Shackling Water Read online

  Spliff inhaled wrong, gasped and coughed it out his system and came back in—yo, I cough but I play it off/motherfuckers lost, who the boss? they shit is soft/I paid the cost like B.B. King, my shit swing/like Ellington/I stay Suite in the Far East/rockin Black, Brown, and Beige/when I step on the stage—Latif was struggling to keep up with the tunes Spliff was dropping, both of them grinning as he did so, and Spliff flowed on, ripped for a good five minutes before calling it quits and giving his man on the verbal percussion a much-needed break.

  That was great, Latif told Mona, flopping onto his bed when they finally came back upstairs, many rhymes and several solo saxophone spotlights later. I haven't had that much fun in months.

  Gets a little claustrophobic in the woodshed, huh?

  Only with the door open.

  They were quiet and so was the block; minutes passed and soon Mona was lightdozing, but Latif couldn't come down so fast from the session and so he lay thinking.

  I had this dream once that I still think about a lot, he confided in the stillness, and Mona jarred alert. Anytime I'm somewhere with a free minute and a pen and pad I try to doodle it, which is how I learned that I'm a shitty artist. Mona turned onto her side and listened to Latif describe a saxophone player composed entirely of bubbles, as if made of water. Snakes slithered from his horn, hissing, frozen in midair, and the musician's leg was chained to a stake in the ground. Atop the stake rested a sign, an advertisement reading Jazz Tonite in fancy menu-style writing. I don't think the sign was in the dream, though. I think I added that myself.

  Mona sat up. She could go from half-conscious to intrigued in four seconds. So what is he chained to, do you think?

  Maybe to what he thinks he has to play, the limits he imposes on himself.

  What about a slave to the music, like that old saying goes?

  I hate that saying. That's some old black-musician-as-juju-priest shit.

  Mona nodded solemnly. I heard Amir say once that Albert's horn was like a conduit for the spirits of his elders, she recalled, jiggling her index finger. Which is a perfectly beautiful statement, but in the hands of some ofay reporter I can see it becoming something very different indeed.

  Hold on. Did you just say ofay?

  Mona grinned. Yeah, ofay. What?

  Latif threw back his head and laughed.

  By the time they went to sleep the sun was creeping up over the bottom ridge of Latif's window, squeezing in around the loose slats of his broken paper shades. The light crawled as far as his feet, hanging over the edge of the bed. Usually Latif slept only on his stomach, arms by his sides, lest his gangled limbs freeze on him and he awake to find them uncontrollable, asleep, empty of blood. Sometimes he had to pick up one arm with the other like some sewn-together horror movie monster and move it back down below his head, feeling the strange weight of the limb like it wasn't his own.

  But Mona spooned against him, curled inside his outstretched bicep, and Latif forced himself to drift to sleep without adjusting. He wanted Mona to oversleep; she was supposed to be at work downtown at nine and he hoped to spend the day with her instead. He'd been glancing furtively at his watch all night, thinking as the small hand crept past three and four that Mona might be exhausted enough to call in sick and stay in bed and let him take her to a long, late breakfast, mushroom omelettes and lots of coffee. It would be the second day in a row she would be missing work, and the second day he'd miss his time to practice. That's not good, Latif thought, dozing off. I gotta watch that shit.

  ATONES | PLAY | THE BODY POLITIC

  It was getting harder for Latif to find a comfortable spot at Dutchman's; anywhere he stood, he was paces from where he wanted to be and yet a universe away. He rose from the corner barseat wedged against the wall and cut precisely to his next designated spot, a landing midway down the staircase where he stood halfsmiling at the waitresses as they rushed down to the kitchen and back up. Five minutes later, restless, Latif loped over to the wall across from the bandstand, the musicians' haven. Then back to the bar, the other end now. He bounced his weight from one foot to the other, wishing the hip leathersoled Italian shoes Sonny had taken him to cop at a warehouse on Thirty-sixth Street—a wholesale spot plenty of cats would have killed to know about, run by a cool-ass Italian Jew who sold beautiful Ungaro and Valentino suits with mysterious pasts by appointment only for three bills apiece—weren't so uncomfortable.

