Carole bustled into the space below. ‘Ridge? Khara’s gone home, bless her. Fama just rang – she’ll be here in five minutes.’
‘I’ll be right down.’ Straightening, he looked Darac squarely in the eye. ‘We can fight over whether that vast space is all there is. Whether it all ends there. But whatever we think, I know you’re standing on that same edge now, as you do every year at this time. So all those remote places you love? Just now, they don’t seem so lovable.’
With everything he knew about Ridge, Darac could see where the man was coming from. Maybe he even had a point.
‘And there’s me thinking that when I’m soloing, I’m just bending a tune out of shape and trying to bend it back again.’
‘There’s a couple more stops on that journey. And you know it.’
‘I’ll make you a promise, Ridge,’ Darac grinned as he picked up the SG case. ‘If I somehow do glimpse the void tonight, I’ll do my best to jump right out into it.’
39
Julie Issert pulled the Suzuki back on to its stand and took off her helmet as she strode to the door. It opened before her gloved hand reached the bell.
Martin stood, breathing in the moment. ‘An Amazon in leathers? I don’t recall sending for one.’
‘Special delivery.’ Julie shook out her auburn hair. ‘But if you don’t want me, I could always go away.’
‘I suppose you may as well come in.’ He closed the door behind her. ‘Do you have any idea just how aroused I am?’
She slowly pulled down the zip of her jacket. ‘Prove it.’
In his younger days, Martin Darac would have been capable of spending the next couple of hours proving it. But at fifty-six, half an hour was probably all he was good for. He’d understood from the first moment they had started making love that the flame of Julie’s libido burned hotter than his. But perhaps tonight…
* * *
Le Citronnier had become Martin’s favourite restaurant in Vence. A swish place around the corner from Place du Grand Jardin, it was the classic-with-a-twist cooking of young chef Marie Frémault that was the draw. He and Julie were shown to a table presided over by a framed still from La Grande Illusion.
‘Are you partial to caille au thym?’
‘I love it. Why are you whispering?’
‘Because we’re having it in a different establishment tomorrow night.’
‘Excellent. And you say Paul is a capable cook?’
‘He’s quite good with chicken in various forms but we’ve decided to dine out instead. He’s discovered a little place down in Saint-Augustin. Café Grinda. Do you know it?’
Julie’s face fell. She set down her menu, almost knocking over an empty wine glass.
‘I don’t know it.’ She picked up her napkin. ‘And neither do I want to get to know it just at the moment.’
Martin smiled, slightly taken aback. It wasn’t like Julie to be defensive or demanding. ‘It comes highly recommended. Funnily enough, one of my assistants went there a few months back and—’
The napkin slapped the air as she opened it with a sharp flick of the wrist. ‘Martin, I don’t want to go there.’
‘Uh… alright.’
She gave an apologetic little smile and reached for his hand. ‘I’m not being difficult but I could go there anytime. I want to see Paul’s place – I’ve always loved the Babazouk. And a roof terrace? It sounds wonderful.’
‘I’m sure there will be many other opportunities to go there.’
‘But there may not.’
She withdrew her hand. An awkward silence. Their first. It was Martin who broke it. ‘Alright, if it matters to you so much. I’ll ring him later.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. I’ll make it worth your while. After dinner.’
Martin could feel his sap rising once more. ‘Julie,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘you might just be the death of me.’
40
The Telonne party had requested table number twenty, a corner banquette nearest the bar and furthest from the bandstand.
‘You are to be congratulated, Monsieur Clay.’ Jacques Telonne gave Ridge’s hand a pump as he beamed into the camera. A flashgun went off. ‘This is a fine club.’
‘You know what would make it finer?’ Ridge maintained his grave mien. ‘The city owns the building, right? We need renovation here. And we need action on the rent. If you get into office, will you promise to do that?’
‘I promise we’ll look into it.’ The smile morphing into a look of earnest authority, Telonne turned to his PA. ‘Make a note of that, Véronique.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She wrote something on her pad. ‘Got it.’
The woman had scribbled ‘blah, blah, blah’.
