“You must think I’m awfully stupid,” she murmured.
Verne laughed again. “You don’t mind if I sit down, do you? You weren’t planning to occupy any more of this couch than you are at present, were you?”
She shook her head. He thought; what kind of a girl are you, young woman? You seem pretty tough. And he thought: but that’s not all. Not by any means.
He sat down, balancing the glass on his knee. His legs sprawled out loosely. Barbara’s hand played slowly with a piece of thread that stuck up from the arm of the couch. He watched. Neither of them spoke. Verne knew how hard it was to tell what was going on in a woman’s mind, what might come in the next moment. He had learned to force himself quickly in and almost bluntly push and shove. He either lost out right away or he was accepted. He had given up trying to match the complicated workings of a woman’s mind.
“Do you know these people here?” Barbara said.
“A few. I don’t live here in Castle, of course. I come from New York. I’m just up for a little while to get away from things. I have to go back.”
“From New York? What do you do?”
“I’m an announcer. I even have a jazz program. Potluck Party. Haven’t you ever heard of it?”
“I’m from Boston. Potluck Party? What kind of jazz is it?”
“Musicians’ jazz. Progressive stuff. Not that doodle-de-dopdop business, but real jazz experiments. Rayburn, Shearing. Brubeck.”
“No New Orleans or Chicago?”
“A little; we do get calls for it. Jazz is an evolving thing—don’t forget that. Guys can’t go on writing and playing something after it’s dead. New Orleans and Chicago jazz were both products of specific environments. Chicago came out of the depression and the honky-tonk; that’s gone. Jazz reflects the times, just like any music. A man can’t any more honestly play Chicago jazz today than could Darius Milhaud write like Mozart.”
Barbara’s face began to struggle. “But don’t you think men like Ory or Bunk Johnson—”
“They were good. In their time. And Bach was a good composer. But that doesn’t mean everyone should keep on trying to write like Bach. What I say is—”
But then he stopped, grinning.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about jazz. I can see that we won’t agree.”
“But no,” Barbara said. “Go on. You have your own program? What time is it?”
“Thursday night at nine o’clock. Usually I use records and transcriptions. Sometimes I have a live group. The last I had was a quintet. Earl Peterson’s Quintet. You know them?”
“No.”
“It’s progressive, but soft. Some people think it sounds like Debussy.”
“I don’t know too much about the classics.”
“I hate that word,” Verne said. “It smells of dust and museums. Anyhow, you wouldn’t call Debussy classic, would you? How about Henry Cowell? Or Charles Ives?”
He could see that she did not know what he was talking about. He was beginning to get her typed in his mind. He felt better. To him, there were not individual women, each to be understood. There were kinds of women, types. Once he had figured out what type a particular woman was, the process of dealing with her was much easier.
“Listen to what they’re playing now,” he said suddenly. The couples who had been dancing had stopped and were sitting around the phonograph, listening.
Barbara listened. After a few minutes she turned to Verne. “All I can make out is a lot of banging sounds.”
Some people, disturbed by her voice, turned to glare at her. She glared back.
“Be careful,” Verne whispered. “They pray in front of that. It’s a kind of little idol.”
“What is it?”
“The Bartok Concerto for Two Pianos and Percussion. It takes time to get used to. Like blue cheese.”
“I enjoy some of Beethoven’s symphonies . . . .”
After the piece came to an end Penny and Felix came over. They greeted Verne.
“Do you and Barbara know each other?” Penny said.
“We just met. Over the sound of cymbals and drums.”
“I don’t like that Bartok thing,” Felix said. “I see no purpose in it. I don’t care what they say.”
“How come all you people know each other?” Barbara demanded. “Everyone knows everyone except me.”
“It’s your own fault,” Penny said. “You always go off by yourself, and then you complain about being left out. We met Verne when we first came here. I though t you were along. You probably stayed behind to write home.”
“Can I get anyone a drink?” Felix asked.
“Not me,” Penny said. “If I drink any more I’ll pass out. Somebody ought to tell Tom to make them weaker. We still have two hours to go.”
There was a stir among the people. A man was going from person to person collecting money.
“What’s this for?” Felix said.
“We’re running short of booze, fellow,” the man said. “Pitch in like a good boy.”
Felix dropped in a clatter of change. Verne gave the man a bill. The man went off.
“If I’d known it was going to cost us money I wouldn’t have come,” Felix said bitterly. “We have damn near not enough to get back as it is.”
“Are you people leaving?” Verne asked.
“We have to get back to Boston. This is almost our last day. We’re so broke we’ve got to hitchhike.”
“That means we’ll probably have to break up and go separately,” Penny said. “I don’t like the idea. What I want to do is wire home and demand bus fare.”
“I could drive one of you down,” Verne said thoughtfully. “I have to go back myself on Wednesday. But I only have the coupe, and three is all we could get into it Myself, this fellow I’ve already promised, and someone else.”
Penny nudged Barbara. “This would be a hell of a good deal for you, kid. Then Felix and I could take the bus with what we have. What do you say?”
“Well, let’s not rush into things,” Barbara said loudly. “Let’s take it easy.”
“Okay. It was just an idea. Don’t get mad.”
“Anyhow, my offer holds good,” Verne said.
To Verne, the two weeks at Castle, if nothing else, were at least a temporary escape from a bad situation. It would all begin again when he got back to New York; but for the moment he could forget about everything.
The Woolly Wildcats had opened at the Walker Club early in January. At the time, busy with his program and trying to prepare a book on the history of jazz at the same time, he had no particular interest in them.
“They’re really good,” Don Field said to him. Don came around to the station to lend them jazz records from his collection or to make cuts on their professional recording equipment. Don Field drooped. He always wore clean, tasteful clothes, carefully pressed and in the proper style, but underneath them his whole being drooped. It gave him a wilted, worn-out look, as if he were just out of bed. A person for whom all activity was exhausting.
“They’re good,” Don said again. “Aren’t you even interested?” His hoarse voice raised a little. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you interested in jazz anymore? You’re too busy writing about it to listen?”