The Bear Comes Home

by Rafi Zabor

  He did get off one thing he wanted to say, though. "I think the only significance of all this activity—the musicians, the industry and all the hysteria that attends it—is that despite all we've done to mar the world with our having been here, and I include myself in that, because I've been here long enough to know that what I leave behind me is less a mark than a stain—is that when you come right down to it we're in love with beauty. You wouldn't think that's what everyone's actually involved with, but I don't know what other significance all this fucking noise could be about, do you? And I think civilization, as currently understood, ought to shut the fuck up and inquire more deeply into what this preoccupation with beauty might mean. If possible before it's too late, you know what I'm saying?"

  "You're a Platonist!" the interviewer seemed delighted to discover.

  "Of course I am," said the Bear. "And I think an ideal society would be ruled by saxophone-playing bear kings. Besides—"

  At this point other voices pressed in upon them. Apparently it was time for him to play some more music, whatever that was.

  "Sorry," said the Bear. "There wasn't enough time to really ..."

  "It was fine," the interviewer said, and pressed a sheet of paper into the Bear's paw in place of a handshake. "This is what I really do."

  "Thanks," said the Bear, and looked down at what looked like poetry.

  "Thank j/oz/," the guy assured him, and made a little bow.

  "Hey hey hey hey hey'^ said someone coming in.

  The Bear looked up and couldn't help but grin. It was Lester Bowie, arms spread wide to embrace him, followed by old Doc Friedmann, leaning on a stick, his face reddened by effort. "The two doctors!" said the Bear, and stuffed the interviewer's paper into his trenchcoat pocket. "Glad to see ya."

  "Yeah, just blew in on the Tardis," Bowie said, unwinding a length of scarf from his throat. "What's up? What we gonna do here?"

  "He inzisted on picking me up," said Friedmann. "Have you experienced this man's driving?"

  "No," said the Bear.

  Bowie was shaking the interviewer's hand and asking hey, how was he. The interviewer seemed flummoxed, and Bowie, bending over the man's armchair, from which he was ineffectively struggling to rise, began paying him elaborate, somewhat parodic court.

  "Sorry you had a rough time getting here," the Bear told Friedmann, who had some trouble getting around the Bowie-and-interviewer tandem. Even-

  The Bear Comes Home i8i

  tually, however, the Bear had a chance to embrace him. "How're you doing, old man?"

  "A couple of chest pains but no luck yet," the doctor told him, wheezing.

  "Puh-leeze," said the Bear.

  "I have come to feel that the last thing I had to do in this life vas to be of some small help to you."

  "You want to sing Ich hahe genug on my record?"

  "I don't feel like singing, Bear," said the doctor. "I feel like taking a good long rest."

  "They say it's sweeter to stay on a couple of years after you're done."

  "Akh. I don't even vant to know vhich bunch of sadists may have said such a thing. But it's good to see you looking veil."

  "I do? I'm feeling a little ragged today."

  "Your coat has a nice sheen. And you smell good."

  "Hey Bear, so tell me, what're we gonna do?" It was Bowie, appearing over the doctor's shoulder, twiddling one prong of his goatee and doing a little speculative bob-and-weave.

  "That depends," said the Bear. "You want to play right away or listen to us do one first?"

  "Whatever," Bowie said. "How's the date so far?"

  The Bear gestured over his shoulders. "The guys are in the control room. Ask them."

  "Yeah, I'd like to see Billy. How do you hke the Hat?"

  "Hatwell? He's great."

  "Yeah, catch him while you can. See you in a minute."

  Bowie went past him, a door opened and the sounds of celebration washed against his back. For all his grim existential concentration today, the Bear had to smile. Doctor Bowie was in the house.

