“I’m here and Ilya’s not.” The thought had barely surfaced before she gazed at it in astonishment and tucked it firmly back down into her subconscious. “My God, twenty years and you’re still a schoolgirl! Get a grip on yourself.” She straightened in the seat and smiled brilliantly at the guide who was in the middle of a rather dull remark about housing construction and who was startled at this sign of life from her hitherto torpid passenger.
The guide quite naturally attributed the increased animation to a vital interest in housing conditions in Socialist countries and for the next two hours Jessica was bombarded with statistics and visual evidence of Bulgaria’s staggering progress in this area since the Second World War.
She took it quite well.For one thing, it was interesting. Up to a point. For another, she felt she could do penance as well as any socialist for thinking unworthy thoughts.
The guide, an intense young woman full of the zeal of youth, was tremendously impressed with Jessica’s seriousness and social awareness.
The driver, shaking his head, confided to his colleagues back in the garage that she sure hadn’t looked like the kind of a woman who couldn’t get enough of housing statistics.
Seated at last on the small plane which would take her to Varna, she eyed the stewardess warily. It was going to be a long time before she smiled at anyone in a position to give her statistics on anything. She grimaced as the intercom crackled and the pilot’s voice gave them altitude and flight time.
She settled back to give some thought to a problem slightly more pressing than statistic avoidance—finding Ray and getting out of Bulgaria. She knew there was a ferry to Istanbul twice a week. The obvious way was always best. She could highjack a plane or steal a boat, but on balance she thought she’d prefer to just walk on that ferry with Ray and sail across to Istanbul. There was just one problem. She had to find Ray.
As it happened, there were several problems, and finding Ray was not among them.
*****
It was a cold, misty morning. Awakening at 5:30, she had dressed and wandered down to the beach where the wind was whipping up whitecaps on a grey sea. She walked briskly along the edge of the water, playing absently at avoiding the waves rolling in as she planned her day. By the time she turned around and headed back she had only wet her shoes once. These small victories were important.
She was meeting the band this morning; they would rehearse. Then she would go to Ray’s lodgings. The trail had to start somewhere and it made sense to talk to Mrs. Christopolis, the widow in whose house Ray always stayed. After that, she’d play it by ear. In any case, she had to sing that night.
At the thought of singing, her stomach muscles tightened and a wave of nausea swept over her. It had been so long and she was terrified. The little bar in Manhattan, with its dim light and cozy warmth, was home. The huge barracks like hotel dining rooms of Bulgaria were hell—sheer torture.
She trudged along, dodging the waves, working through the panic that rose in her. Finally she shrugged. She was going to do it no matter how she felt; there was no excuse for this self-indulgence. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin to find herself staring straight into the eyes of an amused Frenchman who had taken refuge from the wind in a lifeguard’s chair. He had been following her progress down the beach, watching the internal struggle clearly mirrored in her face. He grinned and said, “Brava!” She smiled slightly and hurried on, mortified.
Looking around her she realized that the beach was no longer deserted. A quartet of German housewives in bulging bathing suits were puffing steadily through an exercise routine led by a hefty young woman in a blue running suit and a rubber bathing cap. There were even two or three brave souls plunging gingerly into the frigid looking water. Everywhere she looked people were jumping rope or jogging in place or running briskly along, dodging the others.
“My God, I must have been out here longer than I thought!” She looked at her watch…6:45. God! Well, at least they’d be too tired to wait up to hear her sing.
She knew that wasn’t true. If the Germans had paid for entertainment, they’d be sitting there stolidly waiting to be entertained. No matter what the hour. Her stomach tightened again. Coffee. She looked around frantically for the dining pavilion.
Her first look at the band had not been encouraging.
The piano player was a short, dumpy man, balding, with a fringe of greasy grey hair. His fingers were short and stubby, covered with wiry hair. He acknowledged the introduction by smiling slightly and inclining his head.
The bass player was a tall black man with the wary, weary eyes of the expatriate. Jessica had seen his double in Paris, in Rome—but Bulgaria? She filed him away for a further look. He took note of the meeting with a casual wave of his hand.
