Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ALBANY, AUGUST 1936
HAVANA, MARCH 12, 1957
ALBANY, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 5, 1968
Acknowledgements
ALSO BY WILLIAM KENNEDY
ALSO BY WILLIAM KENNEDY
FICTION
The Ink Truck
Legs
Billy Phelan’s Greatest Game
Ironweed
Quinn’s Book
Very Old Bones
The Flaming Corsage
Roscoe
NONFICTION
O Albany!
Riding the Yellow Trolley Car
WITH BRENDAN KENNEDY
Charlie Malarkey and the Belly-Button Machine
Charley Malarkey and the Singing Moose
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R oRL, England
First published in 2011 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © William Kennedy, 2011
All rights reserved
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Kennedy, William.
ChangÓ’s beads and two-tone shoes / William Kennedy.
p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54447-1
1. Journalists—Fiction. 2. Americans—Cuba—Fiction. 3. Cuba—History—1933 – 1959—Fiction. 4. Albany (N.Y.) Fiction. 5. Nineteen fifties—Fiction. 6. Nineteen sixties—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.E428C47 2011
813’.54—dc22 2011019764
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This book is for
Natalia Bolívar Aróstegui, Norberto Fuentes,
Peter O’Brien, Leon Van Dyke,
and
William Joseph Kennedy, Sr.
ALBANY, AUGUST 1936
Just because my hair is curly . . . No. My hair’s not curly, is what occurred to Quinn. The words must have come up and over the hall banister and eased their way into his sleep. Somebody is singing is what it is. Just because I always wear a smile . . . Quinn knew the voice. He opened his eyes to no daylight and he listened: ’Cause, I’m glad I’m livin’ . . .
Quinn threw back the sheet that covered him and stood up into the musical darkness. He was still dressed but no shoes. He found them and walked to the hallway and down to the first landing of the stairs where he could look through the uprights of the banister at whoever was singing in the parlor below. It wasn’t the radio, not a Victrola. Somebody in the house was singing. Just because my color’s shady . . .
“Bingo, you want the same?” somebody asked.
“Never change horses in a six-furlong race, Alex.” Was it Bingo who answered? Bingo was the singer. There were other men in the parlor: Alex, this was his house, a Negro man Quinn didn’t know, the one Alex calls Bingo, and one who was a stranger to Quinn. The front door opened and Quinn moved two steps down to see his father coming in with two more Negro men who were lifting a small piano over the threshold and onto the marble floor of the foyer.
“One upright piano comin’ at you, Alex,” George Quinn said.
“Into the parlor and behind the large sofa,” Alex said. He pulled a roll of money from his pants pocket and gave it to George, who divided it between the two Negroes. They went out.
“Nice going, George,” Alex said. “You did it.”
“Jimmy was glad to let us borrow it,” George said. “For that kind of money he can buy a new piano.”
Alex went to the bar and poured from a bottle, was it whiskey? He put it in five glasses and passed them out to the others. “To fast horses and beautiful women,” Alex said, raising his glass.
“Or beautiful horses and fast women,” Bingo said.
“Or fast horses and faster women,” the stranger said.
“You’re a speedy citizen, Max,” Bingo said.
“Should I find some beautiful women to join us?” Max asked.
“Patience, Max, patience,” Bingo said.
“This is one hell of a mansion you got here, Alex,” the Negro said.
“The pharaohs didn’t have it this good,” Bingo said.
“Where do we sleep?” the Negro asked.
“You’re in the guest house, Cody,” Alex said. “I’ll give you the tour.”
“I didn’t bring a toothbrush.”
“We’ve got extras.”
“You been here before, Bing?” Cody asked.
“Been to Albany but not in this manse.”
“Bing and I go back a couple of years in Saratoga,” Alex said. “My father bred thoroughbreds and Bing bought one of them.”
Bing, not Bingo.
“A nice horse,” Bing said, “not swift.”
Quinn knew Bing from the radio. Bing Crosby is really singing right here. A party.
“You were with Paul Whiteman,” George Quinn said.
“My traveling days,” Bing said.
“Whiteman got my brother-in-law fired from Riley’s,” George said. “Billy Phelan. Billy was dealing at the crap table and Whiteman asked him for five hundred cash for an IOU. He called Billy ‘sonny.’ ‘Give me five hundred, sonny.’ Billy wouldn’t give it to him and Whiteman said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ And Billy said, ‘Yeah, you’re the guy with that hillbilly band playing over at Piping Rock.’”
