Body & Soul

by Frank Conroy

  It had been a truly splendid meal. Caviar, and vodka so cold it had turned thick. A memorable lobster bisque. Dover sole with a delicate sauce, pencil-thin asparagus, wild rice, a lime sorbet, Stilton and fruit, champagne all the way through, and now coffee. They had been at table for almost two hours.

  "Let's order the whole thing all over again," Catherine said. She had eaten slowly, savoring every morsel in a mild voluptuary trance. Claude had gotten more pleasure watching her than from eating his own meal.

  "A meal to remember," he said.

  "No rehearsal tomorrow?"

  "Nothing now till the performance."

  "You just wait?"

  "Right." He drank some coffee. "I'll go in two or three hours early, play for a little while in the basement to loosen up, then just hang around."

  "Waiting must be difficult."

  "I'm lucky. Nervous in the morning, then it just smoothes out somehow."

  "I was supposed to go to a couple of meetings, but I've canceled everything. You won't have time to be nervous."

  He smiled. Never before had he felt such a continuous, pervasive sense of well-being, the sense of vast resources of strength within himself, more than enough to deal with any test. Staring into her impossibly beautiful eyes, he felt a rush of love and tenderness so deep he found himself grasping the edge of the table as if to locate himself.

  "It isn't me," she said, reading his mind again. "It's really you."

  "I'm in love," he said, "and it's you."

  Finally they got up from the table, only vaguely aware now of the opulence surrounding them, and made their way out to the street. The night air was misty, creating a soft nimbus around the streetlights.

  "Let's go hear some jazz," he said.

  Lord Lightning sat behind the small desk in the storeroom-cum-green room-cum-office of the Castle going over the previous night's bar receipts when the door opened and his business partner—Evelyn Gladstone-Shinkfield, fourth Earl of Bumbridge, twenty-nine years old, skirt chaser, pink-skinned, blond-haired, otiose, clumsy, good-natured, rich, unemployed, and with no apparent interests other than girls and jazz—entered with his soft face knotted up in an expression of concern.

  "Have you heard what happened to Miles Davis?" he asked.

  "I have not," said Light.

  "He was playing at Birdland and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air during his break. On the sidewalk, a policeman told him to move along, and when he tried to explain he was working there, the policeman hit him with his stick. Can you imagine?"

  Light nodded. "Was he hurt?"

  "Not seriously, but they did take him to hospital. A friend called from New York with the news. It's just unbelievable."

  "An old story. No doubt Miles was reluctant to kowtow, and he paid the price."

  "A barbaric city, I must say." Having told the story, Evelyn seemed relieved of a burden, and his face assumed its usual pleasant, dreamy look. "Lord and Lady Davidson are coming in late with a small party. I'll tell Andrew to try and keep table six for them."

  "I'd rather you put them at eleven, if you don't mind."

  "Really?" Evelyn's brows made two thin circumflex accents over his pale green, slightly bulbous eyes.

  "They're adorable," Light said, "I love them madly, but they can get noisy, I'm afraid. Andrew should put extra bubbly in the cooler."

  "I'll tell him," Evelyn said, and left.

  Light continued to work on the receipts until Reggie entered. "He tell you about Miles?"

  "The man is so frail," Light said, "it gives me the willies. He has that sickle-cell kind of body."

  "Like those little nigger dolls, whatever they call them."

  "Golliwogs," Light said. "And I've asked you not to use that word in my presence."

  "I'm sorry. But sometimes it's the only word, sometimes."

  "Try to work around it." Light glanced at his wristwatch. "Is Earl here? We're on in ten minutes."

  "He's at the bar."

  "How's the crowd?"

  "Fine. Normal for a Thursday."

  "Good."

  Reggie left, closing the door behind him.

