunice was expected to be shown because I had written to her about it after my first visit.

  As I was saying, Stewmeat Anderson said, I’m not a bit surprised that you turned up with a solid stone fox that is also one more fine and I mean certified fine lady like this one, my man. Not after what everybody was saying about how impressed they were with the way you handled yourself in that department all across the country. But now let me tell you this. Man, every last one of them thugs would bet hard money on anything you decide to have a go at. Like when you decided to stay out in Hollywood for a while, for instance. So far as I know, not a single one of them accused you of being dazzled by all that hyped-up glamour and glitter out there. It was something you wanted to stick around and study for a while and that was that, and here you are to prove that they were right.

  And as I said what I said about how in my case you had to learn how to tell the difference between good looks and well-stacked availability (even if coy-seeming) on the one hand and a truly certified stone fox on the other in order to make it out of Mobile County Training School let alone out of Mobile and into college, I was also remembering that nobody in the band knew anything at all about me and Jewel Templeton, not even Joe States. The only one I ever told anything about that was Gaynelle Whitlow.

  The band had not swung back to the coast while I was out there on my own, but I wouldn’t have ever mentioned Jewel Templeton if it had. Not even to Joe States. If somebody in the band had found out about us, that was another matter. But any mention of it by yourself would raise questions about whether you were taking all the make-believe in stride for what it is. After all, how could you ever forget what happened when you said what you said to Ross Peterkin about what happened with Fay Morgan after the Beverly Hills party following the opening night at the Palladium. I hadn’t been taken in and exploited by Fay Morgan and I still think that Joe States knew as much but he still let Ross Peterkin lecture me as if I had allowed myself to be used, as if I were a horny greenhorn just to make sure and also to see if I would take the reprimand in my stride.

  Now me myself now, Stewmeat Anderson said as we stood up but finished our drinks before following his wife out into the hall and into the dining room, I lucked out. But now, you see, showbiz was my biz in the first place, so what the audiences paid to come to see as something ever so glamorous, I knew damn well was always also a matter of greasepaint. I’m not going to try to tell you that what I saw across the footlights didn’t have much to do with it, because it had a hell of a lot to do with me taking notice of her in the first place. But the girl I married is the one I met and got to know backstage.

  The main course that night turned out to be possum with sweet potatoes plus side dishes of mustard greens and stir-fried medallions of okra with bits of steak of lean, which they decided would be a nice little down-home surprise for us after that many months of being primarily concerned with picking and choosing New York food markets as well as snack bars and restaurants, and they were right. And there was also corn bread that was crackling bread. Then, since sweet potatoes came with the gamy taste of the possum, there was pecan pie with dasher turned ice cream instead of sweet potato pie. We went on talking about down-home menus and recipes as we ate, and that was when they told us about the truck merchants who came up to Harlem, some from Virginia and the Carolinas and some from as far down the coast as Florida and could be found parked on certain corners and certain blocks displaying and selling whatever was in season, straight from the gardens, fields, orchards, and woods of their down-home localities.

  Which is why I was not surprised when Stewmeat Anderson told us that their larder was also stocked with such other special down-home game meat as rabbit and squirrel and raccoon and even venison. But that was the first time I’d ever heard of down-home folks keeping a supply of frozen catfish fillet on hand for an occasion not unlike this one, when fish, not game, would be the pièce de résistance.

  And guess what else besides?, Royal Highness said, when I said that I assumed that venison was no problem to come by in New York. He said, You’re right. And then he said, I’m talking about turtle meat, underground turtle meat. Not the sea turtles, that’s what they have down in them islands in the Gulf. But now talking about some meat that’s kind of special down that way but ain’t no problem in New York. There’s goat meat. As I remember it, the main time for goat meat where I come from was when there was some kind of barbecue, especially a big holiday picnic barbecue or a church barbecue. But now up here some of these splibs from the islands are very big on goat meat with curry and fresh-grated coconut and stuff. And another thing some of those other island folks up here go for much more than I was ever used to down home is a whole pig pit roasted on a spit.

  And those Cubans know what to do with chicken and rice, Stewmeat Anderson said. But speaking of them street-corner truck vendors from down home, when it’s the right time of year I also know where to find some that bring up stalks of sugarcane and ever so often they might also bring along a few pecks of scuppernongs. Now that’s something that really takes me back, Miss Lady, he said.

  And I said, Me, too. I said, Not as far back as you’re talking about. But not just back to the outskirts of Mobile as a place as such, either. But still back as long ago as those old unpaved streets with horse droppings along with those automobile tire ruts. Then I said what I said about remembering scuppernongs as yard arbor muscadine grapes and also about remembering fig trees as fruit-bearing yard trees. And about never having seen any orchards of fig trees anywhere in or near Gasoline Point.

  Which is also when I said what I said about how during muscadine season we used to roam the woods on the slopes above the L & N Ra
ilroad bottom at Three-Mile Creek Swamp and sometimes also the slopes and woodlands above Chickasabogue Swamp and even as far as all the way up the AT & N Railroad to Bay Poplar woods. Which also led to what I said about how muscadine season being tree-climbing time because the muscadine vines I knew about entwined themselves around tree branches much the same as scuppernongs entangled themselves in the latticework of yard arbors.

  As for vineyard grapes, in Gasoline Point in those days before the fully stocked supermarket chains replaced the old neighborhood grocery and general merchandise stores, like orchard fruits and other street-vendor produce, they came from elsewhere (which for oranges, grapefruit, and pineapples was as nearby as Florida; and for okra, butterbeans, scallions, lettuce, tomatoes, strawberries, cucumbers, new potatoes, and so on was only as far away as the truck gardens across Mobile Bay).

  That brought us to what the two of us remembered about canning, pickling, jam, jelly, and winemaking season in our two sections of Alabama; and that was when Royal Highness said, What did I tell you? and nodded at Stewmeat Anderson, who got up and went through the door to the kitchen area and when he came back he was carrying two quart-size bell jars, one of green tomato chowchow relish and one of peach jam and two pint-sized glasses, one of blackberry jelly and one of pear preserves.

  Folks down the way don’t never let us run out of these kinds of good old goodies, Royal Highness said as Stewmeat Anderson put the jars and glasses in front of Eunice’s place and gave me a playful jab and a mock conspiratorial wink on his way back to the kitchen to help Cherry Lee bring in the pecan pie and dasher turned ice cream that he himself had frozen and packed that afternoon.