Paris in May. D. Grey

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ queried John.

      “I don’t know,” answered Ken. “Give the girl a chance. Tonight you can be generous. Both of us are having a good night.” He glanced at the pickle jar as proof that the night had been a good one.

      Fat John smiled and said, “Let her rip.”

      After a brief break to answer the biological imperative, Ken returned to the piano and motioned to the hopeful singer to sit with him on the bench. As she moved toward him, he could see she was a lady having a slightly understated sense of style with a graceful flow that suggested an updated Katharine Hepburn. When she sat down, he was introduced to her face, which was stunning. With shoulder-length hair partially covering one eye, it was clear that she was channeling Veronica Lake. She looked Asian with an exquisitely beautiful face and a body to be noticed.

      “What’s your name, and what would you like to sing?” asked Ken.

      “My name is Wen Lee, and just for the record, I do not fancy myself a chanteuse. I’m not really a singer. I like to sing, but my instrument is the harp. I’ve been playing my entire life. Jazz has invaded my ears, and my body and mind are learning to embrace it. I think singing will help me.”

      “I happen to agree, Wen Lee. So you, like me, are a musician. Good! What would you like to sing? I might be able to play it.”

      “Do you know Lil Armstrong’s ‘Just for a Thrill’?”

      “I’m impressed,” said Ken.

      “Why?”

      “One, because few people know who she is, and two, because of the people who have heard of her, even fewer know she wrote that song.”

      After they chose the key and the tempo, Ken played a simple intro before Wen Lee hit an Armstrong-inspired “Just for a Thrill” with a blues inflection that stopped all conversation and gave Ken great phrasing to improvise behind. It was a stunning surprise, a moment that would transform Fat John’s corner dive into a legitimate jazz spot and establish a relationship between Wen Lee and Ken that would last a lifetime.

      Because of that night, Fat John gave the place a fresh coat of paint, hung pictures of jazz greats on the walls, stopped watering down drinks, and had an open mic for singers on Wednesdays and Sundays. With some prodding, he hired Ken as the house piano player on open mic nights. On other nights, he booked young instrumentalists and gave groups a chance to play for modest pay. Fat John’s became the place to hear up and coming talent. On Wednesday nights, it was always crowded because that was the night when Ken Carle and Wen Lee would put their musical love affair on display for all to see. In an obtuse reference to Charley Chan, Fat John always referred to Wen Lee and Ken Carle as number one daughter and number one son.

      When Ken was not playing at Fat John’s, two evenings a week were spent eight blocks away playing at an upscale Italian restaurant called Fiori Di Campo. The restaurant was a family-owned and operated business for thirty years, but time had tired the first generation, and the children were now running it. The food continued to be old-world excellent; however, the children wanted to update the atmosphere and décor. Along with the decorative changes, a piano was added.

      Shortly after Ken moved to New York from Hartford, his mother visited from Maryland. She made reservations at Fiori Di Campo on the recommendation of a friend, and there they greeted each other. She told him of the plans to sell the farm and move. Yes, it was a difficult decision, but she and Ken’s father had passed the time in their lives when the farm was neither an important asset or a joy. William, Ken’s brother, had started his career as a lawyer on the West Coast, and he, Ken, was now in New York pursuing a career in music. Life had changed, as it most often does, and it was now time for them to prepare for that change. The details would unfold in time. As for Ken’s current state of affairs?

      “No, Mother, I don’t need any money. So far, I’m doing okay.”

      “Are you sure, sweetheart?” She reached into her purse.

      “Mother, stop. I appreciate how you feel and I love you for it, but at the moment, I need no help. If I ever do, you and Father will be the first to know.”

      “Kenneth? Have you found a lady friend?”

      “I may not be ready for a girlfriend, Mother. But I have found someone I’m quite fond of.”

      “What’s her name?”

      “Her name is Lee, and she is a harp player of extraordinary ability.”

      The next hour was filled with more mother-son chatter, and eventually it became clear that the loving guidance and care that had been the center of their relationship had come to an end. What Ken’s mother knew how to say to her son was no longer relevant or welcome. This fact was almost impossible to accept, but being a realistic woman, she rose to embrace Ken’s reality, hugged her son, and taxied back to her life without him. As she traveled back to the St. Regis, the city seemed silent and dull, as if in mourning. While she prepared for an evening at the opera, she became fully aware that she had just crossed the threshold to a new stage in her life. Her primary focus would have to change.

      *****

      As his mother stepped into the cab to leave, Ken walked back into Fiori Di Campo and asked if they needed a piano player.

      “The boss is not here, but if you want to wait, she’ll be here in a minute.”

      Ken sat at the four-stool bar next to the piano and sipped a beer. Before long, the manager of Fiori di Campo strolled into the restaurant and said a word to the maître d’, who nodded in Ken’s direction.

      “Hi! I’m Maria Fattore. This is my family’s restaurant. I manage it. What can I do for you?”

      “I’m Ken Carle, a piano player. You have an instrument, and nobody is playing it. Would you like someone to play it?”

      “We put the piano in hoping to have live music, but we have not gotten around to it yet. We don’t even know what kind of music we want.”

      “I can play almost any kind of music. So I’ll make you a deal. If I can play the music that blends with your idea of what would be nice in the restaurant, you will hire me two nights a week. However, if I can find music that fills the tables, you’ll give me a bonus.” Ken smiled at his own brazenness.

      “I’ll first have to hear you play, Mr. Carle.”

      “Is now an appropriate time, Ms. Fattore? Tell you what, I’ll play a tune of your choosing and then take requests from the few diners still here. If you and the diners like what you hear, we’ll talk further. If not, let me know.”

      “First of all, my name is Maria, and I got two conditions that need to be satisfied. I got to like the music, and it’s got to get asses in the seats.”

      “Give me a month working two nights a week. If business in general picks up enough to cover my pay or if it’s better the nights I play, you keep me on. If nothing changes, you don’t need me.”

      “All this sounds very reasonable,” said Maria. “But I don’t want any contracts or written agreements. If you can agree to that, we’ve got a deal.”

      The next few minutes were spent negotiating Ken’s nightly pay. Finally he sat at the piano and for thirty minutes played in a variety of styles. He took requests and got applause СКАЧАТЬ