When the stylus reached the run-off groove for the umpteenth time, Val reached over and set his glass on the floor. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a chance.’
As we entered the club and walked past the long bar towards the stage, a tune I failed to recognise came to an end and Young, caught in the spotlight, stared out, startled, as the applause riffled out above the continuing conversation. Up close, he looked gaunt and ill, dark suit hanging ragged from his shrunken frame, pain all too visible behind his eyes.
I took hold of Val’s hand and squeezed it hard.
The drummer kicked off the next number at a brisk clip, playing quick patterns on the hi-hat cymbals with his sticks before moving to the snare, a signal for Young, saxophone tilted at an angle away from his body, to begin. Within the first bars, he had dragged the tempo down, slurring his notes across the tune, the same stumbling phrases repeated and then left hanging as he stepped back and caught his breath, the spaces between his playing wider and wider until finally he turned away and stood, head bowed, leaving the guitarist to take over.
‘I Can’t Get Started’ was played at a funereal pace, the sound coarse and almost ugly: ‘Tea for Two’, one of the tunes Val had been listening to back in the hotel, started promisingly before teetering alarmingly off course; only a measured ‘There Will Never Be Another You’ rose from its foggy, thick-breathed beginning to become something that had moments of beauty between the self-doubt and misfingerings.
‘If I ever get into that state, poor bastard,’ Val said, once we were back outside, ‘promise you’ll take me out and shoot me.’
Yet in the succeeding weeks he went back again, not once but several times, fascinated despite himself, watching one of his idols unravel before his eyes. Then there was the time he went along and Young was no longer there; he’d cancelled his engagement suddenly and returned to the States. Two weeks later he was dead.
The evening he heard the news Val played ‘There Will Never Be Another You’, just the one chorus, unaccompanied, at the beginning of each set. The next day I walked into his room in the middle of the afternoon, and saw him sitting, half-naked on the bed, needle in hand, searching for a vein.
‘Oh, Christ, Val,’ I said.
He looked at me with tears in his eyes then slapped the inside of his thigh again.
I slammed the door shut, grabbed my coat and purse and ran out on to the streets. For hours I just walked, ending up who knows where. At a corner bar I drank two brandies in quick succession followed by a crème de menthe and was promptly sick. I wanted to go back to the hotel, pack my bag and leave. What the hell was I doing there? What game? What stupid dream? There was vomit on the hem of my dress and on my shoes.
When finally I got to the club it was late and Val was nowhere to be seen, just his saxophone, mouthpiece covered, on its stand. In answer to my unspoken question, the pianist just shrugged and, still playing, gestured with his head towards the street.
I heard Val’s shouts, muffled, coming from the alley that ran from close alongside the club down towards the quai Saint-Michel. Val lay curled in on himself, arms cradling his head, while two men took it in turns to kick him in the back, the chest, the legs, anywhere they could, a third looking on.
The sound of police sirens was too indistinct, too far away.
When someone helped me to my feet and I walked, unsteadily, to where Val still lay, unmoving, I thought that they had killed him. I thought he was dead.
For three days I sat by his bed in the hospital and held his hand. At night, I slept in the corridor outside, legs drawn up, on a chair. One of several broken ribs had come close to puncturing a lung. A week later I held his hand again as we walked in the hospital garden, with its bare earth and the stems of roses that had been cut back against the frost.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked him.
‘Fine,’ he said, wincing as he smiled. ‘I feel fine.’
After that there were always dull headaches that prevented him from sleeping and sudden surges of pain, sharp as a needle slipped beneath the skull. Despite the months and years of osteopathy, his back never sat right again, nagging at him each time he played.
* * * *
Valentine Collins, jazz musician. Born, 18 September, 1937. Died, 13 April, 1976.
Thirty years ago. No need any longer to take the ferry to Calais and then the long, slow journey by train, and not caring to fly, I treated myself to Eurostar, first class. A slightly better than aeroplane meal and free champagne. The centre of Paris in less than three hours. Autumn. The bluest of blue skies but cold enough for scarf and gloves. I feel the cold.
