Body & Soul

by Frank Conroy

  "Oh, go ahead," Catherine urged. "It'll be fun."

  "I don't know."

  Lord Lightning looked from one to the other. "I tell you what. I'll call you up after a couple of tunes and we'll play something four hands. How about it?"

  Claude felt his resistance ebbing. "What the hell," he said. "Why not? Okay. Thanks." His fear of distraction was probably irrational. "Bravo," said Catherine, raising her glass.

  They all drank, Lord Lightning's eyes seeming almost to blaze over his coffee cup into Claude's.

  "That's nice of him," Catherine said after he'd gone.

  "It's surprising. The last thing most jazz musicians want is somebody sitting in, somebody they don't know. But maybe it's different here."

  As the music resumed more people came in. Eventually there were only a few empty tables. "I'll Remember April." "Green Dolphin Street." "Slow Boat to China." And then Lord Lightning was standing up, beckoning for Claude to join him. There was a buzz in the room as Claude stepped up onto the bandstand. Lord Lightning did not introduce him, but simply stood there smiling. "Top or bottom?"

  "Top, I guess." Claude waited for the older man to sit back down on the bench, moving to his left, and then sat himself.

  "What would you like to play?"

  Claude had already decided. He felt the warmth of the man's body beside him, noticed for the first time that he was wearing a spicy cologne. " 'Honeysuckle Rose'?"

  "Honey suck my nose," Lord Lightning said to Reggie and Earl, and he counted it off. Claude waited a full chorus, watching the chords, before he entered. He played with both hands, small intervals with his left and an accurate unison line with his right, following Lord Lightning's rubato phrasing. The tune having been stated twice, they began to improvise in alternate choruses, bebop lines with an eighth note feel, each man picking up the tail of the structure made by the other. They played tag, executing more and more complicated figures and runs as if trying to top each other. Reggie and Earl accentuated the pulse with subtle bursts of syncopation. Claude laughed out loud at a seemingly impossible offbeat byzantine four-bar lick from Lord Lightning and tried his best to repeat it an octave above.

  "Almost," said the older man.

  Claude bore down and introduced his own baroque, searing, thirty-second-note knuckle buster. Lord Lightning tried to echo it.

  "Close," said Claude.

  The audience seemed to understand how much fun they were having. A few people were standing up, and there were even a few distinctly un-British shouts of encouragement. The two men at the piano were ascending the scale of virtuosity and swinging harder and harder at the same time. They were taking the tune apart. They were, as Claude would say later, "playing its ass off." Their hands never touched, each man leaving the shared area of an octave and a half above middle C as the other man entered. For all the ferocity of the playing, there was an underlying delicacy about space, almost like two animals in the wild.

  They were playing without any preconceived plan, relying on traditional jazz conventions, breaking into "fours," for instance, at what felt like the appropriate moment. Four bars drum solo, four bars tutti, four bars bass solo, four bars tutti, and so on for two choruses. At which point something quite remarkable happened.

  Claude and Lord Lightning were improvising contrapuntal lines, winding down to the final restatement of the bare melody with which they both knew they would end, when they spontaneously and simultaneously made a dramatic change in the harmonic structure of the first section of the tune. Claude would later wonder how they could possibly have done something so radical, entirely by feel, at the same moment. He thought Lord Lightning must have introduced a subtle variation of the voicings of his chords, which Claude had unconsciously picked up.

  What happened was this: after having played the first four bars two beats G minor two beats C seventh, every bar since they'd sat down, they suddenly found themselves ascending by half tones every bar, creating an entirely new harmonic base upon which they improvised in brand-new scales. G minor C seventh, A-flat minor D-flat seventh, A minor D seventh, B-flat minor E-flat seventh, and then a quick little half-tone figure to come out exactly right on F dominant seventh. It was so exciting—the apparent escape from tonality like going off a diving board, the fresh and unexpected colors from the new scales, the return to the original key like the fit of a key into a lock—all this made the hair stand on the back of Claude's neck. They explored it for three more choruses, played it straight for one, and ended the tune. A great burst of applause, most of the audience on its feet.