  Lord Lightning pushed the papers to the side and stared at the Guinness calendar tacked to the door without seeing it. He had been trying to avoid thoughts of Claude Rawlings and his presence in London—his possible presence right here in his own club—but with limited success. He worried it like a sore tooth. Memories of Emma floated through his consciousness. Meeting her for the first time backstage at the Golden Theater in Toronto, where they were part of different acts. Her warm, earthy laughter at having been caught halfway through a costume change. The fullness of her breasts. The two of them sneaking into her hotel room a few nights later. The curtains billowing out from the single window, in the morning, before the rain. His astonishment at having made love to a woman. The equally stunning fact, when they met again on the vaudeville circuit months later, that she was pregnant. His confusion. Her calm acceptance of full responsibility. His tearful gratitude. Her comforting arms around him once more. Their strange time together in the basement apartment in New York City, a period in which he had floated, loving her dearly, but unable to make love to her. Finally, the soldier he'd picked up in the balcony of the Loew's Orpheum. His own enlistment in the military, and the lie that he'd been drafted. Now, sitting at the desk, he shook his head at the utter banality of it all, at his youth, his weakness, his fear. It had not seemed banal at the time, but it was hard to believe it had ever happened. It was like the memory of some B movie seen long, long ago. God in heaven, more than twenty-five years, he thought.

  The idea of Claude Rawlings seemed to draw the marrow from his bones, to leave him hollow and fragile, all surface and pretense like some impostor trapped in a potentially revealing situation. And yet he was curious. A son. Flesh of his flesh. Soul of his soul. For a very long time he had blocked it out, lived his life like an amnesiac, but now it was upon him, as inexorable as the rain that had followed the conception in the gray light of a Canadian dawn. The cat was out of the bag, and it wasn't going to go back in. He planted his elbows on the desk, bent forward, and ran his hands over his bald head, slowly, again and again.

  Claude had learned that the jazz scene in London was different than in New York. When they said "club," they meant exactly that, and it was necessary to buy a one-year membership to get in. So he was out ten pounds before he'd had a beer.

  "Claude Rawlings?" Evelyn said, handing over the cards. (He'd had to take the door temporarily while Nigel was off helping Andrew restock champagne.) "Forgive my impudence, but are you the man on the program for An Evening of American Music?"

  "That's right."

  "How delightful. I hope you'll allow the Castle to offer a complimentary bottle of champers in honor of your first visit." He beamed, showing a lot of teeth.

  Catherine sensed Claude's confusion. "That's extremely kind of you," she said. "We accept with pleasure."

  Faintly, from behind the padded door, came the sounds of a trio playing "How High the Moon." As he and Catherine went through and into the smoky dimness, Claude noted with pleasure that the pianist was playing some interesting altered chords instead of the standard changes.

  "More like a dungeon than a castle," Catherine said.

  "The other club was in a basement too. It must be a tradition." All he could see of the pianist was the top of his bald head gleaming under the single rose klieg light. As he led Catherine along the brick wall to what Claude thought might be an acoustically well-placed table, there was a sudden awful screeching noise, sharp enough to wipe out the music for an instant. Claude looked over to see Reggie, who was playing while sitting on a tall stool, haul his big double bass back into its proper position. It had slipped, its sharp metal peg scratching across the wooden floor, the chaotic sound magnified by electrical amplification. Reggie's eyes darted away from Claude. The pianist turned his head to look at Reggie, his round, intelligent face showing surprise. Then he looked down
at the keys again.

  Claude and Catherine sat at their table against the wall, and soon the waiter brought champagne and glasses. It was a quiet club. The thirty or so people sprinkled through the room had apparently come to listen. Couples leaned into each other when they had something to say. The waiter made no noise at all with the glasses, and carefully muffled the pop of the cork under a number of white towels.

  "I can see why they call him Lord Lightning," Claude said softly, bending over the table and taking her hand.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The man is very fast. Art Tatum fast."

  Catherine did not know who Art Tatum was, but she nodded anyway. She had not known what to expect, but was relieved the music wasn't loud. Even the drummer played delicately, brushes flashing over the traps and the cymbals in a silver blur.

