by James Kelman
Aunt Edna was engrossed in the performance and he could have escaped except he couldnt, not without saying; he couldnt do that. Aunt Edna, he said, I’ve got to go now.
To go Murdo?
Eh it’s eh, my father. He’s coming like eh so I’m going to have to go and meet him. Murdo smiled and turned to leave.
Aunt Edna hesitated. They’ll be disappointed you’ve gone.
Yeah but I’ll be there tonight. I just have to go just now. But I’ll eh – it’s just like my father eh…
Things okay with you Murdo?
Yeah.
Aunt Edna gestured at the front row. Joel’s sitting there. And Gene – you know Gene?
Yeah but I just need to go.
How is your father son, how’s he doing?
He’s fine. He’s fine. If ye just tell eh Queen Monzee-ay like I mean I will be there.
Okay Murdo.
Thanks, said Murdo and turned to leave. Two guys from Diego’s band were watching him; they made to speak. One was the guy who had shouted the information earlier. He put his hand out, gesturing at the accordeon-case. Hey! You play with Queen Monzee-ay? Tonight like the Jay Cee, you play with her?
Yeah. Murdo nodded and stepped on. The guy put his hand forwards quickly, pointing at himself. Esteban, he said, then pointing at the other guy: Santiago.
Murdo waited. Santiago grinned, reached to shake hands. Esteban indicated the other two members of the band who were handing out flyers to some of the audience. We four, we are with Diego. Esteban shrugged. We play with him, concert.
Santiago jabbed his finger at Murdo’s chest. Queen Monzee-ay? You play?
Yeah.
Your name?
Murdo.
Murrdo! Santiago nodded. Murrdo! Comp ticket! Santiago handed him a ticket. Is tonight. You come maybe?
Yeah.
Is comp ticket.
Thanks.
Seven o’clock, said Esteban. You are late, we are early. You come.
Yeah, thanks. Murdo shoved the comp ticket and a flyer into his jeans pocket and walked off fast, through the dancers and fringe audience, heading for the rear exit.
*
In the wee grass square the benches remained occupied. He had been waiting for one to become free. He checked for dog shit then sat on the grass, his back to a bush. Later he was awake, his head bent forwards. When he moved it it made a weird crunching noise in his ears. His neck was sore. He rubbed it with his right hand. The accordeon-case and rucksack were secured to his left wrist with his belt. His bum was numb. He must have been sleeping. Probably he had been. He looked for his bottle of water, swallowed a mouthful. He slackened off the belt and inserted it back through the loops on his jeans. How long had he been here? An hour and a half maybe. Late afternoon and warm.
No wonder he was tired. His last sleep was Thursday into Friday and tonight was Saturday into Sunday. The gig was set for 9 p.m. but probably didnt start until half past. So by the time he got to bed. Wherever that was. Back here. Unless the friends of Sarah’s family were still offering.
He was hungry. The same foodstall was there and that was a place. An actual café would have been better, so he could wash his hands and face. They had these festival-type WC cubicles but they didnt have washing facilities. The toilet he had to use was too gross even to talk about like diarrhoea, totally disgusting, the pong was just like the worst imaginable. Whoever used it last must have been ill.
The idea of a shower. This was Saturday and he had been wearing the same stuff since Thursday. People going between venues would see him as a tramp. Maybe he was. Murdo lifted the rucksack and pulled it on, lifted the accordeon-case, and started walking. Where to? Ha ha.
Unless if he went to Diego Narciso’s gig. He checked out the flyer again. It was like a major concert! Murdo had never even heard of him. The trouble was it started at seven, so then it was like getting to the Jay Cee Lounge in time for the nine o’clock kick-off, although nine o’clock might mean nine thirty. The guys in Diego’s band said it would be okay for time but would it? Maybe it wouldnt, and he couldnt be late. Because he definitely was doing the gig with Queen Monzee-ay. He thought he wasnt but now he was. For definite. It didnt matter about Sarah. She was nice and that was that. He was foreign and she was nice to him. So then it was like Oh she must love me. Stupid shit and his own stupid fault because he was so damn stupid, damn bloody daft, that was all.