‘Excuse me. I need to go wash,’ Ridge said. ‘Spent the last couple of hours unblocking the dressing-room toilet.’
Laure Telonne grinned. ‘I’ve never seen a proper dressing room,’ she said.
‘And you’re not going to see this one, young lady.’
Jacques Telonne’s face hardened. Who was this old black boho to talk to his daughter like that? Laure was his to command. Not that she needed much commanding this evening – he’d seldom seen her so engaged.
‘Monsieur Clay?’ Elise called out. ‘How long before the show starts?’
‘Couple of minutes – jazz time.’
‘And in real time?’
‘Maybe fifteen.’
Jules Frènes made an extraordinarily disdainful moue. He hated jazz. He hated Darac. He hated squalor. But he loved power and he knew that it was sometimes necessary to bite the shittiest of bullets to court it. He’d even had his wife buy him a black poloneck for the occasion.
Nodding to his photographer, Telonne stood.
‘Everyone?’ he called out to the crowd, his voice competing with Sonny Rollins’s The Bridge album. Few heads turned. The smile took a well-earned rest as he looked around for assistance. The bar was bookended by a dough-faced white woman and a younger black woman wearing an exotic head wrap. ‘Turn the music down, will you?’ he said to her. ‘I’m trying to make an announcement here.’
Fama Ousmane took her time over giving change and stared back at him. ‘Carole?’ she said, her eyes holding Telonne’s. ‘Could I trouble you?’
‘Of course, darling.’
‘Would you be kind enough to fade the track? Monsieur here wants to tell everyone that the next round of drinks is on him and that he is going to help taxi them around the floor. Along with Monsieur Retro, the other gentleman.’
‘No, no, no…’ Palms outwards, Frènes wiped the pane of air in front of him. ‘Enough is enough. Impossible!’
Telonne’s smile stayed on Fama like a death ray as Carole reached into the alcove next to her. The track faded.
‘You read my mind. What’s your name?’
‘Miriam Makeba, sir.’
Véronique whispered something in Telonne’s ear.
‘Well, I’ll call you Miriam anyway.’ He turned back to the crowd. ‘Everyone? Before our local favourites, the Didier Musso Quintet, strut their stuff for us, the next round of drinks is on me.’
A little wave of approbation broke around the tables.
‘And to prove that serving the community really is…’ He was already totting up the likely cost in his head. ‘Really is…’
‘Where we’re at,’ Laure whispered, giving him the idiom. Elise looked on astonished. The girl was actually being helpful.
‘To prove that serving the community is where we’re at, I and my esteemed colleague from the Palais de Justice, Monsieur Jules Frènes here, will help our beautiful waitresses with your orders.’
No one bought the shtick but they didn’t care – a free drink was a free drink. All around the room, half-empty glasses were raised.
Producing the tightest of tight-lipped smiles, Frènes straightened his poloneck and prepared to serve the community.
Telonne put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Later – find out that bitch’s real name and have her
papers checked.’ He was still smiling. ‘The one at the bar.’
‘That’s not so straightforward, monsieur.’
Telonne’s grip was threatening to leave marks on the cashmere. ‘I don’t forget my friends. Do it!’
Dispatching Frènes with a dismissive push, Telonne turned to the adjoining table. ‘Now who’s first? You, monsieur – that’s cognac? Let’s make it a double.’ A flashgun popped as the man shook Telonne’s hand. ‘Doubles for everyone!’
* * *
On the floor above, the shabby space of the dressing room was alive with what Ridge called the Thursday Night Sound: a high-octane mix of talk and laughter, shot through with flurries of notes. He’d known professional bands that barely said a word to each other during warm-ups and then coasted through the subsequent performance. There was nothing jaded about the Didier Musso Quintet. Whether they went out as a trio or a twelve-piece big band, the outfit always gave it everything they had.
As befitted his status as bandleader, pianist Didier Musso was occupying the most comfortable seat in the room, a reclaimed porcelain hip bath lined with cushions. Using his knees as a writing slope, he was scribbling a set list – his third of the evening. The two earlier attempts sat obliterated on the upended crate next to him.
