Shackling Water Page 8

  Trey Valenzuela, the Albert Van Horn Quartet's original bass player, had died twenty-three years ago today, and that was why Sonny dared smoke reefer in the dressing room. He knew from past experience that Albert and Higgins would keep to themselves tonight, toasting their bandmate. Albert would take Trey's portrait from Dutchman's wall and hold it while he commemorated his friend to the audience. They'd play Trey's tunes, all four of them, and that would be the first set. A long burning Latin suite Albert had composed for Valenzuela, Desayuno Domingo, would fill the second. Albert and Higgins would play their asses off in tribute, and Amir would do some of Trey's trademark things and have the old men glowing with appreciation.

  There were thirty minutes to showtime and the weed was almost gone. Amir unzipped his bass bag, started warming up. I went to college on an art scholarship, he told Latif, high and suddenly loquacious so when I started playing bass, I memorized the hand positions, watched myself play and said Okay, if I make this kind of triangle with my fingers on the strings, I get this kind of sound. If I spread the triangle like this, I get this kind of sound. I don't watch my hands anymore, but I'm still thinking geometrically.

  Sonny Burma plucked the jointbutt from his lips fast, dropped it to the floor, and called a new tune. He'd heard this all before. Ah, you are jazz musician? he asked Amir in an Eastern European accent, cuing him to a routine they'd honed in the two years since Amir had joined the band. I love American jazz musician. You like Lee Konitz? Here, I show you picture. Is me with friend of me and Lee Konitz, nineteen sixty-three.

  Where you are playing? Amir responded in the same accent. Ah, yes, is my town. Very good for jazz. I maybe will come. If I don't go fishing, I come. Here is picture! This me with halibut, nineteen forty-one. You know halibut? Is important fish of my country.

  You know Gregor Zileski? asked Sonny. Is best schlugenhorn player in all of Blutdendorf. I have picture. Here is Gregor Zileski with important halibut, nineteen seventy-one.

  On airplane, I teach you traditional song of my homeland, for play on schlugenhorn and soosenfracht. You know Benny Goodman?

  Where you are from? New York? I have friend there. Jim. You know Jim? I never been New York. I always say I like to go. Maybe now that I know you, I come. You, me, Jim, we go for drink. And halibut.

  I have daughter! Maybe you like meet. Here is picture. Ignore rash on mouth. She very good cook halibut with smurgenfrugen sauce. You have this sauce? No? You must try. Is best sauce of my country.

  How long you stay here? Only one day? Why you not stay longer?

  Amir collapsed in laughter. Because, motherfucker, if I stay longer I'll kill you. He turned to Latif. I swear, man, every airport.

  Shoot, said Sonny half the time the club's no better. I swear, if we ever play to a welldressed, mostly black room it'll be such a fucking shock I'll lose my mind.

  Well, you're safe tonight, Latif said. The white guy at the first table's wearing a V-neck sweater backwards.

  Any chicks out there? asked Sonny.

  Latif leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. Just the one I brought, he smirked.

  Amir shook his head. Mona, Mona, Mona. Robbing the goddamn cradle. Shit, I was in Baghdad when you was in your dad's bag. Whatchu got for her, youngster?

  Hey, said Latif. I might have been born yesterday, but I stayed up all night.

  With her? I bet you did, said Sonny. I just bet you did.

  I know I did, Amir said.

  Me too, Sonny agreed.

  Fuck y'all. Y'all can't even lie.

  Who's lying? asked Sonny. Welcome to the Mona Club. She's fucked damn near every nigger in here.

  Yeah, right, Latif said, snatching a cigarette from the pack inside Sonny's suitjacket pocket with fake angry flair. Matter fact, she did mention something. She said outta everybody she's fucked, y'all two were the worst.

  I know I wasn't worse than Larry Calvin, said Amir.

  Damn, Larry Lo-Cal tapped it? I feel gross now. Better see a doctor, Teef.

  Nah, on the real though, said Amir. She did date a trombone player who used to hang in here. Cat named Smiley. Real bloody knuckles type of motherfucker.

  As in he hit her?

  As in knuckles dragging on the floor, kid. Dude was like the missing link.

  Sonny put a foot up on his chair and leaned an elbow on his knee. He was talking mad shit when they broke up. Told everybody who'd listen how crazy Mona was.

