Jazz Moon (29 page)

“Do not worry,
mon chaton
.”

“Why won't you tell me? Were you with friends? Family?”

“Family,” Sebastien said. He polished the sour-candy word in his mouth. “You know I was not with family.”

Ben awaited an explanation, received none, counted
one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two
in his head. He wished he hadn't mentioned Sebastien's family. It roiled memories of his own; of how his ma and pa had retreated into themselves, retreated from him, until they were changed, distanced, gone, shells. The worst memory was his own helplessness as he witnessed each retreating step.

He shook himself. “Sebastien. I want to tell you a story from when I was with my wife.”

“Angeline. You never talk about her.” His voice was muffled, his face pressed close against Ben's chest. His whole body was pressed close, as if he'd given up control and let all of his weight mass onto Ben's.

“I sent some poems,” Ben said, “to a literary journal. They were rejected. I wanted to give up. And Angeline”—he couldn't help laughing—“she wasn't putting up with it. She told me, ‘Shut up with that nonsense. Work harder. Try again. And again. And again.'”

“Did you try again and again and again?”

“I sure did. It paid off, too. Just like it will for you. But you have to try.” He began to cry. He tried to stop, but couldn't. “Sebastien, you have to try. Or else.”

The painter lifted his head from Ben's chest. His body was stiff with alarm. “Or else what,
mon chaton?
”

The room was no longer chilly. It was too warm now. They both perspired. Ben's sweat slid down his face along with his tears. He wondered if Sebastien could distinguish one from the other. The tears flowed, the sweat flowed, and now mucus ran out of his nose, as well. He didn't wipe any of it. He wanted it all to flow, until he was drained, limp, a mess.

“Or else what,
mon chaton?
” Sebastien repeated, almost a challenge.

Ben rose to it. “Or else it's over.” Carefully: “Here's what I want you to do.”

He told Sebastien to try again on the Place Pigalle.

“But it is winter,” Sebastien said. “It will be awful to be outside all day.”

Ben was sympathetic, but didn't budge.

B
en peered in the window of a top-drawer gallery, the type where sought-after artists of the moment showcased their work. Mostly modern and abstract art, swollen with color and segmented by stark, discordant lines. One painting of two disembodied heads reminded him of African masks: the long, exaggerated oval faces; the stylized eyes and mouths projecting lethal serenity; the sense that a god breathed behind the mask, a god that might watch over you protectively or smite you dead.

A couple exited the gallery, both clad in full-length fur coats, the swelter of wealth smoldering about them. A uniformed chauffeur stood at attention, holding open the door of a shining black Delage limousine. The husband assisted his wife as she stepped onto the running board and into the car, then followed her in. As they drove away, Ben wondered what it would take for Sebastien to get his work into a gallery like this, into the homes of people like those.

He was on Boulevard Haussmann, in the chic world of Paris's 9th arrondissement, not too far south of Montmartre, yet many incomes away. Montmartre was fish stores and brothels and jazz clubs; callous-handed workmen hauling coal and housewives quibbling with shopkeepers over the price of bread. But lavish window displays of jewelry and couture animated the expensive shops on Boulevard Haussmann while ritzy gentlemen and ladies eased through the posh department stores that dominated the boulevard like stone monoliths.

Ben walked farther down Boulevard Haussmann, then turned onto rue Scribe. Across from the Paris Opera was the behemoth structure housing the American Express office where visiting Americans exchanged dollars for francs and expatriates gathered to read newspapers from the States, cash checks, send and collect mail.

Expatriate. Is that what he was? Didn't one first have to be a patriot before he qualified to put the
ex
in front of it? Could a colored American even be a patriot? Ben wasn't sure. He chuckled at his conundrum as the colored doorman ushered him inside.

He joined the queue of people lined up at the waist-high counter. Clerks sat behind it, separated from the customers by a metal grille. The building was austere, all stone and marble and rounded arched doorways. A quartet of white American tourists—two couples—had just changed money. One of the women noticed Ben. She nudged her husband who looked over. So did the other couple. The men wore business suits; the women furs and feathered hats, their curled hair poofy in back. They seemed taken aback at the sight of Ben:
Coloreds in Paris?
They stared and whispered, not sure how to process this anomaly. Ben smiled big and nodded.

“
Bonjour, messieurs dames,
” he said. “
Bienvenue à Paris. J'espère que vous aurez un temps merveilleux.
”

The quartet's faces froze, mouths open, in horror or simply shock, Ben couldn't tell. Then they giggled like children amused by the sophisticated antics of a pet, and left.

“I want to see if I have mail, please,” Ben said when he reached the counter. “Ben Charles. Or Benjamin Marcus Charles.”

The clerk went away to check, then returned moments later and handed Ben the thing he'd been waiting for: a letter from Dogwood.

