though I guarantee you that the girl will only hurt you terribly, you’ll still pursue her. Ain’t love grand?”
-Ms Nora Digger Dinsmoor in Great Expectations.
After all those weeks of unreturned letters, there was bound to be
an answer eventually. I hadn't expected to just run into her outside
the flat though, I have to admit.
Yet there she was, seated regally at the small table outside the
Somalian takeaway, casually smoking a cigarette and watching me with amusement as I neared and my eyes roared to life from a dull and listless
stare.
And so yes, there she was. Unmistakably. Not a dream. In the flesh.
Weeks upon weeks of writing had conjured her as mystically as I had met
her.
She shrugged her shoulders at my incredulous gaze. I suppose I never
really believed that all the writing would work. I suppose deep down I
had prepared myself for the worst case scenario and despite the optimism
bred in the act of writing all those letters, sharing all those thoughts had somehow grown with little nurturing like a cactus that needed little water.
I decided on holiday, she explained as I stood there wordlessly taking
her in. The tour was going well but there was a break in the shows so
when I finally returned to Paris, your letters were sitting there waiting
for me, a beautiful dedication. For a day and a half I read them all,
word for word, stopping only to cat nap a few hours here and there.
Your presence burned through me unmistakably. Once I’d finished
reading them all, I decided to take the train here immediately.
I would love to have a chance to freshen up she mentioned when
several moments had passed without my saying anything and had
simply looked at her instead, dumbfounded. It was a long train ride…
Of course, I immediately stammered, picking up her suitcase and
hurrying through the front door of the café. The men playing cards
around a table stared up expectantly when we entered, amused by this
sudden stranger who had declined their hospitality for hours and had
preferred only to sit outside at the lone table and chair nursing a
glass of tea and watching the flotsam of Amsterdamsestraatweg
passing by.
I made brief discussions, as brief as possible: friend from Paris,
stopping by a few days…but their curiosity would not release it's
clutches from us and they continued on with questions, bemused or
perhaps encouraged by my impatience.
How long are you staying for?
Why are you here?
What part of Paris?
What do you do?
Did you come by train or plane?
Why are you with this one?
When we were finally released I clattered up the stairwell without
waiting for her dreading whatever humiliating disarray awaiting us
in the flat. When we reached the stairwell I stopped a moment in the
kitchen which was devoid of the afternoon help peeling potatoes and
the smells of cooking still hanging in the air like someone else's
memories.
You'll have to excuse the state of this place I forewarned, pushing
open the door to the second landing. She shrugged me off. You've
prepared me quite well in fact she mentioned, reminding me of the
degree to which I had described the flat and the lingering smells of
the kitchen. So far it is precisely as you wrote. So far, I laughed
to myself.
My, she stammered to herself taking it all in, stepping back and
wiping a stray hair from her forehead which had fallen in the
exertion of walking up the steep incline of the second stairway. My,
she repeated, having a glance at the piles of accumulated
bachelorhood; the vague indifference of the unwashed plates, piles
of empty containers, newspapers, empty beer and wine bottles, the
stale smoke hanging in the air like a dense fog even though all the
windows had been left open.
Well, perhaps you underestimated the degree of your slovenliness,
she laughed.
I had to set about explaining the contraption of the shower and
toilet combination in the floor below, struggling to find clean
linens and towels, bemoaning the lack of good mirrors and even the
simple addition of a small table inside the shower for grooming. We
weren't particular after all. But she wore a face of pleasant
indifference which in the effort to conceal produced a mixture of
shock masked by a determination not to allow her disgust to
register. She didn't have to say anything. I was well aware of what
any normal human being might begin to imagine seeing such squalor
first hand. Albert and I rarely noticed – there were no guests
invited in this hovel and thus how we chose to keep it had been
precisely how we chose to keep it without the intrusions of keeping
up appearances.
While she disappeared into the shower I quickly leapt back up the
stairs into the main room to make some demented effort at
straightening up; ashtrays dumped into empty pizza boxes and halal
meal containers, bottles quickly collected, drained into the sink
and placed neatly back into their respective empty slots in the
crates they were once carried in, magazines and newspapers piled
into one corner, clothing picked up and thrown into a pile within
the makeshift closet.
However we had no vacuum and little more than a hand broom to
sweep up the lingering odours and ashes, dust and stains, mildew and
assorted filth. By the time she had finished freshening up the flat
had taken on an almost unrecognisable order which despite the state
of it's interior, was vastly improved by any effort to render it
back to it's original state that, quite frankly, had never been too
charming or too clean to begin with.