  They decided to do "Tengri" before they brought Bowie in for his cameo, and the Bear made a mess of it. He had written the tune out of an interest in its Asiatic feel and the laddering thirds and fourths of its melody, and had named it for the Mongolian word for heaven, although he held "Shaman You" in reserve as an alternate title. Out of all the possible chord changes that could be derived from the tune, he had chosen the most complex for the working chart, and as he went into his solo on them he remembered all at once that this was precisely the kind of playing he was most interested in doing these days but also that he had so far been unable to make it work. So for two takes he nattered around within the confines of the harmonic structure, miscounted the twenty-bar A section and the thirteen-bar bridge, and

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  felt, more or less, like a railway stationman out there on the platform with his pocketwatch, hoping for the best but personally unable to make the trains run on time. "Hey, guys," he said, when he had waved the band to a stop for the second time.

  "Yeah?"

  "I forgot something."

  "We noticed."

  "I don't want to play these changes," he announced, and a couple of looks passed between the members of his band. "Hey," he challenged them, "you wanna do a couple of choruses of'Cherokee' or 'Giant Steps' or something? I can run 'em. I'll eat 'em up. I don't feel like playing these particular changes just now for the purposes of making music, okay? It's not in tune with what I want to accomplish at the moment. So. Another way to look at the tune is that the A section is in Dorian with some optional sharps and flats and the B section's Phr^gian with a G-minor tag the last five bars. So what do you say let's play it that way for a take and see how it works out."

  "Yeah if you can really count to five," Hatwell piped up. "Cause if you can we could all make the end of the bridge together."

  "Good point. Bob. Thank you. Shall we tr^?"

  Krieger seemed marginally happier, the Bear noticed, once they did three takes of the reconstructed tune. The first one was still finding its way, the second was acceptable, the third a perceptible falling off, with definite signs of a loss of interest.

  "Lester!" called the Bear.

  "Come on in here," the trumpeter's voice came over the intercom. "Let's have a discussion."

  "You can't play 'W^en a Man Loves a Woman,'" Bowie told him when he had broken the news.

  "Why the fiick not," the Bear asked him.

  "Because while you were inside, Michael Bolton recorded a version—"

  "Who the fuck is Michael Bolton?"

  "W^at used to be called blue-eyed soul," Bowie said. "Anyhow, he recorded it and damn near killed the thing."

  "It was everywhere," Billy put in. "It was unavoidable. It was on all the radios. It was on the street. It was like Madonna."

  "Not a good idea, the Bear," Krieger said.

  "Well I'm a talking bear," said the Bear, "and in the general spirit of the violation of the laws of nature I say let's do it anyway." He grinned and bristled at Krieger and watched the man give way in a series of shivers. It was an

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  illegal use of fur, he knew, and a suspect invocation of nature red in tooth and claw, but what the fuck, it's only a record, only a way of getting by in the world. A way, in short, he had hoped never to think about music, but it was the order of the given day and there he was.

  After some fooling with the head, they did it in a take. The Bear and Bowie played the A section in rough unison and Bowie took the bridge alone, giving it his best parodic yowls and whinnies but also rocking nicely back into the cushion of the beat. Billy let his cymbal triplets flex a bit, and played the snaredrum backbeat fat. Haden picked the minimum number of clear, country-true tones, and Hatwell took it to church. It was just what the Bear wanted, and going into his two choruses he did exactly what he had heard himself doing in his head for about a week now. He alternated some rudimentary, comic-Rol
hnsish linking of the tune's harmonic fundamentals with a repeated rising dotted-eighth-note figure which he let unfold into some fairly Birdlike melodic development on the bridge of his second chorus and then, on the way out, tossed some Cannonball into his last couple of bars: a measured solo: situational improvisation: just this once. Lester Bowie made the best of his choruses—his tone had developed a beautiful sheen and shimmer, a beautiful gleam of brass, and he used it in lovely lyric contrast to his usual divagations from tonal orthodoxy, those yawns and yowls and side-mouth slurs. It also seemed to the Bear that Bowie's phrasing was a bit more developmental than it used to be. The Bear liked that—good as Bowie is, he's been working at construction, and his tone's more gemlike and emotive than ever. Bowie's solo was a moving piece of work that was all the more effective for its relative restraint. For his single chorus Hatwell picked up on Bowie's reticence and suggestions, keeping things mostly chordal and church-solemn. You could hear his youth pushing against this decorum from within, so that there was a feeling of a wave about to raise up and smash some houses on the shoreline, but no actual trace of whitecap showed on the surface. When trumpet and alto returned to repeat the tune's written melody they played it as if with heads bowed. The Bear had the bridge on the out chorus and he elected to rip it with some traditional blues and gospel declamation, then hushed back down for the unison of the last eight bars. Bowie was lovely there, his tone retaining its glow in pianissimo, and the tune ended in a saxophone whisper and the fluttering of Bowie's breath through his horn. The Bear had wanted this one for Iris and it had come out right.