The Métro from Gare du Nord to Saint-Michel is crowded with so many races, so many colours, Val’s face would not have stood out at all. Not one of us, Patrick had said, and it was true, though not in the way he meant.
The rue de la Huchette is now a rat-run of kebab houses and creperies and bars, so crowded, here and there I have to walk along the centre of the narrow street.
Le Chat Qui Pêche is now a restaurant and the sign has been taken down. For a while I think I might go inside and have a meal, reminisce a little with the waiter, if he has a little English to complement my meagre French. But it is enough to stand here at the pavement’s edge with people spilling round me, wondering, some of them, perhaps, what this old woman is doing, just standing there, staring at nothing in particular, none of them hearing what I hear, the sound of Val’s alto saxophone, a ballad, astringent, keening, ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’.
BAR FIGHT by JASON STARR
If Omar wasn’t drinking way too much it probably wouldn’t have happened. But that night he’d been drinking Gwenroc for over three hours straight at a bar on rue Oberkampf, and when the skinny man bumped into him, spilling some of his drink on his shoulder, he turned and snapped, ‘Hey, watch where you’re going.’
The man looked around, like he thought Omar must have been talking to somebody else. But it was after midnight on a Tuesday and there were only a few other people in the bar.
‘Excuse me?’ the man said.
‘You spilled your drink on me,’ Omar said, wiping the liquid off his jacket. ‘You should watch what you’re doing, be more careful.’
The man’s blue eyes narrowed into slits. ‘Drink? You mean this?’ he said, and poured the rest of the drink onto Omar’s head.
Omar stood up and faced the man. The man looked around – Omar wondered if he was looking for a friend who might be in the bar to help – then said, ‘How about we settle this outside, you dirty Muslim bastard.’
Omar wanted to punch him in the face right there, but before he could react Frederic, the bartender, said quickly, ‘Not in the bat.’
The man held out his arm, as if to say ‘After you,’ but Omar wasn’t going to leave first. He knew that as soon as he turned his back the man would try to sucker punch him. When the man headed towards the door, Omar left thirty euros on the bar to cover his tab, and carrying his jacket over his shoulder, followed the man outside.
Until he had stood up and started walking, Omar didn’t realise how drunk he was. He hadn’t had anything to eat since a ham sandwich for lunch, and he’d had only booze since.
It had been raining all day and it was raining even harder now. The man was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Omar was about to put down his jacket and get ready to fight when the man said, ‘Not here – around the corner.’
The man started to walk up the block and Omar followed, staying a few metres behind. The man was walking unsteadily and seemed drunker than Omar. It was raining even harder now, the big drops splattering against the pavement.
They went around the corner, on to a darker, narrower street. After every couple of steps the guy kept looking back over his shoulder, like he thought Omar might try to jump him, but Omar was walking at the same pace, keeping the same distance between them. The street was dark and empty. About a third of the way down the block, the guy stopped and raised his fists like a boxer.
‘Where’s your head scarf, mujahadeen?’ he asked.
Omar responded, ‘I don’t wear a head scarf.’
‘Yeah, sure you don’t. All you dirty bastards do, even in the summer. Come on, what’re you waiting for, let’s go. I’ll make you sorry you ever left Iraq.’
Figuring it would be best to make the first move. Omar lunged forward, dropping low at the last second, tackling him by his legs. Then the guy surprised him, turning him around, so he had his back on the sidewalk and the guy was on top. This was exactly what Omar wanted – a wrestling match. He was taller and stronger than the man and he knew he would have an advantage. Using his legs, Omar flipped the guy over and he was back in control again. He pinned him down, then started to beat him in the face. Left-right, right-left, he kept it up as fast and as hard as he could. Blood was dripping out of the guy’s mouth and nose, but it was hard to tell how much he was bleeding because the rain was splashing against his face.
