Memories on a Bird
by Al Malers
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Now, why ‘on’ the bird and not ‘of’ the bird?”
“To make it even dumber, probably...”
“Okay, man, it’s all clear to me now. You are an idiot who, instead of doing something useful in his life, paints the stupidest pictures in the world and comes up with the stupidest names in the universe for them. Magnifique, Matt, seriously.”
“Don’t get mad, please, brother, I was joking.” Cigarette Butt waves his hand conciliatorily. “I just don’t like how ‘of’ sounds.”
“You don’t like it, do you? Well, of course, I should’ve guessed it right away! You know, this ‘of’ seems kind of suspicious to me, too. Yes, Matt, that explains it all. Everything. Except one thing. What exactly is drawn here?
“Nothing. I told you.”
“Then why do you—”
“Barry, there’s no me. And it doesn’t matter why.”
“Then what does matter?”
“You. What you see. And what you feel.”
Barry swallows, but his mouth is dry and his throat immediately starts to hurt.
“And what am I supposed to see?” he asks.
“Anything. Music, for example.”
“Yes, you’re definitely kidding me. I don’t see any music, only lines, stripes and blots. And no one, I swear to you, Mathieu-de-Whatever, no one in the whole world will see even a hint of music here!
“That’s right. Music cannot be seen.”
“You know, I guess I’ll go. The night’s still young, and I’m already starting to sober up. Good luck, Cigarette Butt. Take care of yourself, if you can. Here’s five bucks. Buy yourself a drink. Oh, I forgot, you don’t drink. Buy some paint then. And paint something nice, for God’s sake! Something that makes sense.”
“And what about the music?”
“I’ve already wasted too much of my time on it.”
“It’s okay. But for a moment I thought that you... Never mind.”
“You thought what?”
“That you were different. Not like all of them. There, in the bar, when you asked me my real name, I thought: ‘This guy’s good. I can show him my paintings if he wants. And maybe he will hear his music in them.’ No, it’s fine. Go, if you have to. Jimmy’s still open and he’ll pour you his best swill ever. I’ll stay here. I need to tidy up a bit.”
“Look, buddy, I’m—”
“Don’t be. I said it’s okay.”
* * *
There is a small skewed window under the ceiling, but you can hardly see anything from it. Silhouettes of cars rush past, from time to time, carelessly smearing the dirty neon of a musty second-class street along the road. A small funny man with half-wet red hair stands in front of a quiet canvas and intensely peers at the colors, and they peer back at him in silent anticipation. The street is noisy, and it is difficult to concentrate.
“Fine.” He rubs his forehead. “Two orange stripes? What are they supposed to mean?”
“What do you think?”
Another car drives past the window and honks displeasedly into the almost burnt-out twilight.
Barry looks away from the picture. “Trumpets?”
“Yeah.”
“But why is one of them crooked?”
“Why?”
“Out of tune?”
Barry’s eyebrows fly up over the bridge of his nose and almost touch his wiry red hair. He looks incredulously, first at the painting, then at the artist, not understanding what game they are both playing with him.
“It sure is.” Cigarette Butt gives a faint smile, and the street outside the window smiles along with him.
“The musician got drunk and doesn’t hit the notes!” Barry turns to him to see if he guessed it right.
“But the second one’s doing better, right?”
“I think so... And what’s this? Here, black and yellow dots? Theoretically, there should be an organ. A Hammond organ?”
“No way!” Cigarette Butt shakes his head. “Where could this shabby jazz band possibly get the money for an organ? It’s an old rattling piano with a broken pedal.”
“And the D of the third octave sinks.” Barry nods.
“It’s C sharp...”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Agree. They’re doing awful anyway.”
“I can’t make out the rhythm... Those squares in the background, that’s it, right? Resembles swing to me. The proportion is definitely shifted, isn’t it, Matt?”
“Quite primitive, but who needs complex patterns these days?” Cigarette Butt continues to smile.
