Now Oscar and Norman were as tight as a ring on a finger. If by chance you entered a luxurious hotel in Los Angeles, you would not have been surprised to see them talking into the wee hours while a waiter or barmaid, suppressing a yawn, refilled their glasses. Or if you happened on them in the Big Apple’s Central Station, it would have been poor form to stare at them wide-eyed as they were buying fares at the ticket window for some unknown destination. And if by chance you passed in front of a famous Chicago restaurant, you wouldn’t have batted an eyelid on seeing them cheek by jowl, because Norman was now his alter ego, his inner voice—a voice not to be trusted, if you hearkened to what some bad-mouthers said in private.
The world of jazz was divided on the subject of Norman G. Some praised his business acumen and his civility, qualities that had opened doors to spheres of influence hitherto deemed inaccessible, enabling him to build a sprawling empire, both an artists’ agency and a record company; others described him as a man consumed by society life and as a compulsive initiator of huge parties that almost always degenerated into orgies and ended badly, with him as host taking offence at some trifle—a word out of place, a bad joke—and unceremoniously throwing his guests into the street. The first group swore by the genuineness of his charm, a sign of his big heartedness; the second described a perfidious individual, pathologically resentful, who relied on his charisma to tyrannize those close to him and ultimately to bleed them dry.
It would seem that Oscar didn’t know where he stood with him, which explains why, when they agreed to meet in a social setting and he spotted his impresario in the midst of the guests, he eyed him from afar. Was he trying to get to the bottom of his furtive smiles? His strange way of dipping his head when he turned away from someone? His oratorical gifts when addressing a small group of five or six people, beside themselves with admiration? It’s said that Oscar’s ambivalence was such that he began to view his impresario as a smartly dressed guardian angel; because, after all, had he not kept all his promises? But just then, snatches of conversation between two people he didn’t know would reach his ears, wherein Norman G. was referred to in unflattering terms: for the one, his remoteness was proof positive of his shifty nature; for the other, the treatment Norman reserved for a disloyal musician was at the very least suspicious, and there followed a sordid story involving the mafia, a smoke-filled bar, a baseball bat, and a swollen face. As Oscar was busy imagining scenes out of a film, Norman came up behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and asked him, with an ambivalent smile on his lips, if he was bored, then remarked, as if to intentionally provoke him: You may not yet play like Art, but all the same you’re a hell of a pianist.
When Oscar went back to the neighbourhood, his old friends now limited themselves to a simple wave of the hand and kept their distance, as if they were intimidated by his sudden prosperity. During that time, according to his brothers and sisters, Davina produced enormous meals that so shocked Josué that he clung to her skirts, notebook in hand: But where did you get the money for that mountain of crab, that crate of cod, that chicken as big as a turkey? And those pies and pastries, whose flavours he’d never even imagined? Bloodseed, had she robbed a bank, or what? Davina came and went from her pots to the sink, punctuating her rapid steps with her constant sucking noise as if she were chomping at the bit.
Even at his parents’, he was no longer treated to intimacies such as taps on his back or on his cheek. Rather, he was prodded with questions about his fabulous life. Everyone wanted to know about the halls where he played, the celebrities he met, the cities he visited. Oscar answered patiently, in a manner new to him, which some thought steeped in false modesty. In time, the questions stopped, doubtless because the scenes he described were so remote from their daily lives that they ended up being hurtful.
In the course of those evenings, Josué spent most of his time sitting in the half-light of the living room, as still as a frozen tree, with his familiar, unwavering expression on his lips. No one knew if he expected nothing more from life, or if he were hoping that some violent event would take place to wrench him out of his silence. On each visit Oscar sat down at his side, rubbed his hands together as if lending an ear to the silence, smiled like a child as he fixed his gaze on the worn wooden floor, and at last talked about this and that. He was also trying to show that he bore him no grudge—which was only partly true, according to some—for having forced him listen to Art T. to lance the boil of his self-regard. He told all and sundry that he’d sought it out, that lesson in humility, and that now he’d turned the page. Because, seriously, why would he resent his begetter, the man who was getting by on a miserable pension, who had hidden away in a closet—was that possible?—his telescope, and spent all his days listening to records? No, he couldn’t be angry with this man who had endured so many humiliations in order to support his family; and on taking his leave he leaned down to plant a loud kiss on his father’s brow, as one would for an infant.
In the narrow hall, before he left, someone always cornered him to ask about his mysterious impresario. Why did he never come to town? They’d soon start thinking that he was snubbing them. A sardonic smile on his lips, Chester, who never missed an opportunity to goad his brother, said: Maybe it’s you who’s ashamed of your family, O.P.? Now Oscar—besides his eternal gratitude to his brother for having found him a job when everything in his life was going from bad to worse—had matured, and could no longer be unsettled for so little. Yes, that’s it, day and night I’m tortured by this secret shame; that’s why even when I’m at the other end of the United States, I do all I can to come back here on Friday nights, just to be bored by your company. Everyone laughed, after which Chester, tamed, challenged him in a more conciliatory tone: Okay, bredda, but you’re going to have to show him to us, your impresario, or we’ll start believing you’ve made him up. Oscar raised his arms with his hands spread wide, an evasive smile on his lips: the moment was fast approaching, he could tell.
One Friday night, while the men were rubbing their hands together over the coal stove, and the cold was etching dramatic patterns into the window panes, Davina, her nose buried in her pots—so deep that her face was lost in steam—asked Oscar if his impresario knew anything at all about how to live, because a true gentleman would move heaven and earth to meet his protégé’s family. It was the least he could do, to show them the simple courtesy of honouring with his presence his favourite pianist’s flesh and blood. She added, not without irony, but addressing no one in particular, that in that way he could kill two birds with one stone, and reassure himself, God help us, that he wasn’t getting mixed up with the lowest of the low, with some scheming profiteers. Oscar was just starting to tie himself up in knots, explaining that West Indian customs were not the same as North American ones, when a silhouette materialized on the doorstep, projecting its shadow into the kitchen. All heads turned, including that of Davina, who burned her index finger in the callaloo soup. I’m in complete agreement with you, Davina, said the voice of Norman G., as smooth as eternity. He advanced into the middle of the kitchen and tugged methodically on each of his fingers to remove his leather gloves. A man such as you describe would indeed not be worthy to be called a gentleman. He ceremoniously doffed his fedora and his coat, which he carefully folded before draping it over his forearm. That done, Davina discreetly elbowed Prudence, who hastened to relieve the new arrival of his personal belongings, depositing them on the bed in the master bedroom.
After the formal introductions, he installed himself like a simple mortal in a wicker chair, complimented Davina on her soup with a brio that drew nervous smiles, and took the time to talk with everyone in turn, as if he truly shared their preoccupations. He listened with undivided attention to the trials of Oscar’s younger sister at the textile factory, making it seem as though her fragmented anecdotes truly touched him. Like the others, he exclaimed when Davina raised the lid of the cooking pot where there lay a trout in coconut milk with pineapple, and l
ater, when he declared his love for their native island, which he knew like the back of his hand, he said, from having often spent time there, as much for vacations as for business, they all melted like snow in the sun. When Davina learned that he knew her former neighbours on the island, she rose up, pushed back her chair in a rush of enthusiasm that left Oscar gasping, and, giddy with joy, almost fell into the arms of the impresario, who had also risen to his feet.
Once he was gone and all the others in bed, sedated by the lavish meal, it’s said that Davina found herself alone with Oscar in the half light of the kitchen, where the earlier exchanges still resonated amid a deafening silence. He’s an extraordinarily charming man, she said, but when he moves from one room to another, the flowers fade and a scent of sulphur is left behind. I had to spray the house with a tincture of gardenia. Oscar’s eyes widened, and Davina rose to hang up the pots on a rack fashioned from coat hangers. Her back turned, she said: Don’t be naïve, my son. The devil is everywhere; like dirt, he wants to spread himself over everything. That’s the way it’s always been, and what can you do about it, eh? She turned towards him and shrugged her shoulders. The best you can do is to keep him close and manage him. Oscar kept silent as if he were thinking deeply, and in a hesitant voice he asked her if she was certain of what she was saying. As certain as when I met your father for the first time, and I knew that, whatever I did, we were going to be wed. Of course, replied Oscar, but to have peace it’s best to chase the devil away, no? She shook her head, before discharging a sucking noise from between her incisors. You’d be making a big mistake. She snapped her fingers. You can’t get rid of the devil just like that. Whether we like it or not, he’s right there, following us like a shadow, ready to pounce as soon as we make a wrong move. As for you, be on your guard, he loves to show himself when you’re on the road to success, she said, talking like someone who speaks the truth. Then she hung another pot on the rack.
A week later, before going away on tour, while Oscar was down on all floors in the living room playing with his eldest son, less for pleasure than to be pardoned by Beverly for his frequent absences, the telephone rang. At the other end of the line, the unctuous voice of Norman G. reminded him that he was a man of his word, suggested that he give a listen to the public radio station, then hung up without saying goodbye. When Oscar turned on the radio, as his son was busy building a structure with connectable bricks, a commercial was vaunting the virtues of a dish soap. Soon, a host introduced a classical piano competition featuring the music of Franz Liszt. If the first entrant left him cold, his heart leapt when he heard the second, because he recognized instantly her delicate touch, unparalleled. He was overcome by a surge of emotion so intense that he saw himself again behind hospital walls on the brink of death, when a pale young girl entered his life like a gift from divine providence. God in heaven, was it possible? Marguerite played here and there a few false notes which, with a lover’s ardour, he quickly forgave.
As soon as she’d finished her piece, Oscar dressed as fast as if the house were on fire, and rushed past Beverly, who, in her dressing gown, was breastfeeding the baby. Where was he going? she asked in a curt voice. He had to go to the radio studio, he’d forgotten his scores. Then he invented an unlikely story, which unfolded with less and less conviction the longer it got. Seeing that he was becoming entangled in a web of lies, he shut the door softly behind him without finishing his last sentence. Once on a main road, Oscar hailed a taxi and sped towards the CBC. In the back seat he was feverish with emotion, and kept tugging at his shirt collar. When he arrived in front of the broadcast building, a plump young woman was just coming out, and they found themselves face to face. He stared at her for a long time. Behind her adult and admittedly portly features, he desperately sought traces of the Marguerite he had known; it was as if a surfeit of skin had been hastily applied to the slender young girl of the past. Her name was Marguerite, was it not? She nodded her head in a gesture he thought reflected her elegance and timidity. Was it really her? How to be sure? Did he suspect a plot on Norman’s part? Was he already suspicious of his impresario? In any case it seemed that he had a great need to believe it was her, because he told her that, despite the time that had passed, she hadn’t changed, that she was as ravishing as in his dreams, where over and over he encountered her by chance in the streets of an imagined city. She seemed taken aback at first, as if she were passing in swift review all the men she’d met in the course of her life, but when he approached her to take her in his arms, she consented to wrap hers around him as well.
They walked together side by side, despite the angry winter pushing snow down towards the river. He bared his soul to her, and she threw him timid glances, as if trying to recognize this man who was treating her with such reverence, or simply to persuade herself that he was not deceiving her. By common consent, they went into a diner; in front of the smoked meat sandwiches they squeezed each others’ hands as if they were lemons. His voice breaking, he confessed that his treasured memory of her in the hospital had given him strength, had helped him to hold his course during all those years. When she asked him to name the hospital in question, Oscar stiffened, and his eyebrows flew up; she hastened to remind him of how young she had then been, how the time she’d spent there had been shorter than his, and that she’d suffered lapses of memory due to her illness. He seemed reassured and promised never again to leave her.
At the start of their relationship, as she still lived with her parents, she had to lie about Oscar’s identity so that they wouldn’t forbid her from leaving the house. People’s thinking changed at a snail’s pace, you had to arm yourself with patience, she cautioned Oscar. After a few weeks she saw that she was correct to bank on Oscar’s celebrity, and her parents finally allowed her, grudgingly, to see him, especially when she told them about his earnings and the influential people in his entourage. She didn’t tell them that he was married. Sometimes she didn’t appear. It seemed that she suffered from a mysterious illness that left her fatigued for no reason: she was out of breath after climbing three stairs and coughed compulsively on the first warm days, when the city was overrun by the seed-bearing tufts of weeds.
Soon they were seeing each other every day, and dared to spend the night together, first just to talk, then at last to unite in a communion of caresses, of archings and churnings that soon had them war-weary, what with their uncertain health. Oscar was floating on air, persuaded, as he confided to one of his sisters, that he’d rediscovered his lost love. They began to spend weekend mornings in bed, Marguerite’s head resting on Oscar’s chest as he sketched out future projects for the two of them, and she listened, giving her assent from time to time, as if she were really saying to him, “Why not.” He was living some of the happiest days of his life, even if he never expressed himself that way to those close to him. He told his confidants that the only fly in the ointment was Beverly, who did all she could to make his life difficult: she constantly sniffed his shirts, phoned the members of his new trio behind his back to ask about who he was seeing, and burst into tears when she found, while searching through his jacket pockets, the bill from a fancy restaurant.
From that point on, Oscar and Marguerite were inseparable, because even when he went on tour, she went with him. Musically, he began a period of intense experimentation, in the course of which he discovered, after much trial and error, that a trio consisting of piano, double bass, and electric guitar best suited his personality and artistic ambitions. It provided him with the creative intimacy of reduced ensembles so dear to the boppers, it opened him up to modernity thanks to the electric guitar, and it ensured—without drums—a rhythmic suppleness at all times, forcing himself to cultivate a sustained, dominant pianistic style. His involvement with Norman G. enabled him to rub shoulders with many accomplished musicians before settling on Ray B. and Herb E., both Americans, the first of West Indian background himself, the second from a white southern family—all of which pleased him, since it made hi
m feel as if he were making a strong political gesture, an affirmation of coexistence, in music as in life. The group matured quickly, achieving such unity, such perfection in the art of swing, that some critics claimed that the three musicians had been launched into the world by God with the sole purpose of coming together one day. Before long jazz fans all over the globe were dubbing the group “the best trio in the world.” And for good reason, because to experience one of their concerts was to follow a spellbinding exchange between the assured and teasing discourse of the piano, the constant, supportive murmur of the double bass, and the sprightly exclamations and ecstatic sighs of the guitar.
As they spent most of their time together, on tour or not, the three musicians developed very close ties. Just as it was on stage, each had access to the thoughts of the two others, whether they were existential ponderings, elusive moods hard to pin down, or simply the memory of a good joke heard the day before, and often they burst out laughing without a single word being spoken. It was a surprising phenomenon, but when you took a closer look you saw that it was all in the order of things, since, as Ray said in an interview, they spent more time together than with their wives.
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