Chapter 9 excellent jazz piano
When the call came through, it was the middle of the night and Harry's New York bar was buzzing at both ends.At first the bartender could only understand that it was a long-distance call from Cannes, obviously from this kind of bar, and the frantic voice of the operator sounded like something urgent.It wasn't until he covered his other ear and yelled a few questions into the phone that he realized it was just Ken Pratt calling to chat with his friend Carson Wyler.He shook his head in exasperation and put the phone down on the bar next to Carson's glass of anisette.
"Here," he said. "For God's sake, it was you. Your buddy." Like many other Parisian bartenders, he knew them well: Carson was the good-looking one, tall, intelligent, with a British accent; It's the fat one, always following behind with a smile.After graduating from Yale three years ago, they came to Europe to have as much fun as they could.
"Carson?" said Ken's eager voice, his voice trembling in pain through the receiver. "I'm Ken—I know I'll find you here. Listen, when exactly are you coming?"
On the other end of the phone, Carson frowned neatly. "You know when I pass by," he said. "I've wired you. I'll be over on Saturday. What's the matter with you?"
"Damn it, I'm fine--probably had a drink. Nothing, but look, I'm calling because there's a guy here named Sid who plays the jazz piano beautifully, and I want you to hear him Play. He's my friend. Listen, wait a minute, I'll move the phone closer so you can hear it. Now, listen to this. Wait a minute."
There was a vague click on the phone, Ken's laugh, and someone else's laugh, and then the piano.On the phone, it sounded low, but Carson could hear it playing well.What he played was "Sweet Lorraine", with a strong traditional style and no commercial flavor in it, which surprised Carson, because Ken is usually a complete layman in music.A minute later, he handed the phone to the stranger he was drinking with, an agricultural machinery salesman from Philadelphia. "Listen to this," he said. "first class."
The agricultural machinery salesman picked up the phone and held it to his ear, with a confused look on his face. "What is it?"
"Sweet Lorraine."
"No, I mean what's going on? Where's the call from?"
"Cannes. Someone named Ken went there. You met Ken, didn't you?"
"No, I haven't seen one," the salesman said, frowning at the phone. "Oh, the music's gone and someone's talking. You'd better pick it up."
"Hello? Hello?" Ken's voice said. "Carson?"
"It's me, Ken. I'm listening."
"Where have you been? Who's that guy?"
"This gentleman is from Philadelphia called—" He looked up at him questioningly.
"Baudinger," said the salesman, straightening his clothes.
"Mr. Bodinger. He's in the bar with me."
"Oh. Well, look, do you like Sid's?"
"That's right, Ken. Tell him I said it, and he's a terrific player."
"Do you want to talk to him? He's right here, wait."
There was some vague voice on the phone, and then a deep middle-aged voice said: "Hello."
"Hello, Sid. My name is Carson Wyler, and I love your playing."
"Oh," said the voice. "Thank you, thank you very much. Thank you for your respect." The person who heard the voice could be a person of color, or he could be white.But Carson guessed he wasn't white, mostly because of the awkwardness and pride in Ken's tone when he said "he's my friend."
"Sid, I'm coming to Cannes this weekend," Carson said, "I'm looking forward to—"
But apparently Sid handed the phone back to Ken, because Ken's voice cut in. "Carson?"
"what?"
"Listen, what time are you coming on Saturday? I mean which train or something?" They had planned to go to Cannes together, but Carson got involved with a girl in Paris, and Ken had to go alone, on condition that Carson Sen will join us in a week.It's been almost a month now.
"I don't know the exact train times," Carson said, a little impatiently. "It's nothing important, is it? I'll meet you at the hotel sometime on Saturday."
"Okay. Oh wait, listen, I've got another thing to call, I want to recommend Sid to join, okay?"
"Okay. Good idea. Put him on the phone again." While he waited, he pulled out his fountain pen and asked the barman to bring him an IBF membership handbook.
"Hi, it's me again," Sid's voice said. "What am I joining?"
"IBF," Carson said. "It's the International Bar People's Association, from here at Harry's—I don't know. A long time ago. Kind of like a club."
"That's right," Sid said, laughing under his breath.
"Here, it's like this," Carson began to talk. Even though the bartender thought IBF was boring and annoying, Carson's serious and careful explanation still made him smile happily-how each member received a badge and a This is a small printed booklet with a fly painted on the badge. The content of the booklet is the club rules and the list of bars that join IBF around the world; the most important rule is that when two members meet, they should greet each other and use Lightly flick the other person's shoulder with his right hand and say, "Buzz buzz, buzz buzz!"
