wheel, we were already passing Kingston Hospital and I suspected she was heading for Richmond Park to take a shortcut.
Inspecting my records, I was just thinking they’d probably come from the collection of the Unknown Jazz Fan when Nevada looked up from her phone and said, “Who is this Unknown Jazz Fan?”
In response to the look of blank astonishment on my face—had she read my mind?—she said, “I’ve just been reading your blog. I heard you talking to your, ah, friend Stinky about it and I thought I’d take a look.”
“Of course, I blogged about him. The Unknown Jazz Fan, I mean. Not Stinky.”
“Of course not.”
“So, wait a minute,” I said. “Does that mean that when you were giggling a moment ago you were giggling at my blog?”
“I wasn’t giggling.”
“Yes you were.”
“I’m not the giggling sort. Anyway, what about this Unknown Jazz person?”
“I blogged about him. You’ve got the blog there. You can read it.”
She put her phone away and gave me her big eyes, all soft and attentive. “No,” she said. “You tell me.”
I sighed. “Okay. It’s just some guy who’s getting rid of his record collection, in instalments. It’s a hell of a collection and I don’t know why he’s getting rid of it. Divorce? Moving home? A massive collapse in taste? Perhaps he’s like the vicar in Barnes.”
“What vicar in Barnes?”
“He had a crisis of faith. By which I mean he foolishly renounced LPs in favour of CDs and got rid of all his vinyl. And it was a hell of a collection. Perhaps the Unknown Jazz Fan is like that. Or perhaps the poor sap has copied all his LPs digitally and is even now listening to music files on a computer.” I glanced at the records in my lap. “In other words, he had sent them across the digital Rubicon. Actually, the river to the underworld more like.”
“The river Styx.”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve really got it in for poor old digital recording, haven’t you?”
“Anyway,” I said, “I keep finding batches of records he’s got rid of. Here and there. In charity shops, at jumble sales.”
“We haven’t been to a jumble sale yet,” she said. “In our supposedly exhaustively thorough search for this record.”
“I’ve got us booked for one tomorrow night.”
“How dizzyingly stimulating. Tell me, this Unknown Jazz Fan. How do you know the records belonged to him? Does he write his name on the cover?”
“Christ no.”
“Then how do you know it’s him? For that matter, how do you know such a person even exists?”
“I cover that.”
“What do you mean?”
“In my blog. I cover it.”
“I see. You expect me to read it.” She took out her phone and scrolled down the screen. “Oh yes. Here we go. ‘Does he even exist? Maybe it isn’t a person at all. Maybe it is just a statistical cluster, an analytical artefact, a certain population, a given age group, a shared taste, a demographic bubble…’ My god, you do go on a bit, don’t you? ‘A cultural profile, a sociology paper…’” She looked at me. “So, to cut a long story short, the Unknown Jazz Fan may not even exist?”
“That’s right. But that doesn’t mean he’s not out there somewhere.”
She smiled at me. “It’s like something out of Borges,” she said. “Or do I mean Cortázar?”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
* * *
The cats were waiting outside when we got home. They milled around impatiently with an equally impatient Nevada while I opened the door. There was actually a cat flap installed in it, but Turk and Fanny disdained the use of this whenever they could have someone actually open the door for them. They were the first through, followed by Nevada. And, as was rapidly becoming traditional, I brought up the rear.
I stepped over the door mat. The post had come and there was a jumble of letters lying there; even at this most casual glance obviously mostly bills, and laughably unpayable ones at that. I picked up the pile of mail and began to
Inspecting my records, I was just thinking they’d probably come from the collection of the Unknown Jazz Fan when Nevada looked up from her phone and said, “Who is this Unknown Jazz Fan?”
In response to the look of blank astonishment on my face—had she read my mind?—she said, “I’ve just been reading your blog. I heard you talking to your, ah, friend Stinky about it and I thought I’d take a look.”
“Of course, I blogged about him. The Unknown Jazz Fan, I mean. Not Stinky.”
“Of course not.”
“So, wait a minute,” I said. “Does that mean that when you were giggling a moment ago you were giggling at my blog?”
“I wasn’t giggling.”
“Yes you were.”
“I’m not the giggling sort. Anyway, what about this Unknown Jazz person?”
“I blogged about him. You’ve got the blog there. You can read it.”
She put her phone away and gave me her big eyes, all soft and attentive. “No,” she said. “You tell me.”
I sighed. “Okay. It’s just some guy who’s getting rid of his record collection, in instalments. It’s a hell of a collection and I don’t know why he’s getting rid of it. Divorce? Moving home? A massive collapse in taste? Perhaps he’s like the vicar in Barnes.”
“What vicar in Barnes?”
“He had a crisis of faith. By which I mean he foolishly renounced LPs in favour of CDs and got rid of all his vinyl. And it was a hell of a collection. Perhaps the Unknown Jazz Fan is like that. Or perhaps the poor sap has copied all his LPs digitally and is even now listening to music files on a computer.” I glanced at the records in my lap. “In other words, he had sent them across the digital Rubicon. Actually, the river to the underworld more like.”
“The river Styx.”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve really got it in for poor old digital recording, haven’t you?”
“Anyway,” I said, “I keep finding batches of records he’s got rid of. Here and there. In charity shops, at jumble sales.”
“We haven’t been to a jumble sale yet,” she said. “In our supposedly exhaustively thorough search for this record.”
“I’ve got us booked for one tomorrow night.”
“How dizzyingly stimulating. Tell me, this Unknown Jazz Fan. How do you know the records belonged to him? Does he write his name on the cover?”
“Christ no.”
“Then how do you know it’s him? For that matter, how do you know such a person even exists?”
“I cover that.”
“What do you mean?”
“In my blog. I cover it.”
“I see. You expect me to read it.” She took out her phone and scrolled down the screen. “Oh yes. Here we go. ‘Does he even exist? Maybe it isn’t a person at all. Maybe it is just a statistical cluster, an analytical artefact, a certain population, a given age group, a shared taste, a demographic bubble…’ My god, you do go on a bit, don’t you? ‘A cultural profile, a sociology paper…’” She looked at me. “So, to cut a long story short, the Unknown Jazz Fan may not even exist?”
“That’s right. But that doesn’t mean he’s not out there somewhere.”
She smiled at me. “It’s like something out of Borges,” she said. “Or do I mean Cortázar?”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
* * *
The cats were waiting outside when we got home. They milled around impatiently with an equally impatient Nevada while I opened the door. There was actually a cat flap installed in it, but Turk and Fanny disdained the use of this whenever they could have someone actually open the door for them. They were the first through, followed by Nevada. And, as was rapidly becoming traditional, I brought up the rear.
I stepped over the door mat. The post had come and there was a jumble of letters lying there; even at this most casual glance obviously mostly bills, and laughably unpayable ones at that. I picked up the pile of mail and began to
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