Only how come she touched him? That was the one thing. She did touch him. So if ye touch somebody. Girls touch a guy and it is like nothing to her but for the guy it is like the guy is getting touched. So ye shiver! Ye just shiver. Sarah touched him and he shivered. How come? Like if a lassie has a boyfriend, well, touch him but dont touch somebody else if ye have a boyfriend already.
It didnt matter anyway.
Turn a corner and bumping into Dad: imagine. Where have you been? Walking about. Sleeping on the grass. What!?! Yeah well how long does money last like I mean Lafayette to Huntsville, plus accordeon? Could ye even buy a return it was so damn expensive? Maybe ye couldnt.
Dad would find him. Nose in the air, sniff sniff: he went thataway. Good that Declan Pike was there. Dad got stressed with people but Declan was different, Declan knew about stuff. The Jay Cee Lounge for Zydeco and Blues. Probably he knew it already. Probably he had been there. Your boy is doing a gig with Queen Monzee-ay so he will be there, he will be there. It’s an honour. Declan would tell him. Declan would know.
The foodstall was ahead: same place same guy. He approached the counter, settling the accordeon-case on the ground. The guy waited for the order. Murdo smiled. Could I have the fish again eh the catfish?
Catfish, you want catfish?
Please, yeah.
The guy went into one of the food compartments, got a catfish fillet and tossed it onto the hotplate. You want hot sauce?
Yeah. And what goes with it, is that rice?
Rice, sure. The guy spooned hot sauce onto the fish and began the frying.
Murdo studied the different side foods. I think it was salad you gave me the last time.
Salad, si.
Are ye busy? asked Murdo.
The guy grunted something and turned from him to see the listed meals and meal deals.
Murdo thought to say something again but the guy waved him aside. Another customer was there, a big man wearing short trousers. The foodstall guy took his order. Obviously he didnt remember Murdo. But the festival was busy and thousands of people were here. A bottle of coke and a packet of doritos. That was the customer’s order, and he dropped coins into the tips jar.
The foodstall guy watched the man open the packet of doritos with his teeth while heading along to the main festival area. He yawned and shifted a step, looked at the catfish, flipped it over. He folded his arms and stared way over Murdo’s head.
Murdo turned to see the grass square and the people going about. After several moments he said to the guy: I’m playing tonight eh…doing a gig.
The foodstall guy glanced at Murdo who gestured at the accordeon-case. The guy turned to rearrange something on the shelves behind him, wiped his hands on a dishtowel.
We dont go on until after nine o’clock, said Murdo.
Mm. The guy used the dishtowel to wipe along the counter top then ripped the cellophane surround from a pile of paper plates. He extracted one and set it on the counter. What drink you want?
You’ve not got any orange juice?
No orange juice.
You have water?
Si water. The guy lifted the catfish up off the hotplate, and slid it aboard the plate. He picked a bottle of water from out the glass-fronted cupboard: You want salad?
Please, yeah. Murdo had taken the flyer for Diego’s gig from his pocket and read the details. I’m going to a gig, he said, this other gig. It starts at seven. Scene Kiosque à Musique.
The guy was pronging out the lettuce and tomato. While he did that Murdo read aloud from the flyer. The guy jerked his head to the left,
spooning a dollop of rice to the plate. Diego Narciso, added Murdo, he plays kind of
Huh?
The gig eh, Scene Kiosque à Musique.
Diego Narciso? said the guy.
Yeah.
Is Diego Narciso? You are going al concierto Diego?
Yeah.
Whohh! The guy laid down the paper plate and patted himself on the chest. Diego! I listen to him, I play his music. Here…! He reached for his phone. See Diego, his music!
You like him?
Si I like him, si: Diego! The foodstall guy laughed.
I’ve got a ticket.
Good! Lucky.
I actually met him. This afternoon.
The guy squinted, listening. Murdo passed him a $10 note. The guy took it and held it a moment. I met him this afternoon, said Murdo. I mean I was like introduced to him. That’s how I got the ticket… Murdo brought out the comp ticket and looked at it, then showed it to the guy.
The guy studied it and replied, Is backstage.
Yeah.
The guy nodded and half turned from Murdo to collect the change from the till. He laid the money on the counter in front of Murdo. He smiled, lifted the dishtowel and flicked at the hotplate.