 

In the months he'd waited for his folks' reply, he'd tried and failed to restrain himself from fantasizing. Spectacular, idiotic fantasies. Him and Ma and Pa and Sebastien and Glo living together, as a family, in Paris. Buying Café Valentin and running it together. Ma directing the kitchen, Pa and Sebastien taking charge of the dining room, Glo singing, and Ben the impresario tasked with cultivating Café Valentin as Paris's premier jazz enterprise. Or he and Sebastien moving to Dogwood to help his folks run the farm. They'd add a room onto the house for them. Pa would strategize the construction. He was good with building, a master at the intricacies of planning and measuring and cutting. Ma would assist with furnishings and decor. Sebastien could paint the groves of dogwood trees and Sugarfish Pond where Ben once swam. He'd like that. He'd think the rural landscape beautiful.

Whether in Paris or Dogwood, Ma and Pa would accept Sebastien. Of course they'd raise silent eyebrows when witnessing the two men retire to their bedroom and then saunter out next morning with lucent faces. The painter's whiteness would certainly trouble them at first. But joy at the return of their sole surviving child would trump everything. Judgments, disapproval, and shame would be shunned. Ma and Pa would let it be and get on with the business of contentment.

None of that would or could happen. He knew that. He wasn't stupid, just a dreamer realigning the borders of what was possible.

But the dreams had to stop, now, for always.

Ben sat on his bed in the room in rue Condorcet and reread the letter.

“Ben. Ben.
Mon chaton
. You were having a nightmare. Come here. I will hold you.”

“I don't deserve it.”

“Ben, please let me—”

“My pa died first. I'm sure my ma held him. But when she died, did anyone hold
her?
I hope somebody was with her. Anybody. It's better to die with your worst enemy in the room than to die all alone, right?
Right?
”

“I do not know. I—”

“Pa was gone. All her children were dead. Almost all. At least she knew where the other kids were. She could put flowers on their graves, she could say,
Emma Jane Charles: That girl is buried right here. I know where that child is
. Not knowing where your child is . . . that must be the most awful thing in the world. Sebastien?”

“Yes?”

“Do your parents know where you are?”

“No. Nor do they care.”

“Mine did. Mine cared. Oh. Dear God. Dear, dear God . . . They cared. And I didn't know. How could I not know?”

“You can only know you are cared about if you are told and shown. Your parents did neither.”

“That wasn't their fault. Everything they went through. Losing all those children. Of course they couldn't give me the love I needed. Love-wise, they were bankrupt. That I
did
know. Yet I still . . .”

“Ben. I would very much like to hold you. Will you let me? Please?”

“Two of the children died during childbirth. Another one died when he was a few months old. My folks named him Jeremiah. We called him Li'l Jerry. Then Emma Jane died a year after that. So much death. I'll never forget the looks on my folks' faces at Li'l Jerry's and Emma Jane's funerals. Nothing. There was nothing on their faces. No life. No light. Like it'd been shut off, leaving two blanks where my ma and pa had been. I'd never seen anything like that before. Or since. Faces writhing with nothing.”

“Ben—”

“So I should have been more understanding when they closed themselves off. But
I
was still here.
I
still needed them to love me. And I was mad when they couldn't, at least not in the selfish way I wanted.”

“It was hardly selfish for you to want love.”

“Don't tell me what it was! I know what it was! Just like I know what it was that made me hop on that train that took me north: It was revenge. I was getting back at them. I would imagine how their faces might shift a little—their nothing faces—when they realized I wasn't coming back, and satisfaction rose up in me, warmed me. I was hurting my own folks and I loved it! That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard of.”

“You must forgive yourself.”

“Stop telling me that. You don't know what this is like. You could go see your parents tomorrow if you wanted to.”

“Ben.
Mon chaton
. It is true that my parents are a car ride away. But, believe me, they are as dead to me as your parents are to you. Perhaps much more so. You and I are both grieving.”

“Don't compare your grief to mine.”

“My intention is only to help. Perhaps I can best do that by leaving you by yourself. I will go home to my room now. I will see you tomorrow? I love you.”

“Good night, Sebastien.”

“I
just heard.”

“How? Let me guess: When you're Baby Back Johnston, you hear everything, right?”

Baby Back came in. Ben closed the door. Baby Back hugged him from behind before he could turn around. It was nice being held by a big, strong man. But he belonged with Sebastien. He wanted Baby Back to let go, and he wanted to stay in that backward embrace. He thought of Sebastien freezing for his art on the Place Pigalle. Staying in Baby Back's arms any longer might lead to something he'd have to feel guilty about.

He already had enough guilt.

He stepped out of his former lover's embrace and sat on the bed. Baby Back removed his shoes and his coat—a full-length, dark brown raccoon fur—and joined him.

“When did it happen?” Baby Back said.

“Years ago. While I was living it up in Harlem, they was already gone.”

“Ben, you wasn't
living it up.
You was working your fucking ass off.”

He placed a big, heavy hand on Ben's thigh. Ben liked its weight, its presence on his body.

“I should've sent word to them.”

“Yeah. You should've,” Baby Back said. “But that don't mean it's your fault they're gone.”

Merciless honesty after days of Sebastien's babying. A relief. He was grateful for it and for the heavy hand and for the big shoulder his head now rested against.