It's one of Carson's specialties, his knack for finding joy in the little things and conveying them to others without ever feeling ashamed.Many people, when introducing IBF to a jazz musician, stop and explain with an apologetic smile: Of course, it's a poor little trick for lonely tourists, and it's only half-finished that makes it interesting; Carson introduced it bluntly.Once upon a time, in much the same way, he had made a bunch of bookworms at Yale think it was fashionable to seriously read that ridiculous copy of the New York Mirror on Sunday mornings.More recently, the same talent has endeared him to a few acquaintances, notably his current girlfriend, a young Swiss art student for whom he has settled down in Paris. "You have good taste in everything," she told him on their first memorable night together. "You have a really learned, creative mind."
"Got it?" he said into the phone, pausing to take a sip of the anisette. "Yes. Now if you'll give me your full name and address, Sid, I'll take care of everything here." Sid spelled out the name, and Carson wrote it carefully and neatly in the membership handbook, adding His and Ken's names as co-referrers, with Mr. Bodinger watching.When they were done talking, Ken's voice came back, reluctantly saying goodbye, and they hung up.
"This call must not have been cheap," Mr. Bodinger said, impressed.
"You're right," Carson said. "I guess it's expensive."
"What the hell is going on with this membership booklet? What's up with the whole bar people?"
"Oh, aren't you a member, Mr. Bodinger? I thought you were. Come on, I'll be a referee if you like."
Mr. Bodinger himself described later that he really enjoyed it: in the early hours of the morning, he was still moving slowly sideways, one by one, buzzing shoulders with all the people in the bar.
Carson did not go to Cannes on Saturday because ending his relationship with the Swedish girl took longer than he expected.He thought there would be a tearful farewell scene, at least they would smile gently at each other and promise each other.On the contrary, however, she was surprisingly indifferent to his departure - even a little absent-minded, as if already engrossed in her next really learned and creative brain - which disturbed him and delayed it for a few days. But it only made her impatient and made him feel exiled.After another phone conversation with Ken, he didn't come to Cannes until the following Tuesday afternoon.When Carson stood on the platform, relaxing, stiff and sour from the hangover, he really didn't understand why he was here.The scorching sun scorched him, his rough scalp was almost scorched, and a layer of sweat immediately leaked from his crumpled suit; Disgusting blue exhaust fumes rising against pink buildings; the glare of the sun beating throngs of tourists jostling him, showing him their pores and their tight sportswear just bought from the mall , showing the suitcases in their hands, the dangling cameras, their smiling and shouting mouths, and their impatience.Cannes is no different from other tourist destinations in the world, the same haste and disappointment, why doesn't he stay where he belongs, in a spacious and cool room, with the long-legged girl?Why the hell did he let himself be coaxed into a place like this?
But then he saw Ken's happy face heaving in the crowd—"Carson!"—and he came running, the way overweight boys run, rubbing the insides of his legs to greet him awkwardly. "The taxi is over there, grab your suitcase, you look awful! How about a shower and a drink first? Are you fucking okay?"
They sat lightly on the cushions of the taxi, staggered all the way to Cross Street, the dazzling blue and gold lights on Cross Street, and the sea breeze that made the blood boil in front of them, and Carson began to relax.Look at those girls!It's a big piece; besides, it feels good to be reunited with Old Ken.Now, it was easy to see what was going on in Paris, and it would only be worse if he stayed there.He left just in time.
Ken was talking non-stop.While Carson showered, he ran in and out of the bathroom, coins jingling in his pocket, laughing and talking, his throat bubbling with joy, as if he hadn't heard his own voice in weeks like.The truth was he hadn't been really happy since his separation from Carson.They were each other's best friends, but it was not an equal friendship, and they both knew it.At Yale, Ken would have had nothing to do with Carson if it wasn't for his tedious but haunting sidekick, and that didn't change in Europe.What was it about Ken that drove people away?Carson thought about this question for several years.Just because he is too fat and clumsy?Or is he trying to please people and looking silly and annoying?But aren't these the essential qualities of likability?No, Carson guessed, the closest explanation he could find to the truth was that when Ken smiled, his upper lip slid back, revealing a small wet inner lip quivering against his gums.Many people with this mouth shape probably don't see it as a major flaw - and Carson is willing to admit it - but in the case of Ken Platt, whatever better reason one can give for avoiding him, it seems to be One thing people remember most; Carson himself was always aware of it anyway, especially when he was angry.For example, now, the simplest things, he wants to dry off the water, comb his hair, and put on clean clothes, but this door-like, moving smile with two lips blocks his way everywhere.It's everywhere, blocking him as he reaches for a towel on the towel rail, dangling over cluttered suitcases, wandering in front of mirrors, covering his tie, until finally Carson just clenches his jaw and tries not to yell, "Come on, Ken—shut up!"