Murdo let the money lie. The truth is, he said, I cant actually go. I dont have enough time. Because like my own gig, where I’m playing, I’ve got to be there for something like eight o’clock. Diego’s gig is seven o’clock.
The foodstall guy was listening but not maybe understanding.
Murdo said, I mean you could go. He reached over the counter, gesturing with the comp ticket. You take it.
The guy smiled, shaking his head.
Honest. You take it. It’s a comp. No money. Just take it.
No.
No?
The guy shook his head. No. Gracias.
Murdo said, I know you are working just now but could you not get somebody to maybe let ye away or whatever?
The guy didnt answer. He moved back from the counter and involved himself somewhere beneath it. Murdo waited but that was that. He lifted his change from the counter and put a dollar bill into the tips jar, stuck the bottle of water in his pocket and lifted the plate of food.
He walked along past the bench from last night. There was space at one end but he didnt want to sit there. He kept going to the next and sat down there.
Back at the foodstall the guy stepped outside for a smoke, had lit his cigarette and just stood there gazing into space. He had the phone in one hand but wasnt looking at it.
But it wasnt Murdo’s fault, whatever it was. Having to work there instead of playing music. Being married with his wife and kids, having to work at that job. Night-shifts and long hours; her days, him nights. Whose fault was that? Who was the guy blaming, Murdo? How come? If ye want to play music and ye dont. Who do ye blame? If ye blame somebody, who is it? Cooking grub for folk. Murdo would have hated that. Then if it was you hungry and you had to cook for them. Who wants to do that! Just like a servant. So a guy comes up to ye and asks for a hamburger. But it’s you wants the hamburger. And you’ve got to cook it for him. Ye would be angry. Aw here ye are and ye would just bloody throw it at him, there’s yer fucking hamburger, catch. No wonder ye got angry, anybody would. Ye would be in a daze all day dreaming and just like fantasizing; one day this and that. But then it is day after day after day here’s a hamburger, no hamburger, catfish. That guy loved Diego. Murdo didnt know who he was. It wasnt his fault. That was life. Murdo should have left the ticket on the counter and went away. Then the foodstall guy, whatever he done with it was up to him. Dump it or keep it, go ahead, instead of blaming Murdo. A guy gave him the ticket. Whose fault was that? A guy from Diego’s band. It wasnt Murdo’s fault. Only offering him the ticket. Maybe he shouldnt have. How come? It made the person feel low.
But a present? The ticket was a present. He gave the guy a present. A present is a present. What is wrong with a present? Why didnt he just take the ticket then he could have ripped it up afterwards, or sold it. He could have sold the thing! Who cares. It was like being too proud. Oh I’m not taking a present off you, who do ye think ye are. Oh ye play accordeon, well ha ha, so do I. That was like school, just daft nonsense.
*
The end of the road widened out near a railway line and Murdo saw the Jay Cee Lounge way across the other side, no longer a road, just a free-standing building on an open stretch, with a large parking place to the front. Quite a few vehicles were parked. A big man was by the door; African-American and dressed like a cowboy; the hat and waistcoat, jeans and boots. Murdo paused to switch hands on the accordeon-case. There was nowhere else he could be headed except to the club entrance. The man watched him until he arrived then held up his hand to stop him: Where you going?
Murdo would have had to push past him to enter. To one side of the doorway was a large glossy poster advertising The Zadik Strollers and Special Guest Queen Monzee-ay: $15 cover. To the other side of the doorway was a cardboard notice: RU25? The doorman pointed at the RU25? notice, crooked his right forefinger: ID. ID!
Murdo looked up again at the notice and at the poster.
You are way too young, said the doorman. I need some ID.
I’ve not got any.
Not got any?
I’m not American.
The doorman stared at Murdo and at the accordeon-case. I got to see some ID. You are way too young.
Do ye mean like a passport? If it’s my passport like I mean I left it at home. Murdo pointed to the poster. I’m playing with Queen Monzee-ay.
Other people were coming forward and the doorman waved them on into the club. They glanced at Murdo. Murdo repeated it, quietly: I’m playing with Queen Monzee-ay.