  Amir cackled. You wanna know why? She threw that fool the fuck out her apartment half-naked, yo. He came down to Ada's holding his pants in one hand and half his trombone in the other. I bout laughed my ass off. Then we hear this crash, and the other half of Smiley's bone is lying in the street. He never did tell me what happened, just made me promise not to let it get out. So you see what my word's worth.

  Whoo. Sonny shook his head. Better watch yourself, Teef.

  How long ago was this? Latif asked.

  Amir squinted at the ceiling. Bout two years ago. You think she's changed?

  She seems to think so.

  Ada does too, Amir agreed. Giving is the word she used. Mona's gotten more giving.

  Shoot, said Sonny if she's giving, I'm taking.

  Alright, alright, groaned Latif. I'm going to go buy my girl a drink. Have a good set. I hope y'all both break every string.

  He swung the door shut on their laughter and walked back to the bar. Mona sat with Ada at a back table and as Teef strode toward them lightfooted none other than Larry Calvin, erstwhile tenorman, addict, and pimp, bent over their table candlepiece to light his cigarette. Lo-Cal lingered, one jeweled hand on the back of each chair, leaned in between them and cracked some joke that made Mona and Ada laugh and slide each other sideways eyes.

  Every cat in here had probably tried to rap to Mona, Latif thought, watching. Motherfuckers posted up on the musicians' wall were nothing if not slick, nothing if not pussyhounds who zoned in on the scent and chased it at a charming trot which accelerated to an ugly galloping insistence as the night wore down. He'd seen dudes cajole and intimidate their ways into some skins, seen women pull their coats on looking like they'd lost debates and were thus resigned to forfeiting their bodies. If you were persistent enough to never give up and smooth enough to make your interests seem gentle and complimentary until the cloudy point of no return—that moment when a woman might begin to feel she'd justified your expectations by drinking with you so long, absorbing all your come-ons—then you could take one of these stranger-to-the-game-or-were-they white women home a lot of nights.

  Latif slid into an extra chair and kissed Mona and Ada hello. Mona was rocking a green silk shirt and her eyes looked practically fluorescent in contrast. He watched them flash and had no problem seeing Mona, wronged, whyle out and wreck a motherfucker's livelihood and prized possession. She ever fucks with my horn, he thought mildly, I'll kill her. For perhaps the fifth time in the minute since Amir had told the story, Latif wondered what Smiley and his trombone had done to her.

  Latif waved a raised finger and the waitress turned to fetch a vodka tonic.

  How's business? Mona asked.

  Steady, he replied. As if to prove it, the pager Say Brother had given him buzzed against Latif's hip, flashing an address. Shit. He read the message. Listen, he said, feeling smarmy I've got to take a little walk. Mona nodded placidly into her drink. Wanna come?

  She looked up. Is it okay?

  Sure. It's not far. We'll only miss one tune.

  Alright then. She grabbed her purse.

  Afternoon rain made the night air crisp. They walked in silence for a few blocks, until they'd left the loud bright center of the West Village, dotted with yellow and red pizzeria awnings. Latif acted out the music they stepped through when they passed by the open doors of bars: Belted two lines of “Break On Through” and did his best sultry-sloshed Jim Morrison impression, then became himself again as the song faded. It turned into a game; he and Mona whipped imaginary tresses back and forth, thwanging air
guitars with rockstar abandon to some eighties crap metal blaring in some seamy dive, nodded tortured screwfaces in time to the gutbucket blues filling Chicago Joe's Tavern, and shimmied like teenyboppers to some unidentified generic pop whining from mounted speakers high on the walls of a cafe.

  On Ninth Street they turned west and strolled a quiet brownstone block sheathed by a canopy of trees. This is so pretty, Mona said, hushtoned. I'd love to live down here. She took his hand. There's a block like this near my office. I eat lunch there every day it's warm. I sit on a stoop, and you know what I do? I smile and say hello to everyone who passes. Everyone. And I get at least a smile back from almost everybody.

