by Renée Rosen
“Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “that takes care of your name. Now let’s talk about your piano playing.” He came over and sat beside her on the bench. He smelled oaky, spicy. “Your playing’s fine, but what you wanna do is get a little more of you in there.”
“How do I do that?”
“You feel it. That’s what the blues is. It’s all feeling.”
He placed his long tapered fingers on the piano. “You get your bass line working with this hand, like this, see”—he had his left hand laying down the rhythm—“and then you come in with some chord changes with your right hand.”
She was mesmerized. Something came over her—it had been building up inside her for days, for weeks, forever. She went with it, placing her fingers lightly over his. There she was at last, touching him. His hand went stiff beneath hers and the room fell silent. They were facing each other now, their eyes locked. With her free hand she brought her fingers to his face, surprised by the smoothness of his skin. There was no turning back now. She couldn’t help herself. She leaned in and kissed him, letting her arms circle around his shoulders. She was the aggressor, but he was allowing it, or maybe he was just too stunned to stop her. She was still kissing him when she heard Evelyn and Leonard coming through the front door.
“. . . that’s bullshit, Evelyn, and you know it.”
Leeba had already pulled away from Red and both of them bolted up, looking like a couple of kids caught playing with matches. Evelyn and Leonard didn’t even notice that they were there.
“I’m sick and tired of you saying that,” said Evelyn. “We’ve been through this a million times.” She flung her coat and hat onto the desk.
“Evelyn? Leonard?” Leeba interrupted their argument. Her face was flushed, her lips still hot. “You remember Red Dupree? He’s a guitar player. He’s in Muddy’s band.”
Red crossed the room and shook both their hands. “Good to see you both again.”
“He’s here to audition for you.”
“Not a good time,” said Evelyn, shaking her head. “Nice seeing you, Red, but really not a good time.”
Red shrugged on his jacket and reached for his guitar case slumped against the wall. “I’ll come back another day.”
Leeba expected them to say something in return. Just to be polite. They didn’t and she watched Red walk out the door while Leonard and Evelyn went back to bickering. Leeba froze for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Let him go, she told herself. It would never work. She didn’t even know how to frame whatever this was in her mind. He couldn’t be a boyfriend. There was no way she could bring him home for Shabbos dinner, or walk down the street with his hand in hers. She could never marry him, have his children. But she wanted him. She wanted him with a desire so deep she could swim in it forever. So despite all that she knew about why it was impossible, she couldn’t fight it. With a jolt she grabbed her coat and pushed through the front door, letting a blast of crisp fall air and sunlight hit her face. She looked to the left and to the right—and there he was.
“Red, wait—” She took off after him, catching him as he was about to turn the corner.
“Sorry about what happened in there,” he said sheepishly, setting his guitar case down, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You didn’t do anything. It was me. I’m the one who kissed you, remember? And I’m not sorry I did.”
He glanced down at the sidewalk before looking into her eyes. “This is trouble, you know.”
She smiled. “I know.”
NINETEEN
• • •
“My Sweet Lovin’ Woman”
RED
Red looked at the clock on his nightstand. It was a quarter till nine. If he was going to meet Leah he’d have to leave now. The day before, after she’d kissed him, as they were standing on the sidewalk, they had made plans to meet the following night at a black-and-tan club. Now he was losing his nerve.
He’d been just as apprehensive when he went down to Aristocrat—and that was before anything had happened. He told himself he was going to audition, but in truth he wanted to see her. He knew now that the attraction was mutual, but he didn’t know what to do with that. What was the point of seeing her again? He waited until the last minute, watching the second hand on the clock ticking away and knowing that even though the odds were stacked against them, he was going anyway.
Thirty minutes later he got to the club and through the crowd and haze of cigarette smoke he saw her. Actually he saw her curls first, the spotlight catching the edges, framing them in cobalt blue shimmer. She was sitting at a table by herself, a drink in her hand, her eyes on the stage, watching the jazz trio. Again something nagged inside him, telling him to turn around. But instead he walked over to her. She seemed surprised to see him, as if she’d forgotten that they’d planned to meet. His head filled with new doubts; maybe he’d misinterpreted it all and was stepping over a line. He was about to apologize when she smiled, her face and eyes opening wide to him. She gestured to the chair. He sat self-consciously, ordered a drink and smoked a cigarette, struggling to hear what she was saying over the music.
When the band played a softer, slower song Leah stood up and asked him to dance with her. They were both awkward, stiff and standing about as far apart as they could and still technically be dancing together. Red couldn’t help it; taking a white woman in his arms went against everything he’d been taught, everything he’d been warned against. But once Leah relaxed she closed the gap between them. He felt the heat of her body and smelled the soft florals of her perfume. He wanted to run his fingertips through her curls but didn’t dare. When she rested her head on his shoulder he was sure she could feel his heart pounding.