What do you say? Playing with Queen Monzee-ay? The doorman pointed to the name on the poster. You playing with her?
Yeah.
The doorman nodded, he sniffed and said: Okay. Now I will know if you aint. Understand what I’m saying. I will know and I will come looking.
I am playing with her.
I hear you boy I hear you. The doorman pointed his right forefinger at Murdo’s nose. You go in there and you stay put. You dont do nothing. You hear me? No beer no nothing. You dont leave that stage area. Old man tending bar see you doing something man he will shoot you. Old Vinnie man you know who he is! He gotta shotgun man he will shoot you.
The doorman stared at Murdo until eventually Murdo nodded. The doorman said, Okay. He shaped his hand like a pistol, directing Murdo into an L-shaped lobby. Taped music played; a rhythm and blues thing that was so measured and so just moving ahead; piano, sax and drums, one voice: baby dont turn me down, baby let me hold your hand, dont turn me down. A few people were here; a cloakroom and attendant. Murdo passed along, lugging the accordeon-case, rucksack over his shoulders.
Two women were by a small table taking tickets and issuing tickets. A $15 cover. They looked at Murdo and he made to pay across a $20 note and get the $5 change, thinking just like save hassle, save hassle. One of the women smiled, jerked her thumb sideways. Thanks, he said, putting the money back into his pocket. He heard them laugh, probably about him. A white boy, or just because he was young, whatever, playing with Queen Monzee-ay, who cares. It didnt matter. Through the doorway now into the main hall, by the side of a long bar. And it was hard not walking to the beat, in the singer’s own rhythm, feeling like a clown, please dont turn me down baby,
please let me hold your hand,
baby let me hold your hand
and if I hold your hand
The platform stage was set up; instruments in place, and ready for use. Mainly black people but not only. The place was half full already and they werent due to begin for another hour. Nobody paid Murdo any attention, except for the bartender who was quite old-looking and wearing a hat, not a cowboy one but like a gangster or a businessman. Murdo realized he was watching him, beneath the rim of the hat hiding his eyes while opening bottles of beer for a customer.
Then he moved h
is head and it was for Murdo, nodding him along and to the side there. Murdo saw a door, leading backstage. By the other side of the stage, way to the opposite end of the space from the bar, were tables along the wall. Two were side by side. Aunt Edna and Joel were there with Sarah’s parents. No sign of Sarah or Queen Monzee-ay. He was glad not to see Sarah.
He headed to where the bartender indicated, through the door into a corridor. Along here the music faded. Murdo stood in half light, a blue light. He didnt want any more. It would have been on him and he wanted shadows. Sometimes ye felt like hiding. Although he knew why he was here. Coming all this way. Maybe he was daft. So what? Maybe he did mistake the situation. Who fucking cares, if everything was stupid and everything was crap and so damn bloody horrible, who cares, people looking and everybody knowing. Stupid shit. He heard music and it was good. Faint music but good, just fading how it fades; breath going from the body, breath entering the body. Murdo heard and it was a waltz. Probably in his own head. When he was playing his mind stayed out of it; same with listening, ye hear it but ye dont; it enters through the skin, yer actual skin, the pores in yer skin.
Imagine silence. Everybody shuts up at the exact same moment. Suddenly nothing.
Murdo opened his eyes. He saw faded posters and old-style photographs lining either wall; signed photographs. Great musicians down through the years. He wandered along seeing the faces and reading the names: Boozoo Chavis, Clifton Chenier, Little Walter, Queen Monzee-ay, Beau Jocque, Professor Longhair, Queen Ida, Lightnin’ Slim. Then he put the accordeon-case down for a wee minute, looked back to the door into the main area. He saw the light there and didnt want ever to go back. Oh jees never and he was just wanting to cry, that is what he wanted. Right here. It was this right here. Even the smell. Old and fusty, damp. The atmosphere was just like thick. That is what it was: thick; the most most wonderful ever imaginable. Ye could never ever imagine it. That was the shiver. Nothing like anything except itself. Oh jees, he was just looking forwards to playing, he was just wanting to play, just like so so wanting to play, taking yer hand. What else? Nothing, only holding me, please please let me.