as if it were any common moment.
I didn’t turn over to look at her. She merely slipped into the room as she always did.
I heard her behind me. I heard her set down a cup. I could smell hot chocolate.
But I never took my eyes off him with his high shoulders and dusty tailored wool sleeves, and he never took his deep brilliant eyes off me as he stared without interruption through the window.
“Oh, Lord God, you there again,” Althea said.
He didn’t move. Neither did I.
I heard her words in a soft near unintelligible rush. Forgive this translation. “You here right at Miss Triana’s window. Some nerve you got. Why, you like to scare meto death. Miss Triana, he be waiting all this time, night and day, saying he would play for you, saying he couldn’t get near to you, that you loved his playing, that you can’t do without him, he say. Well, what’s you gonna play now that she come home, you think you can play something pretty for her now, the way she is, look at her, you think you gonna make her feel all right?”
She came strolling around the foot of the bed, portly, arms folded, chin stuck out.
“Come on now, play something for her,” she said. “You hear me through that glass. She home now, she so sad, and you, look at you, you think I’m going to clean that coat for you, you got another think coming.”
I must have smiled. I must have sunk a little deeper into the pillow.
She saw him!
His eyes never moved from me. He paid her no respect. His hand was on the glass like a great white spider. But there at his side in the other hand was the violin, with the bow. I saw the dark elegant curves of wood.
I smiled at her without moving my head, because now she stood between us, boldly, facing me, blotting him out. Again, I translate what is not a dialect so much as a song:
“He talk and talk about how he can play and he play for you. How you love it. You know him. I ain’t seen him come up here on the porch. Lacomb should have seen him come. I ain’t scared of him. Lacomb can run him off right now. Just say so. He don’t bother me none. He played some music here one night, I tell you, you never heard such music, I thought, Lord the police will be here and nobody here but Lacomb and me. I told him, You hush now, and he was so upset, you never saw such eyes, he looked at me, he say, You don’t like what I play, I say, I like it, I just don’t want to hear it. He say all kind of crazythings like he know all about me and what I got to bear, he talk like a crazy man, he just jabbering on and on, and Lacomb say, If you’re looking for a handout we gonna feed you Althea’s red beans and rice and you gonna die of poison! Now, Miss Triana, you know!”
I laughed out loud but it didn’t make very much noise. He was still there; I could see only a little of the big lanky darkness of him behind her. I hadn’t moved. The afternoon was deepening.
“I love your red beans and rice, Althea,” I said.
She marched about, straightened the old Battenburg lace on the night table, glared at him, apparently, and then smiled down at me, one satin hand touching my cheek for a moment. So sweet, my God, how can I live without you?
“No, it’s perfectly fine,” I said. “You go on now, Althea. I do know him. Maybe he will play, who knows? Don’t bother about him. I’ll look out for him.”
“Look like a tramp to me,” she muttered under her breath, arms folded tight again most eloquently as she started out of the room. She went on talking, making her own song. I wish I could better render for posterity in some form her rapid speech, with so many syllables dropped, and above all her boundless enthusiasm and wisdom.
I nestled into my pillow; I crooked my arm under the pillow and snuggled against it, staring right up at him, his figure in the window, peering over the top of the sash through the double panes of glass.
Songs are everywhere you look, in the rain, in the wind, in the moan of the suffering, songs.
She
I didn’t turn over to look at her. She merely slipped into the room as she always did.
I heard her behind me. I heard her set down a cup. I could smell hot chocolate.
But I never took my eyes off him with his high shoulders and dusty tailored wool sleeves, and he never took his deep brilliant eyes off me as he stared without interruption through the window.
“Oh, Lord God, you there again,” Althea said.
He didn’t move. Neither did I.
I heard her words in a soft near unintelligible rush. Forgive this translation. “You here right at Miss Triana’s window. Some nerve you got. Why, you like to scare meto death. Miss Triana, he be waiting all this time, night and day, saying he would play for you, saying he couldn’t get near to you, that you loved his playing, that you can’t do without him, he say. Well, what’s you gonna play now that she come home, you think you can play something pretty for her now, the way she is, look at her, you think you gonna make her feel all right?”
She came strolling around the foot of the bed, portly, arms folded, chin stuck out.
“Come on now, play something for her,” she said. “You hear me through that glass. She home now, she so sad, and you, look at you, you think I’m going to clean that coat for you, you got another think coming.”
I must have smiled. I must have sunk a little deeper into the pillow.
She saw him!
His eyes never moved from me. He paid her no respect. His hand was on the glass like a great white spider. But there at his side in the other hand was the violin, with the bow. I saw the dark elegant curves of wood.
I smiled at her without moving my head, because now she stood between us, boldly, facing me, blotting him out. Again, I translate what is not a dialect so much as a song:
“He talk and talk about how he can play and he play for you. How you love it. You know him. I ain’t seen him come up here on the porch. Lacomb should have seen him come. I ain’t scared of him. Lacomb can run him off right now. Just say so. He don’t bother me none. He played some music here one night, I tell you, you never heard such music, I thought, Lord the police will be here and nobody here but Lacomb and me. I told him, You hush now, and he was so upset, you never saw such eyes, he looked at me, he say, You don’t like what I play, I say, I like it, I just don’t want to hear it. He say all kind of crazythings like he know all about me and what I got to bear, he talk like a crazy man, he just jabbering on and on, and Lacomb say, If you’re looking for a handout we gonna feed you Althea’s red beans and rice and you gonna die of poison! Now, Miss Triana, you know!”
I laughed out loud but it didn’t make very much noise. He was still there; I could see only a little of the big lanky darkness of him behind her. I hadn’t moved. The afternoon was deepening.
“I love your red beans and rice, Althea,” I said.
She marched about, straightened the old Battenburg lace on the night table, glared at him, apparently, and then smiled down at me, one satin hand touching my cheek for a moment. So sweet, my God, how can I live without you?
“No, it’s perfectly fine,” I said. “You go on now, Althea. I do know him. Maybe he will play, who knows? Don’t bother about him. I’ll look out for him.”
“Look like a tramp to me,” she muttered under her breath, arms folded tight again most eloquently as she started out of the room. She went on talking, making her own song. I wish I could better render for posterity in some form her rapid speech, with so many syllables dropped, and above all her boundless enthusiasm and wisdom.
I nestled into my pillow; I crooked my arm under the pillow and snuggled against it, staring right up at him, his figure in the window, peering over the top of the sash through the double panes of glass.
Songs are everywhere you look, in the rain, in the wind, in the moan of the suffering, songs.
She
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