“Big Paul loved that,” Bing said.
“They fired Billy.”
“Too bad,” Bing said. “He had a good ear for hillbillies.”
“Music, Cody, we need music,” Alex said.
Cody carried a chair to the piano and sat down. He hit a chord and Bing sang a note and held it. He sang some words:“Just because my hair is curly,
Just because my teeth are pearly . . .”
Quinn looked at the five men, trying to understand this gathering. He jounced down a few steps. Bing sang:“Just because my color’s shady,”
Then Cody sang:“You’s a shady baby,”
Then Co
dy and Bing sang together:“That’s the reason, maybe,
Why they call me shine.”
Cody saw Quinn at the foot of the stairs and stopped playing. “Hey, whose little man are you?”
“That’s Danny, my little man,” George said. “He’s had to follow me around all day and all night. Peg had some work in Atlantic City.”
“Come on, join the party, Dan,” Cody said.
Quinn walked to his father, who put his arm around the boy’s head and squeezed.
“Howdy, Dan,” Bing said. He offered Danny a handshake.
Quinn shook hands and looked at all the men he only half knew. What were they doing? “You’re Bing,” he said.
“Hey, you been followin’ me? You been tappin’ my telephone?”
“I heard you on the radio.”
“Can’t deny it. I’ve been on the radio.”
“He stays up till your show is over,” George said.
“The boy will go far,” Bing said.
Quinn looked at Cody and thought he should also shake hands with him. “You’re going to stay in the guest house,” Quinn said.
“You got a lot of information on people,” Cody said.
“I like that song,” Quinn said. “Shine—what’s that?”
Nobody answered him.
“Shine,” Alex said, “like a shine on your shoes.”
“Or ‘Shine On, Harvest Moon,’” Bing said.
“Like the thing at the end of our kitchen light string,” George said. “It shines in the dark.”
“‘Shine’ ’s a song,” Cody said. “Bing recorded it with the Mills Brothers. You ever heard of the Mills Brothers?”
“No,” Quinn said.
“Well, you should,” Cody said. “Get your daddy to buy you their records.”
“Very great singers,” Bing said.
“‘Shine’ isn’t just a song,” Cody said.
“No,” said Bing. “It’s an insult. A bad word but a great song. The song turns the insult inside out.”
“What insult?” Quinn asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” George said.
“I got a boy like you,” Cody said. “He’s three. How old are you, Danny boy?”
“Eight.”
“My boy’s got five years to catch you.”
“Is he coming here tonight?” Quinn asked.
“No. He’s with his mama.”
“What’s his name?” Quinn asked.
“Roy. He’s a shine. Like me.”
“You’re a shine?” Quinn asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’ll tell you about it in the morning,” George said.
“Can you sing the song again?” Quinn asked.
“Sure can,” Bing said.
Cody turned back to the piano and he and Bing sang one chorus, then Cody played alone, his right hand roaming half the keyboard, his left hand showing how it could ramble, both hands flying at a furious speed that electrified Quinn, made him move his head and his hands and feet in ways he maybe never moved them before, seeing Cody’s racing fingers and hearing, even feeling, the humming sound Cody was making with his mouth.
And then Cody sang:“Bop bop a deep deep deep-a-deep dee . . .”
Then Bing sang:“Deet deet du duderidda bombom . . .
Doosaday sosadah spokety spone . . .
Bahnzay dreeeem doodlediddle diddle diddle diddle diddle ...
Dayddle-dayddle-deedle-dahddle seneday’s beem . . .
Dah day tour-it’s-in-his-dream . . .
Dig dig the deep peninsulate deem . . .”
Bing was funny and he sang fast, very, very fast, baby talk, crazy talk. Quinn couldn’t repeat a single word, except diddle, but Bing’s words must mean something. Quinn would have to find out. What good was there in secret language like that? Quinn couldn’t say. But it was a wonderful song and he loved its beat and its mystery and he loved Bing’s voice and Cody’s voice and his piano. He loved everything about what he was seeing and hearing. Loved it.
Max came out of a second parlor with a camera and took pictures of Cody and Bing. Then Cody played alone, breathing out loud, humming in time with his own tempos—a boogie-woogie beat, a plunge into a left-handed bass solo, a rushing, double-handed domination of the entire keyboard, no phrase unfinished, every note on the money, no such thing as a wrong note from the magical hands of a maestro who hummed and he hummed and then he hummed very hard and then he slowed, and Cody sang:“Just because my color’s shady,”
And Bing sang:“You’s a shady baby,”
Then they both sang:“That’s the reason, maybe,
Why they call me shine.”
