The King of Ragtime (26 page)

As they read, first one, then the other, groaned. “Dad, Dad…‘Scott Joplin should stand on a street corner, his cap on the ground at his feet, a basket of apples in his hand, and a sign across his chest, BLIND MAN. The poor fellow can not see what a success he is. He has done precisely what he set out to do, made raucous barrelhouse ragtime over into a true art form. Can he not hear? Is he deaf, as well as blind? In the barrelhouses, they make sport of his classic ragtime. Play it fast! Add notes! Bang away, hard as you can, with the left hand! Take away the measured beauty that soothes the soul, replace it with a savage appeal to the base animal spirit. But poor Joplin can not see what a compliment this is. He turns out better and better work, ever more polished and more complex, putting those barrelhouse players to greater shame with every piece he writes. But he doesn’t notice, the poor seller of apples, blind and deaf on a street corner in New York.’”

“Like a parody of opera lyrics,” Stark muttered. “Look, here’s a duet—Scott Joplin and Joe Hayden?
Joe
Hayden? Is he that far gone? He must mean
Scott
Hayden.”

“No. Remember, Joe was Scott Hayden’s brother. He died young, and it was his widow, Belle, who Scott Joplin married.” Nell grabbed the top few pages, began to read aloud.

“‘Joe: Joplin, you was a fool. A fool, to marry Belle. How many years you saw her go stompin’ out the room when my brother and you start to play? You knew she don’t care for music, but you went and married her anyway.’

‘Scott: I thought she would like
my
music.’

‘Joe: Because your music was special? Different from everybody else’s?’

‘Scott: She was a good woman, Joe. A good woman was what I wanted. What I needed.’

‘Joe: A good woman? Well, I guess she was what they call a good woman. Had good manners, talked fit for a white woman high in society. But such a cold heart. The way she used to talk! Did you not feel a chill when you put your arms around her?’

‘Scott: I thought—’

‘Joe: That you was gonna melt the ice in her heart, just the same like I thought. You thought you was better’n me, more special some way, just like your music. You found out different.’

‘Scott: Now, Joe it was not anything personal.’

‘Joe—What you say? You go in bed with my wife, and then you tell me it ain’t nothing personal?’

‘Scott: She was not your wife then, Joe. You were dead. Dead men don’t have a wife.’

‘Joe: (laughs). Ha-ha-ha. With that woman, neither do a live man. And when that live man find out she no more be his wife than mine, he go and be the biggest fool ever. He decide if she have a baby, then maybe things be different. What ever was you thinkin’? Didn’t you have no eyes? She already
had
a baby—my son. And she care so much for him, she leave him with his grandma and grandpa to go and live with you in Miss Hawkins’ boarding house. But you think
your
baby gonna be different.
Your
baby gonna be special. Fool!’

‘Scott: My poor baby. If she had only lived—’

‘Joe: (laughs again). That baby never
was
gonna live. Not with the wedding present I give Belle.’

‘Scott: So it
was
you after all. I did wonder. The doctors told me that sickness had to come through the mother—’

‘Joe: Oh, yes. That puny baby, that was Joe Hayden’s present to his wife for her second wedding. Just to show no hard feelings. Nothing personal.’

‘Scott: Joe, you should be ashamed. You should be damned to hell for such evil work. She was a good woman. A decent woman.’

‘Joe: And ain’t that the real reason why you married her? Tell me, now, ain’t I right? Belle could put on airs with the best of them, act more respectable than the Queen of England. And that’s what you wanted, Scott. A respectable wife. So respectable that white people would look at her with her fine talk and her elegant manners, and then they’d hear your music and say, well now, oh my goodness gracious, what respectable music this colored man do write. Why, his music be so respectable, I can’t tell no way that he be a coal-black nigger.’

‘Scott: Joe, I won’t have you talk like that.’

‘Joe: Then I be on my way, and shame on
you
, Scott Joplin. Here and I give my wife a nice wedding present to share with her new husband
and
their baby, just to show there’s no hard feelings, nothing personal, and then he talk so bad to me. What’s the matter, Scott? Ain’t you enjoyin’ my gift? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.’

‘(As Joe laughs, Scott puts his hands over his ears and staggers off stage. Act One, curtain).’”

Nell laid the pages on the table as though they might have been made of thin, fine china. She looked at her father; he looked at her. Neither spoke. At last, Stark turned back the top page of Act Two. Nell leaned forward, started to read. “‘Scott Joplin: Mr. Stark, I need to speak to you regarding a matter of the greatest importance.’”