But a few minutes later, they calmed down in the cool and quiet hotel bar.The bartender was peeling a lemon, and he held it deftly, thumb and blade ripping out a strip of bright flesh.Nice citric sour, mixed with gin, under the mist of crushed ice, added a special flavor to their relaxation and recovery.Two iced martinis quenched the last of Carson's anger.By the time they were out of the place, wandering the sidewalk to eat, he felt a strong sense of camaraderie, and the familiar admiration Ken had for him, seeing it grow.There is also a touch of sadness, because Ken will soon have to return to the United States.His father in Denver, who wrote him weekly sarcastic letters on business stationery, was planning to include him as a junior partner, and Ken, who had long since finished his course, was his excuse for coming to France, Now there is no reason to stay any longer.Carson, in this as in everything else, was luckier than Ken, and he needed no excuses: he had enough private income without the encumbrance of his family; Also affordable.
"You're still as white as a sheet of paper," he said to Ken across the dining table. "Didn't you go to the beach?"
"Of course I did," Ken said, looking quickly at his plate. "I've been to the beach a few times. The weather hasn't been great lately."
But Carson guessed the real reason, and Ken was ashamed to show his body.So he changed the subject. "Oh, by the way," he said. "I brought the IBF stuff for your friend who plays the piano."
"Oh, great." Ken looked up in genuine relief. "After we finish eating, I'll take you there, how about it?" As if to speed up the arrival of this scene, he forked a piece of salad dripping with salad dressing into his mouth, and tore off a large piece of bread, Chew together and use the remaining bread to wipe the oil and vinegar off the plate. "You'll like him, Carson," he said soberly, chewing. "He's an amazing guy. I really admire him." He swallowed hard and said quickly, "I mean, damn, with that talent, he can go back to America tomorrow and make a lot of money , but he likes it here. First of all, of course, he has a girl here, a really lovely French girl, and I guess he can't bring her back to America with him—no, really, it's more than that. People here Accept him, see him as an artist, I mean, see him as a human being. Nobody thinks he's superior, nobody interferes with his music, and that's what he wants out of life. Oh , I mean he wouldn't tell you that - he'd probably be a nuisance if he did - it's just how he makes you feel. You get a sense of his attitude from what he says." He put Throwing the bread soaked in seasonings into his mouth, he chewed it authoritatively. "I mean this guy is really noble," he said. "An excellent man."
"Sounds like he's a goddamn good piano player," Carson said, reaching for the bottle, "as far as I can hear."
"Wait until you really hear it, when he actually plays it."
They both enjoyed the fact that it was Ken's discovery this time.It used to be Carson who started everything. He found the girls; he learned the local dialect; he knew how to best pass the hours.It was Carson who tracked down all the fun places in Paris where you couldn't see Americans at all; it was Carson who paradoxically made Harry's the best of all places while Ken was learning to find his own place to play.All this, Ken was happy to follow, shaking his head in wonder, but finding an uncorrupted jazz genius alone in the back streets of a foreign city was no small feat.Which is to say: Ken's not that dependent after all, and it's a credit to both of them.
Sid played more like an upscale bar than a nightclub, in a carpeted basement a few streets back from the sea.It was still early and they found him sitting alone at the bar drinking.
"Ah," he said when he saw Ken. "Hello." He was a solid, well-dressed, dark black man with a pleasant smile and strong white teeth.
"Sid, I thought you met Carson Wyler. The last time you spoke to him on the phone, remember?"
"Ah, yes," Sid said, shaking hands. "Ah, yes. Nice to meet you, Carson. What would you like to drink, gentlemen?"
They held a small ceremony, pinned the IBF badge to Sid's tan gabardine collar, hummed his shoulders, and took turns sticking out their own shoulders in the same crepe coat, humming him Whisk. "Okay, that's it," Sid said, chuckling, flipping through the membership booklet. "Excellent." Then he put the manual in his pocket, finished his drink, and slid off the bar stool. "Now, excuse me, I have to go to work."
"There's not a lot of audience right now," Ken said.