Slam, bang.
The end.
Cody turned to look at Quinn. “Shine,” he said.
“Shine,” Quinn said, nodding and wanting to say what he didn’t know how to say, no words about those words, that music. “That was good.”
“Not too bad,” Cody said.
“It was great,” George said. “Great, great music. You may never hear anything like that again as long as you live, Danny.”
“Unless he hangs out with Cody and Bing,” Max said.
“Somebody’s got to record you, Cody,” Bing said.
“Oh, yeah, lotta people gonna record me,” said Cody, and he stood up. “Great playin’ for you, little man,” he said to Quinn. “You hear the music. You’re gonna be all right.”
HAVANA, MARCH 12, 1957
Quinn met Renata the same night he summoned the courage to talk to Hemingway. She too had come to El Floridita to see the great writer, in part because Alejo Carpentier, who was beginning to fall in love with her, spoke well of the man from their days in Paris and thought The Sun Also Rises was masterful. Renata had read much literature and believed she might one day write a novel and would feel stupid if she could have talked to a major living novelist but had not. She had seen Hemingway looking at paintings in the Palacio de Bellas Artes where she worked with artists, studied art, and served as a tour guide, a volunteer. She had no need for salaried work; her family owned two sugar mills on her father’s side and tobacco on her mother’s. Renata was twenty-three and for more than a year had been living a dual life: as an haute bourgeoise in the heady Cuban social swirl, and, clandestinely, as an associate of revolutionaries who were working to overthrow the government of Fulgencio Batista. One of her revolutionary friends had fought with the Republicans in Spain and later with the American army in World War Two; and he admired Hemingway for being unafraid to dodge bombs in the streets of Madrid. Her brother-in-law, Max, knew Hemingway and Max told her yes, if you approach him at the Floridita in the right way he may talk seriously to you, but it would be better if he was a few daiquiris in before you approached, for the rum brings out his friendly side; he has other sides and it’s better to wait for the rum to do its work so you can avoid those.
Quinn had been in the Floridita almost two hours. He’d been in Havana a week and had come to the Floridita three nights in a row to wait for Hemingway, who never turned up. Then tonight here came the man, alone. He sat on a barstool in his corner, a bronze bust of himself on a high shelf over the end of the bar, and he chatted with the bartender. But he also turned his back on two people who approached him. Quinn waited, and when he saw him smile and wave at someone across the room he decided this was the moment. He stood up and made eye contact and by the time he was standing in front of Hemingway he was saying, “I’m Daniel Quinn. I just quit the Miami Herald to write a novel and you’re responsible for me being out of a job. Does it bother you how many reporters you’ve led into poverty?”
“Did you eat today?” Hemingway asked, frowning with his eyes.
“I had breakfast.”
“You had breakfast and you’re drinking rum at the best bar in Havana and you’re crying poverty?”
“I was exaggerating to make a point.”
“Keep it up and soon you’ll have a novel,” Hemingway said.
His beard was white and so wa
s what was left of his hair, and he wore a white guayabera with long sleeves. He still had his stomach but he was thinner than his photos and no longer the robust fisherman with the great chest and big shoulders.
“I may overcome my poverty,” Quinn said. “The Time correspondent here may use me as a stringer. You think I can get an interview with Batista?”
“El Presidente hijo de la gran puta,” said Hemingway.
“You know him?”
“No thank you.”
“Will you write about him?”
“Not in this lifetime. What are you writing?”
“Grim stories about political exiles in Miami buying guns to send to Cuba,” Quinn said. “The grimness is redeemed by my simple declarative sentences.”
“Remove the colon and semicolon keys from your typewriter,” said Hemingway. “Shun adverbs, strenuously. What do you think of the woman who’s sitting at that far table?”
Quinn looked at the young brunette sitting at one of the square wooden tables, sharp nose, large black eyes, full lips in a curvaceous smile that was radiant, her black hair falling just below her shoulders and with a natural wildness in its curl. She was slender, in a white blouse, tan skirt, and sandals.
“She is spectacularly beautiful,” Quinn said. “I could fall in love with her right now. I might marry her.”
“The young man was last seen charging into the unknown at full speed,” Hemingway said, “a valiant but rash course of action. If you marry a woman like that, when do you write your novel?”
“After the honeymoon,” Quinn said.
“Who do you think she looks like?”
“Your daughter Ava Gardner.”