Стивен Бойетт - Mortality Bridge

The silver locket hot against his throat. He opens it and the ring spills out and rolls on the stage. He picks it up and kisses it and slips it on his little finger. Unlatches the hardcase with nerveless hands.

“Haven’t got all day,” reverberates from the stands.

Niko opens the case and reaches for the Dobro resting in its plush coffin. His hand stops. He stares. His breath catches. His stomach turns to ice. Oh. Oh no. Of all the things that could undo him. Oh no.

Niko pulls the guitar from the case and limp strings loop like entrails as the neck falls away in his hands, broken where it joins the body.

When could this have happened? He played before the bonfire at the demon Onyx’s request. Serenaded Franz to his sick fate at the head of the convoluted line. Played on the rattling boxcar with his demon’s howled accompaniment. And after that, and after that?

After that he threw the case out of the train and jumped off after it. And never opened it. Never checked it.

He rocks back on his heels and looks up at the clear blue sky and shuts his eyes.

Behind him Phil’s laughter echoes in the empty amphitheater. Well that’s it then isn’t it? Show’s canceled folks. No refund, do not pass go. You lose you lose you lose.

A shadow falls across him. He opens his eyes to see a slight and darkskinned man with closecropped hair and yellowed eyes. One of them drooping. A battered pawnshop acoustic guitar on a frayed strap like an albatross around his neck. The man looks down at Niko with a face that reveals nothing and then raises up his arms to show his fingers have been fused into a single mottled mass of useless flesh.

The rage that smolders deep behind those Louisiana bluesman eyes. Eyes that have regarded him from blurry photographs on fraying covers of crackling recordings that had tried to capture a way of playing that had made men glare into their beermugs with a killing hardness, raw notes that had widened women’s pupils and made them walk pulled by their hipbones. A music that could turn a jukejoint to an orgy and a brawl. A blues nailed to the earth with iron brought back from the crossroads by a hard and young man taken down again in 1929. Young and hard and taken down and standing now above him rudely carved from ebony and rooted to the stage and rendered mute by his ruined hands.

He lifts his mangled hands and shrugs from his guitar and offers it to Niko.

Who at first can only stare.

The face impassive as the dark head nods.

Niko accepts the gift in startled wonder and puts the strap across his shoulder.

“Nigger,” comes Phil’s reverberating voice, “you are gonna hurt for that.”

Robert Johnson slowly turns toward the seats and gives a little shrug. Then backs away to take his place among his mute and watchful band of fellow sufferers.

Stunned to silence Niko stares and hopes his gratitude shows in his eyes.

And then looks down at the guitar. All the finish worn away. Wood gouged as if illiterates have tried to carve their names. He strums a G. It’s badly out of tune. The tone is awful. Bottom strings rattle on worndown frets. In short the guitar of a blues player.

Niko opens the storage compartment of his hardcase and removes the metal slide. He slips it on his finger and pulls out a broad tortoiseshell patterned pick. He perches on the simple stool. No pickups no mics no rack no effects. Bare bones. He mutes the strings, his fingers ready. All that’s left now. Heel hooked on a rung his foot counts off, five six seven eight.

He plays.

SHE SAT IN on a few numbers at their regular gig one night. She was a friend of Joel, their bass player. He had never heard a voice like that. Graveled, sexual, muscular, feminine, and assured. Halfbagged he flirted with her through his guitar.

And that is minor chords low down on the neck, brown tones rasping as the metal slide wavers on the frets.

Wearing a stained apron and a pensive look she watched him take his first taste of the first meal she ever made him, a secret family recipe she claimed. He had no idea what was in it but couldn’t get enough. She said I told you I could cook and he said I didn’t think you were talking about food.

And that is a bright harmonic arpeggio.

The sound engineer held a hand on his headphones and looked from her face behind the Neumann boom mic to Niko watching beside him at the board. “God damn, she’s like a beautiful Joplin.” Niko only watched her through the window and felt a white alarming joy inside his heart.

And that is melody quickening, minor and graceful, an eidolon haunting taut wire.

Her deep breath and creaking grip on the brass headboard, looking up at him in defiance almost before she shut her eyes and turned her head and pulled him closer.

And now the ghost of sex walks syncopated on the bottom strings.

Her voice a chocolate covered cherry. And melody coheres as tempo picks up. Her walk all lazy parabolas like a gently rocking boat. And that is his desire scratching chords. Her face pale and thin above her waterbeaded body wrapped in a white thick towel after he hung up the phone and told her Dr. Abkagian wants you to come in right now. And that is high notes crying as they bend. Her small hand holding his inside the scented CAT scan tube. Upon their bed as they lay cooling. On a roughweather airplane trip as they touched down. Within a lost unlighted cavern. A final clenching time before her final breath.

And that is deep and gaping sorrow at the loss of her.

Niko plays and what he plays is simply Jem. Simple music for a simple grief. Notes no talent could call forth without a lifetime’s pain behind them. Like Jem the melody’s direct and pretty with a dark edge lurking, and like her always on the brink of bursting into something more. And like Jem the music slows and darkens to a fading ember that flickers and then dies.

And that is what was lost.

The last notes fade across the empty amphitheater. The guitar in his hands. Wood body on his thigh. Warm wind across the hills. No insect sounds, no calling birds in this Los Angeles.

Niko’s fingers move again upon the strings. Playing of their own accord a coda for a life not his. A sad small wave before the ship sets sail. Look down on him from high up in the stands. A lone man with an old guitar perched on a chair. Shut our eyes and listen. What we hear is just a good man feeling bad.

Niko rocking back and forth, the guitar silent in his hands. And then he stops. He has no idea how long it’s been since he stopped playing. Isn’t even sure he played at all.

The musicians still behind him. Poor ruined people brought to silence here. Phil still there beyond the stage, sitting bolt upright with his arms folded and his sunglasses like holes in his skull.

Niko removes the guitar and walks to the front of the stage and stares at Phil.

Phil’s expression is impossible to read as he reaches down beside himself and pulls his pale leathercased iPhone from out of nowhere and types on it and then removes a white business card and a limited edition Michel Perchin Fabergé Gold Ribbed Columbian Emerald lever action fountain pen. He uncaps the pen and stabs it into his arm and works the little pump, then pulls it out and licks the nib and scribbles something on the card. He caps the pen and returns it to the case and turns the iPhone off and puts it away and beckons curtly to Niko.

Niko has no idea what to expect as he sits on the edge of the stage and slides off and walks up the steps toward Phil. He holds the guitar out of the way as he sidles along the tenth row.

Phil continues staring toward the stage. Twin sunlight stars glint from his shades. He holds the business card up like a distracted bidder at an auction. There is only the faintest tremble.

Niko takes the card. One side is blank, the other has several indecipherable words scrawled in deep purple.