Read Online Jack of Diamonds by Bryce Courtenay - Free Book Online
Authors: Bryce Courtenay
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name and address.’
‘So, what’s her real name? It can’t really be Miss Frostbite, can it?’
‘To tell the truth, Jack, I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But her customers call her Fairy Floss. So do those young people you saw standing outside, listening to the jam session. It’s a name I believe she got from the soldiers in the Great War when she was a nightclub singer. She was young and very beautiful then. She still plays the piano; she’s got an act with an old black guy. I’m told it’s very good, but not jazz. I haven’t seen or heard it. It’s not a part of the afternoon jam session.
‘Doing her couches is how I got to know about the jam sessions. She insists her musicians practise every afternoon. It’s become a ritual. Late summer afternoons and early evenings, lots of people gather, young ones mostly, but not all, some like me. They come directly from their work. Those we saw today probably don’t have jobs. We’re all true jazz lovers, the brothers and sisters.’
‘Miss Frostbite doesn’t mind? You said she was hard as nails.’
‘Nah, I think Miss Frostbite does it just for us, the fans standing outside. When I was doing the upholstery, I once heard her telling a visiting musician how much she loves jazz, that it’s in her heart and soul. He was an American saxophone player. I reckon she invented these afternoon rehearsals to bring jazz to Toronto. She wants everyone to enjoy jazz. She wouldn’t stop them for anything. She knows most of her paying patrons prefer her two-piano act with the old guy, they don’t come to hear the jazz. She and the old guy perform twice a night for almost an hour, and the jazz is just in between. But she’d never admit she’s being kind and generous to the brothers and sisters outside. I expect it’s a tough job running a nightclub and she don’t want to be seen to be someone you can take advantage of.’
I didn’t quite know how to ask my next question. I had read Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Mom and I had cried and cried, but I was, of course, too young to see it as an indictment of racial prejudice. So although I knew about black slavery in America, I never connected it with Canada because, as far as I knew, we didn’t have slaves. Still, even at the age of eight, I knew that most white Canadians didn’t have a good word to say about anyone who wasn’t white. My dad’s opinion of black people was probably very little different from that of most people in Cabbagetown and perhaps the rest of Canada. Asians – ‘Japs and Chinks’ – as well as Indians from the subcontinent, were all considered to be a lower form of life by most white Canadians. My dad called black people ‘Dirty fuckin’ niggers’. So how then could Miss Frostbite invite black musicians to play in the Jazz Warehouse? Wouldn’t people object? If we were going to be brothers and sisters and talk from the side of our mouths and be make-believe black men, was that maybe against the law or something?
‘You said black musicians come from America to play.’
‘Yeah, guest artists.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘You mean segregation?’
I’d never heard the word segregation before.
‘It means keeping coloured people out of restaurants and other places,’ he explained, seeing my puzzled expression.
‘Yeah. My dad calls them niggers and says they’re scum, the lowest.’
‘Yeah, well, you see, that’s just people. Miss Frostbite don’t buy it. Nosirree, she don’t! In the entrance to the Jazz Warehouse she has this notice.’ He sketched the lines in the air as he spoke.
‘Warning!
When you enter
the Jazz Warehouse
you become colour blind!’
That’s what I liked about Mac. As he’d promised, he talked to me like we were buddies and I was a grown-up and not some dumb kid. I was grateful for all the reading I’d done because it made me quite a good grown-up talker. Besides, my mom and I always spoke to each other as equals.
We arrived
‘So, what’s her real name? It can’t really be Miss Frostbite, can it?’
‘To tell the truth, Jack, I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But her customers call her Fairy Floss. So do those young people you saw standing outside, listening to the jam session. It’s a name I believe she got from the soldiers in the Great War when she was a nightclub singer. She was young and very beautiful then. She still plays the piano; she’s got an act with an old black guy. I’m told it’s very good, but not jazz. I haven’t seen or heard it. It’s not a part of the afternoon jam session.
‘Doing her couches is how I got to know about the jam sessions. She insists her musicians practise every afternoon. It’s become a ritual. Late summer afternoons and early evenings, lots of people gather, young ones mostly, but not all, some like me. They come directly from their work. Those we saw today probably don’t have jobs. We’re all true jazz lovers, the brothers and sisters.’
‘Miss Frostbite doesn’t mind? You said she was hard as nails.’
‘Nah, I think Miss Frostbite does it just for us, the fans standing outside. When I was doing the upholstery, I once heard her telling a visiting musician how much she loves jazz, that it’s in her heart and soul. He was an American saxophone player. I reckon she invented these afternoon rehearsals to bring jazz to Toronto. She wants everyone to enjoy jazz. She wouldn’t stop them for anything. She knows most of her paying patrons prefer her two-piano act with the old guy, they don’t come to hear the jazz. She and the old guy perform twice a night for almost an hour, and the jazz is just in between. But she’d never admit she’s being kind and generous to the brothers and sisters outside. I expect it’s a tough job running a nightclub and she don’t want to be seen to be someone you can take advantage of.’
I didn’t quite know how to ask my next question. I had read Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Mom and I had cried and cried, but I was, of course, too young to see it as an indictment of racial prejudice. So although I knew about black slavery in America, I never connected it with Canada because, as far as I knew, we didn’t have slaves. Still, even at the age of eight, I knew that most white Canadians didn’t have a good word to say about anyone who wasn’t white. My dad’s opinion of black people was probably very little different from that of most people in Cabbagetown and perhaps the rest of Canada. Asians – ‘Japs and Chinks’ – as well as Indians from the subcontinent, were all considered to be a lower form of life by most white Canadians. My dad called black people ‘Dirty fuckin’ niggers’. So how then could Miss Frostbite invite black musicians to play in the Jazz Warehouse? Wouldn’t people object? If we were going to be brothers and sisters and talk from the side of our mouths and be make-believe black men, was that maybe against the law or something?
‘You said black musicians come from America to play.’
‘Yeah, guest artists.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘You mean segregation?’
I’d never heard the word segregation before.
‘It means keeping coloured people out of restaurants and other places,’ he explained, seeing my puzzled expression.
‘Yeah. My dad calls them niggers and says they’re scum, the lowest.’
‘Yeah, well, you see, that’s just people. Miss Frostbite don’t buy it. Nosirree, she don’t! In the entrance to the Jazz Warehouse she has this notice.’ He sketched the lines in the air as he spoke.
‘Warning!
When you enter
the Jazz Warehouse
you become colour blind!’
That’s what I liked about Mac. As he’d promised, he talked to me like we were buddies and I was a grown-up and not some dumb kid. I was grateful for all the reading I’d done because it made me quite a good grown-up talker. Besides, my mom and I always spoke to each other as equals.
We arrived
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