Albert was no doubt already at the café and as I huffed and puffed
around the room I remembered myself – that I too was covered in the
dust and wood shavings and drying concrete, that my clothing hadn't
been washed all week and that I likely smelled far worse than the
pong of the interior of the flat. I lit a few candles and several
sticks of incense hoping carelessly to mask it all in perfume, the
room and myself.
She wasn't fooled. She made the best of it, put on a smile,
pretended it was another world altogether and yet still one we were
both in.
So we were fine. I just needed a shower and to let Albert know the
one room flat being used by two people had now become three people.
******
Of course, it was Albert's idea, one which had crossed my mind
several times but never reached my lips, to include Anastasia in our
rehearsal. We hadn't done much for weeks until then but one night
we'd stayed in, ordered Somalian food from downstairs and ate it on
the table in the Styrofoam containers they were served in, plastic
forks, napkins, washed down with a few bottles of beer.
So how about you sing a few with us? He asked grandly, pushing
himself away from the table and tossing the remains of his meal in
the large bag of rubbish that was opened just a few feet from the
table. We haven't had much inspiration these days, Albert explained
and I've heard from Witold that you've got a beautiful voice.
Anastasia, not one for self-promotion, at least not from what I'd
witnessed, rolled her eyes. But I came to see Witold, to get away
from singing, she tried to explain.
Still, we've got to rehearse and well, don't you have to keep your
voice in shape?
I could tell he wasn't going to let this one go although I wasn't
certain if he was making a big deal out of it simply to annoy the
two of us, because he was sceptical, curious or just wanted to hear
her. I started to beg off, not much in the mood to play myself but
then an evil little grin crossed her face and she nodded sure, why
don't you play a little for me now and then, well, if the mood
strikes me, I'll join in. After all, I haven't heard either of you
play before…
We don't know any songs, I fumbled, again explaining how we
ad-libbed everything, never learned a jazz song and probably weren't
worthy of having her singing anyway. But Albert was having none of
it. Oh hell, Witold, we haven't needed to know songs before, let's
show your guest a little sample of what we can do…
He got up from the table and moved with sudden dexterity into the
living room where the bass was leaning up against the side of the
sofa. Reluctantly and knowing there was expectation in her
bemusement, I too rose from the table and made my way into the
living room, our little improvised studio with horrific acoustics.
Outside the hustle and bustle of Amsterdamsestraatweg was audible.
Anastasia made to clean up the table and light a few candles while
the two of us tried to tune up and get into each other's keys.
And it was true I thought to myself, putting the reed in my mouth, I
was curious and excited about the idea of her singing with us. We'd
discussed it but never with any seriousness and she was here after
all, why not?
But maybe it was the nerves or the outside noises or fear that the
landlord would hear us down two floors and complain at the racket
because normally we waited until late at night when they'd already
shut down and the café was closed before starting to rehearse,
normally well into a session of beer, reaching blindly for
inspiration but here we were anyway and Albert looking at me
expectantly, fingers poised. Goofing off to relax, I blew a long
sequence to begin a sort of soulful snake charmer song, holding and
blowing while Albert slowly filled in behind me, plucking furtively.
In time we started to build on it a little more, lost a little
deeper until I was no longer aware she was even in the room. We went
on like this for quite some time before realising there was nowhere
for her to step in, even if she'd wanted to. I stopped playing and
stood there with the sax around my neck and looked up at her staring
at us both with arched eyebrows, bemused.
I don't think I've heard anything quite like, she stammered for a
moment. I've never sung to anything like it, that's for sure, and
she tittered and we all guffawed, relieved for the moment. You guys
are, well, a bit weird, I'll say. I didn't realise…
We tried a few more on for her, laying it out thick and
experimentational until ever so slowly, sipping a drink of scotch
Albert had poured her from his alcove stash, she stood up and made
her way towards us, hips swaying slightly until I closed my eyes
entirely and then I heard it: she wasn't singing words, just trying
to find a melody somewhere amid the confusion, her voice huskier
than I'd imagined, having never heard it before and only conjured it
in dreams. Soon I was trilling and Albert was slapping and we began
to hear this mournful humming that gradually birthed into some sort
of lullaby in French.
I don't know how long it went on, maybe it was only seconds, or a
few minutes, it was impossible to tell, but just as suddenly as it
began, it ended and we all stood there in the room not saying a
word, staggered not by a sudden genius but by the strangeness of the
collaboration until Albert finally set the bass to the side, wiped
his brow and lumbered back into the kitchen to pull a fresh beer
from the crate and settled back down into his chair. That's enough
for me for the moment, he mumbled into his sleeve as he wiped it
across his lips. I think I need some time alone, why don't you two
have a night out?