  "My goodness," said Lord Lightning.

  "How did we do that?" Claude was mystified.

  "Beats me. I've never played it that way."

  "You haven't?"

  Lord Lightning turned to Reggie, who was smiling for a change. "How'd you know we were going to do that?" Reggie had followed the shifts without hesitation.

  "I don't know. I heard it."

  "I've been playing that tune my whole life," Lord Lightning said, wiping his sweaty dome with a handkerchief. "My goodness." He looked out at the crowd and waved the handkerchief. "We have to give them at least one more, don't you think?"

  "I'll tell you something," Claude said in the cab as they rode back to Catherine's flat. "I'm not sure I believe him."

  "About what?" She was slightly surprised.

  "About 'Honeysuckle Rose.' I mean, how could we both stumble upon those changes at the same time? He must have played it that way before."

  "He certainly seemed like a happy man when you came back to the table. Like the cat that swallowed the canary."

  "It was a lot of fun in any case," Claude said.

  "And the Reggie puzzle is solved."

  "What do you mean?"

  "They're a couple. He practically came right out and told us. Reggie this and Reggie that."

  Claude thought for a moment. "Yes. I bet you're right. I wonder why I didn't see it."

  "I'm so glad we went," she said. "It was something to see you play, the way you throw yourself into it. It must feel marvelous."

  "It does, it does. But tomorrow I have to get my head back into the concerto. That was a vacation."

  "Something about that man," she mused. "I don't mean the music, I mean him. His intensity."

  "I felt it too," he said. "Weight. Power. Something."

  "He seemed awfully clever for a nightclub pianist."

  "Hey!" he protested. "What kind of talk is that?"

  She moved closer, taking his hand. "Sorry. Just thinking out loud."

  22

  EVEN BEFORE his eyes opened in the morning, awareness was upon him. He imagined the stage, the orchestra, himself at the piano. A brief flutter of anxiety, but then he woke fully and it was gone. Catherine was there beside him, giving a great yawn and stretching herself, arms out, fingers splayed.

  "The sun is out" she said.

  He kissed her shoulder. "So it is."

  "Do you want a big breakfast?"

  "Tea? Toast and jam?"

  She got out of bed and began rummaging through the top drawer of the dresser.

  "There's something special about the backs of your knees," he said.

  "Is there?" she said without turning around. She reached behind herself and gave herself a little pat on the ass. "How about this?"

  Instantly, he was aroused. She got dressed, came over, and pulled the blanket from the bed. "Aha!" she said, looking down. "What a devil he is. We'll have to take care of him later."

  "I'm not allowed to have sex on the day of a performance."

  For a split second she thought he was serious, and then they laughed together.

  After breakfast she announced that she could no longer put off a thorough cleaning of the kitchen. "When a place is this small you can't let it get ahead of you." He went to the front room to spend two hours with the score. He was soon immersed in the music, going over aural memories from rehearsal, looking at his penciled-in notes, feeling the shapes his hands woul
d take. Despite his vacation of the previous night everything was still there, readily accessible as he focused his concentration. He went through all three movements and closed the file. The best thing to do now, he knew from experience, was to put it out of his mind. He picked one of her books at random and opened it up. Facsimile pages of old manuscripts in a language he did not understand.

  "Norse," she said, coming up behind him. "We should go out and get some sun."

  They spent the morning walking, following any street wide enough to have a sunny side, going into a few shops but buying nothing except for a single rose Claude insisted she wear on the lapel of her jacket, ambling from square to square, watching the people, buying newspapers at a stand to look for mention of the concert, dawdling, talking, getting the giggles, half guiltily, at the sight of an obese woman trying to get on a bus with her arms full of packages. When they got hungry they bought some fish and chips and found a bench at the edge of a tiny park. The sun was full upon them and their fingers shone with grease.

