“I want you to tell me.”
“We all know people don’t just steal money,” Marielle said. “They can go after your confidence, your happiness, even your luck. Your father stole something valuable, all right, but much of the artwork was worth more than Bolden’s cylinder. He stole the thing Sammy treasured most. A part of his musical soul. A link to all the trumpeters who preceded him, back to Bolden, and all the cylinder’s caretakers. If Owen had stolen anything else, Sammy would have been angry, but it wouldn’t have cut so deep. He was having trouble with his heart, and I know this was what did him in. As for Browne, his role isn’t as innocent as he suggests. He conveniently changed one part of the story: Valentine Owen went to him before he stole the cylinder, not afterward. Instead of turning him away, or warning Sammy, Browne encouraged him to steal it. Later he told me he had no idea Owen had stolen the cylinder, but that’s a lie. They plotted it together. He agreed to pay Owen a huge amount and then cover his tracks for him. He advanced him a chunk of cash. But once he had stolen the cylinder, Owen tried to shake Browne down, doubling his price. I was surprised a man like Browne didn’t see that coming. Then Owen took off with Browne’s money and the cylinder. Browne sent a man named Nate Kane after him.”
“Was Kane the one who left him to die in the woods?”
“No one left him there. Owen drove there himself. Kane never caught up with him. He had nothing to do with his death.” She paused. “I sent your father into those woods.”
“You?”
“Ruby, I can’t look you in the eye and tell you I regret what I did, because I don’t. But you deserve to know what happened. I was here in New York, in my apartment, the night he died,” Marielle went on, weighing her words, “but I might as well have been in New Hampshire. I knew exactly what was going to happen. I could see it happening. The power of suggestion, properly directed, can override every instinct in a man, including his own preservation. In New Orleans we called it casting spells. Remember? Earlier that evening, I brewed Valentine Owen a cup of columbine broth with tamarind.”
“How did you find him?” Devon said.
“My friends in the police department helped out. A detective named Gus, who had become an inspector by then. Owen was holed up at the Raleigh, a gloomy hotel on Fortieth Street. Two detectives staked out his room, and Gus called and told me to meet him there. I took my broth in a thermos. When Owen got off the elevator, the detectives grabbed him and took him to his room. I asked Gus and his men to wait in the hall while I went in to Owen. I made Owen drink the broth and told him exactly where he had to go and what he had to do. I repeated it to him several times, gave him more broth, and we sent him on his way. I was glad to take my revenge—I’m still glad. And you have to forgive me for that, Ruby.”
“You don’t have to be forgiven for anything.”
“After that, I gave up all thought of finding you. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you how your father died and what he’d done. And what I’d done. I wouldn’t tell this story to anyone else, but you have a right to know. Before he died, Sammy suffered for days. Valentine Owen died in a single night. The New Hampshire state troopers found Browne’s money sewn into his coat. That’s how I confirmed that Browne knew about the theft.”
“What about Browne?” Ruby said. “Why haven’t you taken revenge on him?”
“Haven’t I? He’s been in that wheelchair for twenty-six years. He came down with MS after Sammy died. Of course, there was a history of it in his family,” she added dryly.
Devon realized that was all Marielle was going to say. It was all she needed to say. Her eyes met Devon’s.
“So you must still have the cylinder,” Devon said.
Marielle finished her tea. “Of course I do. I got it back from Owen before he drove to New Hampshire. It never left my house … until today.” She patted her handbag. “It’s right here.”
Devon was incredulous. “You’re serious.”
“I brought the Edison phonograph, too. I have a driver downstairs who’ll bring it up. It’s still hard for me to listen to the cylinder, but you can play it after I leave and then bring it to my house tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Ruby said.
“I was hoping you would come for dinner. Both of you.” Marielle looked at Devon. “And maybe you’ll show me what you can do on Sammy’s piano. Duke, Errol Garner—illustrious hands have touched those keys. You know, I said I couldn’t change what happened to Sammy, but there is something we can change after all these years. Sammy intended to release Bolden’s recording on an album with other rare music by a few of his contemporaries—Manuel Perez, George Baquet, the Tio brothers. After he was gone, I planned to produce it eventually, as a tribute to Bolden—and to Sammy. But, like Sammy, I kept putting it off. I was going to find someone to help me. You’re a musician, Devon, and you want to write about Bolden: I can’t think of a better candidate. Would you be willing?”
“But you hardly know me.”
“Oh, I think I do,” she smiled.
“I’d love to do it.”
“We’ll discuss it at dinner. Do you mind if I talk to your mother alone for a minute?”
When they were alone, Ruby took Marielle’s hand. “Thank you. She’s given up on her music. She’s had all kinds of trouble. And I haven’t been much help.”
“I believe you have, Ruby. You let her help you.”