  I should be practicing right now, he thought, and raised a finger to request another drink. Say Bro had a tab, but Teef never had to use it. The bartenders comped him like a musician. It was an irony that slapped him in the face, but it was better than having to settle up with Say Bro at month's end. After sliding seventy percent of his gross to the bossman, Latif took home a bit more than the busboys and a lot less than the waitresses.

  This gig was fucking with him like everything else, he thought: draining his energy and sloshing his entire life the same flat housepaint grey. Even his joy in listening to Albert was jealousy-stained and distracted; if one more fool approached him in the middle of a tenor solo like Latif didn't have shit else to do but turn around and serve, if one more palsy hey-buddy musician tried to game him for a little friendship cut-rate on his dope, shit was gonna get ugly.

  The set was starting with a ballad, and Latif leaned back on the mahogany bartop and nodded a greeting at Larry Lo-Cal, wedged in next to him. Latif felt like he'd whiffed something nasty every time he saw the cat now, thinking of Amir and Sonny's riff about him fucking Mona, but he shook Larry's hand and then both focused on the stage. If there was anything redeeming about Lo-Cal, that was it. He copped between sets.

  The entire band was shuteyed, as if lost in some communal dream. Sonny bent in reverence over the piano, Murray rocked tranquil as he brushed the drums, and Amir swayed at the hips, caressing plushtones from the warm brown bass. Albert stood with rigid marchingband posture and held his soprano sax gingerly between his fingertips. His eyes flitted open once or twice, as if checking whether he was still standing where he had been when he closed them—and as if he was surprised and slightly disappointed to discover that he was.

  The song was called “Forlorn,” and Latif had played his recording of it until the grooves were worn and filled with static, memorized the cracks and hisses until they were integral to the composition. The song began with a four note bassline mantra: for-lorn for you, for-lorn for you. Then Albert's soprano crept in, soft as air escaping a balloon. He was mournful, quivering, and introspective, trying to resign himself to living with the pain of heartbreak. Murray's gentle brushwork rippled through the song like wind stirring a placid lake; his current was crossed only by Sonny's raindrops plinking on the water's surface. The record was a gift from Wessel, his example of how a ballad should be played. Remember that playing is like dancing or talking, he said. The faster you do it, the easier it is to bullshit. Nothing's as pretty or as pure as playing slow and true. That's how you force yourself to deal with real emotion.

  Latif hadn't dealt with shit today except his own frustration. When he'd stirred this morning at ten-thirty, squinting and sliding an arm up underneath the pillow, Mona was still asleep beside him and Latif was instantly annoyed that she was there. All he wanted to do was play his horn, refuel with the residue of last night's session, and force himself to get to work. The less he played, the less he played—and Latif was picking up his tenor later every morning.

  He'd stared at her, distant from six inches away, and wondered why he couldn't bring himself to massage Mona awake and tell her that he needed this morning to practice. He knew what he would do instead: say nothing and wait for Mona to read his sourness, then fume when she didn't see it or wouldn't address it. Translating his thoughts into a language she could understand compromised Latif's integrity; instead, he flashed his artistic license and endured in sullen silence. He nurtured hidden antagonisms as if they were precious—as if grinding his teeth in secret anger at Mona's presence or Van Horn's freedom would energize him someho
w. As if this was like the time in high school when the sheer desire to bust his hated English teacher's ass had turned Latif into a voracious, careful reader.

  Mona folded her arm up underneath her chest and nuzzled the pillow to her cheek. Latif brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and thought about the fact that having breakfast with Mona would shave another hour off his day. He'd have to go to the store for real food, not just eat a few spoonfuls of chunky peanut butter out the jar and grab his horn. Perhaps Mona was just an excuse—maybe he was being a punk playground kid, the kind who talks shit when his boys are holding him back but doesn't swing a fist when they release him to do battle. Was Latif afraid to be alone with his horn? Angry at himself for even thinking it, he threw the covers back and walked across the room to his turntable. As the first notes of “Better Get Hit in Yo Soul” hit the air, Mona stirred. He watched her stretch, blink, rub her eyes, sit up. He said Good morning, sunshine.

  She smiled sleepily and raised her arms above her head to crack her back. What's this? she asked.