*****
None of us said anything about those few moments as a trio and
several days went by before we were encouraged, by virtue of several
bottles of wine, to do it again. In the interim, Albert stayed long
hours away from the flat, giving us our space. Anastasia was much
more animated out of her surroundings than she had been in them. She
regaled our friends at Martkzicht with steamy tales of the clubs
she'd been singing at in Paris and in Milan, embellishing, I hoped,
for my benefit rather than that of the others. She revealed tiny
shards of her past to me over days drawing out on canal walks, bike
rides and afternoons sat on various café terraces soaking up the
rare sun and sipping Belgian ales. She seemed to demur less and less
as though whatever fears had held her back when we were in Paris had
mystically evaporated. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a sputtering
fountain of information. What little bit I learned was drawn out
over a long process but at least it appeared I was making headway,
at least I was no longer feeling like an intruder on her secret
life.
And then a few nights later, when we were sipping wine around the
kitchen table, listening to a few CDs she'd brought over with her,
she suddenly asked if we knew how to play any jazz standards. You
know, she said, My Funny Valentine or Mack the Knife, or anything
really, something I could sing to that wouldn't require, hmmm, too
much skill for you two to play. Not that I don't think you could
play standards well, I dunno, what do you think? Do you ever play
something known?
Albert and I looked at each other with a mutual grimace. We'd never
tried it before to be honest. What was the point for a double
bassist and a saxophonist when we had no one else to back us? We'd
been left with improv and weirdness out of necessity and even with
lovely female vocals we doubted the two of us trying to slam out
some jazz standard was going to sound very good.
But hell, Albert said. We can try it a time or two, just for the
novelty. How bad can it possibly sound just because Witold can't
read music and I can't play anything I didn't make up on my own? He
snorted into his glass. What do you think, Witold, are you up for a
little Mack the Knife? I'll do a smooth walking bass line to start –
and you just start going from there…
But before we even started, Anastasia wanted to get us in the mood
by telling us how the version we knew was nothing like the original
murder ballad, the tales of Mackie Messer, Und Macheath, der hat ein
Messer, doch das Messer sieht man nicht and she sings it with real
sinister intent, the man with the knife no one sees waiting to
spring it out and stab away, the cold hearted murderer…
And sure enough while she's telling us this, setting a background,
Albert began thumping the notes, slow and morose. And she sang a
little more and then, struggling to find the right note, I blew a
little – it was rudimentary, no doubt. Pitiful maybe, but Anastasia
seemed to gain a little more life because our efforts. She let us
walk through a few versions of it while she hummed the beat she
wanted. Man, it was a lot of run-throughs as I kept missing the note
and trying to figure it out from a little memory and a little help
from Anastasia's humming but after awhile, it started to take form.
Not any form that any of us had ever heard it in before because it
was slow and melancholic and not snappy in the slightest. And we
went through it several more times until it began to feel a little
less stunted and then we were ready, from the top and wow, we were
just blown away by Anastasia singing this horrible song about a
murderer, changing the lyrics, switching from German to Italian to
French, nothing like we'd ever heard with that low husky voice until
she broke with a higher pitched warble, a plea, almost.
And again we were all a little overwhelmed, and it felt a little
kinky almost, the three of us standing together there in that room
past midnight, sweating and letting it all ooze into us and then
breathing it back out slowly.
The next morning we decided we would learn at least three songs,
this Mack the Knife version, like a sinister milonga, My Funny
Valentine and How Long Has This Been Going On.
Each one had its own strange stamp to it, the tentative, nearly talent-less version of our playing that she worked so hard to overcome and indeed,
her vocals were quite capable of carrying us beyond. We forgot all about
drinking for hours, simply rehearsing in that room over and over
again until we all began to feel comfortable with it. Between these three standards we sandwiched two originals – well, two songs that Albert and
I sort of made up as we went along and which Anastasia showed an adept ability to sing around. Before we knew it, we seemed to have enough for
a gig. Shocking in that it had only been a matter of hours over the course
of a few days.
Of course why we would be rehearsing for a gig at all was a little beyond
me to begin with. As far as I knew, Anastasia was only going to be here
for a brief visit, during a lull in her own touring schedule, a fact hat we all conveniently ignored equally.
