Paris, 1962
Inside Bohemia After Dark, patrons squinted through an ashen haze at the nightclub's featured combo. Stained indigo under mood lighting, a quintet of animated ebony carvings whisper-shouted wordless, haunting languages. Cigarette embers winked; wine glasses clinked; heads nodded with appreciation as notes jitterbugged in a tempo hurricane.
The tenor man dismounted from the rollercoaster rush of a melody he'd ridden thousands of times before. Breaking from the pack, he prepared for a different kind of takeoff: one that transported him from whatever country his body inhabited in a solo cockpit powered by the next burst of spontaneity. His imposing stature swayed and features furrowed according to the whim of private muses; reflected stage beams twinkled in counterpoint from the vintage Buescher's bell.
Thirty-two bars later, when his craft descended to rejoin the familiar riff's formation, the bassist boomed, "Mesdames et messieurs, Dex Hawkins!"
Applause clattered over the final note and swelled with cheers before the wave receded into a conversational sea.
He was unhooking his sax when the fairest of rising suns smiled at him.
"Donna Lee," he heard in a fellow American's accent.
He hadn't expected the dialect to match a bijin in Italian couture.
Dex's porkpie hat bobbed to acknowledge the obvious. The closing number was a bebop chestnut, its title recognizable even by non-English-speaking instrumentalists from Milan to Stockholm to Osaka. His heavy brows slanted as if prompting the sun to introduce herself.
"That is my name," the young woman laughed. "You just played me."
Denise, his classmate from Newark Arts, stormy and sullen after their farewell date, had grumbled those last words. She was hoping for a ring; he was hoping for a stint with Miles or Mingus. Denise's successors nurtured similar aspirations, seeking commitments he couldn't give, something in him that already belonged to the future sounds in his repertoire and how he could shape them, make them his. Make them memorable long after he'd be jamming with Bird and Billie on the other side.
But this mirthful newcomer passed no such judgment. When their gazes interlocked during the second set, he felt drawn by her freshness amid a tableful of living chimneys. He liked the exotic cant of her eyes and the simple summer shift that revealed slender, lotus-pale limbs. He wished he had a clever remark to pull from his pocket and dangle like a bauble to hold her interest.
"Would you like to get some air? After you've had a drink and greeted the rest of your fans, of course. I'll be over at Duke's Place."
Stunned, he stared at her retreating form, a melting candle that burned no less brightly on its way to smoke and darkness. He drained the barmaid's proffered glass in three long gulps, snapped the latches of his case and bid his goodnights.
***
She was waiting outside, streetlamp-gilded and serene. "I'm glad you came."
They strolled toward the Seine, speaking only in smiles. Other women would be strip-mining him into mental exhaustion with questions and banalities. Even in laid-back Europe, where he enjoyed the enthusiasm for his art and ethnicity that was in shorter supply back home, he found the curiosity of his listeners overwhelming at times.
Where had she learned such a profound respect for his need to decompress after giving it all to the performance and the social dues that entailed? Or had her heritage planted the instinct at birth? Like a swimmer learning to float, he embraced this buoyant, shared predawn peace.
A velvet wisp slipped into his hand and nestled there. Side by side, they silently observed the river's wavering Rohrschach light. Her cheek tilted and warmed his sleeve with its trust.
The pair's return route detoured to an elegant double door, where she produced a key and beckoned him inside.
Dex admired the sheathed undulation ascending the stairs. Once he'd packed away the horn for the night, he never lacked opportunities when so inclined. There was the occasional sloe-eyed doxy whose kisses reeked of Gauloises and gin. Neglected wives who sought validation in shopping and serial seduction. The odd sophisticate on a weekend pass, notching socio-political bedposts.
He didn't want to treat this girl like another opportunity. Unlike the rest, she looked at him without presuppositions or measurements. He was the one who wanted to ask, delve into her thoughts, find out more.
Dex's behemoth build dwarfed the cozy apartment; minus her heels, his hostess' loftiest strand of hair barely cleared his diaphragm. He accepted a cocktail and the invitation of her single club chair. Debussy etudes wafted subliminally in the background.
Noticing there was nowhere for her to sit, he parked his drink, but before he could rise, she settled, light as thistledown, onto his lap.
"Do you mind?"
How could he? Her nearness, sweet with soap and wildflowers, brightened his pulse's tempo and filled him with dreams long abandoned for a solitary pursuit. The onyx eyes held lustrous constellations to discover; he wondered if they could show him the rainbow's end she chased.
Gossamer fingers feathered the life-worn cheeks and celebrated when their smile lines deepened. They raked the close-clipped, woolly temples and their hint of an early frost; guided the shadow closer.
Gleaning permission from the simmer in his sable gaze, she tentatively kissed the lips that coaxed magic from metal and cane.
The bewildering reality of her touch undammed the depths of his wish for it. He cradled her fragility and parted his embouchure to welcome the inquiring mouth and nurture it into a desert-flower bloom. Her tongue's gentle incursion sparked a tinderbox where her unsuspecting thigh rested.
Fingertips trilled over his shirt, plucked buttons, reprised glissandos on his skin. Despite their heat, Dex shivered.
Turning, she swept aside skeins of midnight silk and offered him her zipper. Cigar-stout fingers cinched. Peeled. Hesitated at a snowy strap that gated the path leading to her hips.
"Yes, please," she murmured.
His dexterity bared her back and spread like branches against a winter solstice sky. There was abundant clearance for hands to glide forward and gather supple demi-apples sprouting just for them. He could feel their faint lace-imprinted Braille, then more distinct, excited stems nudging his palms.