“Sounds arrogant. You know, Matt, I’m starting to like it.”
“It’s good. Because for a second I thought I’d failed it again.”
“So how did it all end? This music, I mean. Satisfied audience screaming and asking for an encore? Although this dark blue blot at the very bottom confuses me a little. Did he really...”
“I think yes...”
“The trumpeter!” Barry slaps himself on the forehead with a huge, sloppy, crab-like palm. “He was so drunk he couldn’t stay on his feet and fell off the stage! Right in front of everyone!”
“But he almost made it to the end. I think it’s commendable, considering his condition.”
“It’s probably not the first time for him. But where’s the bird, Matt?”
“Here.”
“What do you mean — here? Or... His nickname! Bird. Of course, no one will call this always-drunk loser by his full name. Barry Zielinski would be suitable for a businessman but not for an unknown musician who can’t even hit the notes.
“Listen, Cigarette Butt, listen to me carefully, because I haven’t told this to anyone yet and I don’t think I ever will. I also once had a trumpet. About... let me think... fifteen... seventeen years ago. You know, I was given quite a lot of money for my Bar Mitzvah. Of course, my father took most of it and said it would be used for my education, but I managed to save some.
“At first, I wanted to buy myself a watch on a chain, but then I just went to Greenwich Village and chose a trumpet at the first store I came across. I don’t know why, I just liked it and it looked much better than any watch. Leslie, our neighbor, knew about such things and he said it was a pretty decent instrument, not the best in the world, of course, but suitable for a beginner. He gave me a tutorial and let me into his garage so that I could practice there in peace.
“At home we were strictly forbidden to make noise. Only once a week, on Sundays, after Shabbos was over, my father turned on the gramophone, and for an hour and a half we all listened to his beloved Rachmaninov. Third Concerto, if my memory serves me right. I hate him! Rachmaninov, I mean. Total narcissism. Music for music’s sake. I wanted to play something different, something that doesn’t make you yawn at the first chords.
“So, I started learning. First by myself, and then, in a couple of years, I sometimes stayed after classes at school, with our music teacher, Miss Lynn. She was very young and way too attractive for a high-school teacher, and she said I had a talent for music. She gave me lessons, and I was totally head over heels with her.
“After another year or so, I could play quite complicated pieces, you know, Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Clifford Brown, that sort of stuff. Did I tell my father about it? No. Anyways, he was too busy bringing his business back to life after the war, so we all didn’t see him too often. I thought I’d make him a surprise one day.
“So, in our final year at school we managed to put together a band with some boys from my class. We had a trumpet, a trombone, a clarinet, drums and, guess what, Matt? Miss Lynn, the music teacher, she was our invited pianist! She even talked to the principal, and he allowed us to perform at our prom.
“I was so proud of myself because in one of the pieces I had a solo, a very difficult one, and it was supposed to blow up the hall. We played at the end of the first part, with all the parents and teachers, and it was a very responsible matter. After we finished, I came up to my mum and dad, and Miss Lynn came with me, too, and she told them that I did great and that she was so proud of me. She said I’d become a great musician one day.
“And my father smiled. There was something in this smile.... Something I didn’t like. But I was too excited to pay attention. And he told her he’d make sure I became what I deserved.
“We stayed at school until dawn and I invited Miss Lynn for a dance a couple of times. We only danced, we didn’t even kiss or anything. She said that now that I was not her student anymore, I could call her Daisy. And I could come and visit her someday. I thought I’d bring her a bouquet of daisies, and who knows where it would take us. It was truly the best night of my life, Matt, I know what I’m talking about.
“I came home in the morning, and he — my father — he was sitting in the living room, as if he’d never gone to bed at all. I was drunk, and my eyes and cheeks were burning, and under my arm I was holding my trumpet, which by some miracle I hadn’t left at school. I asked him if he liked the way we played, and he... Matt, he reached out and took it. He just took my trumpet and squeezed it in his fist, like a chicken with a broken neck, and then quietly, yes, quietly, he looked me in the eyes and said that no Zielinski would ever be a beggar or a clown. He took it from me, Matt. Forever. And he called Miss Lynn — Daisy — a slut who had no moral principles.
