The plane was landing at LaGuardia, and she still hadn’t figured anything out. Or maybe she had. She grabbed a taxi and was on the fifth floor of Saks Fifth Avenue by four o’clock. Five minutes later, she was closeted with Marie, the saleswoman who’d been selling her clothes for years, outlining her needs. Lightweight, packable, no alterations, they had to go today.
Marie listened and then said decisively, “Halston, I think, to begin with?”
“My first thought,” Jessica said.
She grinned as she thought of the austere Marie being confronted by Mrs. Crimmins. Or the austere Max, for that matter. He had never seen her as Mrs. Crimmins. It wasn’t that she kept her hidden; she just didn’t think Max was quite ready for Mrs. Crimmins. Ray would have loved her. She was not unlike his landlady.
She had discovered Mrs. Crimmins soon after she began working for Max. It was already apparent that most of her assignments were going to be played out as an American tourist. She had just returned from a short tour of Egypt, and was taking a day in Paris before flying home to Washington. Strolling in the Gardens at Versailles, she had come upon a group of American tourists. A little apart, but obviously a member of the group, was an American woman swathed in polyester, from wig to sensible shoes, who mortified her teenaged daughter by giving gardening advice to the groundsmen (in English, of course) and loudly comparing the glories of the garden to a similar feat once performed by the Racine Garden Club. “We took a vacant lot in the middle of town and just transformed it,” she said enthusiastically to an uncomfortable looking man who had unwarily lingered at a particularly inviting display. “You would be amazed at what a few women with determination can do!” The man smiled politely, looking as if he had a very shrewd idea of the possibilities inherent in such a situation, then managed to edge away to rejoin the group. “Mother,” the daughter said in an agonized voice, “No one wants to hear about the Garden Club.”
“Nonsense, dear. People are always interested in accomplishment. It’s what makes us individuals.”
Her daughter may have been embarrassed, but Jessica was delighted with the woman. She managed to trail after them as they completed the tour, and it became obvious that there was no remark which would surprise the group or its leader coming from Mrs. Crimmins.
“Is that real marble? Who cleans all those mirrors?”
Jessica had gone back to her hotel in a very thoughtful mood. Mrs. Crimmins had popped up everywhere, loud, cheerful, and undaunted. And the response of both French and Americans had been shrugging acceptance. She was annoying but harmless.
Jessica began a long and successful emulation of Mrs. Crimmins. She varied her name, her hometowns, and her wigs, but the basic character remained unchanged. She genuinely appreciated the wonders she encountered on her travels, and if they never quite measured up to things back home, she forgave them, for they were, after all, foreign. It was a temptation in the beginning to embroider on Mrs. Crimmins, as Jessica continued to think of her, but she was careful to keep her a sympathetic figure. It was obvious that people rarely looked too closely at a character who aroused in them an amused tolerance.
There were numerous variations on the theme. When the occasion warranted, Mrs. Crimmins could be so sympathetic and homey that the most reserved persons found themselves confiding in her. Jessica never ceased to be amazed at the amount of information Mrs. Crimmins could pick up in a four-hour bus tour, or the kind of intimate detail people would give to a total stranger.
When Jessica needed to be alone, however, Mrs. Crimmins could achieve this by launching a flow of small talk so deadly and soporific that privacy was guaranteed. She had only to loudly announce her presence and invite company to have entire ruins to herself. Her cheerful willingness to talk to any body covered a host of meetings and information exchanges.
“Why,” she would say as she rejoined the group looking chagrined, “I don’t believe that man speaks a word of English. I was telling him about some of the cave paintings back home and he didn’t understand a word I said!”
Mrs. Crimmins had proven invaluable over the years, and Jessica had mixed emotions about leaving her behind. It would be a challenge to be herself again, but she was not looking forward to facing the world without Mrs. Crimmins’ drip-dry curtain. No one viewing the two women would ever suspect that Mrs. Crimmins could achieve Jessica’s casual elegance, or that Jessica could descend to Mrs. Crimmins’ cheerful vulgarity.