“When your ma died,” Ben said, “you came to me, not Clifford. Sebastien keeps trying to comfort me and I shut him out. Why is it that you and me can comfort each other, but we shut out the men we supposedly love?”

Baby Back lay back on the bed, pulled Ben to his chest. “Because we come from the same place. Been through the same shit. Clifford and Sebastien, they don't know nothing about what we been through.”

Snuggling against this chest he knew so well—it was wrong, but betrayal was never so good, so warm. Innocent betrayal. It would go no further than this. They would not kiss. They would not undress. They would not fuck. They would not be tempted to. They would be content with this. Two former lovers—a small flower of whose love bloomed still and would always—dawdling in each other's warmth this final time, purged of regret, burning with forgiveness, and grateful to and for each other.

“I'm leaving on tour,” Baby Back said. “Southern France first—you know, Marseilles, Nice. Then Italy. Then swing back through France and hop over to Germany and England.”

Nothing had changed. Baby Back was supposed to be soothing Ben's grief but, as usual, it became about himself. Ben couldn't be mad. He recalled that day on the
Bonaparte,
when Baby Back had first laid bare his herculean ambitions. It had frightened him. Not because the trumpeter wasn't capable of fulfilling them, but because he was.
Yeah, not a damn thing has changed,
Ben thought.
And I guess that's OK.

“You got everything you wanted,” he said. “Roland's proud of you. I'm proud of you.” He yawned. “I'm so tired.”

“Grief wears you out. When my ma died, I spent most of the day, every day, sleeping. Clifford didn't like that.”

“Cliffy's gone? Back to the States?”

“He's gone. All I care about. Go to sleep.”

Ben was almost there when Baby Back said, “Remember the first poem you gave me?”

“You
took
it from me, if I remember right.”

“Only took what you couldn't wait to give.”

“I remember it. Do you?” Ben said.

“Can't believe you remember it,” Ben said.

“Go to sleep. Mr. Poet.”

 

“Ben. You're in trouble. Wake up. Come on. Mr. Poet. We got company.”

Ben's eyes snapped open. Sebastien was at the foot of the bed. A mess of snow covered his coat and hat. He had tracked it into the room and it melted in puddles on the floor. He said nothing as he watched Ben lie carelessly in Baby Back's arms.

“Guess it's time for me to go,” Baby Back said.

The trumpeter nudged the painter out of the way as he collected his shoes and his fur coat. “Excuse me, Sebastien. I got that right, didn't I? It's Sebastien, right? I still ain't no good with these French names.” He went to the mirror above the washbasin, took his time fine-tuning his tie. “Hell, I ain't no good with French, period. Ain't that right, Mr. Charles? You should've seen some of the fights we had about that, Sebastien. You'd best be careful with this one. Don't mess with him, and don't be fooled neither. For a poet, he got a mean right hook. Punched me out once. Sure did. And all I was doing was enjoying the Louvre.” He looked over at Ben and winked, then smoothed down the sleeves of his fur. “Yes, sir. Mr. Charles here is a handful. Hey, Sebastien, my hat's behind you, on the desk. Hand it to me, please. Uh, Sebastien? Hello? All right. I'll get it myself.” He groomed his hat into the perfect, jaunty posture, then turned to leave. “Ben, see you when I get back from my tour. Sebastien.” He slapped him on the arm, pointed at Ben, and spoke in low, foreboding notes. “You take care of him, you hear me?”

And he was gone. And the room felt a thousand times smaller.

Neither Sebastien nor Ben moved. Ben couldn't look at him.

“Nothing happened,” he said.

“Meaning you did not have sex with him.”

“Yes. Exactly,” Ben said, relieved, excited that Sebastien understood. “He heard about my parents. He was being nice. We weren't intimate.”

“There are other ways of being intimate besides sex.”

“He was comforting me.”

“I see. I see. You would not allow
me
to comfort you, but you accepted comfort from your
former
lover. Your former lover who mistreated you. Betrayed you. Yes. It makes sense,
mon chaton,
that you would accept consolation from him.”

Ben's eyes closed of their own accord. His head shook itself in disbelief. He'd done it again: become so consumed by his own needs, burrowed so deep inside his own cozy hell, that he willfully disconnected from someone he loved and caused hurt. Angeline. Baby Back. His folks. Now Sebastien. A consistent and unbroken track record.

Sebastien turned his back on him. Only now did Ben see the canvasses that he had brought into the room. He must have left the Place Pigalle early when it began to snow.

The painter picked up his canvasses. Ben almost slipped on the puddles as he scrambled to insert his body between Sebastien and the door. He tried to think of something to say, any reasonable thing at all, but the only thing he could think of was as cliché as it was desperate.

“Don't go. Don't leave me alone.”

He knew Sebastien's reply, knew it before the painter uttered a sound. Knew it practically word for word, as if he'd magically gained the ability to read minds.

“You do not have to be alone,
mon chaton
. Perhaps you can accompany Baby Back on his tour.”