The drummer looked like a college professor. He was a slim, greying man with a courtly air. He greeted her warmly and welcomed her to Bulgaria. Had she been here before? She had, a brief visit years ago.
She glanced around. Was this everyone? Mr. Vassily, the manager, shrugged apologetically. Stefan, the horn player, was a young boy, not always on time—but talented, very talented. He was sure she would find nothing to complain of in his performance.
She, in turn, assured him that she was certain the absent Stefan would turn out to be a combination of Cannonball Adderly and Benny Carter. He smiled rather blankly and added that he also played the guitar. “Throw in Wes Montgomery then,” she said.
Murmuring excuses, Mr. Vassily left them. As he vanished through a side door, Karl, the piano player, smiled gently at Jessica and said, “You’ll find that Mr. Vassily only provides the music, he doesn’t listen. The only music he really understands is the clink of coins and the rustle of currency. Of that he’s a connoisseur.”
Jessica grinned at him. “And in that he’s not alone. It must be an international requirement for club managers.”
Karl nodded agreement, then said, “What do you sing?”
“I’ve brought some charts,” Jessica said, “Mostly Ellington and Gershwin, but if you prefer other things, I can pick them up.”
As she spoke he began doodling “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” Jim, the bass player, picked it up and the drummer brushed a light underpinning. She hummed deep in her throat until he came to the beginning of the chorus and she began the slow sensual descent, “Had a Saturday date.” They worked their way through it; the piano underlining, supporting, highlighting; each man attuned to the cues as Jessica picked up the tempo and slowed to a blues ending.
They finished. None of them spoke. They looked at each other, then away, and smiles appeared. The delight that comes from doing something well gripped them all. Jessica sighed voluptuously then said, “Listen, anybody can do Ellington, let’s try again.” She reached over and plunked a G. “Mr. Sunshine, listen you,” Karl smiled and picked up the melody and as they reached the chorus they all slid smoothly into “But Not For Me.” They syncopated the second chorus, and by the time they finished, they were all laughing.
A truculent voice from the back of the room called out, “Is this a private joke or can anyone join in?”
The three men glanced at one another, then at Jessica. Finally, Paeter, the drummer, said, “Jessica, Miss Winter, this is Stefan Pitroski.”
“Hello, Stefan.”
The young man emerging from the shadows at the back of the room was extremely tall; he was all angles and all awkward.
“Hello,” he said shortly. “When did you begin?”
It was Paeter again who said mildly, “At the time we said we would. We told you Miss Winter was joining us this morning.”
The only answer was a blank look at Jessica. He went behind the bandstand and took a guitar from a case. He set it lovingly on the stand and, opening another case, lifted a saxophone from the velvet lining. Raising it to his mouth, he ran a liquid scale, his eyes closed, his body rigid.
The others waited quietly; this was obviously routine to them. Fina
lly, he was ready. He opened his eyes, looked around impatiently and said, “Well, are we going to start or are you going to sit there gaping at me?”
Jessica rose and said coolly, “I hope we’re going to work. I prefer to do my gaping at the zoo. The sights are more interesting and the animals have better manners. Do you know James Taylor?”
He looked at her with fresh interest, then nodded.
“Do you know ‘Walking Man?’”
Another nod.
“If you’ll start on the guitar, then…”
He picked, tuned, and began the chords, Jessica joining him. “Oh, the leaves have come aturning and the goose has gone to fly, and bridges are for burning, so don’t you let Daddy yearnin’ pass you by, Walkin’ Man.” The others sat listening, only the drums lending punctuation to the chords of Stefan’s guitar. As soon as they finished, Jessica said, “If you’ll use the sax, we’ll do ‘Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight.’ Karl? It’s on the sheet.”
He nodded and Jessica’s voice sounded like liquid smoke as she breathed, “Do me wrong, do me right.” Behind her the saxophone soared softly, cushioning, accenting. She was satisfied. He was good. A trifle pampered, but his music was sound. She was smiling again as she finished the voice-over of Stefan’s last solo, “I don’t want to be lonely tonight.” He ended with a dissonance and she sat down, grinning up at him. “You’re not bad, kid.”