Stark tightened his grip on the edge of the table.

“‘John Stark (sitting back in his armchair, looks at Joplin over the top of his newspaper, then lowers the paper and removes his spectacles). A matter of the greatest importance, you say? Well, whatever it is, you’ve got my full attention. Say on.’

‘Joplin (sits opposite Stark, shifts one way, then the other, in the chair): I’m very pleased with the way our business association has progressed. “Maple Leaf Rag” will be available to the public in just a few days, and your publishing company is an actuality. I foresee a fine future.’

‘Stark (laughs): Mr. Joplin, I’ve never heard you so hesitant in your speech, so careful of each word you say. Are you trying to ask whether there’s a place for you in the firm? What position might you be considering?’

‘Joplin: Thank you, sir, but that is not what I’m trying to ask. I’m no businessman, as well you know. I am a composer of music, and I hope to write many fine works that you and your company will publish. (deep breath). You’re about to relocate in St. Louis. I would like to do the same.’

‘Stark: Well, for heaven’s sake, man, is that all? Why, nothing would delight me more. I see trouble coming in Sedalia. No doubt, the reformers will close down the Main Street establishments, and that will drive music and musicians from the city. By all means, Mr. Joplin, come along with us to St. Louis. I have no doubt we’ll enjoy a close and rewarding relationship—or better, a close and rewarding friendship. I can’t understand why you appear so reticent.’

‘Joplin: (pulls handkerchief from pocket, wipes forehead). Mr. Stark, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you say. But that is only part of what I wish to speak with you about. Mr. Stark…’

‘Stark (leans forward in chair). For the love of God, Mr. Joplin, out with it. Speak your mind. You need have no concerns.’

‘Joplin (blurts): Mr. Stark, I wish to marry your daughter. Nell and I have come to regard each other with the most tender affection, and I believe I can provide for her and make her happy.’

‘(The two men sit, silent. Joplin appears to be having the greatest trouble keeping himself in his chair). Finally, Stark speaks: Well, Mr. Joplin, I now appreciate your hesitancy, though I can’t say I’m completely surprised. I’ve watched you and my daughter at the piano, and I’ve listened endlessly to her demands that I publish
The Ragtime Dance
. I assume you’ve discussed this with Nell before coming to me. What does she have to say?’

‘Joplin: Of course she and I have spoken. She says she wishes it as much as I do.’

‘Stark: Mr. Joplin, my daughter is a mature woman, nearly thirty years old. I would not in any way presume to object to any course of action she might set for herself. You have no obstacle in me, and you may be sure this will have no effect on our business relationship.’

‘Joplin (leaning forward, urgently): But we wish for more than that. We hope for your blessing. Without that, we could not enjoy complete happiness.’

‘Stark: My dear fellow. I’m afraid you’ll find complete happiness a chimera, but in any event, you do have my blessing. Anything other than that, and I should be a sham, a pious hypocrite. You both know the difficulties you’ll encounter.’

‘Joplin: Only too well, sir. But I’d say not to marry on that account would speak poorly for both Nell and me.’

‘Stark: You will find me your ally in any situation that may arise. (stands). I think I’d best have a word with Mrs. Stark. (He leaves the room).’

‘(Joplin wrings his hands, takes out the handkerchief, wipes his face again. As Mrs. Stark enters the room, accompanied by her husband and Nell, he practically leaps to his feet. Mrs. Joplin’s face radiates light. She takes Joplin’s right hand between the two of hers). Why, Mr. Joplin, I thought you would never ask. I’m so happy for you both. And for us all.’”

Nell’s voice cracked. She got up, walked to the window, and with her back to the room, leaned on the ledge. Against his will, Stark read on to the end. “‘One musical success after the last. We publish
The Ragtime Dance
, then
The Guest of Honor
, then
Treemonisha
, all to great acclamation, both for the composer and his pianist-wife, who played every piano part’ ‘…triumphant European tour with his darling Nell and the two beautiful chocolate-colored children, both gifted musicians’ ‘…dying in the fullness of his years, never knowing a moment of sadness or frustration.’”

Stark turned over the last page. Slowly, he released his grip on the edge of the table; bursts of exquisite pain shot up his arm. He got to his feet, walked slowly toward his daughter.