“A couple of months later, I received a letter from Columbia University, and I became a student. And next year my parents introduced me to Bella. She was a decent Jewish girl, as they said, honest and obedient, a perfect future mother of our decent Jewish children. I’m a big man now. Big shot. They call me ‘boss’ or ‘honcho,’ but no one ever calls me ‘Bird.’ What was I supposed to do, Matt? What would you do in my place?”
“Everyone is in their place, Barry.”
“Shut up, I know everything myself. I never became Bird. But this picture... It’s as if it was painted for me. From me. At that prom, Matt, it was the last time I was the real me... Ah, whatever! I’ll buy this painting from you, no matter how much it costs. You don’t mind, I hope?” Bird looks desperately at Cigarette Butt.
“It’s your bird now, brother, and your memories. Do whatever you want with them.”
Bird reaches into his pocket with his huge crab hand. “Two Benjamins, Matt, it’s all I have with me. And a couple of bucks for delivery. Monteleone Hotel in the French Quarter, everyone knows it. Bring it there, okay?”
“Okay, brother. Two hundred bucks? You sure?”
“My father would’ve killed me for such wastefulness. So yes, I’m sure.”
Barry doesn’t find the hand extended for the money and simply plops it on a greasy board, which, apparently, serves as a table. Then he takes one last look at the painting and walks towards the door.
“The rain’s almost over, isn’t it, Matt?”
“Still drizzling, I think.”
“Okay.”
The door slams, and four heavy muffled steps are heard behind it. The room takes on its former calm appearance, as if there was no music here a few minutes ago. The rain has almost died out; a few more final chords, and it will leave the street stage, cast down like an elderly musician who’s never received his applause.
Mathieu stands for some time in front of the painting, which no longer belongs to him, and then, with a sharp movement of his right hand, he opens the chest of drawers and takes out a half-empty bottle of Beam whiskey. He twirls it in his hands for a few seconds and gives a quiet sigh of either longing or relief. Then he opens it and takes a sip straight from the cold neck. Now, a cigarette.
The two hundred-dollar bills still lie on the table, and Mathieu occasionally glances at them, as if afraid that they will disappear. Suddenly, he grabs the money, pulls his head into his shoulders and bursts through the doorway towards the young New Orleans night.
* * *
Switching to coda. In jazz, this is called a “tag.” Ending. Climax. Dénouement.
The bar across the street is still open, although there are almost no customers left. Jimmy is standing behind the counter, constantly tossing a nickel into the air with his thumbnail.
“Ah, Mathieu, old man! Got it done so quickly?”
“Yeah, man. Nice and quick.”
“And my commission?”
Mathieu rummages in his pockets. “Is ten enough?”
“Depends how much he gave you.”
“Two hundred, Jim. Two hundred damn bucks!”
“Seriously?!”
“Yeah. Okay, here’s twenty. And pour me a splash from that bottle. It’s, of course, no great shakes of a booze, but you still have nothing better.”
“As you say, Mathieu. At the expense of the establishment, as usual. My God, man! Two hundred bucks! And what did you sell him for this money?”
“Well, Jim, to be honest, I still can’t put my finger on it... Bought it a couple of months ago from some hobo at the River Road market. I think I bargained for fifteen bucks, or even less. Quite a profit, I’d say.”
“Not bad at all. But still, Mathieu, don’t you think that he... overpaid a little?”
“I’ll tell you what, Jim. Everyone carries something within themselves that they have to pay for throughout their lives. This guy, Barry, I think he even got off cheap.”
“Right. And what was there? In the picture, I mean.”
“I have no idea, man, honestly. I’ve told you hundred times, I don’t know anything about art.”
Copyright © 2024 by Al Malers