  Latif smiled. Probably makes people's day. He wondered why she chose to perform her random acts of kindness down here instead of in her neighborhood. A few weeks ago, he said, I was going to the music store to buy new reeds. I get off the train and it starts pouring. I stop at the ATM and the guard, this older black lady, asks me how to spell umbrella. She's making a sign. I tell her, and then I say, As in I forgot my umbrella, I'm gonna get soaked without my umbrella, just joking around. She says to me where are you going? I tell her a few blocks south to the music shop, and she says Here, take mine. Just bring it back. Not so spectacular, right, but it was. I said Thank you, and I took it. And I was just happy. Brought her back a hot chocolate, made her happy.

  Mona's smile sparkled through the dark. That's so nice.

  They turned the corner, found the building, and walked into a white marble lobby. A doorman announced Latif over the phone and they took the elevator up to 9D. A full-figured lady in a cafe-con-leche-colored dress just lighter than her skin was waiting for them with the door open. You must be Latif. She smiled, grandmotherly, with beautiful white teeth. She put a hand on Mona's forearm. You I wasn't expecting. But I love your blouse. Her voice was rich, melodious, a large ripe blackberry. She ushered them in gracefully, light on her feet: She was a singer, Latif thought. No question.

  I hear you play tenor. She winked, sweeping ahead of them into a spacious livingroom of beige leather couches and mocha carpeting. She cast hazel eyes at Mona, winked again. Is he gooood?

  I hope to find out myself, Mona smiled back, charmed.

  Latif stood with his hands clasped behind him, looking around on best behavior. A framed advertisement poster caught his eye. Is this you? he inquired, pointing.

  Years ago, dear. She gazed lovingly at it.

  Odessa Childs with the Lester Young Big Band. Latif turned to her, excitement in his eyes. This was one of my teacher's favorite records. It's gorgeous. You sound like, like . . .

  She waved her hand at him, pleased. You're a sweetheart to say so. If you can, come up to Smoke next week. A bashful downcast smile: I don't sound like I did then, but . . . Odessa looked up and spun lightly, abruptly, toward the kitchen, separated from the living room by a formica bar. Well, I don't want to hold you beautiful young people up. Let me pay you and send you on your way.

  She opened a drawer and handed Latif a hundred dollar bill. He gave her a bag of dope. She looked at it grimly, then smiled at him. Give Say Brother my best.

  Will do.

  Hope to see you all again.

  Good night.

  He stole another glance at the poster. The strange feeling that Wess had somehow failed him rushed through Latif's body and vanished. He smiled back at her.

  Good night.

  THE GHOST OF PRESENTS PAST |

  CONVERGENCE | CIPHERING

  Latif scooped up a flat chunk of packed sand and started to bore a slow hole through it with his thumb and middle finger. The key was to keep the motion gradual and circular, so the brittle chunk did not collapse. The beach was cool between his wiggling toes now; the sun had disappeared beneath the water in a swirl of pink and orange gauze. The air's contaminants added texture to the sunset, Mona claimed, actually made it more beautiful. Latif smiled when she said it, at the New York attitude embodied in the statement, civic pride even in pollution. He asked her if the smog was what made her beautiful too, and she laughed and stuck out her tongue at him.

  Mona had two laughs. The one she used at parties trilled light from her palate; her eyes lit momentarily on whoever was funny and then she glided down and landed in a tightlipped smile. The other laugh was real, unguarded, Mona at her goofiest, a raucous belt-out that sometimes crested in a little snort. The first time he had heard it, in his bedroom as they sat up smoking and joking one night, Latif felt retroactively cheated for every time he'd heard the first one, became this new laugh's jealous suitor. He sought any reassurance that he wasn't alone in watching his defenses fall. Not fall; the walls still stood, but Mona was walking through them like a cartoon bully, leaving Mona-shaped holes in her wake. Latif's mind miosed into two camps as her footsteps rumbled closer; exhilaration and fear eyed each other, wary. Pimpery turned its back on both of them and mumbled into its fur coat, angry that Latif had not yet understood and mastered Mona.

