Half-Blood Blues (20 page)

‘My daddy ain’t never forgive hisself for comin here,’ said the kid.

I ain’t said nothing.

‘He a
chief
in Douala. Here he just a savage in civilized clothes. But hell, Sid,’ – Hiero give me a quick angry glance – ‘I ain’t never heard him say a damn word against Germany. Not once. Herodotus tell this story bout King Darius of Persia. The king called the Greeks to him and asked,
How much scratch I got to pay you to eat the bodies of you fathers when they die?
Greeks told him ain’t no sum on earth get them do that. Then Darius called some Indians to him, jacks who eat their fathers, and asked them in front of the Greeks,
How much scratch I got to pay you to burn the bodies of you fathers when they die?
Indians said no way in hell they burn their fathers. See, a jack always reckon his own customs is the best in the world. Ain’t no way you change his mind. But my daddy, he wasn’t like that. He come to Germany, that be it. He make hisself into a German.’

I ain’t said nothing to that.

We stood a long time at that enclosure. The sun slid lower. When I glanced over, I seen the kid lock eyes with one of the men, a jack with greying hair, the whites of his eyes gone yellow. They stared a long while at each other. I could hear the birds crying overhead. Some folk come down the path, chatting, drifted on past.

Hiero ain’t even blinked. There wasn’t no shared curiosity in that gaze, no sense of shock. Just calm resignation, like when a man gazes at a portrait of hisself from another time.

When we left Hagenbecks, it was like something gone out of the kid then, some kind of fury. He was just wearied. We ain’t drove back to Ernst’s estate at once. Kid directed me down toward the piers, and we pulled in slow, got out, walked to the far end to sit in the cool sunlight. Our legs dangled out over the black water. A swell of gulls rose over our heads, screaming. Air stank of the salt and the heavy docks across the way.

A big grey ship pushed slowly through the locks.

Hiero banged the dried mud from his shoes, stared out over the long shawl of water. ‘Hell. Hard to believe there be Algerians at the end of this water.’

I nodded, feeling depressed. ‘And Icelanders.’

He smiled. ‘Canadians?’

‘Indians.’

‘Some poor old jack in Baltimore lookin right back at us,’ said the kid, swinging his big feet.

I frowned. ‘I might even know him. Might be my Uncle Henry.’

‘America,’ said Hiero, and there was something in his voice.

‘You talk bout this sea and that sea,’ I said. ‘Atlantic. Pacific. But it all one water, ain’t it? Why divide it up?’

Hiero squinted up at the gulls. ‘You a real poet, Sid. A goddamn Herodotus.’

But my thoughts done already wander, to the day the kid first walked into our lives. How Paul brought him down to the Hound one night, the kid’s face half hidden by a old tramp’s cap slouched low over his eyes. I remember how I grinned at Chip, thinking he look like a damn child. No more than twelve years old. Hell, Paul
couldn’t
be serious. Was we really supposed to believe this Joe Diaper be a horn blower for real?

The kid come up, his jacket swaying every which way. He look awkward, all knees and elbows. He dressed like some tramp, huge khaki trousers held up with blue suspenders. Ratty houndstooth coat. And that dirty cap on his head, looking less like protection from the weather than something to hide under. Shade the world from his eyes when he ain’t feel like seeing it. He might’ve been any nasty little street brat to look at his clothes. What got you was how he
moved
in them. Didn’t strut exactly – he was too shy for that – but he moved with a rhythm got you thinking. Like he had a damn limp.

Paul kept going on bout what a dazzling genius he was, what a rare talent. A damn
virtuoso
. Me, I couldn’t stop looking at his skinny wrists.

But when he lifted his horn, we give him a respectful silence. His trumpet was a cheap-looking thing, dented, like a foil-wrapped chocolate been in a pocket too long. He put his rabbity fingers on the pistons, cocked his head, his left eye shutting to a squint. ‘Buttermouth Blues,’ Ernst called back to him.

The kid nodded. He begun to tease air through the brass. At first we all just stood there with our axes at the ready, staring at him. Nothing happened. I glanced at Chip, shook my head. But then I begun to hear, like a pinprick on the air – it was
that
subtle – the voice of a hummingbird singing at a pitch and speed almost beyond hearing. Wasn’t like nothing I ever heard before. The kid come in at a strange angle, made the notes glitter like crystal. Pausing, he took a huge breath, started playing a ear-splitting scale that drawn out the invisible phrase he’d just played.

