Edge of Eternity (56 page)

A week later, Rebecca and Bernd invited the group for a meal. Walli explained to her that the boys worked late into the night and got up at midday, so they liked to eat at around six in the evening, before going onstage. That was fine with Rebecca.

Four of the five accepted the invitation: Geoff would not come.

Rebecca had cooked a pile of pork chops in a rich sauce, with great bowls of fried potatoes, mushrooms, and cabbage. Dave guessed she
wanted, in a motherly way, to make sure they got one good meal in the course of a week. She was right to worry: they were living mainly on beer and cigarettes.

Her husband, Bernd, helped with the cooking and serving, moving himself around with surprising agility. Dave was struck by how happy Rebecca was, and how much in love with Bernd.

The group tucked into the food eagerly. They all talked in mixed English and German, and the atmosphere was amiable even if they did not understand everything that was said.

After eating they all thanked Rebecca profusely, then got the bus to the Reeperbahn.

Hamburg's red-light district was like London's Soho but more open, less discreet. Until he came here, Dave had not known that there were male prostitutes as well as female.

The Dive was a grubby basement. By comparison, the Jump Club was plush. At the Dive the furniture was broken, there was no heating or ventilation, and the toilets were in the backyard.

When they arrived, still full of Rebecca's food, they found Geoff in the bar, drinking beer.

The group went onstage at eight. With breaks, they would play until three in the morning. Every night they played every song they knew at least once, and their favorites three times. Herr Fluck made them work hard.

Tonight they played worse than ever.

Throughout the first set Geoff was all over the place, playing wrong notes and fumbling his solos; and that put everyone else off. Instead of concentrating on entertaining people, they were struggling to cover Geoff's mistakes. By the end of the set Lenny was angry.

In the interval, Walli sat on a stool, front of stage, and played the guitar and sang Bob Dylan songs. Dave sat and watched. Walli had a cheap harmonica on a rack that fitted around his neck, so that he could blow and strum at the same time, just as Dylan did. Walli was a good musician, Dave thought, and smart enough to recognize that Dylan was the latest craze. The clientele of the Dive mostly preferred rock and roll, but some listened, and when Walli went offstage he got a round of enthusiastic applause from a table of girls in the corner.

Dave accompanied Walli to the dressing room, and there they discovered a full-scale crisis.

Geoff was on the floor, drunk and incapable of standing upright without assistance. Lenny, kneeling over him, slapped his face hard every now and again. That probably relieved Lenny's feelings, but it did not bring Geoff round. Dave got a mug of black coffee from the bar, and they forced Geoff to drink some, but that made no difference either.

“We'll have to go on without no fucking lead guitarist,” said Lenny. “Unless you can play Geoff's solos, Dave.”

“I can do the Chuck Berry stuff, but that's all,” said Dave.

“We'll just have to leave the rest out. This fucking audience probably won't notice.”

Dave was not sure Lenny was right. Guitar solos were part of the dynamic of good dance music, creating light and shade and preventing the repetitive pop tunes from becoming boring.

Walli said: “I can play Geoff's part.”

Lenny looked scornful. “You've never played with us.”

“I hear your whole act three nights,” Walli said. “I can play all those songs.”

Dave looked at Walli and saw in his eyes an eagerness that was touching. He was evidently yearning for this opportunity.

Lenny was skeptical. “Really?”

“I can play. Is not difficult.”

“Oh, isn't it?” Lenny was a bit miffed.

Dave was keen to give Walli a chance. “He's a better guitarist than I am, Lenny.”

“That's not saying fucking much.”

“He's better than Geoff, too.”

“Has he ever been in a group?”

Walli understood the question. “In a duo. With a girl singer.”

“He hasn't worked with a drummer, then.”

That was a key point, Dave knew. He recalled how startled he had been, the first time he played with the Guardsmen, to discover the tight discipline imposed on his playing by the drumbeat. But he had managed, and Walli could surely do the same. “Let him try, Lenny,” Dave pleaded. “If you don't like what he does, you can send him off after the first number.”

Herr Fluck put his head around the door and said: “
Raus! Raus!
It's showtime!”

“All right, all right,
wir kommen,
” Lenny replied. He stood up. “Pick up your axe and get onstage, Walli.”

Walli went on.

The opening number of the second set was “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy,” which was guitar-led. Dave said to Walli: “Do you want to warm up with an easier one?”

“No, thanks,” said Walli.

Dave hoped his confidence was justified.