Sid shrugged. "This kind of place, I'd rather be like this. When there's a big crowd, there's always some old-fashioned guy asking you to play 'In the Heart of Texas,' or whatever the hell it is."
Ken smiled and winked at Carson, and they both turned to watch Sid take a seat at the piano, which stood on a low dais at the far end of the room with the spotlight on it.His fingers carelessly caressed the keys, playing short phrases and chords, and a man of great skill fiddled with his instrument.Then he started to play with all his heart, and the catchy rhythm appeared, the melody climbed up, undulating and swaying, this is the adaptation of "Baby, why are you still not at home?" ".
They spent hours in the bar, listening to Sid play and buying him drinks whenever he rested, apparently arousing the envy of the other patrons.In came Sid's girlfriend, tall, chestnut-haired, with a happy face that was easily surprised, and pretty.When Ken introduced her, he couldn't hide his small satisfaction: "This is Jacqueline." She whispered something that didn't speak English very well, and it was time for Sid to rest-now the bar The room was packed, and the applause was loud when he finished—the four of them shared a table.
Ken let Carson dominate the conversation; he'd rather just sit there, serene as a pampered young priest, smiling at a table of friends, content.It was the happiest night he had been in Europe, more than Carson could have imagined.These few hours filled the emptiness he had felt over the past few months, since the day Carson had said to him, "Well, come on, can't you go to Cannes by yourself?"It made up for hours of walking up the Croisette on a hot day until he got blisters on his feet and looked like a fool at the nearly naked girls on the beach; it made up for his trip to Nice , to Monte Carlo, to the crowded and boring car trip to São Paulo-de-France; it made up for the day when he paid more than three times the price for the only pair of sunglasses he found at a dodgy apothecary, Passing a store, he saw himself in the glass window, like a big blind fish; it made up for the feeling he had had on the Riviera, young and rich and free, but only day and night Nights are horrible - the Riviera! ——that feeling of doing nothing!The first week he'd dealt with a whore with a shrewd smile who insisted on a high price and whose disgusting flash on her face at the sight of his body made him too painful to get an erection; most of the others At night, he flitted from bar to bar, getting so drunk that he threw up, afraid of whores, of being rejected by other girls, or even of talking to other men lest they take him for a gay man.He spends his afternoons in what look like French discount stores, pretending to buy padlocks, shaving cream, and cheap tin toys, walking through the stale air with the longing to go home coming out of his throat.For five nights in a row, he went to American movies, seeking refuge in the dark, as he had done years ago in Denver to get rid of the boys who called him Lard Pratt.When all these entertainments were over, he returned to the hotel, and the smell of chocolate ice cream was still in his throat, and he cried himself to sleep alone.But all this is lost now in Sid's incomparably beautiful and graceful piano sound, in the magic of Carson's wise smile, in the way Carson raises his hands and claps every time the music stops.
It was past midnight and everyone was a little drunk except Sid, and Carson asked him how long he had been out of America. "From the war," he said. "I came with the army and never went back."
Ken, basking in sweetness and bliss, raised his glass high in the air and toasted, "In God's name, may you never have to, Sid."
"Why, 'don't have to'?" Jacqueline said.In the dim light, she looked stern and sober. "Why do you say that?"
Ken looked at her in astonishment. "Well, I'm just saying - you know - he'll never have to sell anything, nothing. Of course, he never will."
"What does that mean, 'betrayal'?" The awkward silence was only broken by Sid's low chuckle. "Take it easy, honey," he said, and turned to Ken. "You know, we don't see it that way. The truth is, I'm doing this in a roundabout way, and I want to go back to America and make some money there. We both think the same about that."
"Well, but you've done a good job here, haven't you?" Ken said, almost begging him. "You've earned enough to be satisfied, haven't you?"
Sid smiled patiently. "But I'm not talking about this kind of work, you know. I'm talking about real money."
"Do you know who Murray Diamond is?" Jacqueline asked, her eyebrows raised high. "The owner of a Las Vegas nightclub."
But Sid smiled and shook his head. "Wait a minute, darling—I've been telling you, don't expect anything. Murray Diamond happened to be here one night. You know," he explained. "It didn't last long, but he said he'd try to come over some night this week. It was my chance. Of course, like I said, don't expect anything."
"Uh, my God, Sid—" Ken shook his head in bewilderment; then, his face tensed in anger, he slammed his fist on the table and it bounced. "Why would you consider yourself a whore?" he asked. "I mean, hell, you know, in America they'll make you sell your own!"