NEW YORK CITY—DECEMBER 25, 1:00 A.M.
Suite 16-02 at the Pierre Hotel. It was snowing again, fine flakes sifting through the vast darkness that enveloped the park, the myriad streets, the frozen rivers between which the island was set like a gem. The lights of nearby buildings barely penetrated the thick fog. Buses had stopped running. Traffic signals were clicking through their sequences at empty intersections.
In her bedroom, Ruby was on the window seat in a robe, her legs tucked beneath her, watching the wind rattle the trees, grateful, finally, to be in the moment. It felt like a luxury—as did her exhaustion. She was ready to fall into bed again.
Devon had switched off the lamps in the sitting room and placed candles all around. They cast yellow plumes up the walls and left a pool of darkness at the center of the room, where she set the Edison phonograph. She uncapped the gold cylindrical box Willie Cornish had brought home one hundred and three years before. And as Marielle had instructed her, she fastened the brass horn, screwed the cylinder to the mandrel, tightened the worm gear, turned the crank, and applied the needle. There was a low hum and a hiss of static. And from out of the darkness, King Bolden’s cornet pierced the silence as he launched into the fiery opening bars of “Tiger Rag.” Devon was electrified, like every listener before her—beginning with the band, the engineers, and a beautiful girl named Ella. Bolden was at once precise and unpredictable, improvising wildly, dangerously, transforming but never abandoning the melodic line, stretching the piece to its limits without allowing it to spin away from him.
Ruby watched a taxi crawl downtown and stop across the street. Two girls got out, then a young man in a black coat and yellow scarf. Wearing white coats and hats, the girls were nearly invisible against the snow. The three of them slipped and slid beneath the bare trees, laughing as they passed around a bottle of champagne, until one of the girls stopped short. She raised her arms like a diver and fell backward, landing gracefully, extending her limbs in the snow and flapping them slowly, five, six times, until she formed a snow angel. Then her companions helped her up and brushed her off while she took a swig of champagne. The young man threw his arms around the girls and they walked to the corner and disappeared.
Down the hall, “Tiger Rag” was winding down. As Bolden careened through his final solo and held that last high B-flat in his hotel suite on Oleander Street, it reverberated throughout the suite on Fifth Avenue. Devon clapped softly. Ruby stood up to draw the drapes. And down below, beneath the streetlamp’s cone of light, the snow angel was filling up with falling snow.
In memory of my father
&
nbsp; who introduced me to early jazz early in my life,
and shared his passion
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Noah Eaker for the generous, meticulous care he provided this novel from its origin to its completion. His devotion was unflagging and my gratitude is enormous. I owe very special thanks to Susan Kamil for all her support and encouragement over the years. And as with all my books, I could not have written this one—especially this one—without the insights, faith, and love of my wife, Constance Christopher.
The following offered invaluable information, for which I am grateful: Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya, by Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff; Treat It Gentle, by Sidney Bechet; Satchmo, by Louis Armstrong; Jazz, by Gary Giddins and Scott DeVeaux; Historic Photos of New Orleans Jazz, text and captions by Thomas L. Morgan; Early Jazz, by Gunther Schuller; and, especially, In Search of Buddy Bolden: First Man of Jazz, by Donald M. Marquis.
By Nicholas Christopher
FICTION
Tiger Rag (2013)
The Bestiary (2007)
Franklin Flyer (2002)
A Trip to the Stars (2000)
Veronica (1996)
The Soloist (1986)
POETRY
Crossing the Equator:
New and Selected Poems 1972–2004 (2004)
Atomic Field: Two Poems (2000)
The Creation of the Night Sky (1998)
5° and Other Poems (1995)
In the Year of the Comet (1992)
Desperate Characters: A Novella in Verse (1988)
A Short History of the Island of Butterflies (1986)
On Tour with Rita (1982)
NONFICTION
Somewher in the Night:
Film Noir and the American City (1997)
EDITOR
Walk on the Wild Side: Urban American Poetry
Since 1975 (1994)
Under 35: The New Generation of
American Poets (1989)
About the Author
NICHOLAS CHRISTOPHER is the author of five previous novels, The Soloist, Veronica, A Trip to the Stars, Franklin Flyer, and The Bestiary; eight volumes of poetry, including Crossing the Equator: New and Selected Poems 1972–2004; and a nonfiction book, Somewhere in the Night: Film Noir and the American City. His novel for children, The True Adventures of Nicolò Zen, will be published in the coming year. Over the years, he has been a regular contributor to The New Yorker, Granta, The Paris Review, and other magazines. His work has been widely translated and published in other countries, and he has received numerous awards and fellowships, from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Academy of American Poets, the Poetry Society of America, and the National Endowment for the Arts, among other institutions. A professor in the School of the Arts at Columbia University, he lives in New York City.
Nicholas Christopher, Tiger Rag
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