THE CHESTER WHO OPENS THE DOOR does not look well. Gaunt and sallow, he barely speaks to me. I hand him a fifth of some godawful sweet wine and take my seat among the others, the sweat running down my body, soaking my shirt. The usual crowd is there. Morton, coughing. Fat old Pinkus, lecturing Tom Grady about some instrument, the origin, he is saying, of all blues guitar.
—What is?
—The diddley-bow. Just a simple length of wire.
—Jesus, Morton. Put a hand in front of it. You sound like you got TB.
—Don’t joke about such things.
The men bicker in the distance. The insects are murdering themselves overhead and I’m leaning on the porch in the heavy night, listening to the little boy scraping, singing
Pharaoh army sure got drownded
Pharaoh
Voices far in the distance, at the very edge of perception. I’m outside in the summer heat. I’m in a tiny stifling room. I’m at the fountain, watching a pretty redhead dancing to a drum played by a young black man in a fez. The cops don’t like it, the lewd dancing. They move everybody on. No bongos without a permit, Sammy Davis. Chester is playing something I have not heard before, Vocalion 1704, Jelly Jaw Short, “Snake Doctor Blues”:
I’m the snake doctor man: everybody trying to find out my name
He is playing Patton, very worn.
They got me in shackles wearing my ball and chain And they got me ready for that Parchman train
I am on the train, going underground. The kids at the fountain are arguing with the cops. If you sing, dig, it’s just an extension of speech. You can’t tell us not to sing. This is Nazi Germany.
—You ain’t in Nazi Germany, you’re in denial.
Rotten old cop yuk-yukking at his own joke, doubling down.
—And that’s where you can make your protest. In de Nile.
The kids at the drained fountain. Chester, haunted. He has a conspicuous mustard stain on his shirt. Ordinarily that kind of thing would be intolerable to him. He plays some Texan gospel singer asking what are they doing in heaven today and coughs into his sleeve. Then he takes a record out of the box and I see it’s on a nothing label called Key & Gate. A label that only lasted a couple of years, it put out novelty records, minstrel acts and third-rate dance bands. All trash, every side. Nothing a collector would care to own.
—This, Chester says, is the only copy.
And it rises up to meet me.
Believe I buy a graveyard of my own Believe I buy me a graveyard of my own Put my enemies all down in the ground Put me under a man they call Captain Jack Put me under a man they call Captain Jack He wrote his name all down my back
Went to the Captain with my hat in my hand Went to the Captain with my hat in my hand Said Captain have mercy on a long time man Well he look at me and he spit on the ground He look at me and he spit on the ground Says I’ll have mercy when I drive you down Don’t get mad at me woman if I kicks in my sleep Don’t get mad at me woman if I kicks in my sleep I may dream things cause your heart to weep
It ends. Around the room there is silence, a palpable relief.
—What was that?
—Exquisite. Do I detect Piedmont in the guitar picking?
Chester looks smug.
—Yes, I’m guessing Georgia?
Voices in the distance. He can’t meet my eye.
—How did you get it?
A long subway ride. The train clattering across the river. Sitting on a hard chair and listening. The train going underground again, running express. Rectangles of light. Insects battering themselves on the kerosene lamp.
He puts the needle down on Okeh 8885 “Honey Babe Let the Deal Go Down” by the Mississippi Sheiks, ending the conversation. The collectors applaud.
—Good call, Chester.
—Oh yes. I like the flip, too. “She Ain’t No Good.” Real swing to that one.
—Shut up and listen, Pinkus.
What has Chester done?
I’m a stranger to you and you a stranger to me
I did not want to go. I bolted the door. I lay down in bed. The train ran express. As soon as he lifts the needle I make my accusation. My voice is loud, in the small room.
—So you have Miss Alberta’s copy.
—It’s the only copy.
—And you paid for it.
You don’t happen to know where this Sheiks was recorded? Pinkus tapping a pencil stub against a little notebook. Jackson or Atlanta? Who’s Miss Alberta, asked Tom.
—You paid for it, right, Chester?
—I only ask you to be quiet. To do these records the courtesy of not talking through them.
I put my paper cup of wine down on the table.
—I think I’ll leave.
Chester sets his jaw, looks furiously at the floorboards. The others are openmouthed, gawkers at the theater of human emotions. They feel no more empathy than fish. As I open the door he shouts after me.
—Don’t you want to hear what’s on the other side? Well, don’t you?
The train clattering across the river. Underground, running express. Stations flit past, rectangles of light. Insects batter themselves on the kerosene lamp. I bolt the door. I lie down in bed. The train runs express. Passing stations, commuters shadowed against white tile. Chester’s eyes glitter in the lamplight. His bared teeth. He would have bitten out her throat. I climb up the station stairs and walk along the street to the Saint James Hotel. The sheets smell of lavender. I bolt the door. I lie down. I am afraid.
I WAS GOING BACKWARDS. I was driving, exhausted. The traffic ran behind my eyes, headlights and taillights, smears of white and red. I must not slip, I told myself. I must not. I reached down to the radio and music flooded the car. I could not hear the music. I could not relax. I am always on the road, I said to myself, so why am I going backwards?