Tom Piazza - A Free State

Henry rose to his feet and, milking the moment, shuffled slowly in his old-fashioned Sweeney costume, carrying the banjo to the front of the stage, wearing a frightened, cretinous expression. I have thought about that moment many times since. Looking out at the expectant crowd, he allowed his features to relax out of the idiotic expression and into one of complicity with the audience. Hefting the banjo into position, he began a very simple pattern, stroking down twice on a low string with his index fingernail, and then plucking once on the short, high string with his thumb, leaving the strings open. Then he fretted one note, keeping the pattern, then choking a string to create two notes out of one stroke. He brought this pattern up to speed, adding notes and beats until what he played became a cat’s cradle of juggled rhythms. Then, with this machine spinning, out of the middle of it he brought, with all the rest of it going on simultaneously, a melody, which all recognized as “Massa’s in de Cold, Cold Ground.” But that song was usually sung as a lament; here it was set out in comic relief, its serious cadences mocked by the rhythmic filigree surrounding and teasing it. A voice from the audience exclaimed “ That ties it! ” and a swell of agreement rose as Henry lowered himself to one knee, still playing, raising the banjo up like a mother offering a child to a priest, then lowering it back to its normal position and rising once more to his feet, all the while still playing.

The hall erupted in shouts and applause. Finally Henry doubled the tempo, inserting a compact fireworks display of triplets, staggered rhythms, reversed patterns, and, on the last beat, raised the banjo as if it were a rifle, and in place of the final note whacked on the banjo’s head with the flat of his hand as if he had fired the gun. Finished, he let his features slide back into uncomprehending vacancy as the audience rose as one, whistling, clapping, and stomping on the floor. Without acknowledging the crowd, Henry turned and shuffled back to his chair.

It took a full two minutes for the audience to begin to quiet down, and then only after Henry walked slowly back to the front of the stage and reprised the final part of his performance, this time sinking to both knees and bending backward before standing back up, playing all the while.

No individual number could follow this, of course, so we launched into the final ensemble number, “Clare de Kitchen,” which did manage to rouse the audience, although every member was watching the unpredictable Demosthenes, seated once again at the rear, stage right, motionless, while the merriment went on in front. At the very last chorus, Henry shot to his feet and started dancing to the rhythm and playing banjo at the same time, and this pushed the crowd over the edge. When the curtain came down in front of us, we sat staring at it, stunned — I as much as any of us. Gilman came back and told us in great haste to do an encore. A sound like a stampede was making the curtain vibrate in ripples; the crowd was clearly beating on the very stage boards.

Hurriedly we regrouped, set ourselves, and the curtain rose as we launched into a reprise of “Clare de Kitchen” and the ungodly din grew even louder. The audience forced us to repeat this three times, and each time they would not stop until Henry gave out with a new dance.

When the crowd’s appetite had finally been satisfied and the curtain stayed down, the members of the Virginia Harmonists remained seated for a long minute or two, listening to the hubbub of conversation and footsteps out front as the audience made its way to the lobby. The general effect was that of having had a tornado rip through your house while you were eating dinner.

“Well,” I said.

The fellows congratulated Juan García, and I translated. Henry sat, smiling and nodding and saluting the members. Only Mulligan kept silent, watching Henry closely. When he finally spoke, he did so without taking his eyes off of Henry.

“Some fucking Spaniard,” Mulligan said. “Pure instinct. What’s your real name, Juan?”

“Careful, Mulligan,” I said. “These Mexicans are hot-blooded.”

“Oh, rot,” Mulligan said, standing up. “ Rot . And that’s no Spanish I’ve ever heard, either.” He walked offstage.

I told the rest of the fellows that I would see them back at the dressing room. When they had left, I was about to speak to Henry in English, barely able to contain my excitement, when Gilman appeared, walking quickly toward us. “Well!” he said. “Well! You, sir, raised the devil himself tonight,” heading straight for Henry to shake his hand. “You are a marvel.”

“He doesn’t speak English,” I said.

“Oh, my. Well, I’m sorry. Bother English, then. Douglass — this man will be part of the show from now on, yes? Please assure me of this immediately. We very nearly had a riot. My Lord. .” Turning to Henry again, he took Henry’s hand and said, with genuine emotion, “My congratulations, you are a great artist. Please come back.” He turned back to me. “Please.”

“Yes,” I said, “of course. Absolutely.”

“Excellent, most excellent. A reporter was in the house tonight, by the way, Douglass. From the Bee . Let’s see if we receive a notice.” He didn’t seem to know where to put himself. Indicating Henry, he said, “Please convey my admiration to him.”

“Oh, I’m sure he gets the message,” I said.

“By the way,” the manager added, to me directly, “if Burke duns me for money again I’ll cut off his balls and mail them back to his mother in her Galway whorehouse. Be kind enough to inform him.”

“I will let him know,” I said, cheerfully.

“Yes. Well. .” Turning again to Henry, he said, “I hope we will see you tomorrow night.”

Henry grinned back, nodded, and shook the manager’s hand, and Gilman left the stage.

Henry removed his hat, which was soaked through. A line of lighter skin appeared across his forehead where the cork had come off. His expression was transcendent. “How was that?”

“How was it? Dear God. I don’t see how we will be able to appear again without you. Mulligan is somewhat out of sorts — understandably, I’d say. But he will get over it. He’s not really a bad fellow. Did you have all of that kneeling and what-not planned out?”

“No!” Henry said. “I thought of it right then.” Now that it was over he could barely stand still with excitement.

“The falling-asleep was a touch of genius. All right,” I said, “let’s get ourselves out of here and repair to Dietmeyer’s for a restorative. I have a feeling the Spanish masquerade will not have a long run, but we may as well maintain it as long as we can.” I was beside myself. My gamble would pay the needed dividends; that was clear. We went our separate ways to clean up — myself to the dressing room, and Henry to Rose’s workroom. Ten minutes later we walked out the service entrance, into the secret alley and, beyond it, the triumphal night.

Word of the new attraction at Barton’s spread immediately. We were not able to add Henry to the official program until the following week because of a contract with a brother-and-sister singing team from Kreutbaden, ten-year-old twins with whose management — that is, their parents — we had signed a very Prussian contract. Our audiences made their impatience felt, and we had special posters printed up and notices placed, proclaiming the return of Demosthenes Jones on the next weekend.

There were logistical questions to work out. The problem of how to get Henry in and out of the theater with his banjo without drawing attention I partially solved by acquiring a second banjo for him that we would keep at Barton’s. He would not leave his own banjo there; he liked playing it at night, he said, and practicing. We agreed, early on, that he would stop playing on the streets, as well. The possibility that someone might note a similarity between his street-corner prowess and the new sensation at Barton’s was too much to risk.