  Charles Mingus, he replied, and watched her listen. He'd done this before when he was feeling ornery: played a piece about which he felt passionately and examined Mona's face for signs of understanding, unsure what response would not annoy him.

  Mona smiled at him and nodded with the music. I've got to borrow this sometime, she said.

  You always say that. Latif laughed.

  Well, it's all great.

  What's your favorite?

  Mona saw sharpness darting beneath the placid surface of the question and knew she was being tested. It was a game she refused to play; she flunked them all deliberately and watched him stew. She wished she didn't understand Latif so well; it made his behavior too easy to forgive.

  I don't know enough to say. That was his point anyway, whether he knew it or not: that she wasn't fit to hold opinions on his music, only to celebrate it uncritically, the same way he wanted her to celebrate him. He wouldn't let her plead ignorance, though, Mona thought. He'd take it as a sign of feminine self-effacement, out-of-character as that might be, and try to build her up.

  Sure you do. You hear me play, you go to Dutchman's all the time. You know more than most folks, that's no question.

  What's your favorite? Mona parried, sure that Latif kept a personal top-forty chart in his head. She reflected briefly that men were obsessed with ranking things, list making, hierarchy, then stood up and walked past him as he began enumerating albums. I'm making coffee, she announced. Want some?

  No thanks.

  What should we do for breakfast? Mona asked with her back to him, pouring water in the coffeemaker. She knew he wanted to be alone; she just wanted him to say so. Or do you have plans?

  I'm gonna be practicing all day, he said. So yeah, I guess I do.

  See? she thought. How hard was that? I'm glad you're working, Mona said, returning from the kitchen alcove. Her naked breasts swayed as she walked. You know I worry I'll distract you.

  He didn't believe her when she said such things. They were disclaimers. They shifted the burden of keeping space between them onto him and let Mona feel good when Latif didn't shoulder it and push her away.

  Don't worry, he said. Nothing can distract me from my horn. He tried to imagine Albert saying something so ridiculous and couldn't.

  Not even this? asked Mona, sitting on his lap. She kissed his neck and whispered You should be practicing right now.

  It was a joke that turned serious as the heat of her body against his melted Latif's animosity and his resolve; he watched them drip into a puddle with a smirk of resignation, said I might resent you for this down the line, and bent to circle Mona's nipple with his tongue. He wondered what was more pathetic, that he couldn't resist her, or that Mona knew it and used sex to end arguments and rebalance their relationship when he was caustic.

  It was another three hours before Mona left: sex, downtime, showers, hunger, shopping, breakfast. Latif took out his horn at two in the afternoon, stared at it until three-thirty, played like shit until five and retreated to his bed pissed that he had wasted the day, that the energy and inspiration he'd awakened with were gone, that the walls of his room had lost their resilience and instead of bouncing back at him, his tones slid sickly to the floor and lay there panting. And in a few hours he had to be at Dutchman's, watching other musicians work while he paced, watched, and hustled.

  “Forlorn” was still swaying when Mona walked into the club and spotted Latif leaning limply with a shotglass in his hand, looking as morose as when she'd left him. He didn't move to greet her, only smiled and dumped the brown liquor into his mouth between his thumb and finger like an oyster. When Mona approached and asked him how his day had been, he crossed his finger to his lips, shushed her, and pointed calmly to the stage.

  Perhaps he didn't mean it as such, but to Mona the gesture was one of total disrespect. It was the same thing her father had done any time she tried to talk to him while he was watching baseball on TV, and Mona hated it. Daddy! she would bound into the living room, guess what—only to be silenced for the sake of something more important. A baseball game, one of a hundred he watched every summer. A ballad, one of a hundred Latif heard The Quartet play every night and every week and every month. And Larry Calvin swigged his beer and smirked at her and looked at Latif out of the corner of his eye, and Mona knew exactly what that asshole was thinking: He's got his bitch locked down. With one gesture, Mona thought, Latif had managed to display his sanctimonious reverence for the music and make her feel completely fucking worthless.