Sid was still smiling, but his eyes were slightly narrowed. "I guess that's just your opinion," he said.
The worst thing for Ken was that Carson came to the rescue immediately. "Oh, I guess Ken didn't mean what it sounded like," he said, and as Ken slurred his apology ("No, of course it didn't mean that, I meant—you know..."), Carson went on talking about other things, talking about the light, witty things that only he could say, until all embarrassment was gone, and it was time to say good night with handshakes, smiles, and promises to see each other again soon.
But as soon as they were out of the bar and onto the street, Carson turned to Ken. "Why do you have to be so damn naive? Can't you see how embarrassing it was?"
"I know," Ken said, hurrying to keep up with Carson's long legs, "I know. But hell, I'm disappointed in him, Carson. The thing is, I've never heard him say that before." Of course, here He skipped some of it, because he hadn't heard anything from Sid at all, except for that shy conversation and the call to Harry's bar, and he'd fled back to the hotel after the phone call that night, worried about staying too long and provoking life. hate.
"Okay, but even so," Carson said. "Don't you think it's his business what this man wants to do with his life?"
"Okay," Ken said, "Okay. I told him I'm sorry, didn't I?" He was so subdued at this point that it took him a long time to realize that, in a way, he wasn't behaving. not too bad.After all, Carson's only victory tonight had been the kind of diplomacy, peace of mind; and he, Ken, had been more dramatic.Whether it's naive or impulsive, isn't it a kind of dignity to say what he thinks like that?Now, he licked his lips and watched Carson's profile as he walked, shoulders squared, trying to walk as smoothly as possible without wobbling, striding forward as much as possible, as manly as possible. "I just can't help myself, that's all," he said confidently. "When I'm disappointed in someone, I show it, and that's it."
"Well Well."
Unbelievable, but Ken was almost sure he heard a grudging respect in Carson's voice.
Nothing goes well the next day.The gloomy afternoon made them both very depressed. There was a deserted cafe near the train station, which was a favorite place for workers. They sat there in a daze and seldom talked to each other.The day starts off uncharacteristically well—and that's trouble in itself.
They didn't get up until noon, and after lunch they went to the beach, which Ken didn't mind as long as he wasn't asked to go there alone.It didn't take long for them to hook up with two American girls with ease and grace, something Carson knew very well.One minute the two girls were sullen strangers, smeared with sweet-smelling sunscreen and looking like they'd call the police if anyone bothered them; Move their buttocks and their little blue zippered backpacks to make room for uninvited guests.The tall girl went to Carson, she had long strong thighs, bright eyes, and the way her hair was thrown back, she looked really beautiful, and the little girl was willing--freckled, for winning or losing You can see it, it's very cute.Every happy glance and every gesture of hers shows that she has long been used to staying behind.Ken, with his stomach buried deep in the sand, folded his fists and propped his chin, smiled and leaned against her warm legs.There was very little of the usual nervousness of conversation on such occasions, and even when Carson and the tall girl got up and ran into the water, making a splash, he was able to interest the younger girl: for she said several The Sorbonne "must have been fascinating," and she lamented that he had to go back to Denver, though she also said it was "probably the best thing."
"So your friend is going to stay here forever?" she asked. "Is it true what he said? I mean he doesn't study or work or anything? Just hang around?"
"Er—yes, that's right." Ken tried to grin like Carson. "What's the matter?"
"Interesting, nothing. I don't think I've met anyone like that before."
It made Ken realize that the laughter, and the fact that the French bathing suits were just enough to cover up made him misread these girls, the kind of girls he or Carson hadn't seen in a long time—urban, middle-class girls, obedient and well-earned. This accompanied tour started with parental approval; the kind of girl who politely says "hate" instead of "fuck".Walking on the street, the clothes they buy in the campus store, and the steps they only have on the ice hockey rink will immediately reveal their identities.They were the kind of girls who gathered around and whispered, "Aww!" to him in his tuxedo for the first time; Pain forever in those years in Denver and New Haven.They are traditional and conservative.Amazingly, now he feels fine.He shifted his weight to the other elbow, and this hand slowly filled with a handful of hot sand, letting it flow away slowly, over and over again, he found that his words became faster and smoother:
"...no, really, there's a lot to see in Paris; it's a pity you didn't stay there long; in fact most of my favorite places aren't usually visited; of course I'm lucky because I French is ok, so I also met a lot of hospitable..."
