Body & Soul (63 page)

"Well, if it
is
him, he certainly wouldn't have any trouble passing."

Light made an impatient clucking sound with his tongue. "Passing is despicable. We thought we'd save him that, if it turned out to be possible. She was a remarkable woman."

"She was the
only
woman," Reggie said. "Unless you've lied to me."

"My dear, I do not lie about such matters, as you well know."

"Look, it's not my fault. What could I do?"

"The time is right, the name is right, and furthermore he's a musician. It's got to be him."

"We've been through this a dozen times," Reggie said. "I just want you to know it isn't my fault if he comes. He already knew about the club. I told him to go to Ronnie's, and he did, but now he's done that."

"What'd he think of the band?"

"He liked Tubby."

"Well, that shows good taste. How was he at yesterday's rehearsal?"

Reggie stared out the window. "Very serious. Intense. We played the whole concerto straight through for the first time. He seemed, he seemed..."

"What."

"He isn't a showy player, there's no theatrical stuff, but you could tell he was really out there, on another planet. A whole lot of energy coming from him, and the orchestra responded. He thanked us after, and he meant it."

"You like him," Light said simply.

"I don't even know him. He seems like a nice young man, he writes good music, and he plays beautifully. That's all I know."

"Is he ... ?" Light let his voice fall off.

"No." Reggie understood instantly. "I think not."

Light nodded to himself. "Don't be insulted if I say I'm glad about that."

"Of course not," Reggie said. "I'm sure I'd feel the same."

"The dues—when you're young, that is—are simply too heavy." Light sighed. "When I think back ..."

"I don't want you getting upset about this." Reggie placed his cup and saucer on the table. "He probably won't even show up, and if he does, you can handle it."

"I suppose," Light said. "But it's scary all the same. Who knows? He might take one look at me and know. He might feel it. Sense it."

"That's a lot of romantic nonsense," Reggie said impatiently, and stood up. "Start getting sentimental and
you'll
fuck it up."

"Where're you going?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll just put this stuff in the kitchen."

"No, wait. Sit down for a second," Light said. "Please."

"Christ," Reggie said, and sat back down.

"Tell me the truth, now. Don't just be nice."

"The truth about what?"

"About what I did. About what Emma and I did. You think it was right?"

Reggie shook his head. "What difference does it make? It was a hundred years ago."

"Reggie. Please." Light was a man who very rarely said please. He prided himself on his toughness, and Reggie, who had often counted on it, knew the toughness was real. Mental toughness, but also unambiguous physical courage. Four years ago they'd been accosted by three young thugs in an alley in Soho. Light had kicked one of them in the nuts, picked up the knife, stuck it in the boy's thigh, and watched the others run. "You picked the wrong poof this time, ladies!" he'd shouted, and then burst into laughter.

"How can I answer?" Reggie said. "I've never been to America. If I'd been born white in Jamaica, I would've tried to pass the other way."

"He's not passing. That's the whole point."

"I get that," Reggie said. "I see that. But the thing is, he'll never know. Suppose he turns out to be a great composer?"

"Yes. So?"

"He'll be a great
white
composer."

"Well, shit, he's more white than anything else. What was the word they used to ... an octoroon! That's what he is. That's as far as they had a word. It's the edge. What would they say after that, a sixteenthatoon? The very faintest, slightest touch of the tar. Let's face it, he's white."

"You don't think he got the music from you?"

Light pondered the question. "It would be nice to think so," he said.
"But really, if you start getting too deep into that mystical blood stuff, it starts sounding like the Nazis. You know what I mean?"

"Well, man,
you
were the one who said it was important he was a musician," Reggie protested.

"I know, I know. This thing has got me going around in circles."

"I just hope he doesn't show," Reggie said. "I got you a seat in the back for the concert. You can see him, hear him, and then come on back here and everything's back to normal."

"That's what I'll do," Light said. "You're right."

When Claude got back to the hotel after the final rehearsal the concierge handed him two letters. He sat down on one of the lobby couches and opened them immediately. The first was on Cambridge University stationery.

Dear Claude,

Hello old friend. I'm up here doing physics with the famous Dr. Macintyre. Crusty old sod, but he's brilliant. We are about to unlock the mysteries of the universe, perhaps as early as Friday.