  He wished it wasn't whispering so close to his ear, but Latif couldn't find the strength to shoo it. In life's other realms he surrounded himself only with people who knew more, who were badder than he was, people from whom he could learn. Why then wouldn't this impulse to dominate shut the fuck up and leave him alone? Perhaps it was some mechanism of defense Latif's psyche had generated, a rope to tie him to the ground and prevent him from soaring off in weightless adoration. But Latif didn't want to be protected from himself, from Mona. Part of him, at least, wanted the two of them to protect each other from the world. In the past few weeks he'd begun thinking of himself and Mona as a unit in quick fantastic flashes, warm moments of holistic satisfaction when all doubt seemed to vanish like the sun behind the dirty glimmering Atlantic.

  He was caught up in such a flash now as he and Mona sat on Reese Beach, capping a laidback day of playing hooky from work and the woodshed with a twilight picnic of white wine and boardwalk vendor hot dogs. Latif crossed his legs, leaned back onto his elbows, slid his hand beneath Mona's shirt and brushed away the sand specks sticking to her back. He loved the privilege of touching her casually and found excuses to do so in public if they were in a white or wellmixed neighborhood. In Harlem USA, Latif kept his hands mostly to himself. Mona hadn't brought it up yet.

  I think you're supposed to have a red wine with hot dogs, he said.

  That depends on what they're made of, Mona replied which is something I'd rather not think about. She arched her back and Latif took the cue, lifted his hand to her shoulders and pushed his thumb against a pressure point. Mona said Ow, which Latif knew didn't mean stop. Tradeoff massage—back, neck, shoulders, and especially hands and feet—was a cornerstone of their relationship.

  Mona looked around and sighed contentment through her nose. Sometimes I think the best thing about living in the city is getting out of it, she said, and stood. I'm going to test the water. Wanna come?

  So soon after eating? My mother would be scandalized. He raised his arms to her and Mona pulled him to his feet. I'll watch you, he said. Mona kissed him quick and ran with arms down and wrists up, taking small skipsteps and disappearing down the steep side of a sand dune only to reemerge a second later at the ocean's edge and spin and wave, holding her hair back in a ponytail. The gesture melted him, and for an instant everything seemed easy and eternal and Latif pictured them old together. Where this sudden warmth came from he didn't know, couldn't predict. He wondered if Mona felt it too, and winced imagining she didn't.

  Too cold, said Mona, flopping back onto their blanket. They sipped the wine from paper cups and Latif faded reluctantly back into reality. What's wrong? Mona asked, turning on her side to look at him. You seem a little dazed.

  Do I? He caught her eyes and held them tight, reflecting on the countless times he'd faked a look like this. He actually felt, now, the laserbeam intensity the look had been designed to mimic—or did he, if he had enough spare brain to think so? Latif wondered if this was a case of growing into what you long pretend to be,
an example of how honesty can creep into that which starts as showmanship.

  Perhaps he was wrong not to abandon old vocabulary in describing new phenomena, Latif thought, and then remembered something Wess had told him about the importance of standards to the music: We keep on coming back to them because when we play them we transform them, and at the same time they keep us rooted in the past. Every art has them; painting's got the still life and the nude, and we've got “Caravan” and “Satin Doll.”

  Absolutely nothing is wrong, Latif told Mona. Not a single solitary thing. They stared long at each other and slowly they began to smile. Those aren't sharks in her eyes, Latif thought, delighted. Those are dolphins. The smiles grew to grins, and they stared and grinned in the waning twilight until it was too dark to see, but still they didn't move. Latif began to wonder what could possibly break it up, enjoying the game but halfway wishing for an errant tennis ball to splash into the sand between them and give both an excuse to dart their eyes. But Mona ended it: Come on, I got work in the morning. They rose and scooped their stuff into her beachbag.

  When he stepped off the sand onto the weatherbeaten wood, Latif was back in his own skin. They were one of perhaps a hundred couples walking arm in arm or hand in hand along the boardwalk, and Latif found himself staring at each pair they passed, trying to determine from their gaits and faces whether they were happy, what they talked about, who came first when they made love. People walking by themselves and in groups were outnumbered here; they tramped apologetically around the couples, awkward in their numbers.

  A gaggle of white adolescents murmured together just ahead of them. They snickered quietly and the girls giggled as a white guy and his black girlfriend passed by holding hands. Latif watched the couple. Each stared straight ahead. The man's mouth curled with angry knowing and he looked as if he might turn around and lunge for the closest of the boys and rip his throat out. He's said what they're saying, thought Latif. The woman's face was placid, revealed nothing.