  "We can skip it if you want to skip it," he said gently, "but I don't understand about Dewman. You don't seem angry."

  She ate for a while before answering. "Perhaps I am, somewhere, but I don't think about it. I haven't thought about it for a long time."

  "It just seems—" he began.

  "If there was seduction, I'm not sure I wasn't as guilty as him."

  "But you were a child. He was a man in his forties and your stepfather. Surely he should have—"

  Again she interrupted him. "A man." She gave a snort of derision. "So I thought. He was weak, insecure, and sentimental. Sentimental" She looked directly at him. "He wasn't a sex fiend, he was a hopeless weakling. He'd burst into tears every Christmas when the children sang carols."

  "Yes, but four years. Jesus."

  "He was pathetic. That's what he used on me. He was good at that, very good with that stuff."

  "I still think you should have blown the whistle on him."

  "What for? It was my fault too." She wiped her hands on a bit of newspaper. "No. What I had to do was get out of there as fast as I could. Get out and never go back."

  "Yes, but that was forced upon you."

  "Life is complicated," she said with a little shrug.

  Many times later in his life Claude would remember this conversation, and his respect for Catherine only grew over time (when, for example, he read of Dewman's death from cirrhosis in a glowing, lengthy New York Times obituary).

  "Let me ask you something," she said. "Do you think—you and Lady—do you think your inability to have children entered in at all?"

  "As a catalyst, maybe. We were just too young, I think. We didn't know what we were doing." Suddenly he stopped, looking up at the sky as a thought struck him. "It never occurred to me, but it could be part of the reason she married me was to get away from her family. She really loathed her father." He lowered his head and looked at her. "Like you eloping, but not as strong."

  "Her father was a bully," Catherine said. "Maybe you're right. Of course everybody married young in those days."

  They went back to her flat and made long love until the angle of the sun through the front window alerted him to the time.

  "I should be going soon."

  "I know."

  "You'll come backstage afterward?"

  "I will." She lay her head on his chest.

  He went to the hotel to get his tuxedo. ("Tails are not necessary," Mr. Dove had said, to Claude's relief. "The LSO avoids excessive formality") There were messages for him at the desk. A cable from Emma and Al wishing him good luck and informing him of the sale of a particularly old and valuable oboe, and of a woman who wanted to buy a harp, and did he know where they could get one. Requests for interviews from various newspapers and music magazines. An invitation to a reception at the American embassy, signed by the ambassador. A string of progressively more urgent requests for him to telephone Otto Levits. He glanced at his watch, figured the time difference, went to his room, and placed the call.

  "Claude, Claude, where have you been? I've been going crazy here, so much is happening."

  "I'm sorry. I've been busy."

  "Busy? Busy with what? I call the hall, I call the hotel, I call Shanks, nobody knows anything. How am I supposed to do business here, I can't even talk to you?"

  "You've got me now. What's up?"

  "Everything is up. Two bookings for the concerto. Cleveland and Chicago, two more nibbling."

  "The Chicago Symphony?" Claude felt a flush of pleasure. "Really?"

  "Would I kid you? You're very hot all of a sudden. Van Cliburn, move over. Also, Frescobaldi is doing a six-city tour and he wants you, and only you. This is going to be very significant money, boychik, big bucks. But you've got to get back here fast. As fast as you can. Like tomorrow."

  The line hummed. Claude felt a constriction in his chest, a breathlessness. Thoughts of Catherine flooded his mind.

  "Hello," Otto said. "Am I talking to somebody?"

  "Tomorrow is not possible," Claude said.

  A pause. "Okay. Two days."

  "I can't."

  "What is it with you?" Otto exploded. "Are you nuts in some complicated way I haven't figured out yet? Chicago! Cleveland! Frescobaldi! Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "Yes. It's wonderful, Otto, it really is. It's just that..." He stopped, beginning to feel the sadness creep in.

