voice.
Andrew sauntered into the ovenlike mess hall. The compartment reeked of a mixture of fried potatoes, burnt chicken fat, and human sweat. He wandered through the rows of tables with his flute held chest high as he studied the remaining empty seats with a troubled scowl, trying to find the safest spot available.
He saw Grady sitting in the far corner with his head bent over a sheet of yellow paper, writing a letter. Andrew rambled toward him and swung into the next seat over. He glanced at Grady, as if noticing him for the first time. Grady offered him a relieved grin.
Cocoa played bridge at the next table with Stokes, Kelso, and Nash. Hudson was perched on a table in the center of a group of spellbound crewmen, chewing on a half-burned cigar and recounting what it was like at Pearl on that fateful day. Although he described the horrors of battle, he used tones that might be used to depict something thrilling, as if he were bragging about an alluring sexual conquest. His chest swelled, stretching his T-shirt tight across his pectorals. Each movement of his hands and each facial expression broadcasted his arrogance, even as his words tried to assume modesty.
Sailors gathered around Hudson like baby chicks huddled around their mother with open mouths. Even the old salts listened as they read novels, sewed, or played cards. Only Andrew ignored him. Only Andrew did not bow to his pride.
Andrew brought Jah-Jai to his lips and notes rippled across the smoke-filled room with a cheerful refrain.
Andrew’s snub visibly diminished Hudson’s dignity. Hudson raised his voice to drown out the flute’s melody, but Andrew continued to play, seemingly unaware of him. Hudson paused to stare. He gestured in Andrew’s direction with his stubby cigar held between two fingers. “Hey, rookie. Can that chink music.”
The room hushed. Every head swiveled toward Andrew. Hudson pulled out his Ronson, relit his cigar, and exhaled an authoritative puff of smoke in Andrew’s direction.
Andrew reminded himself of survival rule number one as he lowered Jah-Jai. “I’d hardly consider Mozart a chink. However, I can play Handel if you’d prefer. Is he racially acceptable to everyone?”
Mozart affected Andrew deeply. His spirits soared from the music and he realized that he was not being as cautious as he should be. He swallowed hard, noting a metal taste in his mouth.
Hudson’s face flared purple. “I’ll get a handle on your fucking balls if you keep playing that shit!” The bluster in his voice showed he meant what he said.
Laughter erupted around Andrew. Scornful laughter—what a penetrating thing it was. Giddy and gay and joyful, yet it touched a hidden nerve ever so masterfully. Only Andrew and Grady remained silent.
“Speaking of balls,” Andrew said, loud enough for all to hear. “Whoever defaced my statue, I understand that you’re angry, but try growing enough spine to confront me to my face.”
“Don’t strain your milk over it, rookie,” Hudson said. “It’s only a piece of wood.”
Hudson’s matter-of-fact tone proved that he knew what had taken place, but Andrew was sure that he didn’t do it himself. Andrew’s lips tightened into a frown as he wondered if the whole crew knew about the violation. He had assumed it was the act of a single person, but now he was not so sure. Are they all in on it?
“Say, Andy,” Grady said, “can you play any jazz on that thing?”
Andrew realized that Grady was trying to divert his attention away from the scorn. He patted Grady on the shoulder and gave him a grateful nod. “I was raised in a French school. The French love good jazz even more than good wine.”
“Can you play ‘Swinging Shepherd Blues’?”
Andrew raised the flute and blew while Grady sang in a low smoky voice, as if they were in a neighborhood speakeasy surrounded by friends . “In a mountain pass there is a patch of grass where the swingin’ shepherd plays his tune ….” Grady was
Andrew sauntered into the ovenlike mess hall. The compartment reeked of a mixture of fried potatoes, burnt chicken fat, and human sweat. He wandered through the rows of tables with his flute held chest high as he studied the remaining empty seats with a troubled scowl, trying to find the safest spot available.
He saw Grady sitting in the far corner with his head bent over a sheet of yellow paper, writing a letter. Andrew rambled toward him and swung into the next seat over. He glanced at Grady, as if noticing him for the first time. Grady offered him a relieved grin.
Cocoa played bridge at the next table with Stokes, Kelso, and Nash. Hudson was perched on a table in the center of a group of spellbound crewmen, chewing on a half-burned cigar and recounting what it was like at Pearl on that fateful day. Although he described the horrors of battle, he used tones that might be used to depict something thrilling, as if he were bragging about an alluring sexual conquest. His chest swelled, stretching his T-shirt tight across his pectorals. Each movement of his hands and each facial expression broadcasted his arrogance, even as his words tried to assume modesty.
Sailors gathered around Hudson like baby chicks huddled around their mother with open mouths. Even the old salts listened as they read novels, sewed, or played cards. Only Andrew ignored him. Only Andrew did not bow to his pride.
Andrew brought Jah-Jai to his lips and notes rippled across the smoke-filled room with a cheerful refrain.
Andrew’s snub visibly diminished Hudson’s dignity. Hudson raised his voice to drown out the flute’s melody, but Andrew continued to play, seemingly unaware of him. Hudson paused to stare. He gestured in Andrew’s direction with his stubby cigar held between two fingers. “Hey, rookie. Can that chink music.”
The room hushed. Every head swiveled toward Andrew. Hudson pulled out his Ronson, relit his cigar, and exhaled an authoritative puff of smoke in Andrew’s direction.
Andrew reminded himself of survival rule number one as he lowered Jah-Jai. “I’d hardly consider Mozart a chink. However, I can play Handel if you’d prefer. Is he racially acceptable to everyone?”
Mozart affected Andrew deeply. His spirits soared from the music and he realized that he was not being as cautious as he should be. He swallowed hard, noting a metal taste in his mouth.
Hudson’s face flared purple. “I’ll get a handle on your fucking balls if you keep playing that shit!” The bluster in his voice showed he meant what he said.
Laughter erupted around Andrew. Scornful laughter—what a penetrating thing it was. Giddy and gay and joyful, yet it touched a hidden nerve ever so masterfully. Only Andrew and Grady remained silent.
“Speaking of balls,” Andrew said, loud enough for all to hear. “Whoever defaced my statue, I understand that you’re angry, but try growing enough spine to confront me to my face.”
“Don’t strain your milk over it, rookie,” Hudson said. “It’s only a piece of wood.”
Hudson’s matter-of-fact tone proved that he knew what had taken place, but Andrew was sure that he didn’t do it himself. Andrew’s lips tightened into a frown as he wondered if the whole crew knew about the violation. He had assumed it was the act of a single person, but now he was not so sure. Are they all in on it?
“Say, Andy,” Grady said, “can you play any jazz on that thing?”
Andrew realized that Grady was trying to divert his attention away from the scorn. He patted Grady on the shoulder and gave him a grateful nod. “I was raised in a French school. The French love good jazz even more than good wine.”
“Can you play ‘Swinging Shepherd Blues’?”
Andrew raised the flute and blew while Grady sang in a low smoky voice, as if they were in a neighborhood speakeasy surrounded by friends . “In a mountain pass there is a patch of grass where the swingin’ shepherd plays his tune ….” Grady was
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