Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

She breathes the warm night air, people inhaling her breath and she inhaling theirs. One of them now. Stray. Contraband. Refugee. Free.

“I didn’t think screaming was part of music.”

We are pleased to have with us in the recital arena a singular Negro virtuoso during this era which has been largely defined by virtuoso-frenzy. This sable personage is none other than Blind Tom, who has returned to the stage after an absence of five years or more, a murky period with much still unknown, unasked, and unanswered since we the public and the press had no clue as to his whereabouts or his well-being for half a decade. Notwithstanding these facts, his talents were on full display last night as of the days of old. He is all the musician of a Liszt and Rubinstein. Indeed, it goes without saying, his technique is superb. We expect nothing less of a virtuoso. Both hands share complete equality, the interaction and rivalry between them being a constant source of new inventions. Let us celebrate the return of the most famous musician, indeed the most famous celebrity, in the world, who now tours under the name Original Blind Tom to distinguish himself from the many imposters.

I have a new song.

No new songs.

Let me play it for you.

No new songs, Seven says. Do I have to tell you why? He does not have to tell Juluster why. Of late Juluster has been running his mouth too much:

I am ignorant of my Father’s reason for choosing the piano as the instrument on which I am to illustrate my wondrous gift. My dear mother told me, she said, My son, the Heavenly Father gave you certain gifts in exchange for depriving you of sight.

Tom, the journalist said, that is such a beautiful song about your dear mammy. She must be so proud of you.

Mother is a jewel, Tom said. Father is a mirror.

My dear mother, do you know what else she told me? My son, she said, you had not long been from my belly when I received a sign. A rock dove set down on the rafters above where you lay and shat down on your forehead. From that moment on I knew you were destined for greatness.

And this:

“The Rain Storm” received its title because in the opening statement of the composition, I tried to give the feeling of something coming down — descending octaves — and then overflowing. In a way, it’s musically analogous to rain. I wasn’t, however, thinking specifically of a flood, but rather of an overflow of something. In a way, I suppose the original impetus for this piece came from my first years of being taught the Holy Bible in Sunday school and of hearing about deluges, good old Noah and the ark and all that. Of course, I wrote the piece at a very young age when I still accompanied my good mother to church almost every Sunday and when we attended Bible study together several hours before service began. With one thing or another, I am no longer afforded the chance to attend church all that often. So, now, at my present age, I certainly would approach the song differently. I would even give it a different title, “Deluge,” or something like that. Have I said too much?

Yes, Seven thought. You have said too damn much. Let him do the talking. Who knows Tom better than he does? The person he invokes when he thinks of Tom is accurate to the inch. He has memorized Tom’s measurements, knows all of Tom’s dimensions, the space between Tom’s fingers and toes and teeth. Knows. They had that between them. Not for nothing has he taken pains to come to this city where Tom gave his last concert and where he is thought to have died and may have died, probably did die. To the consternation or delight of many, he, Seven, will resurrect Blind Tom right here in the city. Do this in memory of me. What he can do for Tom. What he owes Tom is beyond action and expression. Tom has given his life a size and shape that no man can diminish. Tom would want this, he tells himself. Tom wants this. Tom wants this for me.

And how does it feel to be a nigger, Tom?

A nigger is a thing of no consequence.

Mr. Seven? Juluster says.

Yes. Seven leans in to hear the question.

A blind man walks into a fishmonger’s shop. Do you know what he says?

What?

Oh, beg pardon, ladies.

Will Seven laugh?

Mr. Seven?

Yes.

You want to hear another one?

As many as you have.

There was this cross-eyed planter who confounded his niggers to no end because they could never tell what or where he was looking. (Give me blindness any day over that.) He would say, Nigger, bend down and bring me that, and four or five niggers would bend down. Or, Nigger, what’s your name again? And ten or twelve niggers would answer. Mary, Martha, Matthew, Michael.

And there they are, the three weeping women in black, clustered together in one of the first rows, their faces veiled. Seven sees them but refuses to believe what he sees. Could these be the same weeping women in black from his days with Perry Oliver and Tom? Are these those? Vitalis asked.

In the days and weeks that follow, his thoughts seem stuck, he feels paralyzed by the sense that Time is repeating itself, three weeping women in black entering the order and comfort of his life concert after concert. He wonders about their appearance again and again, and even as he hears a voice call out to him in the noisy solitude backstage after one recital.

Sir, the woman says, do you know me? She is encased in a black dress from throat to ankle.

He is asking himself the same question, unless the answer he is looking for is hidden in the next question she throws at him.

Where have we met?

I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure before now.

Sir, we’ve had the pleasure.

Her thin frame seems more substantial, seems to possess more flesh than what’s there, under its assured bearing. She stares at him with the impassiveness of a sculpted form. Her face etched with weathered lines that are not at all unpleasant, but (somehow) patterned and elegant. Her gaze is frank and unsparing.

Well, ma’m, that cherished encounter I seem to have forgotten.

Sir, the woman says, you are an imposter. You and your blind nigger both. She is a thin lady and she is out of breath. I know Blind Tom, and that ain’t him.

Ma’m, I can assure you—

The real Blind Tom was of the lowest Guinea type. Your boy is clearly an amalgamation.

Ma’m, I will be happy to refund your ticket. But nothing he says can do the work of either convincing or dismissing her.

He collects Tom and Vitalis, the accusation pushing him into the vivid dark.

Who she? Vitalis asks.

The crazy old bitch, Seven says out loud, speaking mostly to himself. Thinking: She does not believe. She sees right through me.

Juluster holds his hand straight out. Wire — the name the tall nigger preacher had given — reaches and takes it and Juluster tries to give it the same painful grip that he gives everyone, but the preacher’s hand is large enough to grip a watermelon. Blind Tom, Juluster says. Eighth wonder of the world.

Pleased to make your acquaintance, the nigger preacher says. He releases Juluster’s hand.

Likewise, Juluster says.

His hair angrily askew (so much, too much), Vitalis stands next to Juluster looking up at the preacher in astonishment. Nature has afforded this Wire radical proportions, a very Hercules in stature, seven feet in height and nearly as wide as two men, a man too wide and too tall to squeeze his way through the average portal. And the black robe he wears, splayed out in front and behind winglike, intensifies his colossal proportions.