It was a relief for Jessica to relax into Mrs. Crimmins’ personality. She was cool and sophisticated with a wit that could be scarifying; Mrs. Crimmins was warm and cozy; Jessica was intensely private, Mrs. Crimmins open to the point of insanity. Had she been given to introspection, Jessica would have realized that Mrs. Crimmins had saved her thousands of dollars in psychiatrist’s bills over the years.
In the end, Jessica decided to take one Mrs. Crimmins outfit. You never could tell when another personality might come in handy. She left Saks, trekked down to Macy’s, and bought a shrimp colored three-piece polyester travelling suit.
“Listen, honey,” the saleswoman said, “You’re going to find you wear this everywhere. I sold one to my sister-inlaw; they went to Las Vegas. She was never out of it. Where you going?”
“Europe.”
“You’re going to love it. This your first time? My sister-in-law went two years ago. She’s quite a traveler—13 countries in 12 days. Some of those little ones don’t take a full day to see…”
Jessica shuddered; Mrs. Crimmins smiled; the transaction was completed. A pair of Red Cross shoes next, and Mrs. Crimmins was ready to take on churches, monasteries, or whatever the most brutal tour guide could produce. She thought.
*****
She pushed open the door of the little bar and her past rose up to greet her. A red Christmas tree bulb above the piano threw a faint glow. The light above the bar was only marginally brighter and it seemed to her as she moved past the piano to the bar that the people standing there hadn’t moved since her last visit. One of Duke Ellington’s cousins sat near the piano with a singer who was his latest protégé—young, attractive, unsure of herself, and desperately eager to make it in the Big Apple. Jessica peered through the gloom, looking for Lisa Crayle. Lisa and her husband owned the bar and she was there every night, but it was early. Jess hoped she’d get there before the young singer left. It was an article of faith for her that all fledgling singers should meet Lisa Crayle. “Look in the mirror, honey, add thirty years, and there you are.” But of course they never believed it.
The set was finishing and the piano player stood up and leaned toward the mike. “We’re going to take a short break, Ladies and Gentlemen. Stan Rollins on the sax, Mo Edmonds on bass, and I’m Lou Mayfield.” There was a smattering of applause as Lou moved the two steps to the bar and took the glass of white wine the bartender had poured for him. He stood listening as the man next to him poured compliments into his ear and asked him to do “Misty” in the next set. Lou smiled gently into the distance as he did when he wasn’t going to commit himself. This time the distance included Jessica and he said politely, but abruptly, “Excuse me just a moment, will you?” and moved around the bar to where she was standing.
“Jess!” He reached up and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“The light hasn’t gotten any better in this place.”
He took her arm and moved her toward the back. “Come over here, there’s more room,” as they reached the back curve of the bar where the drop leaf entrance and the pay phone were.
“Let me look at you. You look different—you’ve changed your hair.”
She shook her head. “No, you always say that.”
“Well, you shouldn’t stay away so long.”
“It’s only been six months, November 30…”
“She remembers the date!”
“Of course I do! Seeing you is always an event.”
She had known him for years and was very fond of him. He was in love with her.<
br />
“I need a favor, Lou.”
“Anything,” he said quickly. “You know that.”
“I do.” She covered his hand with hers briefly, then said briskly, “I’m filling in for a friend, starting Sunday, and I’m rusty as hell. I’d like to sit in with you for a couple of nights.”
He was delighted. “You know you don’t even have to ask. You should have called me earlier, we could have billed you.”
“I only decided to go today.Besides, billing me would only draw flies. Bar flies. Although that would please Herman. How is he, by the way?”
“All right,” Lou said noncommittally.
“As good as that?” She grinned at him. Neither of them was very fond of Lisa Crayle’s husband.
“Where are you working? The Village? Or in Washington?”
She hesitated. Finally she said, “Bulgaria.”