Lew, the drummer, counted: “Three, four,
one.
”

Walli came in right on cue and played the riff.

The group came in a bar later. They played the intro. Just before Lenny started to sing, Dave caught his eye, and Lenny nodded approvingly.

Walli played the guitar part perfectly without apparent effort.

At the end of the song, Dave gave Walli a wink.

They did the set. Walli played every number well, and even joined in some of the backing vocals. His performance lifted the group's energy and they got the girls out on the floor.

It was the best set they had played since they got to Germany.

As they went off, Lenny put his arm around Walli and said: “Welcome to the group.”

•   •   •

Walli hardly slept that night. Playing with Plum Nellie, he had felt he belonged, musically, and that he enhanced the group. It had made him so happy that he began to fear it might not last. Had Lenny really meant it when he said: “Welcome to the group”?

Next day Walli went to the cheap boardinghouse in the St. Pauli district where the group lodged. He arrived at midday, just as they were getting up.

He hung out for a couple of hours with Dave and Buzz, the bass player, going through the group's repertoire, polishing up beginnings and endings of songs. They seemed to assume he would be playing with them again. He wanted confirmation.

Lenny and Lew, the drummer, surfaced around three in the
afternoon. Lenny was direct. “Do you definitely want to join this group?”

“Yes,” Walli said.

“That's it, then,” said Lenny. “You're in.”

Walli was not convinced. “What about Geoff?”

“I'll talk to him when he gets up.”

They went to a café called Harald's on Grosse Freiheit and had coffee and cigarettes for an hour, then they came back and woke Geoff. He looked ill, which was not surprising after drinking so much that he had passed out. He sat on the edge of his bed while Lenny talked to him and the others listened from the doorway. “You're out of the group,” Lenny said. “I'm sorry about it, but you let us down badly last night. You were too drunk to stand up, let alone play. Walli took your place and I'm making him permanent.”

“He's just a punk kid,” Geoff managed.

Lenny said: “Not only is he sober, he's a better guitarist than you.”

“I need coffee,” said Geoff.

“Go to Harald's.”

They did not see Geoff again before they left for the club.

They were setting up onstage just before eight when Geoff walked in, sober, guitar in hand.

Walli stared at him in consternation. Earlier he had got the impression Geoff had accepted that he was fired. Maybe he had just been too hungover to argue.

Whatever the reason, he had not packed his bag and left, and Walli became anxious. He had suffered so many setbacks: the police smashing up his guitar so that he could not appear at the Minnesänger; Karolin withdrawing from the gig at the Europe Hotel; and the proprietor of El Paso pulling the plug halfway through his first song. Surely this would not turn into another disappointment?

They all stopped what they were doing and watched as Geoff climbed onstage and opened his guitar case.

At that point Lenny said: “What are you doing, Geoff?”

“I'm going to show you that I'm the best guitarist you've ever heard.”

“For Pete's sake! You're fired and that's that. Just fuck off to the station and catch a train to Hook.”

Geoff changed his tone and became wheedling. “We've been playing together for six years, Lenny. That has to count for something. You have to give me one chance.”

This seemed so reasonable that Walli, to his alarm, felt sure Lenny would agree. But Lenny shook his head. “You're an all right guitar player, but you're no genius, and you're an awkward bastard too. Since we got here you've been playing so badly that we were on the point of being fired last night when Walli joined us.”

Geoff looked around. “What do the others think?” he said.

“Who told you this group was a democracy?” Lenny said.

“Who told you it's not?” Geoff turned to Lew, the drummer, who was adjusting a foot pedal. “What do you think?”

Lew was Geoff's cousin. “Give him another chance,” Lew said.

Geoff addressed the bassist. “What about you, Buzz?”

Buzz was an easygoing character who would go along with whoever shouted loudest. “I'd give him a chance.”

Geoff looked triumphant. “That makes three of us against one of you, Lenny.”

Dave put in: “No, it doesn't. In a democracy, you have to be able to count. It's you three against Lenny, me, and Walli—which makes it even.”

Lenny said: “Don't bother about the votes. This is my group and I make the decisions. Geoff is fired. Put your instrument away, Geoff, or I'll sling it right out the fucking door.”

At this point Geoff seemed to accept that Lenny was serious. He put his guitar back in its case and slammed the lid. Picking it up, he said: “I'll promise you something, you bastards. If I go, you'll all go.”