The band went on break and without the music Red was lost again, coming back to himself and not knowing what to do. He told her he needed a minute and went down a long dark hall toward the men’s room. He stepped inside, splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror. What are you going to do with this now? The smartest thing would be to thank her for the dance and leave.
That was what he planned to do; only when he opened the door she was standing there. Standing alone in a long, dark empty hallway, waiting for him.
“I need to kiss you again,” she said.
• • •
He saw her again the following week. The two of them met at another black-and-tan club and this time Red was more relaxed, especially after his second cocktail. They were talking about all kinds of things and began trading stories of what it was like being a minority in Chicago, both of them surprised by how similar their experiences were.
“See, everyone thinks that Negroes and Jewish people don’t have anything in common and that’s where they’re wrong,” said Red, sitting on his hands like he normally did. But this time he also did it to keep from reaching over to touch her. “The truth is,” he continued, “I think Negroes and Jews in Chicago recognize that we need each other. Almost everyone I know who came up from the delta has worked for Jewish businessmen at one time or another. They gave us jobs and we gave them labor. The Jews have been good to us Negroes. Look at what Leonard and Evelyn have done for Muddy. I’ve always gotten along with Jewish folks and they never had a problem with me, neither.”
He saw her turn out her bottom lip. “Well, you haven’t met my mother.”
“Your mama?” He laughed. “She wouldn’t approve of this here, huh?” He indicated the two of them.
“Whatever ‘this here’ is,” she said, smiling, “no, she wouldn’t approve. My mother thinks we should all stick to our own kind. Jews with Jews and Negroes with Negroes. She’s never understood my friendship with Aileen. And oh, you should see how she acts toward her. She’s rude, dismissive—it’s like Aileen’s not a real person and it makes me furious.”
“I guess some folks are just scared of anyone who’s d
ifferent.”
“Is it fear or just plain hypocrisy? My mother treats Aileen and regards other Negroes with the same kind of disdain and disrespect that she complains the Jews always get. But she refuses to see it that way.”
Red sat back and listened to her talk, realizing he’d never had a conversation like this before with a white person, let alone a white woman.
“The part that really gets me,” she was saying now, “is when someone takes one look at me—sees that I’m Jewish—and without knowing a thing about me they decide I’m a second-class citizen. You hear all the horror stories coming out of Europe about what happened to the Jews there and you’d think people here would be different now, but they’re really not. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been accused of having horns, or been called a ‘little Jew girl,’ a ‘dirty kike.’ It’s a slap in the face.”
“Same thing when someone calls me a nigger. It makes my blood boil and takes all my self-control not to put them through a wall.”
Later that night he felt closer to her than he could have thought possible. Yes, they came from different worlds, but they understood each other. They held each other tight on the dance floor and before the evening was over she said she wanted to see him again.
After two more weeks of meeting at black-and-tan clubs, he brought her back to his kitchenette, painfully aware of the stench of beer and urine in the hallway. As he let her inside he glanced at the broken window blinds, naked bulb overhead, the mattress lying flat on the floor.
“Sorry I don’t have a nicer place.”
She didn’t say anything. It was like she hadn’t noticed, or maybe she didn’t care. She just smiled and stepped forward. This was it. They were alone now, just the two of them, and it didn’t matter that he was black and she was white. He was a man, she was a woman and he wanted her. Meeting her halfway in the middle of the room, he kissed her, kissed her full-on, the way he’d been wanting to. He went on kissing her while he walked her backward until her spine was pressed against the wall. He unbuttoned her blouse and ran his fingertips over her pale skin and along her collarbone. She reached behind and unhooked her brassiere, sliding the silky straps down her shoulders to offer her breasts to him. At first all he could do was look, admiring the faint blue veins fanning out from her pink nipples. He’d never seen anything like that before; it took his breath away. He went on kissing and exploring every inch of her, loving the way she felt in his arms, the way she smelled, the way she tasted, the way she moaned, responding to his touch. He made love to her that night and afterward the look on her face was one of surprise.
“I thought you’d be shy,” she said, rolling onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow.
“Now, what would make you think that?”
“You’re always so polite and—”
“Oh.” He nodded. He got it. Wrapping one of her curls about his finger, he said, “I’ve never been with a white woman before. Back home a Negro man can’t even look at a white girl. They’d string you up for that. It took me a long time when I got here to even be able to look a white person in the eyes.”
“So if I hadn’t made the first move, what would you have done?”
“Thought about being with you. Would have thought about that a lot. You gotta understand, this sort of thing doesn’t happen down South.”
She smiled. “Good thing we’re not down South, huh?”
He made love to her once more before she dressed and went back home where she belonged.
He saw her again and again, but as a mixed couple, they couldn’t go anywhere other than a black-and-tan club. Not that they couldn’t. They could have gone into a restaurant together, but they certainly would have turned heads, and it could have provoked nasty comments and disapproving looks from the owners and other patrons. That right there would have spoiled their time together. It was just easier to sneak her back into his kitchenette and each time he did it grew more intense.