I realise it makes little sense that we wouldn’t have broached the subject.
I think as far as Albert was concerned, irrespective of her motives or the reality of the future, he only considered the fact that we’d been meandering
pointlessly in our music for quite some time, that shamelessly, despite our
lofty if unrealistic goals, we were by and large more interested in simply
living, drinking and having fun in a foreign city than we were in finding a
focus in our music or perpetuating our goals with concrete actions, and
the unexpected arrival of Anastasia had propelled us out of that lethargy.
It was naturally a more complex proposition as far as I was concerned. I
was quite happy to ignore reality and the future because in doing so it
allowed me to the luxury of my own quickly developing fantasy; one which
was not only about music, about the three of us forming some mystical trio
and gigging around Europe, but about Anastasia as well because as long as
she was here with us helping us with our music she was also with me and
by doing so, our relationship, so to speak, was deepening. So I wasn’t
in the mood for questioning my good fortune. I think that is the
natural inclination when things are going inexplicably well - not to
question your good fortune but to revel in it. It’s only with hindsight
that you wonder at how stupid and naïve you could have been.
As for Anastasia herself, I’m not sure what she was thinking at the time.
Yes, we spent a lot of time together and yes, we talked a lot, but much
like the past, the future was a somewhat taboo subject. Our relationship,
guided by her unspoken rules, was an experiment in the present having
little or no relationship with the past or the future. At least that’s the
compromise I came to in my mind to justify it all.
I never came right out and asked her specifically about her motivations.
I never asked the simple question, why are you participating in the
formulation of a trio together when any day, a day which had yet to be
specified, you were going to be off again on your tour?
Why not? Well, again in hindsight I’d say that’s because I didn’t really
want to know the answer because I was too afraid of what that answer
might be and that‘s precisely why I accepted the relationship as it was
presented to me without question. It was like a superstition. So long as
I didn‘t ask any questions, it would continue and as mad as that perhaps
sounds to someone from the outside, when you consider all the unused
emotions which had built up inside of me over the years, all those years
in denial of emotions to begin with, you might understand that even
not knowing was better than having no feelings at all.
And there was also the fact of course that not having given my heart to
someone before I had no idea what it was they could do with it once
I’d done so. And that perhaps is the best explanation for why unlike
most people who have already loved and lost, I didn’t seek an answer,
I didn’t envision the perils ahead.
In any event, we settled in to our routines. I went back to working during
the day, Albert went back to navel gazing and drinking beer and
Anastasia took trips alone to Amsterdam, where, unbeknownst to us,
she engaged herself in scouting around places we might play.
It was if we all had all found a purpose – well, Anastasia had had a purpose
in her mind all along, even if she didn’t share it with us, but it was Albert
and I who really felt the difference, really felt as though for the first time
since we'd come here we were finally doing what we'd come to do. And Anastasia was simply the alchemist who turned our slovenly, drunken and pointless hours into quasi-disciplined sessions of rehearsals.
I don’t mean to belabour the point but when thinking back on it, it does
seem rather naïve and ridiculous that we’d have undertaken this so
suddenly and without introspection, simply following instructions as
though we’d been brainwashed. Anastasia had that effect. Not just on
me, but as it turned out, on Albert as well. And after all, we were getting
exactly what we’d wanted, what was there to question other than what
Anastasia getting out of all of this considering she was already a success
on her own, had places to go. Were we merely charity cases?
In a matter of days, I no longer had the energy to drink. Not just because
of work and disciplined rehearsal, but also because of this new
relationship, or rather, the effort of figuring out this Rubik’s cube of a relationship that saw us with only infrequent time alone. When we
were alone, it was again just as in Paris; seamlessly, we had entered
into one another’s space and settled there, without complication, without
explanation, a surreal transformation, you might say, from individual
to duo to trio. If you blinked you might have missed it, and perhaps we
had, finding ourselves as we did, all three of us together as though
we’d been together all along. You could almost allow yourself to believe
that in fact you had been together all along because in doing so,
explaining the illogical as such made it easier to believe to begin with.
*****
Riding my bicycle back from work a week or two later, covered in the
usual cement dust and paint, I found myself veering predictably for Marktzicht. After all, it was Friday, the week over, I was exhausted from
the combination of steady work and steady practice, something neither
Albert nor Anastasia were undertaking simultaneously themselves and
thus, a position which justified a night off, a night of carefree
socialising or, in the venacular of Albert and I, a night off drinking
into a substandard oblivion. We were, after all, alcoholics and in the
end, irrespective of the distractions, ultimately that is what alcoholics
do. Drink.
