We sat through perhaps a half hour of tunes known only to those fortunate enough to have been born in Kitzbühel, interspersed with rousing old American favorites like “Roll Out the Barrel” and “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.” David listened intently to the trio, apparently gauging their ability, and then abruptly rose and left the table. Sandy and I both assumed he was going outside to vomit. He returned some ten minutes later, carrying in his hand an instrument he played as well as the flute, an alto recorder, which came apart in three sections and was easily packed in suitcase or coat pocket. Without saying a word to either of us, he brushed a strand of hair off his forehead and walked toward the corner of the room, where the trio was cowering in anticipation of an attack from the restless crowd.
I have always admired David’s sense of self, and it is nowhere more in evidence than when he is about to perform. Completely secure in his musicianship, he comes out onto a stage the way Muhammad Ali steps into a ring, imparting to an audience the certain knowledge that someone is going to get knocked cold. The very way he held the recorder, his arm dangling loosely, his fingers in a relaxed grip somewhere below the neck, immediately communicated to the assembled guests that he was a professional. The instrument seemed an extension of his arm and hand; he held it with such intimate familiarity that one automatically assumed he could play it in his sleep. The trio looked up fearfully as he approached; was he the forerunner of the mob reprisal they were expecting? David climbed onto the bandstand, smiled pleasantly, and then shook hands with each of them in turn. The Austrians now looked puzzled. He held a brief conference with them while they listened intently, nodding all the while, and then he smiled again, approached the microphone, and silently beat off a fast four/four tempo with his left hand.
From the moment they began playing, there was no doubt that David was about to metamorphose this shambling street band into some semblance of a musical unit. He had obviously given them the chart (all that Teutonic nodding was acknowledgment that they knew and could play the chord pattern he was laying down) and then had established the tempo, and now he launched into a definitive demonstration of what the recorder can sound like in the hands of an expert with a rhythmic and harmonic background behind him. In the ensuing twelve-and-a-half minutes of inspired jazz, David and those Austrian shlumps sounded as if they’d been rehearsing together for months. The three lehrers seemed shocked by their new-found ability, and kept looking at each other in fear and ecstasy, like snow bunnies who suddenly discover their skis are actually running parallel. David, oblivious to everything but the beat and the chords behind him, unaware of the crowd out front, leaned into the microphone with his eyes shut and blew that fucking wooden horn into a silence as deep and as reverent as a nun’s fantasy.
With each new intricate lick, he led the audience down a garden path, and then pulled the trellis down around its ears, shattering whatever preconceived musical cliché it had anticipated. Each time he teased a melody that seemed historically familiar, like the outcome of World War II, he so transmogrified it that we were forced to accept the Japanese as victors. His tone was as volatile as his melodic line. He shrilled notes that sounded like the second coming of the birds, whispered them like the words of spent lovers, dove deep to the bottom of the sea in a fat round bell, soared high into the stratosphere where the air was thin and you flew at your own peril. Fingers moving over the open holes in the instrument, lightly covering, tapping, lifting, covering, each note clean and sharp and true, he brought the improvisation to a frenzied climax, and then abruptly signaled the band to stop with a swift downward jerk of the recorder, bringing the audience back to its senses as sharply as if he’d snapped his fingers.
Startled for an instant, shocked by the absence of a sound they’d have followed even unto the mouth of a cannon, the guests burst into belated applause and would not let him leave the microphone until he began another number.
David was a star, and the night had finally taken off.
Dancing with Sandy, listening to David, I felt certain that the two people I loved most in the entire world had quietly conspired to make my life serene and complete. The sound of the amplified recorder, liquid and lyrical, flooded the ersatz Austrian room, while Sandy, in yellow blouse and long quilted skirt patterned with miniscule daisies, floated in my arms, her cheek against mine, her golden hair dusting my hand.
“What do you think of our friend?” I asked.
“I always knew he’d make it,” Sandy said.
“Yes, but did you think he’d make it this big?”
“This is only the beginning,” she said. “He’ll play the Palace one day, that boy.”
“Right now, he’s playing only for us,” I said.
“I know.”
“Schwartz is watching you.”
“Mm.”
“So is Foderman.”
“Goodie.”
“Did he ask about the north face again?”
“I haven’t talked to him.”
“Maybe he forgot all about it.”
“Not a chance.”
“I think the violinist has eyes for David.”
“How do you know?” Sandy said, and craned her neck for a look.
“He keeps batting his lashes.”
“Maybe he’s got a nervous tic.”
“My dog had a nervous tick once. Kept jumping all over him and biting him everyplace.”
“What’s the violinist’s name?” Sandy asked.
“Volkswagen?”
“Volkmar, shmuck. And that’s the accordion player.”
“Must be Max, then.”
“Max is on drums.”
“Helmut’s on drums.”
“Who’s on first?”
“What’s David playing now?”
“Left field.”
“Seriously.”
“Listen, dolling, they’re playing our song.”
“Come on, Sandy, what is it?”
“How do I know? Ask David.”
“I can’t. He’s playing.”
“What’s he playing?”
“Hard to get, I think. Look at that old devil Max flirting over the bridge of his fiddle.”
“If he diddles like he fiddles,” Sandy said, “David’s in for a rough time.”
“David can take care of himself.”
“I’m sure he can. He once played for a ballet company, didn’t he?”
“Here comes Foderman,” I said.
“What? Where?”
“Heading this way. I do believe he’s going to cut in.”
“Don’t you dare let him!”
“Chivalry, my pet.”
“Chivalry, my ass.”
“Probably wants to ask about the north face.”
“He can ask later. Don’t you let him cut in, you hear me?”
“I hear you, sweet talker.”
“Don’t desert me.”
Foderman’s hand fell gently on my shoulder. “May I?” he asked.
“Why, of course, Seymour,” I said, and stepped away graciously.
“Good evening, Seymour,” Sandy said, and moved into Foderman’s arms, and threw me a stiletto over his shoulder.
I had, I swear to Allah, no ulterior motive in abandoning Sandy to the gynecologist from Mosholu Parkway. I merely enjoyed throwing her off the roof every now and then because it gave me so much pleasure to see her land catlike on her feet each and every time. But now, as I walked away from the dance floor, I noticed Alice the waitress standing at the bar and listening to Schwartz (who sat on a leatherette stool with his left leg propped up on a hassock) and was reminded again of my eagerness to sample the viands in her famous restaurant, word of which had been ballyhooed far and wide by the ski-meisters and busboys here at Semanee. Black-haired and blue-eyed, nineteen or thereabouts, with exuberant breasts and a restless behind, she was obviously itching to dance in her dirndl to the captivating rhythms of David and the Three Shleppers. Why, then, was she wasting precious moments listening to Schwartz lecture about his fascinating fracture, his forefinger conducting a guided tour along points of interest on the now entirely scribbled-over cast? I decided to liberate her.