‘Fucking Muslim bastards,’ the guy managed to get out. ‘Screwing up our country, rioting, coming over from Clichy-sous-Bois, no respect for the law, stealing money from our children, screwing our women…’
Omar kept beating the babbling racist in the face until his arms were exhausted. Then he stood up, pulling the guy up with him. He pushed him against a wall, gave him a few hard punches to the stomach, making the man gag, then he gave him the knockout punch, catching him right between the eyes. The guy’s head snapped back, banging against the brick. Omar held the guy up for a few more seconds, then let go, letting his limp body collapse onto the concrete.
Omar felt like he’d just run a marathon. He was gasping so hard his lungs hurt. The rain was coming down in sheets. He looked around, but there was still no one in sight. He kneeled down over the body. The man was unconscious, but still breathing. Omar reached down and slid his hand into the man’s back pocket, removing his wallet. There was a bunch of credit cards and banking cards – the guy’s name was Michel Perreaux – and there were sixty-four euros. He pocketed the racist bastard’s cash, then slid the wallet back. He was about to get up when he noticed a smaller bulge in the man’s right front pocket. Hoping it was more money, Omar removed a thin leather case and opened it. Only after staring at the badge for several seconds did the words register: Préfecture de Police. He stuffed the badge and the wallet back into Michel’s pocket. Michel was starting to wake up, squirming, moaning something. Omar lifted Michel’s head and then banged it against the concrete, knocking him unconscious again. Then he stood up, put on his jacket, and started walking back towards Oberkampf.
* * * *
When Omar arrived at his small, two-room flat in Montparnasse, he gulped some Whisky de Bretagne straight from the bottle, then took a long shower. When he got out, he took another gulp of booze, then leaned close to the mirror on the medicine chest and examined his face. Although he had pains in his jaw and cheeks, he didn’t look like he’d been in a fight. He didn’t have any cuts or swelling or black-and-blue marks. His knuckles on both hands were a little sore, but that was about it.
If Omar had known the guy was a police officer, there was no way he would’ve started anything, despite the slurs and everything else. He would’ve just finished his drink and gone home. But now he knew he was in big trouble. The police would probably come looking for him later tonight, if they weren’t looking already. Although Omar’s parents had been born in Paris and he wasn’t very religious, he knew the police would treat him like any other Muslim. He’d have to lie low for a few days, spend as little time as possible in the 11th Arrondissement, and the entire Right Bank.
But Omar knew he’d have no chance if the cop was dead.
The police would never give up trying to find a cop killer, especially a Muslim cop killer. Omar wasn’t sure how hard he’d banged the guy’s head against the concrete, but it could’ve been hard enough to kill him.
Omar watched some TV, but he was just staring at the set. He wanted to call his ex-girlfriend, Rania, just to talk to her, or maybe even convince her to let him come over to her place and hide out for a few days. But it was too late and, besides, she didn’t want anything to do with him any more. She was looking for a rich, successful French guy – a white French guy – who didn’t drink and stayed out of trouble and who could take care of her and be a good father. That sure as hell wasn’t Omar.
Omar brushed his teeth, swallowed a few painkillers, and went to bed.
* * * *
He barely slept. Drinking all of that whisky on a half-empty stomach had been a bad idea and it didn’t help, having to worry all night about getting arrested for murder. After he got ready for work, he looked online, but there was nothing about a cop getting beaten up or killed. Omar wondered if the cop could still be lying there. Bums often slept in the street in Paris and people always walked right by them.
At about 8.15, Omar headed towards the Métro. He wondered if there was a description of him going around already. If there wasn’t there would be soon. Even if the cop was dead, Frederic the bartender, or someone else at the bar, would tell the cops all about the fight. Omar couldn’t believe he’d got himself into this situation. He always went about his own business, never looked for any trouble. But trouble always seemed to find him. It wasn’t the first time he’d got into a bar fight. Over the last year alone he’d been in several fights. He had to give up drinking, was what he had to do. Rania was right about that. If he wasn’t a drunk he certainly wouldn’t be in the situation he was in right now.
Omar worked in customer services for an insurance company. During a break, he went into the hallway and called Rania on his mobile. He said he had to see her again, that she had to give him another chance. She told him to stop calling her and hung up on him. When he called back he kept getting her voice mail.