He held on; he could handle it.Carson and the tall girl were elegant and pretty, like a couple on a travel poster, and when they trotted back from their swim, Ken didn't even notice that Carson and every girl fell beside them, busy Looking for bath towels and cigarettes, shivering and telling jokes about how cold the sea is.Ken's only worry was growing: Carson must have seen these girls too, and decided they weren't worth bothering with.But a glance at Carson's delicate smile and expressive face reassured him: Carson was sitting next to the tall girl's legs now, her breasts light when she stood up to dry her back with a towel Needless to say, this determined that Carson would continue to associate with them. "Look," he said. "Why don't we have dinner together? Then we can—"
The girls hastened to say they were sorry: they probably couldn't.Anyway, thank you very much, they are going to meet up with friends at the hotel for dinner, which is actually the time to go, as if they hate it-"God, what time is it!" They sound really I'm sorry.As the four of them trudged toward the locker room, their apology emboldened Ken to reach out and take the little girl's warm, boneless hand that was swinging around her leg.She gently squeezed his thick fingers and smiled at him.
"Another night, then?" Carson said. "Before you go?"
"Oh, actually," said the tall girl, "we do fill up all nights. Maybe we'll run into you on the beach again, and that'd be fun."
"Fuck you little bitch, look down on people," Carson said when they were alone in the men's locker room.
"Shh-! Keep it down, Carson. They're right here, they might hear you."
"Oh, don't be silly." Carson tossed the trunks onto the pedals with sandy hands. "I wish they'd heard what I said—hell, what's the matter with you?" He looked at Ken, as if resenting him. "A damned teasing prudence, don't pretend to be innocent. God, why don't I stay in Paris?"
The two of them were sitting in the bar now, Carson furious, Ken sulking, watching the sunset through the stained glass.A group of exuberant, garlic-smelling workers snarl and laugh over the pinball machines.They drank until it was well past dinnertime; then they had an unhappy dinner together at some restaurant late, with cork-smelling red wine and greasy chips.When the messy dishes were removed, Carson lit a cigarette. "What do you want to do tonight?" he said.
There was a thin layer of oil on Ken's mouth and cheeks. "I don't know," he said. "I think there are many good places to go."
"I thought, if you listen to Sid's piano again, won't it insult your artistic appreciation?"
Ken smiled at him, a little impatiently. "Are you still nagging about this?" he said. "Of course I'd like to go."
"Even if he might sell himself as a whore?"
"Can't you stop saying this, Carson?"
They are still on the street.The light from the door of Sid's bar cast a spot of light on the floor, and before they even got there, they heard the piano.When they got to the stairs, the sound of the piano became louder and more mellow, and now they could hear a man's hoarse singing mixed with the sound of the piano, but when they went down to the room and looked over from the blue smoke, they realized It turns out that the singer is Sid himself.Eyes half-closed, head tilted to one side, smiling at the crowd, he sang, swaying, tapping on keys.
Under the blue spotlight, his wet teeth gleamed, and a thin line of sweat dripped from his temples.
"Damn it, it's full," Carson said.The bar was full, and they didn't know whether to leave or stay, so they stood there watching Sid's performance for a while, and then Carson found a girl on the bar stool behind him, it was Jacqueline, "Oh," He said. "Hi. There's a lot of people tonight."
She smiled, nodded, and craned her neck to look at Sid.
"I didn't know he still sang," Carson said. "Is this something new?"
Her smile gave way to an impatient frown, and she put her index finger to her lips.Carson, snubbed, had to turn back, shifting from foot to foot with difficulty, and he pushed Ken. "Do you want to go, or do you want to stay? If you want to stay here, at least we have to find a place to sit."
"Hush!" Several people turned around from their seats and frowned at him. "Shhh!"