They worked for three more hours, exploring, testing, and enjoying each other immensely. Even Stefan had gotten over his initial hostility and was immersed in the music. There was a freshness, an amateur quality about their music. It was clear they were loving every minute of it.
Finally Jessica said, “You can see that I’ve tried to find things that aren’t done to death, but we ought to be prepared to play requests. Let’s do at least a run-through of ‘Misty.’” They all grinned, there was no respite anywhere in the world from “Misty.” “You know,” she said as they finished, “I’ve always wanted to do a slow blues treatment of ‘Blue Skies.’ Could we try it?”
She waited as the others noodled and tried the idea in their various ways. Then as they got together, broke in, “Never saw the sun, shining so bright, never saw things going so right.”
The contrast between the bright words and the dark tones of her voice as she slid slowly over and around the chords made the song seem bluer and sadder than a traditional ballad. When she reached, “…the days hurrying by, when you’re in love, my how they fly,” the irony and bitterness were almost unbearable.
They finished the song and sat—not speaking.
Finally, Jessica sighed a little and said, “Well, it works as a blues.”
Jim looked at her from behind his bass and spoke directly to her for the first time. “Mama, you have paid your dues.”
She grinned at him. “And the rates keep going up all the time! Let’s break, OK?”
Stefan cleared his throat and said hesitantly, “Do you think we could try ‘You’ve Got a Friend?’ I could do the harmony.”
A flicker of surprise from the others. Jessica nodded. “Sure, but why don’t you do the vocal and I’ll do harmony? Let’s run it through, see what happens.”
He began a tentative approach on the guitar and picked up the vocal in a light pleasant voice, with the roughness and edgy quality demanded by the soft rock contours of the song. She joined him on the chorus. Their voices blended beautifully and she looked thoughtful as they finished.
“Do you know any American country music?”
He had heard it, but not played any.
“I think we’d be extremely effective on some of those old time country blues. They’re real tearjerkers, we’ll knock ‘em dead. I’ve done a little arranging. I can rough out something for us to use. We’ll work on it, OK?”
He nodded eagerly.
Within days, they had acquired a large following of Stefan’s fellow students in Sofia, which warmed the club manager’s heart. But by that time, when Jessica sang “Born to Lose,” she wasn’t kidding.
*****
It was almost one o’clock before she began, in a meandering and leisurely way, to work her way toward the house where Ray stayed when he came through Varna. Mrs. Christopolis was a small bustling widow who had married a Greek seaman some forty years before. Marrying a foreigner had been the extent of her adventurousness; she lived within two blocks of the house in which she’d been born. She was related to nearly everyone in the neighborhood, and when Mr. Christopolis had been lost at sea, she’d seen no reason to move away. She took in commercial travelers and Ray had been one of her favorites, returning year after year.
Ray had often talked about Mrs. Christopolis; Jessica felt as if she knew her. She smiled down at the small black-clad figure who opened the door.
“Mrs. Christopolis? I’m Jessica Winter, a friend of Mr. Stephens. Is he in?”
She had decided as she walked over that this was the best approach. It would leave it up to Mrs. Christopolis to decide what to tell her.
She was unprepared for the tears that welled up and spilled down over the woman’s face. She stood looking at Jessica helplessly and then gestured for her to come in. They stood in the tiny hallway for an awkward moment, then Jessica put her arm around the woman and led her into the parlor. She sat next to her on the plush sofa and made soothing noises until the tears slowed and Mrs. Christopolis began apologizing and trying to explain.
“I’m sorry. It has been a very bad time. Rigo is gone and someone has broken in, and then I thought it might be him, and when I saw you standing there… He said you might come…” she broke off again, her face crumpling.
This was more than Jessica had bargained for. She took it step by step. Taking the woman’s hand, she said gently, “Ray is not here, Mrs. Christopolis?”
The woman looked at her, tears streaming down her face, and nodded her head vigorously. “Ne. He has not been here since Wednesday morning.”