The rest of us come in behind him. And I tell you, it ain’t took but a minute more for me to understand just what kind of player this kid was. He sounded broody, slow, holding the notes way longer than seemed sane. The music should’ve sounded something like a ship’s horn carrying across water – hard, bright, clear. The kid, hell, he made it muddy, passing his notes not only over seas but through soil too. Sounded rich, which might’ve been fine for a older gate, but felt fake from him. The slow dialogue between him and us had a sort of preacher–choir feel to it. But there wasn’t no grace. His was the voice of a country preacher too green to convince the flock. He talked against us like he begging us to listen. He wailed. He moaned. He pleaded and seethed. He dragged every damn feeling out that trumpet but hate. A sort of naked, pathetic way of playing. Like he done flipped the whole thing inside out, its nerves flailing in the air. He bent the notes, slurred them in a way made us play harder against him. And the more we disagreed, the stronger he pleaded. But his pleading ain’t never ask for nothing, just seemed to be there for its own damn sake. In a weird way, he sounded both old and like he touching the trumpet for the very first time.

I
hated
it. It felt so damn false, so showy. I kept my face lowered, out of the footlights, as we come to a slow stop, the music breaking apart.

When I looked back, old Ernst, he got water on the eyes. He
cryin
.

Paul just leaned forward, give the kid a loose hug round the shoulders. ‘What’d I tell you, boys? The voice of
God
.’

I thought of it now, sitting on the pier with the kid. But all of a sudden it ain’t mattered no more that the kid wasn’t, in my opinion, as good as everyone claimed. Sitting here at the pier, staring out at the flat, grey waters, he looked so damn small, so vulnerable. Like he something blown in on the wind. And I known then that this was what Delilah seen when she looked at him.

I put a hand on his shoulder, felt his sharp bones moving through his shirt.

He look at me shyly, smiled. ‘We goin be alright, Sid,’ he said. Then he ducked his head, embarrassed, looking away.

Couple days later I was coming up out of the gardens, crunching over the pink gravel, when I turned round to see Ernst striding toward me.

‘Sid.’ His linen suit was wrinkled at the elbows. He smoothed his hair, glanced back at the vast house behind him. ‘My father’s returned.’

‘He get them? He get our papers?’

‘I hope so.’ Ernst put a hand on my shoulder, started walking. ‘Come with me. I want him to meet you. I want him to see these are real people he’s dealing with.’

He led me into a stone courtyard, vines crawling across a old fountain, the stonework cracked. I followed him through a arched entrance hall, up a long staircase I ain’t encountered before. Fat gilt eagles perched on all the mouldings, their wings crested and fearsome. Every piece of furniture was thin and gold, the walls overhung with mirrors and soft cream curtains. The air smelled of fresh cut lilies.

‘This is the East Wing.’ Ernst smiled bitterly. ‘Our Poland.’

Rummel stood on the landing. He give Ernst a curt nod as we come up. Sour-looking, long-faced, sallow in his black suit, Rummel turned without speaking, leading us along a airy corridor, past tall leaded windows overlooking the gardens. Hiero done told me once bout Charon, that Greek who ferries the dead to the underworld. Rummel, hell, he like our Charon. His eyes was so pale they might’ve been blind.

We come to the study door. Ernst dismissed Rummel, who bowed, turned, and made his noiseless way back down to the landing.

Ernst put a hand on my arm. ‘Sid, my father’s not like other men. He’s very
subtle
.’

‘Rummel?’ a man called out sharply. ‘Is that you?’

‘Not Rummel,’ Ernst called. He give me a look. ‘Be careful what you say.’

His shoulders tightly set, he opened the door and walked on in.

I followed him. The blue carpet felt thick underfoot. Sunlight from a tall window caught in the folds of drapery, casting long amber shafts across the walls. A small man sat behind a huge dark desk, writing carefully, and he ain’t paused even to look up. His skin looked waxen and pale. His silver-grey suit shimmering in the light from the windows. I seen his cropped grey hair, his fine thin moustache, the etched grooves in his face.

The man lift up his eyes, frowning in displeasure. I lost my breath for a second. His irises – they was a frightening dark blue.

‘Damn it, Ernst, I’m very busy. What is it?’

Ernst sat on the white sofa across from the desk. ‘Nice to see you too.’

His father grimaced, took off his spectacles, held them dangling in one hand. ‘Yes, yes, of course it’s always nice to see you. You’re looking well. Thin, maybe.’

‘I’ve put on weight.’