  Back in command central there were quiet congratulations in half-sentences while "When a Man Loves a Woman" was playing back. It was the first take

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  of anything the Bear had Hstened to, and you know? it wasn't a horrible experience. It even sounded hke a record. How strange.

  "Yeah when I heard the tune before this one, Bear, I wondered ..." Bowie was telhng him.

  "If they removed a critical portion of my brain in stir? Someone play him 'Vehicle' after this."

  "You mean you'll sit still for another playback?" Jones asked him.

  "I might," said the Bear. He leaned over toward Friedmann. "What do you think?"

  "It's not my style of music. I came along in that madman's car to inqvire into your health. Let me look at you." Friedmann leaned toward the Bear across the soft tan leather sofa. "Show me your teeth and gums. A propos, vhat is that good smell? I noticed it before already. Is that your natural smell in good health or is there somesing else?"

  "For Christ's sake, Friedmann, it's only cologne."

  "Has he been so touchy all month since he left the prison?" Friedmann asked Jones.

  "No," said the Bear.

  "He's been about Hke this," Jones informed the doctor.

  "Bullshit," said the Bear. "I haven't been like this at all. I'm not like this now."

  "So," said Friedmann. "Teeth and gums please."

  The Bear obHged him, then let his lip fall closed.

  "Your eye please, bend." The Bear leaned in and the doctor pulled his eyelid down. As Friedmann peered in at him the Bear noticed how unwell the old man looked. In the slammer, things looked bad in all directions, but back out here . . . Friedmann looked worn out. There was a new hollowness to his genial ugly features, and the Bear wondered if this was what people meant when they said they could see death in someone's face. Friedmann's examining eye looked dull. "Goot," Friedmann said.

  "So I'm okay," said the Bear. "Now tell me what you think of my combo's groovy sounds."

  Friedmann might have meant his rough basso to come out in a whisper but it was like a freight train. "Music, shmusic," Friedmann boomed. "Don't lose the girl."

  The Bear looked back at the control panel, where most eyes were on the dials and sliders. Bowie was contemplating the ceiling tiles and generally looking innocent.

  "Be sure to tune in next week," the Bear told the room. "We're running a special."

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  "Yes," said Friedmann rather dreamily, "I spoke vith Iris a Httle on the day of your Hberation. Obviously she is marvelous."

  "And you're not shocked at the prospect of our . . . ?" the Bear asked him.

  Friedmann made a face. "I assume your genetics are incompatible and that you will not between you produce a monster."

  "Right."

  "She is very intelligent but she tells me she is incapable of thinking. I do not beUeve this, but clearly you must take specially good care of her."

  "She's extremely intelligent but I see her primarily as a sensitive."

  "Also essential. I vish I vere her age and in her field professionally. The things I might do."

  "She thinks she's old."

  "Of course she does," said Friedmann. "If she only knew."

  "But about us. What do you think really?"

  "I vouldn't vant to vatch. Othervise perfect. And should you two make an arrangement, please do not consult me in any capacity, either as doctor or as elderly friend. There is no ethical problem, but still, I hope you pardon me if I don't vish to know particulars. I'm an old-vorld gentleman of some experience, but there are limits." Friedmann leaned slightly away from the Bear on the sofa. "Of course you realize I am choking vith you."

  "I didn't," said the Bear.

  "You are an odd character," the old man told him.

  The Bear saw Jones swim like a new planet into his ken. On tape, the Bear was into his second chorus on "When a Man Loves a Woman." "You know, Jones," the Bear sidemouthed to him, "what I'd really like to do on this track is lay down a vocal."

  Jones looked properly aghast. "Wasn't this man just telling you about limits? Take a look at Krieger."

  The Bear took a look at Krieger.

  "You've already gotten away with murder today," said Jones. "I'd fold if I were you."

  "Yeah, but I wanted to put down a vocal so I could play it for Iris."

  "Hey, you big goof." Jones shot the Bear an elbow in his ribs and grinned. "You're in love."

  The Bear stifled the beginnings of a growl.

  On tape, the Bear finished his solo with a big happy inconsolable blues cry and Lester came in on a sustained and glowing note held long. The Bear looked back at Bowie, who was weaving to the beat back at the control panel. Bowie saluted back and shut his eyes. His head went back.

  "This may be as good a time as any," Jones was saying.

  i86 Rafi Zabor

  "For what?"

  Jones squeezed down beside the Bear on the sofa and Friedmann sUd back to make room for him. "It seems that Frq, that we're being evicted from the apartment," Jones said.

  "You're kidding. Is it about me?"

  "Who knows. Maybe you're gravy. The building's being co-opped—"

  "That dump?"

  "While you were inside, more art galleries crept in from the east and for a couple of mornings in a row the cops sealed off the street and swept the dope dealers off the stoops. You can hear the sound of money getting ready to be made."

  "Yeah, but he can't squeeze us," said the Bear. "We've got rent control. We're old tenants. We've got rights. If he wants us out of the building he should have to buy us out."

  "Yeah, well, although I'm your average quiet guy, pays his rent regular, in a word the full axe-murderer profile, he did say something about how he knew I'd been keeping an animal in there."

  "He said that? He called me an animal?"

  "Don't bristle. He's only a landlord."

  "Yeah, Jones, but where am I supposed to go? There goes the damn rug from under me again. And just looking at you I know how this plays into your plans about moving in with Sybil Bailey. You're running a game on me."

  "What about you and Iris?" Jones asked.

  "She wants me to go, and putting your lewd and leering interest aside for the moment, living there is in fact untenable. I've only gone out once or twice around four in the morning and I have to be careful about showing
myself in the windows. Usually we draw the shades. What can I tell you? It's a middle-class housing project. I can't live there. It's a holding pattern no matter what goes on between Iris and me."

  On tape, Hatwell was rolling through the middle of his chorus. Nice two-handed tremolo there.

  "You looking for a crib?" said Lester Bowie, leaning down from control-panel level. "Cause if you are I may know something, long as you're willing to leave town for awhile."

  "Am I ever," said the Bear.

  "Julius is moving back to the city from up in Woodstock," said Bowie, "and the house is going empty."

  "What about Stanlynn?" asked the Bear.

  "She's moving back West to raise llamas or some damn thing, but she told me, what the fuck did she tell me? Hey, listen to that." It was Hatwell ending

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  his chorus with a rolling swell that subsided just before the horns came in. "Motherfucker not only has those big hands he's smart. Stanlynn said something about putting the place up for summer rental semifurnished because the resale market's soft."

  "It ain't summer yet," said the Bear.

  "Yeah, but she's leaving now. You ought to speak to her, see if there's anything in it for you. It's a nice place. You could dig getting out of New York awhile, am I right?"

  ''Nunc dimittis'' the Bear agreed. "I'll call her. What's up with Julius?"

  Bowie adjusted his shirt collar. "We-ell, he was thinking he'd put himself too far outside the scene and wanted to come back into town. But the fact is he's in the hospital just now. They had to amputate one of his legs from the knee down."

  "Holy shit," said the Bear.

  "Yeah, diabetes and the comphcations thereof. He still Hkes to take a drink now and then."

  "The leg," said the Bear. "He's losing his leg."

  "He's losing his leg." Bowie grimaced at the Bear and the Bear grimaced back. "I'm gonna go see him in the hospital."

  "Give him my best. Sheesh."

  "Yeah," acknowledged Bowie.

  "I love Julius," said the Bear.

  "We all love Julius," Bowie said.