‘You look like a jazz Marat Assassiné,’ Luc the bass player said, emerging from the toilet. ‘The painting by Jacques-Louis David.’ He picked up a towel and began wiping down the strings of his instrument. ‘Louvre. Room 54. Or 53. No – 54.’
‘Marat was pockmarked.’ Didier put three question marks by the opening number on his list. ‘I’m more the petal-soft baby-faced type.’
‘Didier Musso – baby-faced assassin,’ Dave Blackstock said, slipping his tenor sax neckstrap over his pink pate.
‘Marat wasn’t the assassin, you idiot.’ Marco stopped laying down beats on his practice pad. ‘It was Charlotte somebody or other. You English don’t know shit about anything.’
‘Best sparkling wine? English. Best cheese? English. And do you know France’s sixth biggest city by population? London.’ He tossed Marco the day’s Libération. ‘It’s all in there.’
‘You can’t believe everything you read.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Read it in Nice-Matin.’
‘Okay,’ Didier said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. How’s the tongue tonight, Charlie?’
Trudi ‘Charlie’ Pachelberg adjusted the mouthpiece of her alto sax and blew a slow and shaky take on ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Lightning,’ she said.
‘Fabulous. So…’
As usual, everyone was talking at once.
‘Guys? Be so kind as to shut the fuck up! Thank you. I want to open with ‘A Night in Tunisia’. We’ve got exactly the right line-up for the Parker Septet ’46 Dial version. You take the first solo, Charlie.’
‘You want the full Bird?’
‘I want the full Pachelberg.’
‘Fame at last.’ She grinned at Darac. ‘You going to use the SG on it?’
‘Maybe.’ He laid the cherry-red plank back into its case. ‘I’m going to play it by ear.’ He waited theatrically. ‘What – no gag?’
‘Too obvious.’
Ridge lashed through the bead curtain. ‘Okay, guys. Let’s go.’ He turned to Darac on the stairs. ‘We got royalty in tonight.’
‘Telonne actually came?’
‘And some.’
The band took the stand to a warm hand from the crowd. Smiles. Nods. Waves. Darac took his arch-topped D’Aquisto out of its case. Didier hit A natural on the piano and the band re-set their tuning.
In the audience, Jacques Telonne leaned into his PA’s ear. ‘We’ll leave at the interval.’
‘Alright.’
‘All of us, I mean.’
Laure was sitting forward in her seat, eyes glued on the stand. ‘Sshhh!’
Elise almost choked on her Perrier. ‘You’re a jazz fan all of a sudden, Laure? And your back is dripping with sweat. I think you’re sickening. For something.’ She turned to her husband. ‘And I’ll stay as long as I like, thank you, Jacques.’
Telonne holstered the smile. ‘You’ll go when I go.’
On the stand, Darac was still undecided which instrument to open with. He had to prepare both, anyway. He plucked the SG from its case and set the tuning with his meter. The guitar’s neck felt good all the way up. Clean. Fast. But the true test would be playing the thing through the amp. He hadn’t had that particular pleasure since it had been returned.
Ridge joined the band on stage and turned on his radio mike. ‘These Thursday nights come around, don’t they? It’s going to be a good one, people. But first, I’ve got to do the small print…’
With only a minor dip in volume, the audience continued to enjoy their meals and drinks as Ridge ran through the routine announcements they had heard a thousand times before. Then finally, he got to the new stuff. ‘So, yes it’s Thursday at the Blue Devil and that means the Didier Musso Quintet.’
Applause. A few whistles. Calls of ‘Yes!’
‘Just before I introduce the band, we got special guests in the house tonight.’ Ridge raised an arm. ‘Stand up, please – Monsieur Jacques Telonne, the man who builds Nice. And buys drinks. Jacques Telonne, everybody.’
Led by Ridge, a few clapped Telonne as he stood long enough to perform a drop-handed wave that said, No – hey, I’m just doing my job. Let’s get on with the entertainment.
‘The good monsieur has already promised to look into looking after us should he be elected next time. And we also have Madame Elise Telonne. We’ve got no catwalk but stand up anyway, honey.’