Walli wondered what that meant. Perhaps it was just an empty threat. Anyway, there was no time to think about it. A couple of minutes later they started to play.

All Walli's fears departed. He could tell he was good and the group was good with him in it. Time passed quickly. In the interval, he went back onstage alone and sang Bob Dylan songs. He included a number he had written himself, called “Karolin.” The audience seemed to like it. Afterward he went straight back onstage to open the second set with “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy.”

While he was playing “You Can't Catch Me” he saw a couple of uniformed policemen at the back talking to the proprietor, Herr Fluck, but he thought nothing of it.

When they came off at midnight, Herr Fluck was waiting in their dressing room. Without preamble he said to Dave: “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” said Dave.

“Don't give me that shit.”

“What do you care?”

“In Germany we have laws about employing minors in bars.”

“I'm eighteen.”

“The police say you're fifteen.”

“What do the police know about it?”

“They've been talking to the guitar player you just fired—Geoff.”

Lenny said: “The bastard, he's shopped us.”

Herr Fluck said: “I run a nightclub. Prostitutes come in here, drug dealers, criminals of all kinds. I must constantly prove to the police that I do my best to obey the law. They say I have to send you home—all of you. So, good-bye.”

Lenny said: “When do we have to go?”

“You leave the club now. You leave Germany tomorrow.”

Lenny said: “That's outrageous!”

“When you're a club owner, you do as the police tell you.” He pointed at Walli. “He does not have to leave the country, being German.”

“Fuck it,” said Lenny. “I've lost two guitarists in one day.”

“No, you haven't,” said Walli. “I'm coming with you.”

J
asper Murray fell in love with the USA. They had all-night radio and three channels of television and a different morning newspaper in every city. The people were generous and their houses were spacious and their manners were relaxed and informal. Back home, English people acted as if they were perpetually taking tea in a Victorian drawing room, even when they were doing business deals or giving television interviews or playing sports. Jasper's father, an army officer, could not see this, but his German-Jewish mother did. Here in the States, people were direct. In restaurants, waiters were efficient and helpful without bowing and scraping. No one was obsequious.

Jasper was planning a series of articles about his travels for
St. Julian's News,
but he also had a higher ambition. Before leaving London, he had spoken to Barry Pugh and asked if the
Daily Echo
might be interested to see what he wrote. “Yeah, sure, if you come across something, you know, special,” Pugh had said without enthusiasm. Last week in Detroit, Jasper had got an interview with Smokey Robinson, lead singer of the Miracles, and had sent the article to the
Echo
by express post. He reckoned it should have got there by now. He had given the Dewars' number, but Pugh had not phoned. Jasper was still hopeful, though, and he would call Pugh today.

He was staying at the Dewar family apartment in Washington. It was a big place in a swanky building a few blocks from the White House. “My grandfather Cameron Dewar bought this before the First World War,” Woody Dewar explained to Jasper at the breakfast table. “Both he and my father were senators.”

A colored maid called Miss Betsy poured orange juice for Jasper and
asked if he would like some eggs. “No, thanks, just coffee,” he said. “I'm meeting a family friend for breakfast in an hour.”

Jasper had met the Dewars at the house in Great Peter Street during the year the family had spent in London. He had not been close to them except, briefly, to Beep, but all the same they had welcomed him to their home, more than a year later, with open-handed hospitality. Like the Williamses, they were casually generous, especially toward young people. Lloyd and Daisy were always happy to accommodate stray teenagers for a night or a week—or, in Jasper's case, several years. The Dewars seemed the same. “It's so kind of you to let me stay here,” Jasper said to Bella.

“Oh, you're welcome, it's nothing,” she said, and she meant it.

Jasper turned to Woody. “I assume you'll be photographing today's civil rights march for
Life
magazine?”

“That's right,” said Woody. “I'll mingle with the crowd, taking discreet candid shots with a small thirty-five-millimeter camera. Someone else will do the essential formal pictures of the celebrities on the platform.”

He was dressed casually, in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, but all the same it would be difficult for such a tall man to be inconspicuous. However, Woody's revealing news photographs were world famous. “I'm familiar with your work, as is everyone who's interested in journalism,” said Jasper.

“Does any particular subject attract you?” Woody asked. “Crime, politics, war?”

“No. I'd be happy to cover everything—as you seem to.”

“I'm interested in faces. Whatever the story—a funeral, a football game, a murder investigation—I photograph faces.”

“What do you expect today?”