"Okay, come on," he said, leading Ken stumbling sideways through rows of listeners to the only empty table in the bar.It was a small table at the front, too close to the music, a drink had been spilled on the table, and it was still wet. In order to make room for more tables for other people, this table was moved aside.Sitting down, they realized that Sid wasn't just casually looking at the crowd, he was singing to a pair of seemingly boring people.The two were sitting a few tables away in evening attire, one was a blonde girl, probably a new star, the other was a stocky, bald man with a dark complexion, needless to say Murray Diamond, probably a star. The detective sent him here to find the target.Sometimes Sid's big eyes would linger for a moment elsewhere in the bar, or at the smoky ceiling, but they were only alive and focused when they were looking at these two.There was even a long, complicated variation on the piano after the song was over, and he was even watching them to see if they were watching.当他结束后，传来一小阵雷鸣般的掌声，那秃头男人扬起脸，嘴里衔着琥珀烟斗，拍了几下手。
“很好，山姆，”他说。
“我叫席德，戴蒙德先生，”席德说，“可我还是很感谢你。很高兴你喜欢，先生。”他肩膀往后靠，张嘴笑了，手摆弄着琴键。“您有什么特别想听的吗？戴蒙德先生？老歌？真正的老怎么样？也许来点，要不来点，我们叫做商业元素的？这里什么曲子都有，就等着演奏。”
“什么都行，啊，席德，”默瑞·戴蒙德说，那个金发女郎侧身在他耳边低声说了什么。“《星尘》怎么样？席德？”他说。“你会弹《星尘》吗？”
“哦，戴蒙德先生，如果我连《星尘》都不会弹，我猜不管是在法国或在别的哪个国家，我的饭碗都会保不住。”他张口而笑，那笑却是假的。从他手下滑出了这首曲子过门和弦。
几个小时以来，这是卡森的第一个友好举动，让肯感激得满脸通红：他把椅子拖近肯，开始很小声地说话，没人能责备他干扰了演出。“你知道吗？”他说。“这真叫人恶心。我的天，我才不在乎他是不是想去拉斯维加斯，我也不在乎他是不是为了去那儿而献殷勤。这该当别论。这让我恶心想吐。”他住了口，皱着眉头看着地板，肯看到他太阳穴处的血管像条小虫似的一动一动。“假装有这种假口音，”卡森说。“所有这些这全是假冒那一套。”他突然进入状态，两眼圆睁，头猛地一抬，模仿着席德。“是的，先生，戴蒙德先生，先生。您想听什么吗，戴蒙德先生？所有的曲子都准备好了，就等着演奏了，呸，呸，呸，把我嘴都弄脏了！”他一口喝完他的酒，把酒杯重重地往桌上一放。“你完全知道他没必要那样说话。你完全知道他是个非常聪明、受过良好教育的家伙。我的天，在电话里我根本听不出他是个黑人。”
“嗯，是啊，”肯说。“是有点没劲。”
“没劲？这太丢脸了，”卡森撇着嘴说。“这是种堕落。”
“我知道，”肯说。“我想那就是我说的他把自己像妓女一样出卖。”
“那么，你完全正确，该死的，这简直让你对整个黑人失去了信心。”
卡森告诉肯他是对的，对肯而言，总是一针强心剂，经过这样的白天之后，现在简直难得地振奋人心。他一口喝掉他的酒，挺直背，擦掉唇上的一层汗，嘴巴微微缩起，显示出他对黑人的信念也严重动摇了。“伙计，”他说。“我肯定是看错人了。”
“不，”卡森安慰他，“知人知面不知心。”
