Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“Goddammit, if I done told ya once I told you a thousand differ’nt times that horn ain’t fer sale. I’m handin’ her down to my boy when I’m through with her. Now if you would only get that through yer thick-”

“Oh dear,” Jim interrupted. “You haven’t heard. Well, gosh, of course you haven’t heard. You been asleep all afternoon. I guess I just thought maybe they’d-a sent a copper out to tell ya. Well, hell, I’m truly sorry, Buddy. Mebbe I should just be off and on my way. We can talk about this at a better-”

“Fer the love of Christ Almighty what in hell are you goin’ on about, kid?”

“Well, I hate to be the one to break it-”

“Fine, I’m going back to bed.” Buddy wasn’t in the mood for games.

But before the door closed, Jim managed to get out: “West is dead.”

The door held at six inches, and opened no further. In Buddy’s fragile, hung-over state of mind, to open it wider might make the words more real. “What?”

“Kilt dead this morning out by the river. Murdered. Seen it myself.”

“What are you saying? Murdered? My little boy was murdered? I don’t believe-”

“Seen it myself. Seen it happen. Sorry.”

“Yer lyin’ to me. Why would you make up something like that? Fer a damn horn?” There was a part of Buddy unable to believe West might really be gone-but another part filtered the truth from Jim’s eyes.

“Yer brother-in-law the dummy did it. Dropsy. Snapped his little neck with one quick twist. Real coldhearted-like.”

“Now I know yer lyin’,” said Buddy. “Dropsy ain’t much fer brains but he loves my little West.”

“Ya mean wasn’t much fer brains. Dropsy dead, too. Killed his own self right after. Walked in the river with a blank expression on his face, like one of them hoodoo zombies. Like to make my blood run cold the way-”

“Yer lyin’.”

“Coldest, weirdest thing I ever seen.”

“Oh my God…” Buddy could no longer pretend-breaking into sobs, backing away from the half-open door. Jim walked in as Buddy lowered himself to the edge of the bed, reaching for the cornet that lay to the left of the pillow, stroking it for comfort. The tender display of flesh against brass made Jim’s mouth water.

“Now about that horn, Buddy…”

Buddy’s eyes went blank as he got to his feet, waving the cornet at Jim. “You want this horn? This what you want? Will all the evil in yer black little heart’ll just lay down and die if you get yer hands on THIS. DAMN. HORN ?”

“Buddy, now, take it easy. I’m just talking about a simple business transaction is all. Pretty lucrative one for you, I gotta say…”

“You want this horn?” Buddy was shaking at the knees. “Well, I’ll just go and let you have it then.”

Jim Jam Jump, who prided himself on quick reflexes and a keen ability to work out most any angle well in advance would kick himself later for not having seen this coming. He honestly never expected Buddy might do anything to put his beloved cornet in harm’s way. As it turned out, Buddy’s grief and anger were just strong enough to put him over that edge-and now here he was pounding Jim’s head with the cherished instrument. Got in three solid hits before Jim managed to collect himself, to twist away and out of range.

“Now, Buddy, that ain’t no way ta-”

“I’ll kill ya. I’ll kill ya, ya little shit.”

“I believe you would…”

Jim executed an artful dance around the shaky swings of Buddy Bolden, staying close but dodging further blows, trying to figure a way to throw a few of his own. A quick, right fisted jab to Buddy’s groin caused the horn to drop, another dropped Buddy to his knees, the musician sucking in air with bulging eyes. Jim snatched the cornet from the ground-immediately spinning it longways in a horizontal circle till the wide end connected with Buddy’s temple. The hit was direct and decisive; Buddy went down hard.

Jim hadn’t even broken a sweat. Examining the cornet with loving fingers and worried eyes, he checked it for damage.

“They sure do make these things durable,” said Jim aloud, marveling at how the instrument had survived the scuffle unscathed.

“Well, then,” Jim said to Buddy’s unmoving form, “to answer your question, I do indeed want this horn. Sounds like we done made ourselves a deal.”

Jim stooped down to stuff Buddy’s pockets with the twenty tens before leaving. Then he walked to the river, whistling a happy tune.

Once at the river, he washed Buddy’s blood from the cornet.

Just below the river’s surface: smooth, white, sacred hands rub and loosen spots of red from the golden skin of Buddy Bolden’s cornet. Upon liberation, the spots become wisps of red, mingling and joining together into a cloud of nearly invisible pink, lingering with residual longing near the hands that have freed them. When the hands have washed away every drop, the horn is pulled back quickly into the tacky warmth of living air. There is no song to comfort this thing, this cloud of faded, loose color. It must find its own, create its own.

Thus delivered and abandoned by the exquisitely cruel hands, the cloud of pink is left to fend for itself in the great body of water. Locating its scent, tiny life-forms are immediately drawn to the smell of it, investigating the possibility of nourishment with hungry, minute thrashes, giving the blood-cloud its first bit of information, telling it that it can no longer stay in one place and survive, that it must move on. Must avoid premature consumption. Must deliver its message.

This is blood. This

(…)

is jazz.

The pink is humbled by its own fragile existence, feeding only on the energy of its fear. It is fear that motivates it, fear urging it to complete some unknown transformation or transaction, to become something brand new, something bold, a pocket of strength from a thing recently weak, a garment extraordinary from unremarkable plain cloth. The pink dives downward, elongating and thinning in shape as it accelerates, occasionally pausing to dance, to hesitate and waver, investigating; cautiously, gracefully, to trip and glide, to swoop and soar, to make its own way, to devise its own type of existence; joy, pain, heartache, triumph.

Its initial sense of longing for familiar pain evaporates quickly as it grows accustomed to a freedom of movement it had never known in the veins of Buddy Bolden. Its form changes at whim of speed and current-there is no recklessness in this movement for there is nothing to lose. It is a wondrous thing, this elasticity of form.

The deeper it travels, the darker its surroundings become-and the more defined the lights. Lights. These are the lights of the dead; souls unknown to blood.

Unknown to blood, this blood, this song en utero .

The cloud of red is no longer what it was. It has reached the Spiritworld. It is home at last. Through water it will touch the world. Its time will come soon. It cannot die. But immortality carries a price.

What is sacrificed is a thing newly absent from the soul of Buddy Bolden.

On the morning that Marcus Nobody Special buried the small body of West Bolden, the sky was slightly overcast and the air oddly unmoist for New Orleans, a comfort downright uncomfortable in a community so accustomed to discomfort. As if to make up for the oversight, the night brought a distinct chill.

Diphtheria had locked herself in her room at Arlington House since hearing the bad news, shutting herself off from the world just as Hattie had done in the wake of her cure. To work the parlor would feel inappropriate at the least and pointless at best. Old customers and friends had come to call, to pay respects and sympathies, but sharing grief and chit-chat were things she didn’t feel much up to. The only person she’d allowed comfort from was Hattie-and mostly because Hattie had put up with her own forceful sympathies in recent weeks.