  Suddenly Otto was calmer. "All right. So there's something. Okay, let's talk it over. It's just that what?"

  "Oh, God. It's too hard to explain. I can't put it into words."

  "I see. You're telling me you've fallen in love with Aaron Copland."

  Claude laughed despite himself, despite the pain—for that was what it was, a sharp stab of pain—brought on by the knowledge that he had no choice. "I haven't even met him yet. But Otto, there's something else. I'm going to need a little time."

  There was a long, drawn-out sigh, and then silence.

  "Otto?"

  Claude heard the rustling of paper. "Four days. If you're not here in my office by Wednesday—which is the absolute limit—I'll have to give some serious thought to our association. There's too much pressure in this business already. I got ulcers, blood pressure, migraines. It's not just me, it's my family. I know what'll happen if you're not here by Wednesday. The hospital is what will happen. You bring flowers it won't be enough. Am I getting through?"

  "I will be there," Claude said.

  "Wednesday?"

  "I will be there Wednesday. I promise."

  "Are you okay? Ready for tonight?"

  "I'm ready. More than ready. I need tonight, and that's the truth. I need the music." He had realized this only a moment before he said it.

  "Good, good," Otto said. "I'm sitting here in my office, but I'm with you. You know that. Call me tomorrow at home."

  "Thanks, Otto."

  "Play your heart out."

  "One more thing. Could you call Al at the shop and tell him where to get a harp on consignment?"

  "Easy. I even know who's trying to get rid of one. Madame Solange, plays cocktail hour at the Waldorf."

  "Thanks again."

  "Wednesday." He hung up.

  Claude stared at the old-fashioned telephone. He thought of calling Catherine, but refrained. After a while he began to pace back and forth. He'd known he would have to leave eventually, of course, but he'd allowed himself to think it would happen at some indeterminate time in the future. Catherine's enjoyment of the dinner at the Savoy had given him the idea of a week in Paris together, which he had gone so far as to discuss with the concierge downstairs. Copenhagen after that, perhaps, to see Tivoli. None of that was possible now. Tuesday night he'd catch the last plane to New York. He knew what would happen after that. It would be a long time before he'd see London again, given what Otto had said. He felt great excitement at the musical prospects but resentment at the timing (He was to feel this again, many times, in varying degrees, during his long car
eer as a performer and composer) After circling the room a dozen times he stopped, told himself to calm down and made himself take a long hot bath to relax his arms and shoulders Halfway through he sang the Purcell very softly feeling the weight of the words.

  He walked to the concert hall with his tuxedo in a bag over his shoulder. It was a warm afternoon and the streets were filled with activity, but he paid little attention, concentrating on the rhythms of his body as he strode along, on the movement of his limbs and the smooth operation of his joints. He walked as if enclosed in a mild and invisible force field of self-preoccupation, and people somehow sensed it and drifted out of his way.

  In his dressing room he inspected his tuxedo and hung it up. He laid out his shirt, cuff links, bow tie, and then contemplated the small wooden cross. His plan was to wear it tonight and then give it to Catherine. He suddenly wished that he had brought her, that she was with him now. He wondered how she would react at the news of his Tuesday flight. (She was to respond with characteristic stoicism. Not until the final moments, standing with her at the green door, the taxi waiting, was he to see her face register pain, and a concern, he saw with some surprise, for him, as her eyes filled with tears. "Take care" were her last words.)

  He walked through the eerily quiet corridors and made his way to the Steinway in the basement. He sat down and began to play whatever came to mind. Bach for quite a while. Part of the Bartók Double Piano Concerto. Debussy's Cathédrale Engloutie. On a sudden impulse he delved into "Honeysuckle Rose," going over the new changes, seeing if there was any way to extend them. He played Chopin and finished up with Beethoven, the last section of the "Hammerklavier." His body felt marvelous, his arms, wrists, and hands working together as a fluid unit, his back without a hint of stiffness. He sat and enjoyed the silence, the cleansing silence, and then went upstairs.