“听着，那我们走吧，卡森。让他见鬼去吧。”肯的脑子里已经有了很多计划：他们可以去十字大街凉爽的地方走走，就正直的意义来一次严肃的交谈，正直是多么难得，又是多么容易伪装，正直是人的一生唯一值得的奋斗目标，他们要一直讨论到这天所有的不快全都烟消云散。
可是卡森把椅子又拖回去了，同时笑着皱起眉头。“走？”他说。“你怎么回事？难道你不想留下来看看这出戏？我要看。难道它还不够让你入迷吗？”他举起杯子，示意再来两杯。
《星尘》来了个优雅的结尾，席德站了起来，沉浸在热烈的掌声中，该他休息了。当他从前面走下低台，正好耸立在他们桌前，那张大脸因汗水而发光；他径直看着戴蒙德那一桌，从他们桌边擦过，停在戴蒙德桌前说：“谢谢您，先生，”然而在他穿过人群走到吧台前去，戴蒙德并没有张口说话。
“我猜他觉得他没看到我们，”卡森说。
“幸好没看到，”肯说。“不然，我不知道对他说什么好。”
“不是吧你？我想我知道。”
酒吧里闷得很，肯的科涅克样子看着让人讨厌，闻上去味道也不好。他用粘乎乎的手指松开衣领、领带。“走吧，卡森，”他说。“我们走吧。我们出去呼吸点新鲜空气。”
卡森没理他，看着酒吧里正在发生的事。席德喝了点杰奎琳递给他的东西，接着消失在男洗手间里。几分钟后，他出来时，脸上干爽了，人也平静下来。卡森转过身，研究着他的杯子。“他来了。我想，为了戴蒙德，我们现在要打个大大的招呼。看着。”
转眼间，席德的手指拂过卡森的肩头。“嗡嗡嗡，嗡嗡嗡！”他说。“今晚过得怎么样？”
卡森很慢很慢地转过头，抬起沉重的眼皮，刹那间遇上席德的笑容，那神情仿佛一个人在看着不小心碰了他一下的侍者那样。接着，他转过身继续喝他的酒。
“噢一喔，”席德说。“可能我做得不对。也许我碰错了肩膀。我还不太熟悉这些规则。”默瑞·戴蒙德和金发姑娘看着他们，席德冲他俩眨眨眼，当他侧身从卡森椅子后面走过时，他的拇指摩挲着衣领上IBF的襟章。“戴蒙德先生，我们是同一个俱乐部的，”他说。“酒吧人士协会。麻烦的是，我还不太熟悉那些规章制度。”当他拂卡森另一个肩膀时，几乎吸引了酒吧里所有人的注意。“嗡嗡嗡，嗡嗡嗡！”这次卡森吓得往后一退，拉开自己的上衣，看了肯一眼，疑惑地耸耸肩，仿佛在说，你知道这个男人想干什么吗？
肯不知道是该咯咯笑呢，还是该呕吐；他身体里这两种欲望突然都很强烈，虽然他的表情很严肃。后来很长一段时间里，他还记得自己一动不动的两手间擦得干干净净的黑色塑料桌的样子，那似乎是全世界唯一稳定的平面。
“嘿，”席德说，退回到钢琴边，笑容好似上了层釉。“这是怎么回事？这儿有什么阴谋吗？”
卡森任可怕的沉默继续。然后，好像突然淡淡地记起来，仿佛说，啊，是的，当然。他站起来，走到席德跟前，后者迷惑地退回到聚光灯下。卡森面对着他，伸出一根软不拉叽的手指，碰了碰他的肩膀。“嗡，”他说。“这样可以吗？”转身走回自己的坐位。
肯祈望有人会笑——谁都行——可没人笑。酒吧里没有一点动静，除了席德死灰一般的笑容，他看看卡森，又看看肯，慢慢地，合上嘴，眼睛睁得大大的。
默瑞·戴蒙德也看着他们，只是看着罢了——冷冷地、黝黑的一张小脸——然后他清清嗓子，说：“《拥抱我》怎么样，席德？你会弹《拥抱我》吗？”席德坐下来，开始演奏，眼睛里一片空无。
卡森颇有尊严地点头示意结账，在托盘上放下数目恰当的千元、百元的法郎钞票。他很熟练地穿过桌子，上了楼梯，仿佛等不及要离开这里。但肯用的时间长多得，他像一头被困的熊在烟雾中徘徊、摇摆，在他就要走出最后一张桌子前，杰奎琳的眼神捉住了他，它们紧盯着他不放，不屈不挠，他只得抱以软弱、颤抖的微笑，它们钻进他的后背，送他跌跌撞撞地走上楼梯。直到外面清凉的空气袭来，直到他看见已走到几扇门外、越走越远卡森笔挺的白色外套，他才知道他想干什么。他想跑上前去，用尽全身力气，冲着卡森前胸就是一拳，一记猛砍，把他砍倒在街上，他还要再揍他，要不就踹他——是的，踹他——他要说，卡森，你这个该死的，你这个该死的！话已经在嘴边了，他正要抬手打他时，卡森停下脚步，在街灯下转身面对着他。
“怎么啦，肯？”他说。“难道你不觉得那很好玩吗？”
他说什么并不重要——片刻间，似乎卡森说什么都不再重要——重要的是，他脸上饱受内心折磨的神色惊人地熟悉，那就是他自己的脸，猪油佬普拉特，向别人展示着他的一生：困惑、脆弱，极度依赖，尽力微笑，那表情仿佛在说请别抛下我。
肯垂下头，要不就是怜悯，要不就是羞愧。“见鬼，我不知道，卡森。”他说。“忘掉它。我们找个地方去点咖啡。”
“好。”他们又在一起了。唯一的问题是一开始他们就走错了方向：要去十字大街，他们只得折回来，再次经过席德那间亮着灯的酒吧门口。他们仿佛在烈火中穿行一般，飞快地走过去。任谁看到了都会说他们相当沉着，他们的头扬得高高的，眼睛直视前方，这样能听到响亮钢琴声的时间只有那么一瞬，慢慢地它小了下去，消失在他们身后，消失在他们的脚步声里。
Notes:
Notes: