Part 1 (2/2)
”I have nothing to worry about?”
”Yeah. My old lady put me out because I took a pledge of celibacy. So my love for you is pure. I want you for your mind.” And he gave me an angelic, lying smile.
”What's the rest of this story?” I asked wearily.
”I need a place to crash, one night only. I'm tired as h.e.l.l. I could use something to eat. You look kind. I was hoping you'd feel sorry for a fellow musician.”
For a long moment I stared into his diamond bright green eyes. Then I let his head fall back onto the pavement. I asked myself, Nan, what is the stupidest conceivable decision you could make in this situation?
My next move seemed clear.
My apartment is a floor-through on First Avenue between Seventeenth and Eighteenth. Pretty good morning light. Not too noisy on the front. Furnished in high sharecropper chic.
Sig was cross-legged on the kitchen floor. It turned out his head was bleeding from the fall he'd taken, so he sat pressing a folded patch of gauze against his hair. He studied the walls while I put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on one of my signature dishes-fresh sardines deep fried in Greek olive oil and thin linguine with garlic and little green peas.
”I like that one!” he said, pointing at the Huey Newton poster that I'd hung upside down.
”That one's great, too.” He meant Lady Day near death, which had cost me about a hundred dollars to frame.
”I don't know about that one,” he said doubtfully, nodding at Walter's autographed photo of Magic Johnson with his bad boy guru smile.
”Dinner,” I announced. ”Get up off the floor.”
I set a steaming plate in front of him along with a cold gla.s.s of cheap white wine. He made a face.
”What is this? This is not the kind of stuff you feed a street musician. We need more protein ... like cheeseburgers.”
I cursed him in gutter French.
”Did you call me something bad?” He adjusted the makes.h.i.+ft headband he'd tied on in order to keep the gauze in position. ”Well, that's okay. I still love you desperately.”
I couldn't help but laugh. Up close, I could see that little Sig was quite a bit older than he looked at first glance-what said it were those little drinking lines around the base of his nose. There was something else that did not escape my notice: tell-tale wrinkles, dirty hair and all, little Sig was quite pretty. I wondered what he'd done to make his lady put him out.
He ate his food like a good boy, even paying me a compliment or two on it, after he got used to the taste.
”Sweetness,” he said, wiping his mouth, ”if you make a living playing that sax, I'm Louis Armstrong. Who are you really?”
”Really? My real name is Simone.”
”No kidding? Simone What?”
”Signoret.”
”Huh. That's kind of a pretty name.”
This child, I decided, was from an outer sphere.
Then, while I did the dishes, he began to rattle on about the saxophone and all its glory. G.o.d, what a torrent of reverently uttered names and birthplaces, record dates and sidemen. Coleman and Prez and Bird and Sonny and Jug and Trane and Bippity Boppedy Boo. I finally sent him off for a shower, hoping it would calm him down.
I picked up the bunch of brown straps he'd taken off his wrists and left on the kitchen table. They were made of flimsy Indian leather, still stiff with newness, and the head of a bald eagle was embossed on each strap. It made me smile; I used to have a thing for cheap bracelets, too. And I also liked wearing them in bunches. See, just wearing two or three of them won't get it. You have to put on dozens. For some reason, the sheer number of them cancels out their essential tackiness.
I lit one of Sig's cigarettes and sat down to look at my mail, all those bills I had no way of paying now that Walt and his salary were gone.
I had a second smoke and polished off the lousy chardonnay.
He reappeared twenty minutes or so later-calm, clean, hair slicked back and glistening, torso bared-and a nice torso it was-thin but basically flawless.
One of my extravagant white Fieldcrest bath towels was knotted low on his hips, and inside it, where stomach meets thigh, was a little palm tree. He looked at me while I looked at him.
”Ah,” I said, and kept looking.
He smiled slyly. ”I am your slave,” he p.r.o.nounced.
”Ah,” I said.
”Where's the bedroom?”
”Mine?” I asked after a minute. ”Or yours?”
”Ah,” he said sadly, and shrugged.
Yes, thank G.o.d he was older and more sensible than he looked.
We took the old futon out of the hall closet and rolled it out on the living room floor.
”Listen, Sig,” I told him as I turned out the light, ”coffee's at seven-thirty. Then out you go.”
”But I'm your slave-”
”Hey, Siggy? Being a person of color, that is not my favorite word in the English language.”
I took his laugh as a sign that he was finally giving up.
”Gets pretty cool in here at night,” I said. ”Summer's over, you know.”
”Guess I better put on my pants then.”
”Guess you better.”
Around 3 A.M. I woke up achy and s.h.i.+vering. I felt the cold air creeping around the corners of my room like a wild cat prowling a canyon. I wondered if that fool had gone during the night and left the apartment door open.
Furious, I walked into the kitchen. Sure enough, the door was wide open. I banged it shut ... then banged it a second time, because the lock wouldn't catch.
<script>