It was thrilling to see your name in the paper and to imagine what must have been happening to you all these years to lead to such brilliant success. World premiere with the London Symphony Orchestra! The Weisfeld Concerto. I remember him well. Will he be with you, I hope?

My teaching duties prevent me from getting down to London before the concert, but I will most certainly be there. A friend has gotten tickets. Do you think you could give my name to the powers that be so I can come backstage afterwards?

All best,
Ivan

Claude felt a rush of affection. His sense of Ivan was suddenly so strong the man might just as well have been sitting next to him. Physics, of course! Ivan would have changed, certainly, but Claude somehow knew they would be able to pick up their friendship as if they'd never been apart. Claude folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his breast pocket. It was a wonderful surprise, like some unexpected perfect gift, and he took it as an auspicious sign at exactly the right moment. He was strengthened by it, all the more since it had come out of the blue.

The second letter was in Lady's round hand. It had been forwarded from the offices of the orchestra.

Dear Claude,

Should I admit to you I cried when I signed the final papers? Silly, I guess, because we did the right thing, but there it is. Mourning the past. It's lucky the present is so interesting. We sold the gallery in a really sweet deal, and I'm thinking of getting a real estate license. It should be fun, there's so much action in this town.

We get the Sunday Times a day late but I did see the little squib in the music section. I'm so happy for you, really truly happy because I know how much music means to you.

Grandpa told me that my cousin Catherine is living in London now, going to school or something. Look her up in the phone book and tell her hello from me. She'll remember you, I bet. She never used to forget
anything,
or anybody, that girl.

Anyway, good luck on the opening, and lots of love,

Lady

He held the letter in his hand for some time after finishing it. The reference to Catherine had caused a brief moment of uncomfortableness, like a chill, but it passed very quickly as he considered the ironies of life. There was an innocent, childlike quality to the letter, and it seemed impossible to him that he had spent so many years with its author without sensing the sadness in her. The plucky sadness of someone who had missed the boat. A kind of bravely cheerful stoicism masking a private sadness. Marriage, to him or to anyone else, would never cure it. It was a much bigger boat she had missed, and now he felt a vague fear for her. He closed it off immediately. In the complicated equation of her life, he was no longer a factor. Against his guilt, he could only, quite sincerely, wish her well in his heart. The divorce papers, which he had yet to sign, could not carry as much finality as the letter he held in his hand. It was that brutally simple.

When Claude telephoned the Savoy Grille to book a table he was told, with excruciating politeness and profuse apologies, that the first available reservation was two weeks hence. On an impulse Claude called Albert Shanks and explained the situation. "I'd really like to take her someplace special." Shanks called back twenty minutes later. From his splendid office overlooking the Thames he had been able to arrange everything. "They always keep two tables for unexpected VIPs," Shanks explained. "
Bon appétit.
"

The degree of Catherine's excitement took him by surprise. She'd actually said "Oh, goody" and clapped her hands like a child. She'd taken a good deal of time deciding what to wear while Claude had watched her from the bed. He again reminded himself that she was no longer the girl who lived in the mansion on Fifth Avenue, who went to splendid parties, or to the Russian Tea Room in pearls and a velvet dress. She lived in a tiny flat, had an extremely limited social life within a small circle of academics, dressed like a student, and made things like split-pea soup for dinner, saying with satisfaction, "A bit of bread and butter and this will do us for two days." Yet she had retained a real enthusiasm for the high life, and the capacity to enjoy it in the most natural way, commanding instant respect from the Savoy's staff, for instance.

It had been a truly splendid meal. Caviar, and vodka so cold it had turned thick. A memorable lobster bisque. Dover sole with a delicate sauce, pencil-thin asparagus, wild rice, a lime sorbet, Stilton and fruit, champagne all the way through, and now coffee. They had been at table for almost two hours.

"Let's order the whole thing all over again," Catherine said. She had eaten slowly, savoring every morsel in a mild voluptuary trance. Claude had gotten more pleasure watching her than from eating his own meal.

"A meal to remember," he said.

"No rehearsal tomorrow?"

"Nothing now till the performance."

"You just wait?"

"Right." He drank some coffee. "I'll go in two or three hours early, play for a little while in the basement to loosen up, then just hang around."

