the frantic hysteria of a just-castrated pig; the trombone growled; the cornet uttered tentative notes; the piano brought out
One Hour
for sixteen bars (Van knew it as
If I Could Be With You
, from college dances) and subsided into a general rhythm of sustained chords. Then it happened.
The cornet man, whose skin had the reddish tint of cocoa, took a chorus alone. Wearing a pale blue polo shirt, highwaisted light tan trousers, and shoes with the fronts hewn out to expose white cotton socks, he sat with his legs crossed, the snub horn bunched against his face. His eyes were closed and he held his head so determinedly down that through the early measures he appeared to be blowing the notes deliberately into the floor, driving them there like so many silver nails, a lick to each. His playing was restrained; it sounded almost effortless; but, seeing him, Van got an impression that the cornetist was generating a tremendous pressure only to release a small part of it. Apparently this was the case, for near the end of the chorus, as if the pressure had reached that point he was building toward, the player lifted his head, the cornet rising above his face, and the leashed energy seemed to turn loose all at once, riding powerfully over what had gone before. It approached the limit at which hearing would renege, that farthest boundary of the realm of sound, soaring proud andunvanquishable beyond the restraint of all the music Van had ever known. “No! No!” and “Hey!” people cried from adjoining tables. Van just sat there looking, knowing that his life had reached a turning.
The harmony instructor left soon after midnight but Van was there when dawn began to pale the hanging smoke. He left when the musicians did. He went home, ate breakfast, walked the early morning streets for an hour, and went to class. Afterwards, looking back, it seemed to him that this day had the unreal quality of a dream not quite remembered, partly no doubt because of the lack of sleep (he had always followed a healthy regimen) but mostly because of his state of mind, his reaction to what he had heard. He was confused. Something had happened beyond his will, and he could not call it back or comprehend. It was not until three hours after dark, after a restless four-hour sleep, when he passed through the tandem doors of the Black Cat for the second time, that the dream state ended and he returned to the actual living world.
Knowing nothing of the schedule, he was early. The tables were empty and last night’s smoke had dispersed. Four of the musicians were there, two of them with their instrument cases, cornet and trombone, on the floor beside their chairs. The crowd began to arrive. Presently, when the room was about one-third filled, the pianist mounted the dais and took his seat. Again it was like no music Van had ever heard; again it was without melody or, seemingly, even tempo — a vague tinkling in which the black keys seemed to predominate, a strumming such as might have been done by a performing animal, ape or seal, except that there was a certain intelligence to the touch, a tonal sentience beyond Van’s comprehension. Then the clarinetist arrived. White, about forty, with a neat pale tonsure exposed when he removed his Homburg, he resembled a successful dentist or a haberdasher’s clerk. As he crossed the room, the air already beginning to thicken with smoke, he took the instrument from the flat, booksized case beneath his arm and began assembling its five sections. He stepped onto the rostrum without breaking his stride, haltedat the far end of the piano — an upright with its front removed to show the busy hammers capped with felt — and began to play the shrill, sliding runs of the night before. The other three members came forward together, as if this were some sort of muster signal, and during the trombone break Van recognized the melody and realized that he had been hearing it all along. It was
I Never Knew
, which had been popular
One Hour
for sixteen bars (Van knew it as
If I Could Be With You
, from college dances) and subsided into a general rhythm of sustained chords. Then it happened.
The cornet man, whose skin had the reddish tint of cocoa, took a chorus alone. Wearing a pale blue polo shirt, highwaisted light tan trousers, and shoes with the fronts hewn out to expose white cotton socks, he sat with his legs crossed, the snub horn bunched against his face. His eyes were closed and he held his head so determinedly down that through the early measures he appeared to be blowing the notes deliberately into the floor, driving them there like so many silver nails, a lick to each. His playing was restrained; it sounded almost effortless; but, seeing him, Van got an impression that the cornetist was generating a tremendous pressure only to release a small part of it. Apparently this was the case, for near the end of the chorus, as if the pressure had reached that point he was building toward, the player lifted his head, the cornet rising above his face, and the leashed energy seemed to turn loose all at once, riding powerfully over what had gone before. It approached the limit at which hearing would renege, that farthest boundary of the realm of sound, soaring proud andunvanquishable beyond the restraint of all the music Van had ever known. “No! No!” and “Hey!” people cried from adjoining tables. Van just sat there looking, knowing that his life had reached a turning.
The harmony instructor left soon after midnight but Van was there when dawn began to pale the hanging smoke. He left when the musicians did. He went home, ate breakfast, walked the early morning streets for an hour, and went to class. Afterwards, looking back, it seemed to him that this day had the unreal quality of a dream not quite remembered, partly no doubt because of the lack of sleep (he had always followed a healthy regimen) but mostly because of his state of mind, his reaction to what he had heard. He was confused. Something had happened beyond his will, and he could not call it back or comprehend. It was not until three hours after dark, after a restless four-hour sleep, when he passed through the tandem doors of the Black Cat for the second time, that the dream state ended and he returned to the actual living world.
Knowing nothing of the schedule, he was early. The tables were empty and last night’s smoke had dispersed. Four of the musicians were there, two of them with their instrument cases, cornet and trombone, on the floor beside their chairs. The crowd began to arrive. Presently, when the room was about one-third filled, the pianist mounted the dais and took his seat. Again it was like no music Van had ever heard; again it was without melody or, seemingly, even tempo — a vague tinkling in which the black keys seemed to predominate, a strumming such as might have been done by a performing animal, ape or seal, except that there was a certain intelligence to the touch, a tonal sentience beyond Van’s comprehension. Then the clarinetist arrived. White, about forty, with a neat pale tonsure exposed when he removed his Homburg, he resembled a successful dentist or a haberdasher’s clerk. As he crossed the room, the air already beginning to thicken with smoke, he took the instrument from the flat, booksized case beneath his arm and began assembling its five sections. He stepped onto the rostrum without breaking his stride, haltedat the far end of the piano — an upright with its front removed to show the busy hammers capped with felt — and began to play the shrill, sliding runs of the night before. The other three members came forward together, as if this were some sort of muster signal, and during the trombone break Van recognized the melody and realized that he had been hearing it all along. It was
I Never Knew
, which had been popular
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