“Bulgaria? Where’s that?”
“It’s a country.Right above Greece and Turkey on the Black Sea.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s a beautiful little country. High mountains and nice fertile valleys where they grow roses as a crop. Field upon field of nothing but roses.”
“Well, it sounds nice.” His tone was doubtful. A lifelong New Yorker, he considered Queens exotic.
“Where did Stan and Mo rush off to? As soon as you finished the set, they tore out the door.”
“Mo is having a little trouble with his car.”
They started the set with just the two of them, Lou introducing her in his soft voice: “Ladies and Gentlemen (there were five people in the bar), we are honored to have with us tonight an old friend and fine singer, Jessica Winter.” Pat, pat, pat, a polite spatter of applause. Mike in hand, she felt her stomach tighten. “Christ,” she thought despairingly, “the things I do for democracy.” She took a deep breath, smiled, and began softly, “The more I see you, the more I want you.” By the time she reached the third line, the bar was quiet and all five patrons were listening attentively. The applause was enthusiastic when she finished and she smiled and thanked them. She glanced down at Lou, said quietly, “Like Someone in Love?” He nodded and they began. The door opened and Stan and Mo came in with a gust of cold air. They moved over beside the piano, picked up their instruments, waited, and then joined Lou and Jessica, Stan on the saxophone and Mo on the bass. Lou had made a list of possible numbers and Stan pulled it toward him and read it in the dim light. He nodded approvingly, and they worked their way through it, old standards mostly, “You Stepped Out of a Dream,” “I Hear a Rhapsody.” Finally, they reached the end of the list and Lou looked up at Stan and Mo, “What shall we do to finish? Something lively…” They shrugged, then Mo said, “How about ‘New York City?’” and Jessica cut in, “Let’s do that.”
Lou grinned at her and started the intro. All four of them sang in unison, “When you leave New York City, you don’t go anywhere, so you might as well relax and stay in your easy chair.”
They finished and the patrons, now swelled to eleven, clapped loudly. Lou said, “Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, for that reception, we’ll be back in a few minutes.” Both Stan and Mo leaned toward Jessica. “Where did you come from?”
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Stan said, “You’ve gained weight and changed your hair!”
“Still the same old shameless flatterer!”
“Listen, babe, I like whatever you do with your body.”
She sighed, rolling her eyes, and grinned at Mo, who shook her hand, smiling broadly. “Where have you been? We’ve missed you!”
A familiar, gravelly voice at her elbow said, “Hello, pretty lady,” and Jessica turned to greet Lisa Crayle. The small blond figure hadn’t changed; in the dim light, the gamin face with its smooth cap of hair could have been any age. It was only when you looked at the eyes that you got any sense of time. “Hello, gorgeous,” Jessica said, “How’s life?”
“Oh, it’s just one damned thing after another,” Lisa said.
Shrewd and vacant by turns, Lisa Crayle drifted through each evening at the tiny club, serving as hostess, waitress, and occasional bouncer. Friends dropped in, musicians between jobs traded stories, met agents, and loafed.
Three nights a week, from ten o’clock on, Lisa’s husband, Herman, and his newest live-in singer graced the room and on those nights, Lisa Crayle went home to her dogs.
By Friday night, the stomach spasms had been reduced to butterflies. As she sat listening to the musicians sitting around the piano between sets, it seemed as if she’d never been away. Jazz was alive and well in Manhattan, musicians were working, life was pretty good after the long dominance of rock.
She met one group of musicians who had just come from Yugoslavia. “They loved us, man, those kids couldn’t get enough. We could have played all night. They know everything. You going to Bulgaria? Never worked there, but it shouldn’t be that different. Those people are hungry for the sound, man. We always had kids sitting in. Pretty good too. Listen to records, anything they can get their hands on, and imitate the sound. Just what I did when I was a kid!”
She said goodbye to the band in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Stan Rollins handed her a manila folder.