One night two months after they’d started seeing each other they lay together on his mattress, their naked bodies cooling as they took in the quiet of the room.
“You hear that?” he said eventually.
“What?” She sat up and looped her arms about her legs.
“That.” He pointed toward the ceiling. There was a thump, thump, thump coming from overhead. “That’s old man Pacer in 407 with his cane. He must have just come home. And wait, there’s gonna be a squeak in a second.” He paused and there it was.
Leeba laughed. “How did you know that?”
“That’s his closet door.” Red smiled. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep I listen to all the sounds around me, try to figure out what they are. Try it. Close your eyes. Tell me what you hear.”
She leaned back, eyes shut, her curls fanning out across the pillow. “Let’s see, I hear a dog barking, some footsteps . . .”
“C’mon—” He gave her a playful jab. “You can do better than that. The walls around this place are paper-thin. Listen harder. Tell me what you hear.”
She closed her eyes again and he watched her concentrating, a thin line forming between her brows. “Ah.” She smiled. “I hear a screeching sound, like hangers going back and forth in a closet.”
“That’s it. There you go. What else?”
“Hmm . . .” She grew quiet for a moment. “I hear something like a coffee percolator coming from next door. It’s belching, making that burping sound.”
He smiled, leaned forward and kissed her. “See, I knew you had musician’s ears.”
She opened her eyes and kissed him back. “I’m fascinated by you, by the way your mind works.”
“And how do you think my mind works?”
She stroked his cheek. “It’s like you see music and sound in everything. I can tell that’s how you relate to the world around you. It’s everything to you.”
He glanced down at her breasts then into her eyes. “It’s not everything.”
She laughed and he laughed because she was laughing and soon they couldn’t stop, both of them oozing tears from their eyes.
When silence filled the air, she turned to him and said, “I love you.”
They looked at each other equally shocked by her confession. He saw the blush rise up on her cheeks and as she started to turn away, he stopped her, cupping her face in his hands. His heart was pounding. He’d never said those words to anyone before. He wanted to say them to her, but instead he kissed her.
They made love again and somehow it was different this time, knowing how she felt about him. The sex was sweeter, exciting, but more tender, too. Afterward, he got up to get them some water and turned on the radio. They lay side by side listening to Amos Milburn’s “Roomin’ House Boogie.”
She rolled onto her back and said, “You know what I love about music? It’s not like reading a book or watching a movie or a play. You don’t have to think or try to figure it out, or work for it. With music you don’t have to do a thing. You just listen and it does it to you. A good song can change your mood. Change the mood of a whole room. It gives so much and it asks nothing in return. You know what I mean?”
He knew exactly what she meant. He kissed her and before he could stop himself, he blurted it out: “I love you, too,” he said. “I really do.”
She stroked his face and pressed her nose to his. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time until she finally spoke. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Will you show me how to play a blues riff on the guitar?”
He laughed. “You mean you want to learn to play the devil’s music?”
“Why do people call the blues that?”
“The devil’s music? ’Cuz it’s evil.” He laughed. “At least that’s what my mama always said. And she never even heard Robert Johnson’s playing.”
“Robert Johnson wrote ‘Sweet Home
Chicago,’ didn’t he?”
“He did a lot more than that. Robert Johnson was the greatest bluesman in the delta. Nobody played a guitar like him. When he first started playing, though, he wasn’t any good. But he wanted to play that guitar so badly that he went down to what they call the crossroads in the delta. He went there at midnight because that’s when the devil shows up. And he made a deal with Lucifer. ‘Let me play this guitar the way I want and you can have my soul.’ After that, Johnson became a legend. He changed the sound. He was one of the first ever to take a bottle and slide it across the neck of his guitar. He’s the one who made slide guitar what it is today.”
“So the devil granted him his wish.”
Red nodded. “Johnson started making records—and everybody wanted to play like him. That’s how Muddy learned to do what he does. Lots of other folks, too. But old Lucifer kept up his end of the bargain. Not long after that, poor Johnson turned up dead. Gone by the age of twenty-seven.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows for sure. One of the great mysteries of the delta.” He got up and brought his Stella over to the mattress and handed it to her. “Now, the first thing you have to do is get comfortable holding a guitar. Find the right spot.”
She sat up, naked and cross-legged, and settled in with the guitar.
“Now, it’s different from piano because all you have here is six strings. The low E—that your top string.”
“This right here?” She plucked it.
“And next is the A string, the D string, G, B and back to E.”
“Okay.”
He showed her a series of notes, a classic blues riff. “Just keep practicing that.”
She tried it once and laughed. “That sounds terrible. That’s nothing like a blues riff.”
“Sure it is.” He took the guitar from her and played the same sequence and there it was, the blues.
She lay back down on the mattress and closed her eyes. With a smile rising up on her face, she told him to keep playing. “Never stop.”