“No one knows. Martin Luther King is predicting a hundred thousand people. If he gets that many, it will be the biggest civil rights march ever. We all hope it will be happy and peaceful, but we're not counting on it. Look what happened in Birmingham.”

“Washington is different,” Bella put in. “We have colored police officers here.”

“Not many,” Woody said. “Although you can bet they will all be at the forefront today.”

Beep Dewar came into the dining room. She was fifteen and petite. “Who's going to be at the forefront?” she said.

“Not you, I hope,” said her mother. “You stay clear of trouble, please.”

“Of course, Mama.”

Jasper noted that Beep had learned a measure of discretion in the two years since he had last seen her. Today she looked cute, but not especially sexy, in tan jeans and a loose-fitting cowboy shirt—a sensible outfit for a day that might turn disorderly.

She acted toward Jasper as if she had completely forgotten about their flirtation in London. She was signaling that he should not expect to take up where he had left off. No doubt she had had boyfriends since then. For his part, he was relieved that she did not feel he belonged to her.

The last member of the Dewar family to appear at breakfast was Cameron, Beep's older brother by two years. He was dressed like a middle-aged man, in a linen jacket with a white shirt and a tie. “You stay out of trouble too, Cam,” said his mother.

“I have no intention of going anywhere near the march,” he said prissily. “I'm planning to visit the Smithsonian.”

Beep said: “Don't you believe colored people should be able to vote?”

“I don't believe they should cause trouble.”

“If they were allowed to vote, they wouldn't need to make their point in other ways.”

Bella said: “That's enough, you two.”

Jasper finished his coffee. “I need to make a transatlantic phone call,” he said. He felt obliged to add: “I'll pay for it, of course,” though he was not sure he had enough money.

“Go right ahead,” Bella said. “Use the phone in the study. And please don't trouble about paying.”

Jasper was relieved. “You're so kind,” he said.

Bella waved that aside. “I think
Life
magazine probably takes care of our phone bill, anyway,” she said vaguely.

Jasper went into the study. He called the
Daily Echo
in London and reached Barry Pugh, who said: “Hi, Jasper, how are you enjoying the USA?”

“It's great.” Jasper swallowed nervously. “Did you get my Smokey Robinson piece?”

“Yes, thanks. Well written, Jasper, but it doesn't make it for the
Echo.
Try the
New Musical Express.
”

Jasper was disheartened. He had no interest in writing for the pop press. “Okay,” he said. Not ready to give up, he added: “I thought the fact that Smokey is the Beatles' favorite singer might give the interview extra interest.”

“Not enough. Nice try, though.”

Jasper tried hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Thanks.”

Pugh said: “Isn't there some kind of demonstration in Washington today?”

“Yes, civil rights.” Jasper's hopes rose again. “I'll be there—if you'd like a report?”

“Hmm . . . Give us a ring if it gets violent.”

And not otherwise, Jasper inferred. Disappointed, he said: “Okay, will do.”

Jasper cradled the phone and stared at it pensively. He had worked hard on the Smokey Robinson piece and he felt the Beatles connection made it special. But he had been wrong, and all he could do was try again.

He returned to the dining room. “I must go,” he said. “I'm meeting Senator Peshkov at the Willard Hotel.”

Woody said: “The Willard is where Martin Luther King stays.”

Jasper brightened. “Maybe I could get an interview.” The
Echo
would surely be interested in that.

Woody smiled. “There will be several hundred reporters hoping for an interview with King today.”

Jasper turned to Beep. “Will I see you later?”

“We're meeting at the Washington Monument at ten,” she said. “There's a rumor that Joan Baez is going to sing.”

“I'll look for you there.”

Woody said: “Did you say you're meeting Greg Peshkov?”

“Yes. He's the half brother of Daisy Williams.”

“I know. The domestic arrangements of Greg's father, Lev Peshkov, were hot gossip when your mother and I were teenagers in Buffalo. Please give Greg my regards.”

“Of course,” said Jasper, and he went out.

•   •   •

George Jakes entered the coffee shop at the Willard and looked around for Verena, but she had not yet arrived. However, he saw his father, Greg Peshkov, having breakfast with a good-looking man of about twenty who had a blond Beatle haircut. George sat at their table and said: “Good morning.”

Greg said: “This is Jasper Murray, a student from London, England. He's the son of an old friend. Jasper, meet George Jakes.”

They shook hands. Jasper looked faintly startled, as people often did when they saw Greg and George together; but, like most people, he was too polite to ask for an explanation.

