But Beautiful. Geoff Dyer
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came to noncombat problems. He listened curtly to Young’s shambolic, nonsensical answers, convinced he was a homosexual but offering a more complex diagnosis in his report: ‘Constitutional psychopathic state manifested by drug addiction (marijuana, barbiturates), chronic alcoholism, and nomadism . . . A purely disciplinary problem.’
As an afterthought, as if in summary, he added: ‘Jazz’.
They walked out of the bar together, Lady in her white fur, clutching his arm like a cane. She was living in a place on Central Park, alone except for her dog, the blinds closed so only filtered daylight could get through. One time he had been there and watched her feed her dog from a baby’s bottle. He watched her with tears in his eyes, not because he felt sorry for her, but because he felt sorry for himself and the bird that had flown away and left him. She listened to her old records to hear Lester, just as Lester played them to hear her.
Tonight was the first time he had seen anyone in he didn’t know how long. No one spoke to him anymore, no one understood what he said except Lady. He’d invented his own language in which words were just a tune, speech a kind of singing – a syrup language that sweetened the world but which was powerless to keep it at bay. The harder the world appeared, the softer his language became, until his words were like beautifully cadenced nonsense, a gorgeous song that only Lady had the ears to hear.
They stood at the street corner, waiting for a taxi. Taxis – she and Lester had probably spent more of their lives in taxis and buses than most people spent in their homes. The traffic lights hung like beautiful Christmas lanterns: perfect red, perfect green in a blue sky. She pulled him closer until her face was shadowed by the brim of his hat and her lips touched the side of his face. Their relationship depended on these little touches: lips pecking each other, a hand on the other’s elbow, holding his fingers in her hands as if they were no longer substantial enough to risk firmer contact. Pres was the gentlest man she had ever known, his sound was like a stole wrapped around bare shoulders, weighing nothing. She’d loved his playing more than anyone else’s and probably she loved him more than anyone. Perhaps you always loved people you never fucked more purely than anyone else. They never promised you anything but every moment was like a promise about to be made. She looked at his face, spongelike and gray-tinged from drink, and wondered if their lives had had the seeds of ruin in them from birth, a ruin they had cheated for a few years but could never evade. Booze, junk, prison. It wasn’t that jazz musicians died young, they just got older quicker. She’d lived a thousand years in the songs she had sung, songs of bruised women and the men they loved.
A cop walked by and then a plump tourist who hesitated, stared again, made up his mind to speak, and asked her in a German accent if she was Billie Holiday.
—You are one of the two greatest singers of this century, he announced.
—Oh, only one of two? Who’s the other?
—Maria Callas. It is a tragedy that you have not sung together.
—Why, thank you.
—And you must be the great Lester Young, he said, turning to Lester. The President, the man who learned to whisper on the tenor when everyone wanted to shout.
—Ding-dong, ding-dong, said Lester, smiling.
The man looked at him for a second, cleared his throat, and produced an airmail envelope on which they both scribbled their names. Beaming, he shook their hands, wrote his address on another envelope, and told them they were always welcome in Hamburg.
—Europe, said Billie, watching him waddle down the street.
—Europe, said Lester.
A taxi pulled up just as it began to rain. Lester kissed Lady and helped her inside, waving to her as the taxi moved out again into the moving lights of traffic.
A few blocks from the hotel he stepped out into the road and cars swarmed through him like he was a ghost. As it was happening he had no idea of what was going on but, once he had reached the opposite side-walk, he remembered the driver’s eyes widened in horror, screaming brakes, a hand wedged on the horn until the car sailed through him as if he were not there at all.
At the court-martial he felt relaxed: whatever happened could not be worse than what he had already experienced – if he was such a problem why not just boot him out? A dishonourable discharge would be fine by him. A psychiatrist described him as a constitutional psychopath, unlikely ever to become a satisfactory soldier. Lester found himself nodding, almost smiling: oh yes he had eyes, big eyes for that.
Then it was Ryan’s turn in the witness box, standing like he had a rifle and bayonet up his ass, detailing the circumstances of Young’s arrest. Lester didn’t bother listening: his own recollection of events was clear as moonlight gin. It was after an assignment at battalion headquarters and he was delirious with tiredness, indifferent to everything, so worn out and wasted he was filled with a hopelessness that came close to elation. Even when he glanced up at the bloodshot walls and saw Ryan standing over him he barely took any notice, hardly even blinked, not giving a motherfuckin damn about anything.
—You look ill, Young.
—Oh, I’m just high.
—High?
—I smoked a little pot, took some uppers.
—You’ve got drugs on you?
—Oh yes.
—Can I see them?
—Sure. Take a helping if you like.
Clutching his papers, the lawyer for the defence heard out Ryan’s story and asked,
—When did you first become aware that the defendant was under the influence of something like narcotics?
—I had suspicioned it when he first came into the company.
—What made you suspect?
—Well, his colour, sir, and the fact that his eyes seemed bloodshot and he didn’t react to training as he should.
Pres drifted off again. He thought of yellow light pouring into a field, blood poppies nodding in a breeze.
Next thing he knew he was in the witness box himself, standing there in his shit-coloured uniform, clutching a dark Bible in his hand.
—How old are you, Young?
—I am thirty-five, sir.
His voice floated across the courtroom like a child’s yacht on a blue lake.
—You are a musician by profession?
—Yes, sir.
—Had you played in a band or orchestra in California?
—Count Basie. I played with him for ten years.
To their surprise all members of the court were mesmerized by the voice, eager to hear his story.
—Had you been taking narcotics for some time?
—For ten years. This is my eleventh.
—Why did you start taking them?
—Well, sir, playing in the band we would play a lot of one-nighters. I would stay up and play another dance and leave and that is the only way I could keep up.
—Did any other musicians take them?
—Yes, all that I knew . . .
Taking the stand to give evidence – it was like taking the stand to play a solo. Call and response. He could tell he had the attention of this small, sparsely populated court – a real crowd of stiffs but they were hanging on his every word. Just like a solo, you had to tell a story, sing them a song they wanted to hear. Everyone in the court was looking at him. The harder they concentrated on what he was saying, the slower and more quietly he spoke, leaving words hanging, pausing in mid-sentence, the singsong of his voice charming them, holding them. Their attention suddenly seemed so familiar he expected to hear the clunk of glasses, the scrunch of ice scooped from a bucket, the swirl of smoke and talk . . .
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