‘Ah. Not thin, then.’ He glanced back down at the paper in front of him, scratched a few more lines. He looked up, lifted his eyebrows. ‘Well? What is it?’

‘I know you’re busy,’ said Ernst, ‘what with the war you’re starting.’

His father waved a dismissive hand. ‘So dramatic. My goodness.’

‘We’ve come for the documents, Father. For Paris.’

‘Yes.’ Old von Haselberg nodded. His gaze shifted over to me, and I flinched. ‘You must be one of Ernst’s musicians.’

I was still standing foolishly just inside the door, next to the heavy bookcase, its gilt tomes morocco-bound. I swallowed hard, feeling like a damn exhibit just been wheeled out. ‘Sidney Griffiths,’ I said.

‘Of course, yes,’ said von Haselberg. ‘It’s a very peculiar music you boys play.’

‘Sit down, Sid,’ said Ernst, gesturing beside him on the sofa. ‘You don’t need to wait for my father to invite you in.’

‘Where is Rummel?’ von Haselberg asked distractedly.

‘On the landing. Where he always is. Looking like a corpse, I might add.’

‘Yes, poor Rummel,’ von Haselberg smiled. ‘I’ll need him in a moment.’

Ernst said nothing to this.

I watched von Haselberg slide the paper he been writing on into a drawer, locking it. He stood, and taking up his cigar, come round his huge desk. He had that sleek grace his son had inherited, that easy fluidity about him. He took my hand in a firm grip, smiling.

‘What’s my son been telling you about me?’ he said, chuckling. ‘No doubt I must be quite the ogre.’

I shrugged, glanced on over at Ernst. He was frowning, studying the gardens through the big window. In profile, his skin looked near translucent.

When von Haselberg sat, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, stretching his legs out straight.

The old man cast about, looking for a ashtray, then frowned, tapping the ashes onto the carpet. ‘That Frieda. She keeps emptying the ashtrays and then forgetting to put them back. You’d think she was trying to get me to quit.’

‘You
should
quit, Father,’ said Ernst. ‘It’s a disgusting habit.’

‘Nonsense.’

But Ernst had crossed the carpet, kneeled down, and with a kind of soiled dignity flicked his handkerchief from his breast pocket and palmed up the ashes.

‘Leave it, son, good lord.’ Von Haselberg raised his eyebrows at me, like he was shocked at his son’s foolishness. ‘We do pay the girls for that.’

‘Is that what you pay them for?’

‘Stop it, Ernst. Honestly.’

Ernst pursed his lips, folded the dirty handkerchief back into his pocket.

Old von Haselberg chuckled, his dark blue eyes creasing. ‘You didn’t come here to do chamber service, I assume. Though it doesn’t offend me in the least.’ He looked at me. ‘As long as my son is doing what he loves to do.’ Ernst smiled too. ‘What a remarkable father you are.’

Hell. I start to feeling damn uncomfortable.

But von Haselberg just sort of shrugged a weary shoulder. He ran his small hands along his thighs, like he was growing tired. ‘Mr Griffiths. You’ve been living in the Fasanenstrasse flat? I trust you find it comfortable?’

‘Don’t start on that, Father.’

‘For heaven’s
sake
,’ he said, losing some patience. ‘It is called being
polite
.’

‘This is where he reminds you you’re living off his charity.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I meant no such thing.’

Ernst just lifted up his eyebrows, in a exact echo of his father’s earlier gesture.

‘And what do you think of this Poland business?’ said von Haselberg.

‘Don’t answer that,’ said Ernst.

But there was a long silence after that, as if both men was waiting for me to speak. I sort of cleared my throat, glanced over at Ernst. He was studying his shoes. ‘What Poland business?’ I said reluctantly.

Von Haselberg laughed a abrupt, gruff laugh. ‘An excellent answer. Indeed. Where did you say he was from, was it Baltimore?’

‘Baltimore,’ Ernst nodded.

‘Yes, yes. An excellent answer for an American. Can I offer you something to drink?’

‘No,’ said Ernst. ‘We’re fine.’

‘Ah, a pity.’ Still von Haselberg got to his feet, and gliding over to the bookshelves, pulled down a bottle of claret. He poured all three of us glasses, brought them clinking to the side tables beside the sofa.

‘I said no, Father.’

‘Then don’t drink it,’ he said. ‘They aren’t poisoned, I assure you.’ He smiled at me through his cigar. ‘I really do have a deep respect for the arts. All the arts. I don’t think I understand jazz, but I do admire the passion you boys devote to it. Dedication can be genius in its own right.’