She turned a calcimined face to him. “How did he ever…”

Stark’s cheeks warmed as he found himself wondering whether the composer had worked altogether from imagination. He groped for the right words, as tongue-tied in reality as Joplin had been in fantasy. “Can you begin to imagine how painful the man’s life has been?” he muttered.

Nell wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t need to imagine it. I’ve seen it at first hand for seventeen years now.”

Stark’s hands stuttered forward. He clutched Nell’s shoulders, embraced her, but could not speak. At last, Nell pulled back, wiped her eyes again. “Dad, what would you have said if Scott really
had
asked your permission to marry me?”

Stark shook his head, a boxer trying to get to his feet at the count of nine. “Precisely what he wrote, including the part about hypocrisy. It’s difficult to believe. Did he ever—”

“Speak to me about it? No. If he had, and was afraid to talk to you,
I
would have.”

“I have no doubt of that. What surprises me is that
you
never spoke to
him
.”

Nell’s self-control melted. She lowered herself into a chair, covered her face, and wept without restraint. Stark rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Nell. I shouldn’t have said that.”

She looked up. “Can you imagine how many times I’ve said exactly that to myself?” she wailed. “I have a good marriage, no complaints. But I’ll never know what a marriage like yours and Mother’s felt like.” Nell pulled her handkerchief from below her shirtwaist, did a quick cleanup of her face, then picked up the manuscript. “I’ve got to hear some of the music. I can’t imagine what it’ll sound like.”

“Unfortunately, I can,” said Stark.

Nell sighed. “I suppose unfortunately, so can I.”

***

After only a few minutes, Stark said to Nell, “That’s enough, my dear. I don’t think I want to hear any more. It’s gibberish. Musical nonsense.”

“Not altogether. Some of it is quite lovely.” She flipped a couple of pages, played a short passage. Stark nodded. “Yes, but there’s no—”

“Connection between the short pieces. It’s as if he couldn’t remember what he’d just written, or thought he’d written something else.”

“Which would be in line with the way he remembered Waterson as Berlin. His memory must be scrambled.”

“How in the world are we going to tell him he’s too far gone to write any more music?” Nell tapped a fingernail against a piano key, click, click. Then she turned abruptly, and marched toward the kitchen. Stark hurried after her. “Nell?”

She snatched a glass from the shelf above the sink, filled it, took a long swallow, and plopped into a chair. Stark sat beside her.

Nell pursed, then relaxed, her lips. “Dad, there’s something…while I was waiting for you, I kept thinking about Henry Waterson.” She ticked off points on her fingers. “Scott identified him as the man he thought was Berlin. You found Scott’s play in his desk. He’s not a musician, so he wouldn’t have known how bad the music is. I’ll bet he was going to wait for Scott to die, then publish under a pseudonym, but when Tabor cut off his gambling money, his patience also ran out, and he decided to hurry the process along. But the killer got the wrong man, Martin got Scott away—”

“So Waterson borrowed the key to Tabor’s apartment, supposedly for a few days of hanky-panky,” said Stark. “And if the kidnaping had worked, Martin and Scott would have turned themselves in, Waterson would have given Tabor back his key, and that would have been that.”

“But I sent it all topsy-turvy by finding Birdie—and here’s the connection. When Tabor came flying into the apartment and shot Dubie, he must have realized what Waterson was up to, and seen both a problem and an opportunity. If Waterson went to jail for kidnaping and murder, Tabor’s evidence would be useless. On the other hand, if he played his cards right, he could have the junior partner up on a murder charge, and the senior partner in his hip pocket. So he decided on the spot to tell the police he’d loaned the key to Berlin. Then he made a deal with Waterson, and that’s why Waterson took Tabor’s side the next morning in the office. They’d probably set the whole thing up the night before.”

Stark nodded. “That’s brilliant, Nell. Waterson’s full of bluster, but I don’t know how much nerve he has. I’ll pay the man a visit in the morning, and—”

“Waterson’s barely in the office weekdays. I don’t think you’ll find him there on a Sunday.”

“Blast! I keep forgetting.”

Like a steamroller that can’t understand it has to stop when the engine is turned off, Nell thought. She pointed toward the window. “Look, it’s light already. I’m exhausted, and I can’t imagine you’re not. Let’s get some sleep. We have all day tomorrow to decide what to do, and make sure we’ve got it just right.” Weary smile. “Might as well take advantage of the Lord’s Day.”