Esi Edugyan - Half-Blood Blues

Chip give a low whistle.

‘What did you tell her?’ said Fritz.

‘That we needed to discuss it. What else would I tell her?’

Chip grunted, splashed in the steam. ‘I can’t believe you even askin .’

‘Is that a no, Jones?’

‘It a yes ,’ he said. ‘And I addin a hell yes on top of it. Paris? Armstrong?’

Big Fritz frowned. He loomed up out of the steam like a dark boulder. ‘How do we know this is real? Who is she? She could be anybody.’

I chuckled. ‘What you think, brother. You think Boots goin take the trouble to trick us into goin to Paris? You thinkin that more likely ?’

Fritz ain’t said nothing, just shifted massively in the water.

‘She’s with Armstrong, Fritz,’ said Ernst. With his slicked hair lifting up, spiking in all that steam, he looked like a fiercer version of hisself. He stretched out his long blue arms along the wall, let his ghostly legs drift up, tilting his face back to stare at the ceiling. ‘I have no doubts that she is who she says she is. That’s not the question here.’

Fritz was still frowning. ‘She came down here to find us ? She came to Berlin for us ? With the Führer going on the way he is?’

‘You mean the Housepainter,’ I said.

Fritz give me a look.

‘She’s not here for us,’ said Ernst. ‘She’s down here to collect some money owing to Armstrong. We’re just the butter.’

‘I think you mean the cream,’ said Paul. He floated lazily over toward Fritz. ‘Listen, Fritz, Armstrong’s a fan. He’s got our records.’

‘Which records?’

‘Do it matter?’ I said.

‘We didn’t ask,’ said Paul. ‘She said Arthur Briggs caught some of our shows a few years ago. And Bechet told Louis how fine we sounded when we opened for him back at Vaterland.’

‘Bechet?’ Chip grimaced. ‘Hell. He still owe me fifty bucks.’

‘She sort of acts as Armstrong’s manager in Paris,’ said Ernst. ‘I don’t know. Sorts out his affairs, I guess.’

‘ Affairs ,’ whispered Chip.

Paul grinned, the tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth.

‘What are you, ten years old?’ Ernst frowned. ‘I guess Armstrong’s been following us for years. When he heard we were still here, and not playing live anymore, I guess he thought maybe there’d be some incentive for us to come on over.’

‘What Ernst ain’t tellin you,’ I said, ‘is what all she said bout the kid. Armstrong wants to play with the kid especially . Rumour is he the best damn horn blower this side the Atlantic. Some sayin he even better than Briggs. Henry Crowder said that. Crowder told Armstrong Hiero reminded him of King Oliver in his prime.’

I don’t know, I guess I reckoned we’d all start to joke about that. But ain’t nobody smile at all.

‘So do he even want us?’ said Chip. ‘Or it just the kid he want?’

‘She said he wanted to play with the Hot-Time Swingers,’ Hiero said nervously. ‘She said all of us.’

Fritz looked over at me.

I shrugged. ‘She said that, sure.’

‘She called us iconoclasts ,’ said Paul.

‘And you ain’t slapped her?’ Chip smiled. ‘Usin language like that in front of the kid?’

‘What does it pay?’ said Fritz in his blunt way.

Ernst lift up his head. ‘What does it pay ?’

‘Hell, brother, ain’t no way it goin pay less than what we makin now.’

‘Sid’s got a point,’ said Paul.

‘A little one, maybe,’ said Chip, splashing water my way. ‘At least, that what all the ladies say.’

‘Haw haw,’ I said.

We was silent then, all of us adrift in the warm blue light. The water sloshed against the stone walls, the soft murmur echoing high up in the ceiling.

There was a thin cough. Then the kid stood, water streaming off his bony chest. ‘I think we should go,’ he said softly. His upper lip was trembling.

‘We just got here,’ said Paul.

‘I think he means to Paris,’ said Ernst.

Hiero looked embarrassed, dipped back into the water.

‘You think we should go?’ said Chip. ‘You think we should go to Paris, get away from the Housepainter? You think Armstrong enough of a reason? You reckon walkin about the streets of you own damn city without bein afraid you goin get killed be worth it? You think so?’

Hiero looked direct at Chip. ‘Yes,’ he said simply.

‘Aw, kid.’ Chip laughed. ‘You priceless. Course it is.’

‘The problem,’ said Ernst, ‘is how , exactly.’

‘Slow down,’ said Fritz. He sounded almost angry. ‘I’m not convinced. I’m sorry gents.’ He waded over to the shallow end, sat on the low steps, the water spilling over the walls of his thighs as he leaned on his knees. The hairs on his chest was plastered in a thick gluey rug. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘But I won’t jump just because she says it’s time to jump.’

‘It’s alright,’ said Ernst. ‘We’re only discussing here.’

‘It’s Paris , buck,’ said Chip. ‘Hell.’

‘Where would we stay?’ said Fritz. ‘How long would we go for?’

Ernst shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even know that we could go right away. We’d need visas.’

‘Give him a hour or so,’ said Chip. ‘Ernst always come up with something.’

‘Louis’ jane goin be here through the week,’ I said. ‘We ain’t got to decide nothin now.’

‘Good.’

Ernst cleared his throat. ‘Alright, then?’

‘Alright.’

But something in Fritz’s hesitation given us all pause, darkened the very waters we was floating in. Hell. We grown quiet then, and just splashed softly for a time. Finally Ernst cleared his throat, and with a old sadness in him, said, ‘Well, gents. I suppose I’ll be getting back to the Hound.’

‘Working late again? I can’t understand why you still write those articles, buck,’ said Paul. ‘No one gives a damn about jazz anymore.’

Ernst paused. ‘I do.’ He climbed gleaming white from that water like it done leeched all the blood from him.

We ain’t stayed long after that.

Outside, under the gas lamps, the square in front of the baths glowed like talcum. Folks strode dumb through the gloom. Back of my neck was still wet and I could feel the cool air across it. Chip give me a soft punch on the shoulder.

‘Let’s ankle, buck.’ He sounded gloomy.

I felt it too. I nodded.

The roads was dark. We kept our heads down, shoved our hands all up in our pockets, our hair damp in the night air. We walked slow, like we dreaded getting back. We could see Fritz, the kid and Paul some feet ahead in the darkness, and then they vanished in the shadows and we couldn’t see them no more.

I always adored Berlin at this hour — the stillness, the way the shadows crowded the shop windows. We passed a toy store with swastika balls in the window, a butcher’s with the iron gate dragged down. There was a thin silt on the air, a taste like dirt, and I snorted to get it out my nose. Then we heard the clatter of sharp voices, and down one hazy road we seen street crews at work in the dim light. Young urchins clutching steaming black pitchers, pouring tar between the uneven cobblestones. Vapour rising from the lines. Men in thick coveralls wiping the grime from their faces.

We slipped back into shadow, took another route.

I got to thinking how small we come to be these last months, me and Chip. Even two years ago, we like to holler through these damn streets like we on parade. Now we slunk in the shadows, squeamish of the light. I thought of the two of us listening to Armstong’s records back in Baltimore when we was kids. And I thought of my ma’s family back in Virginia, fair as Frenchmen and floating like ghosts through a white world. Afraid of being seen for what they truly was.