Elise didn’t need a catwalk to show herself off. She stood and smiled.
‘Hey now,’ Ridge said, making a show of his own smile. ‘A man can dream, you know.’
The former model laughed as if it were the funniest thing she’d heard that day. Maybe it was.
‘Next, we have Véronique, Monsieur Telonne’s personal assistant. She knows how to spell “blah” so well she can do it three times over.’
Darac shared a look with Marco and the others. What was that about?
‘And now we got another man who’s no stranger to the limelight. Mister Swingin’ Good Times himself – Public Prosecutor Jules Frènes. Stand up, brother.’
Frènes bobbed up and down.
What? Darac was too appalled to hear what Ridge said next. Frènes was so far up Telonne’s arse, he’d even followed him here? Frènes at the Blue Devil? It was just plain wrong.
On the stand, Ridge couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Alright, people. That’s enough of that shit…’
As if they were one instrument, piano, bass and drums set off at a loose-limbed walking pace under Ridge as he continued:
‘Let’s say hi to the fellas… Leading the band on piano, from Nice: Didier Musso. On bass, from Lille: Luc Gabron. On drums, from Nice: Marco Portami. On trumpet, from Fort-de-France, Martinique: Jacques Quille. On tenor, from Canterbury, England: Dave Blackstock. On alto and flute from Berlin, Germany: Charlie Pachelberg. And on guitar, from Vence: Paul Darac. When does seven go into five? When it’s the Didier Musso Quintet. Put your hands together.’
It was only as Ridge left the stage that Darac decided which guitar to go with on ‘Tunisia’. Out in the audience, he saw a young woman stand up momentarily as he picked up the free end of his amp lead… and went with the D’Aquisto. The young woman sat down.
The rhythm section’s walking theme sauntered off into the distance. More nods and smiles. Breaths in. All set to go, Didier counted the number in.
‘Um-aah, um-ah-um-ah-ah…’
Piano and guitar began together, a Latin-style repeating arpeggio: do, do, do, dee-dee; do, do, do, dah-dah… After four bars, a little trembling figure in the horns came in on the off beat. Another four bars saw the introduction of the main theme on muted trumpet. Now the whole band was playing, a living, breathing thing.
Charlie Pach
elberg’s opening solo was so nimble, so sure-footed and yet so extraordinarily explorative that Darac forgot all about Frènes, Telonne and co. As the moment to begin his solo approached, the only thing on his mind was where he could go with it. His conversation with Ridge came back to him just as he took off. Listening intently to what everyone else was playing, he kept going – too far and too fast. After just a few bars, he found himself orbiting the tune in deep space. This was the territory that normally inspired him; the cusp between two worlds, a trajectory in which one wrong move would mean there could be no way back home. Images crowded in, obscuring the various ways ahead. He searched for a moment but finding nothing, resorted to the safe way out. He turned the phrase he was playing around and retraced his steps. It lacked all originality and inspiration but at least, eight bars later, he docked seamlessly with the band where he had come in – the number’s Latin head: do, do, do, dee-dee; do, do, do, dah-dah…
He’d played faultlessly through the solo. He hadn’t missed a beat. He’d demonstrated a certain mastery of the craft. But craft and art were two different things and he felt a little sheepish as he acknowledged the crowd’s appreciation. A second sensational solo by Charlie followed and the number built to a dynamic climax.
The crowd erupted. Everyone loved it. Especially Jacques and Elise Telonne, or so it appeared.
‘Thank you,’ Didier said into his mike. ‘That wasn’t Charlie Parker you heard there.’ He threw out a hand. ‘That was Charlie Pachelberg. Give it up, come on.’
More applause. Charlie took another bow.
‘Okay we’re going to play some blues now.’
As Darac unplugged the D’Aquisto and set it on its stand, out in the audience, Laure Telonne sat forward once more.
‘I see you are a particular aficionado of the blues, mademoiselle,’ Frènes said to her, oilier than a grease monkey’s rag.
‘Oh yes.’ A sweet smile. ‘You never know what might happen.’
Her father gave her a quizzical look. The girl was behaving so far out of character, it was beginning to worry him.
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