  Claude adjusted the angle of his chair, leaned his shoulder against the wall, and listened to the music. The three men played together with seemingly effortless intimacy, passing little figures and phrases back and forth like a complicated game of catch without ever interrupting the flow of whatever tune they were playing. Ellington, Monk, Horace Silver, Tin Pan Alley, show tunes. Lord Lightning did not announce the numbers. When a tune was over he would acknowledge the applause, sometimes blowing a kiss, chat for a moment with Reggie or the drummer, and then count off. Claude was impressed with the complexity of his improvisations. An eclectic player, he seemed able to draw from many famous jazz pianists. He could do the Erroll Garner thing—a metronomic left hand against a right hand drifting behind or ahead of the time—without sounding like Erroll Garner. He could play percussively in the manner of Horace Silver and then, going into a bridge perhaps, start floating over the bar lines like Bill Evans (a brilliant new player from Florida whom Claude had heard only twice).

  "He's terrific," Claude said as the musicians broke and went backstage through a narrow door at the edge of the stand. "He'd do well in America."

  "Do you think he's American?" Catherine asked.

  "I'd be surprised if he wasn't."

  "He has an interesting face."

  After a while Reggie came back out of the narrow door and approached their table. Once again he looked worried. Claude made the introductions. Reggie smiled quickly at Catherine and glanced at Claude. "Lord Lightning knows you're here. He'd invite you back, but the room is too small. Just a closet, really. He sends his apologies."

  "Your solo on 'Blue Monk' was wonderful," Claude said. "How do you get the notes to sustain like that? They seem to go on forever."

  "The instrument helps. Very old and very big. I got it in Germany. Thank you."

  "Please have a glass of champagne with us. Lord Lightning, too, if he feels like coming out."

  "We don't drink alcohol," Reggie said. "Neither one of us."

  "Some coffee, then."

  "He almost never comes out between sets."

  Claude heard the resistance, but he felt so good, so exuberant and generous, he pressed a bit. It seemed a small thing. "I'd be grateful if you asked him. You never know."

  Reggie fell into a mysterious paralysis, his long brown fingers touching the tablecloth, his eyes fixed on the brick wall. For some time he did not move. Claude looked at Catherine, who made a little face expressing puzzlement. Finally Reggie broke away.

  Claude raised his eyebrows. "What was that? Did I say something wrong?"

  "Strange," she said, her eyes following the bass player. "Some kind of protectiveness, maybe."

  "Against what?"

  "The public? Hey," she said with a smile, "you're the famous pianist. Aren't you supposed to know about things like that?"

  "Frescobaldi used to look for girls in the audience. He used to find them, too."

  "More power to Frescobaldi," she said.

  And then Lord Lightning emerged, crossing in front of the bandstand. He raised his arm and clicked his fingers for the waiter, who was instantly at his side. Claude heard him order two coffees and two chairs. Reggie stepped out in front at the last moment. "Claude Rawlings," he said. "Lord Lightning."

  Claude stood up to shake hands. He was aware of a certain intensity in the man's eyes, the almost uncomfortable sensation of being sized up. Claude introduced Catherine and the men all sat down. Chairs for the newcomers had arrived with magical speed.

  "I had a white piano like that when I was a kid," Claude said. "But it wasn't a grand. It wasn't even a full-sized keyboard. Sixty-six keys."

  "A nightclub piano," said Lord Lightning. "It probably had a mirror across."

  "That's right!" Claude was delighted. "How did you know?"

  "They all had mirrors," Reggie said. "They got it from the movies."

  Lord Lightning heaved a great sigh for no apparent reason. He continued studying Claude until, as if suddenly reminded of his social duties, he turned to Catherine. "I hope you are enjoying the music, Miss Marsh, primitive as it is."

  "Very much so. But Claude tells me jazz is anything but primitive."