  They stood in silence, looking at the stage, and then Latif peeled Mona's sterncrossed arm off of her chest and took her hand. She did nothing, let him brush her fingers with his own and rub the curves of his nails along her palm. When she felt him look at her, Mona withdrew her hand and refolded her arms. The song ended and she turned to face Latif. Don't you ever shush me again, she said, and stalked off toward the bathrooms. She knew Larry Calvin was back there shaking his head, chuckling Whoo boy, and Latif was playing it off cool, deliberately staying where he was. Probably ordering another drink to make his point. He would apologize later, at the set break, after she'd had time to cool down, doubt her anger, wonder if she'd overreacted and become the old lone gunman Mona. He would work music into his apology as a disclaimer, say he'd been wrapped up in what was happening onstage, shake his head and make some small sad reference to his own horn problems and say The only time I'm not thinking about playing is when I'm with you.

  Don't bullshit me, Mona responded. The only time you're not thinking about playing is when we're making love. If you just want to meet and fuck, then I can do that. She scrutinized him, ready to jet if Teef's eyes lit up. But I want to know you, Latif, and I want you to know me.

  Could there be room for her? Latif stretched and recoiled wildly, toward Mona and away. He wondered if she could make him stronger, if his feelings for her could amplify and clarify his feelings for the music, if they could multiply each other. Perhaps all his self-discipline had been misguided and his devotion to the music was preventing him from loving someone else, from feeling fully human.

  I want to be known, he whispered.

  Mona looked at him with soft eyes. Yeah?

  And then Albert tapped Teef on the shoulder.

  COUNTERSURVEILLANCE |

  HOT MATH | CASCADE

  Dutchman's was half empty, the first set not scheduled to start until nine-thirty and the candlepieces on the tables still unlit. The trickledown of hustlers from uptown's shining faucets never accelerated to a steady flow before midnight, when the second set was swinging. Even The Quartet seldom made the scene much in advance of showtime except Murray Higgins, whose custom it was to hold down the bar from six o'clock on, sipping whiskey sours with the waiters and pettycash betting on whatever game came on the set, anything from tennis or basketball to hockey. Sometimes Amir Abdul drank with him, and drank faster than the drummer when he did, but more often the other players were no
where to be seen until Van Horn's official backstage call at five to nine. Sonny usually woke up at four or five and had dinner-slash-breakfast in Brooklyn before heading to the club to undertake a stretch of work and play that seldom ended before daylight.

  But not today. Burma had barely caught an hour's rest since standing up from Dutchman's old piano bench the night before, or had a chance to visit any of his favorite afterhours spots or lady friends. He'd been sitting in counsel with Latif, drinking first martinis, then beer, and finally, by midmorning, grapefruit juice with pancakes and home-fried potatoes at a diner down the block from Burma's brownstone, Latif marking off each overtired hour and returning to the same unanswerable question chorus all the while: How long has he been watching me? How does he know if I'm frustrated? Is he gonna cut my head?

  Sonny was under strict orders not to tip Van Horn's hand, and he said nothing. What would Teef have gained anyway by knowing that the incognito softstep he'd developed to avoid attracting Albert's attention had been a complete failure, that although it was sleekly suited to his business and a welcome change after the splash and flash of The Say Brother Show, it hadn't worked a week?

  Six days after Teef started work, Albert had summoned Sonny to his empty dressing room and closed the door, walked slowly to the low leather couch and eased himself down. Sonny stood, like a kid before the principal's desk, and watched Albert change from his street shoes into the shining pair he kept in drawstring felt bags and wore only on the bandstand. He wondered whether he was in trouble until Albert crossed his legs and offered the pianist a couch seat and poured him a glass of wine.

  We used to go through New Orleans twice a year when I was with The Emperor's big band, Albert recounted, and Sonny was glad to be sitting. When Albert felt like talking you wanted to be comfortable and open-eared and emptybladdered, with some time in front of you. Once, Van Horn went on Milford Montague, our trombonist from the Big Easy, took me with him to see Madame Dujeous, this old local fortuneteller he'd been knowing since the days of way back, growing up. They exchanged their greetings and Milford introduced me, and we all sat down over some sweet tea and she looked at me and said Well? and I said Well? and she said Well, aren't you going to tell me my future? I laughed and asked her wasn't that her job. And she looked at me and then at Milford and said It may be my job but he can take it if he wants it. This boy has got an aura I wish you could see, Milly. It's like a suit of fire licking and sizzling and buzzing. You can hear a pin dropping on Saturn, can't you, Albert?