“He didn’t tell you he was leaving? That doesn’t seem like Ray. Perhaps he had an urgent message at one of his clients?”
There was a quiet dignity about the woman as she pulled herself up to face Jessica, but she was clearly perplexed. She shook her head.
“He would not have left without sending word. If he called and I were out, the operator would have taken a message. He knows that. We are a small community. And he took nothing! His clothes, his books. All were there.”
“But he would know that if he did have to leave suddenly you would take care of his things until he got back.” She trailed off as this soothing statement produced exactly the opposite effect. Mrs. Christopolis was staring at her in consternation, tears gushing forth again.
“Yes! He would feel so. And now this!”
“Now what, Mrs. Christopolis?” But she was pretty sure she knew.
“Someone, while I was in church this morning, someone has broken in and taken everything. His clothes, his books, all are gone.” She sobbed again. “And now I must tell him that I have not taken care.”
Jessica was beginning to think that wasn’t going to be necessary; but she put her arm around the woman again and murmured reassurance. Surely, Ray would never blame her for a robbery. It was hardly her fault. Little by little, Mrs. Christopolis regained her composure, and, clutching the damp handkerchief, she lifted her face to Jessica.
“Thank you. You have been very kind. Rigo has told me of you. He was looking forward to your coming.”
“My coming?”she echoed to give herself time. There was only one reason Ray would think she’d be coming.
“Yes.” The little woman was almost cheerful as she thought about it. “We sit in the kitchen in the evenings.” She looked around the small parlor, which was obviously only used for state occasions. “I sew, and Rigo does his puzzles.”
“Crossword puzzles.”
Mrs. Christopolis nodded vigorously. “Da. He said he had a good friend who also loved word puzzles, but not like his…”
“Double Crost
ics.”
“Da. I tease him about knowing so many words to put down, and he tells me you know even more.”
“When did he say this, Mrs. Christopolis?”
Mrs. Christopolis hesitated a moment, thinking back. “It was the night before he left. Tuesday it must have been. Yes, it was,” she finished positively, having linked it in her mind to some immutable occurrence.
She had gotten the assignment on Wednesday. Ray had been alive Tuesday evening. But not very hopeful.
“Well,” she said, patting Mrs. Christopolis’ hand, “Here I am. May I see Ray’s room? If anything is left, perhaps I could take it along for him.”
She held her breath on that one; there was no reason for Mrs. Christopolis to show her the room. But she seemed delighted. She got to her feet quickly, happy to have something to do. She led her to the foot of the staircase.
“It is the door on your right. You go up, I will join you in a few moments.”
The room had been searched. That was not surprising. What was jarring was the lack of concealment. The newspaper linings of the drawers were torn out, the mattress slashed. They hadn’t worried about Ray coming back and noticing that the hair he had laid across his briefcase was disturbed. It was a small, old fashioned room with a large chest of drawers in dark wood, an old brass bed with its torn mattress, and a worn but handsome spread, a small table next to the bed, and a rickety armchair. There were dark velvet draperies at the windows, worn white spots showing at the edges.
Jessica eased carefully into the chair and looked around her. Whatever it was Ray had, he would not have left it to be found in this room. He was too downy a bird not to know they would search thoroughly. Yet she knew he had left something-something that would have meaning to the two or three people who would automatically be sent to take over if he got into trouble. He’d obviously counted on it being her. Above all else, she knew Ray had worked out some way to get the information out. That was his first principle—get it out. Let someone know.
She sat there, closing her eyes and trying to relax. It was ridiculous to search the room again; whoever had done it knew, presumably, what they were looking for. She didn’t. But she knew Ray. He’d told Mrs. Christopolis she was coming. Why? So Mrs. Christopolis would mention it if she did. Ray knew people. Since he had said she was coming, he had left some thing she would recognize; something that would have meaning for her and possibly no one else. That was a little odd. She had opened her eyes and was gazing into space as she worked through this. Staring, she realized, at the posts of the brass bed. And she knew where it was. She and Ray had read the book years before. She’d laughed when she’d given it to him, “It doesn’t always work out this well, but it’s nice to think it can.”
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