  "Does he, now." Lord Lightning seemed to relax a bit. "I must stop fishing for compliments. Reggie says I'm quite outrageous."

  "It was a wonderful set," Claude said. "Compliments are in order."

  "We damn near got turned around in 'Love for Sale,' " Reggie said to Lord Lightning.

  "Earl is irrepressible," Light explained to Claude. "He gets carried away."

  "I've heard Coltrane and Elvin Jones." Claude leaned forward with enthusiasm. "Where one of them deliberately turns it around and the other one doesn't follow. They'll play with that tension for ten minutes before resolving it. Whoever turned around comes back. It's terrific."

  Lord Lightning smiled for the first time.

  "What does that mean, 'turning it around'?" Catherine asked.

  "Where the accent falls," Claude said. "It's usually two and four, but it can be one and three."

  "People can get lost," Reggie said, "forget where the bar line is." Again he seemed to be talking to Lord Lightning.

  "I've often wondered," Light said, "why, when the tempo is particularly fast, the feeling seems to drift toward one and three. A conundrum, if you will."

  Catherine laughed, and when Claude looked over, explained. "Well, you know. Drum."

  "I adore puns." Lord Lightning reached over and patted her hand. "Reggie hates them. It's good to have an ally." He turned his head to Claude. "Who is Weisfeld?"

  The abruptness of the question startled him. "He ... he was my teacher. No, more than that. My mentor, really. I started with him as a very young child." Lord Lightning waited, as if expecting more. "He died," Claude said.

  "Ahh, that's a shame. I imagine he would have taken great pleasure seeing you up there with the LSO, playing your own concerto."

  "We're five minutes over," Reggie said, pushing back his chair an inch or two.

  "Reggie tells me you've been around to some of the clubs," Lord Lightning said, ignoring Reggie.

  "Yes, but I can't understand why there isn't more jazz. This is a big city, after all. You only seem to have three or four clubs. There must be thirty or forty in New York."

  "We would undoubtedly have more if we were allowed to book American players. The indigenous pool of talent is not large."

  "But why can't you?"

  "The unions. The government. Mr. Petrillo is still at the helm on your side, I believe."

  "That's right." Claude was himself a member of local 802, although he knew nothing of its structure or policies. James C. Petrillo was a well-known leader, however, a sort of mini version of the coal miners' John L. Lewis.

  "Aren't you an American?" Catherine asked.

  "I was," Lord Lightning said. "But I stayed on after the war and became a British subject."

  "That's what I'm doing," she said.

  "Are you really? I did it in large part because I'm a colored man."

  She nodded and looked down at the table. "I'm doing it for a fresh start."

  At this point Reggie got up and went to the ban
dstand. He seemed to bristle with impatience.

  "I still don't understand," Claude said. "I mean, I'm an American. I'm playing here and no one's objected."

  "It only applies to jazz musicians. Classical players come and go all the time."

  "But that's not fair," Claude protested. "That's not fair at all."

  "It saddens me to say it," Lord Lightning said, "but there seems to be a good deal of evidence that Mr. Petrillo is reluctant to recognize jazz men as part of his constituency. Probably because so many jazz players are Negroes. He takes their dues, of course."

  Claude shook his head. "I didn't know any of this. I'm certainly going to find out about it when I get back."

  "We've made some progress with the concept of exchanges," Lord Lightning said. "Tubby Hayes is going to the Half Note in New York for two weeks and Zoot Sims is coming to Ronnie's. It's a start. The first important American player since before the war. People are ready to kill to get tickets. Do you play jazz at all, Mr. Rawlings?"

  "Sure," Claude said. "I've always loved it."

  "Perhaps you'd like to sit in."

  Claude hesitated. For a long time now he had been concentrating on the concerto, living with it in his head, imagining the lines, hearing the chords while he shaved, walked down the street, or rode in a cab. He was steeped in this single piece of music, and for an instant he was afraid that playing something else would distract him. "I haven't played trio for quite a while," he said weakly.