Swinging down Loefstraat, not surprisingly, I spied Albert already out
on the terrace entertaining himself with a few locals, waving me down
as though the lure of going back to the flat and seeing Anastasia could
be distracted by his presence, on a Friday, on the terrace drinking. How
silly. I locked my bike up against an iron post next to Marktzicht and
followed.
You've just missed Anastasia, Albert enthused on my arrival, clearly in
a celebratory mood. Not the ordinary, hey it’s Friday let’s get fucked up
sort of celebratory mood as it turned out. Even more special than that.
She's gone back to the flat to change, he continued breathlessly, but
stopping by here, she brought a little news with her.
I motioned for my usual Amsterdametje and took a seat, still covered
in the day's dirt. So what it is it?
A gig, he smiled. Anastasia's gotten us a gig. In Amsterdam.
*****
It took a bit of trickery, she admitted as we celebrated in an Indian
restaurant later that evening. Since you guys don’t have any demo tapes
and haven’t really played anywhere of note, I set up a meeting with the booking agent at this club called Alto on the basis of my own recent tour
in Italy. You see, I’ve got a few reviews and clippings of my own and I
was able to have my agent sent a few of the recordings that have been
done in preparation of a CD. I told the booking agent that I was in town
and wanted to do a gig. I told him I had two jazz musicians from
New York also in town and we wanted to try out some new material but
that we needed to set up the gig fairly quickly because we were all going
to pick up on the tour in Italy at the end of the month.
So, he had a look through everything, listened to my demos and agreed
on the spot that we could be squeezed in, not as a headlining act but as a supporting act. Apparently, they’d had a recent cancellation and happened to be looking for someone to fill in anyway, so the timing was terrific.
She smiled coyly as Albert, beside himself with angst and drinking even
faster than usual, in part because of the heat of the curry and in part because
of his new-found nerves, continued to stutter his amazement. So who is the headlining act, he asked impatiently.
Why none other than the legendary Hans Dulfer…
Albert and I looked at each other blankly. We knew legends. Perhaps not Dutch legends, but plenty of jazz legends and Hans Dulfer was unfortunately, not one of them.
I suggest we go this Wednesday night, Anastasia enthused over the dead silence as we attempted to figure out who this legend was. You can hear
him in person, maybe even introduce yourselves. As I understand it he is
quite an unorthodox but brilliant tenor sax player.
Great, I sighed. A brilliant tenor sax player. What am I going to bill
myself as? The one of New York’s kings of mediocre tenor sax playing?
It isn’t important, Witold, she nursed, touching my arm before turning
back to her meal. The important thing is to get your foot in the door. I
think once you’ve done that you’ll find it isn’t such a frightening prospect
after all.
Oh but it was. Hours upon hours, day after day, the frightening prospect
of it hounded me like a irrepressible nightmare.
I changed my routine quickly. I still got up in the morning and went to
my job, but as I told Anastasia, there wasn’t time for me to do much else
other than practice. Suddenly fear had made me the most dedicated
musician on Earth. Every waking hour I was practicing to the point
where both Albert and Anastasia would simply leave most evenings to
get a break from me playing. Albert moaned incessantly. For god’s sake Witold. You aren’t going to become brilliant in a matter of weeks.
Not after all these years of striving to be mediocre. Face it. Wallow
in it. We both know neither of us are very good and if you ask me, that’s
part of our charm. Suddenly becoming dedicated is not only an unappealing new element to your personality, but it doesn’t fit you.
I feel like I’m suddenly rooming with a maniac.
Anastasia for her part, was subtly encouraging. No doubt she didn’t want
to embarrass herself singing with our awful playing but she had already committed to it. Committed to me, I liked to kid myself in those waking hours. And I wasn’t going to let her down.
*****
And with time flying, my dreams soaked with anxiety, I woke one morning
a week or so before the gig to find that she was not lying next to me on that beat-up pull out sofa mattress.
I sat up quickly and looked around the room. There weren’t many places
for her to hide. Not in that flat. I even found myself getting up, amazing
that it would cross my mind, but it did, to check and see that she hadn’t
slipped up into Albert’s little loft cubby hole. Maybe she’s just gone out
for an early morning walk. I hadn’t heard her stir, hadn’t heard her get up, hadn’t notice her departure.
And as I stood I saw that in her place, set upon the coffee table that was pushed to the front wall when the sofa bed was pulled out was a single flower and a note.
As inexplicably as she’d arrived, she was gone.
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