"Waiting must be difficult."

"I'm lucky. Nervous in the morning, then it just smoothes out somehow."

"I was supposed to go to a couple of meetings, but I've canceled everything. You won't have time to be nervous."

He smiled. Never before had he felt such a continuous, pervasive sense of well-being, the sense of vast resources of strength within himself, more than enough to deal with any test. Staring into her
impossibly beautiful eyes, he felt a rush of love and tenderness so deep he found himself grasping the edge of the table as if to locate himself.

"It isn't me," she said, reading his mind again. "It's really you."

"I'm in love," he said, "and it's you."

Finally they got up from the table, only vaguely aware now of the opulence surrounding them, and made their way out to the street. The night air was misty, creating a soft nimbus around the streetlights.

"Let's go hear some jazz," he said.

Lord Lightning sat behind the small desk in the storeroom-cum-green room-cum-office of the Castle going over the previous night's bar receipts when the door opened and his business partner—Evelyn Gladstone-Shinkfield, fourth Earl of Bumbridge, twenty-nine years old, skirt chaser, pink-skinned, blond-haired, otiose, clumsy, good-natured, rich, unemployed, and with no apparent interests other than girls and jazz—entered with his soft face knotted up in an expression of concern.

"Have you heard what happened to Miles Davis?" he asked.

"I have not," said Light.

"He was playing at Birdland and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air during his break. On the sidewalk, a policeman told him to move along, and when he tried to explain he was working there, the policeman hit him with his stick. Can you imagine?"

Light nodded. "Was he hurt?"

"Not seriously, but they did take him to hospital. A friend called from New York with the news. It's just unbelievable."

"An old story. No doubt Miles was reluctant to kowtow, and he paid the price."

"A barbaric city, I must say." Having told the story, Evelyn seemed relieved of a burden, and his face assumed its usual pleasant, dreamy look. "Lord and Lady Davidson are coming in late with a small party. I'll tell Andrew to try and keep table six for them."

"I'd rather you put them at eleven, if you don't mind."

"Really?" Evelyn's brows made two thin circumflex accents over his pale green, slightly bulbous eyes.

"They're adorable," Light said, "I love them madly, but they can get noisy, I'm afraid. Andrew should put extra bubbly in the cooler."

"I'll tell him," Evelyn said, and left.

Light continued to work on the receipts until Reggie entered. "He tell you about Miles?"

"The man is so frail," Light said, "it gives me the willies. He has that sickle-cell kind of body."

"Like those little nigger dolls, whatever they call them."

"Golliwogs," Light said. "And I've asked you not to use that word in my presence."

"I'm sorry. But sometimes it's the only word, sometimes."

"Try to work around it." Light glanced at his wristwatch. "Is Earl here? We're on in ten minutes."

"He's at the bar."

"How's the crowd?"

"Fine. Normal for a Thursday."

"Good."

Reggie left, closing the door behind him.

Lord Lightning pushed the papers to the side and stared at the Guinness calendar tacked to the door without seeing it. He had been trying to avoid thoughts of Claude Rawlings and his presence in London—his possible presence right here in his own club—but with limited success. He worried it like a sore tooth. Memories of Emma floated through his consciousness. Meeting her for the first time backstage at the Golden Theater in Toronto, where they were part of different acts. Her warm, earthy laughter at having been caught halfway through a costume change. The fullness of her breasts. The two of them sneaking into her hotel room a few nights later. The curtains billowing out from the single window, in the morning, before the rain. His astonishment at having made love to a woman. The equally stunning fact, when they met again on the vaudeville circuit months later, that she was pregnant. His confusion. Her calm acceptance of full responsibility. His tearful gratitude. Her comforting arms around him once more. Their strange time together in the basement apartment in New York City, a period in which he had floated, loving her dearly, but unable to make love to her. Finally, the soldier he'd picked up in the balcony of the Loew's Orpheum. His own enlistment in the military, and the lie that he'd been drafted. Now, sitting at the desk, he shook his head at the utter banality of it all, at his youth, his weakness, his fear. It had not seemed banal at the time, but it was hard to believe it had ever happened. It was like the memory of some B movie seen long, long ago. God in heaven, more than twenty-five years, he thought.