“Here are a few chord sheets and lead lines.” He shrugged as she started to thank him. “They were just hanging around the place anyway. We can’t have you going in there with nothing, you’ll embarrass us.”
She chuckled, touched at the concern and affection that had gone into the gesture. There were more than a few hours of work in that folder.
“Okay,” she said, shaking her head deprecatingly, “But you’re going to have to take the consequences. I wasn’t going to tell them you sent me, but now, you’re going to have to take the rap for my lousy performance.”
“Listen, babe, you’re going to knock ‘em dead. You’re better now than you were when you quit.”
“There’s a considerable body of opinion that holds that there was only one way to go. Up.”
“You come back when you’re finished and I’ll make you a star.”
She turned, grinning, to Lou and Mo. “Sirius,” she said, patting Lou’s cheek and kissing his forehead. “The dog star.”
She turned to Mo and hugged him. “Thanks for everything. You sound more like Charlie Mingus all the time. Makes me believe in reincarnation.”
She turned at the door and looked at them affectionately. “I’ll come back and tell you all about it. God willing, and if the creek don’t rise.”
“I’ve got a boat on my terrace,” Mo said.
“You,” she said, pointing a finger at him, “were always a survivor!”
She went out into the east side night, passing couples of all persuasions flowing from club to club in the weekend ritual.
“Ah,” she sighed nostalgically, “There’s no place like home.”
She went back to the studio she’d borrowed from a friend, picked up her suitcase, and took the red eye shuttle back to Washington. She sat back on the plane and tried to sleep, but her mind kept drifting to Lisa Crayle and the band. Music was seductive. It took over your life. You began living just for the nights, and the days looked bleaker and bleaker. Looking back, she couldn’t regret having given up singing. It had been difficult, more than difficult, wrenching, but she knew she’d done the right thing. She might have had second thoughts about resuming her connection with music, but somewhere over New Jersey, she fell asleep.
There was no time to think during the day, as she pulled together a daytime wardrobe to go with the clothes Marie had provided for the evenings, and packed everything. She took an airport limousine to Dulles Airport and boarded a Pan Am flight that took her to Rome, then on to Sofia. She slept fairly soundly for most of the flight, eating only one of the several meals served on both legs of the journey. By the time she woke up completely and washed her face and put on her makeup, she was back in Bulgaria.
She hadn’t told Max the whole truth. The last time she’d been in Bulgar
ia she hadn’t been a tourist. Nor had she considered it a grey country. She had, however, been asked to leave. Which was why she had lied about the rest.
The plane touched down in Sofia. It could have been any small airport in the world, but memories of the country came rushing back. Bulgaria was small, barely 300 miles across, and she had traversed it from the Danube in the north, wandering through the streets of Vidin with its moated fort, down through the lush fields of the plain into the Rodopes Mountains. They had washed the car in mountain streams, climbed the Hill of the Liberator in Plovdiv. They had wandered the tiny precipitous streets of Turnova, crossed Shipka Pass, and wound their way down to the sea. In Bulgaria, the mountains came to the edge of the Black Sea, dipping down only at the last possible moment to the sandy beaches. It had been her first glimpse of Varna, that ancient seaport, and she had been enchanted. That, she thought wryly, was precisely the word. She’d been enchanted with everything. Being in love did add a glow, didn’t it?
The young Balkan Tourist guide who met her plane spoke excellent English. She would, she announced, be at Miss Winter’s disposal for the next three hours until her plane for Varna departed. Would Miss Winter be interested in a short tour of Sofia, or would she prefer to rest after her long flight?
She opted for the tour of Sofia and settled back as the black Balkan Tourist Volga edged out of the airport and headed for the city. The driver and the guide chatted quietly in the front seat and Jessica was only vaguely aware of them as she stared out the window. Since she had agreed to come to Bulgaria she had given little thought to the actual arrival, concentrating on the practical aspects of preparation. She was unprepared for the sense of loss that swept over her as the familiar streets of Sofia appeared.
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