Greg said to George: “Jasper's mother was a refugee from Nazi Germany.”

Jasper said: “My mother has never forgotten how the American people welcomed her that summer.”

George said to Jasper: “So the subject of racial discrimination is familiar to you, I guess.”

“Not really. My mother doesn't like to talk about the old days too much.” He smiled engagingly. “At school in England I was called Jasper Jewboy for a while, but it didn't stick. Are you involved in today's march, George?”

“Kind of. I work for Bobby Kennedy. Our concern is to make sure the day goes smoothly.”

Jasper was interested. “How are you able to do that?”

“The Mall is full of temporary drinking fountains, first aid stations, portable toilets, and even a check-cashing facility. A church in New York has made eighty thousand sandwich lunches for the organizers to distribute free. All speeches are limited to seven minutes, so that the event will end on time and visitors can leave town well before dark. And Washington has banned the sale of liquor for the day.”

“Will it work?”

George did not know. “Frankly, everything depends on the white people. It only takes a few cops to start throwing their weight around, using billy clubs or fire hoses or attack dogs, to turn a prayer meeting into a riot.”

Greg said: “Washington isn't the Deep South.”

“It isn't the North, either,” said George. “So there's no telling what will happen.”

Jasper persisted with his questions. “And if there is a riot?”

Greg answered him. “There are four thousand troops stationed in the suburbs, and fifteen thousand paratroopers close by in North Carolina. Washington hospitals have canceled all non-urgent surgery to make room for the wounded.”

“Blimey,” said Jasper. “You're serious.”

George frowned. These precautions were not public knowledge. Greg had been briefed, as a senator; but he should not have told Jasper.

Verena appeared and came to their table. All three men stood up. She spoke to Greg. “Good morning, Senator. Good to see you again.”

Greg introduced her to Jasper, whose eyes were popping out. Verena had that effect on white and black men. “Verena works for Martin Luther King,” Greg said.

Jasper turned a hundred-watt smile on Verena. “Could you get me an interview with him?”

George snapped: “Why?”

“I'm a student journalist. Didn't I mention that?”

“No, you did not,” George said with irritation.

“I'm sorry.”

Verena was not immune to Jasper's charm. “I'm so sorry,” she said with a rueful smile. “An interview with the Reverend Dr. King is out of the question today.”

George was annoyed. Greg should have warned him that Jasper was a journalist. Last time George talked to a reporter he had embarrassed Bobby Kennedy. He hoped he had not said anything indiscreet today.

Verena turned to George, and her tone changed to annoyance. “I just talked to Charlton Heston. FBI agents are phoning our celebrity supporters this morning, telling them to stay in their hotel rooms for the day because there's going to be violence.”

George made a disgusted noise. “The FBI is worried, not that the march will be violent, but that it will be a success.”

Verena was not satisfied with that. “Can't you stop them trying to sabotage the whole event?”

“I'll speak to Bobby, but I don't think he'll want to cross swords with
J. Edgar Hoover on something so minor.” George touched Greg's arm. “Verena and I have to talk. Excuse us, please.”

Verena said: “My table is over there.”

They crossed the room. George forgot about the sneaky Jasper Murray. As they sat down, he said to Verena: “What's the situation?”

She leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice, but she was bursting with excitement. “It's going to be bigger than we thought,” she said, her eyes shining. “A hundred thousand people is an underestimate.”

“How do you know?”

“Every scheduled bus, train, and plane to Washington today is full,” she said. “At least twenty chartered trains arrived this morning. At Union Station you can't hear yourself think for the people singing ‘We Shall Not Be Moved.' Special buses are coming through the Baltimore tunnel at the rate of one hundred per hour. My father chartered a plane from Los Angeles for all the movie stars. Marlon Brando is here, and James Garner. CBS is broadcasting the whole thing live.”

“How many people do you think will show up altogether?”

“Right now we're guessing double the original estimate.”

George was flabbergasted. “Two hundred thousand people?”

“That's what we think now. It could go higher.”

“I don't know whether that's good or bad.”

She frowned in irritation. “How could it be bad?”

“We just haven't planned for that many. I don't want trouble.”

“George, this is a protest movement—it's
about
trouble.”

“I wanted us to show that a hundred thousand Negroes could meet in a park without starting a goddamn fight.”

“We're in a fight already, and the whites started it. Hell, George, they broke your wrist for trying to go to the airport.”