Chapter 1
It stabs.
Wah wah wah
The noise – short, syncopated – stabs into the head, into the night.
Shh...shh...shh...It's a steam locomotive, a steady, sibilant rhythm...Shh...shh...shh...A father shushing his children...Shh...shh...shh...
Cloying heat. Darkness. What is this place? What is this space? But the darkness has softness...liquid shapes form themselves. The walls drip...there are walls! The walls drip with humidity – with sweat! They are blood red. This space is crowded...the shapes form, darker patches against the red walls.
Shh...shh...shh...Brushes. Brushes whispering on a snare drum...Shh...shh...shh...The steady rhythm. The rhythm is relaxed. It's a backbeat – support for the stabbing.
Wah wah wah
The eyes adjust...the darkness becomes less dark. Liquid shapes: people. People hovering. Sitting. Talking. Glowing, tiny lights float in the semi-darkness – fireflies? They're orange...must be the tips of a hundred cigarettes.
Wah wah wah
The stabbing comes again. The sound...piercing! Miles. Dizzy. The forebears are present in spirit.
Wah wah wah
A trumpet...piercing, penetrating the night. The shapes move less – the people still themselves. The orange tips glow but the locust throb of chatter dies. The people listen now, focused. The forebears are present in spirit…Miles, Dizzy...
It's jazz!
A light shines down. Not the moon – but a spotlight brighter than the moon. It shines on the trumpet.
Wah wah wah
Where is this place? What is this place? Is it a red, hot, smoky, sweaty rung of hell? Is it the Inferno? Dante's Inferno?
No…It's Donte's.
It's a temple – the faithful come to worship…At the altar of jazz!
The liquid shapes do not move now. Rapt, they sit and worship at the altar of jazz. The orange fireflies glow. The spotlight reflects off of the trumpet.
The smoke rises and floats, a study in Brownian motion. The liquid shapes – customers, patrons – drink and sweat and listen to the jazz.
This is Donte's!
Wah wah wah
The trumpet blares.
Shh…shh…shh…
The drums whisper.
And now a voice cuts through it. The voice of the priestess. Matronly. Black. Statuesque. Singing. She sits on the stage – too old now to stand for long. But as she sings, her voice is the voice of the ages.
"That old black magic's got me in its spell…"
The liquid shapes – the audience – listen. Rapt. This is why they've come here. For jazz.
"That old black magic that you weave so well…"
Who is this woman? This jazz singer? Why does she enthrall so?
"Those icy fingers up and down my spine…"
The spotlight cuts through the dark. The dark of Donte's Jazz Club. The patrons drink and smoke and above all – they listen!
"The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine!"
She is Carmen McRae. A priestess of jazz. No – she is a queen of jazz! And so the audience comes – comes to Donte's to hear her sing.
Wah wah wah
The trumpet blares.
Shh…shh…shh…
The drums whisper.
And sitting, watching, listening, is a man. Tall and dark, wearing black and only black, he is devastating. Every woman in this temple of jazz has noticed him. Wants him. But he sits in the dark, watching the spotlight; listening to this queen of jazz. Rapt.
And sitting, watching, listening, is a woman. Slim and dark, her beauty is graceful; her hair tumbles like silk. She sits and watches; she watches the stage and she watches the man's profile.
Carmen McRae – this queen of jazz – sings.
"And every time your lips meet mine…"
The woman watches the man. He is rapt. He can only watch the stage. She watches him and the orange firefly in front of his face – a cigar. She listens. The words have meaning for her.
"Darling, down and down I go, round and round I go…"
She moves closer to him. They are seated side-by-side. Shoulder-to-shoulder. They both face the stage so that they can watch Carmen McRae.
"In a spin, I'm loving the spin I'm in…"
The words have meaning for her. She is in a spin. Perhaps it is this place? The heat and the sweat and the smoke and the sounds of jazz? She feels it all. Or perhaps it is merely the bubbles? The bubbles from champagne? For she has had a lot of champagne tonight, here in this temple of jazz.
"I'm under that old black magic called love!"
The words have meaning for her. That is the reason she is in a spin. It is not the heat and the sweat and the smoke. It is not the champagne. Her head spins – here in this temple of jazz – because she is under that old black magic called love.
The words have meaning for her.
The song ends. The trumpet no longer blares. The snare drum ceases. And now a new noise replaces them…
The people cheer! They clap, and whistle and bang their glasses on their tables. They had come to hear Carmen McRae, this high priestess of jazz, and she has not failed them. And so they cheer.
And that's jazz!