What a Little Blues Can Do

The three sat down to dinner, Nadir taking the computer chair because it was the most comfortable, and began to eat in silence. Erik's culinary talent was to blame for the quiet – it's difficult to have conversation with a full mouth. It was simple baked chicken with snapped beans and scalloped potatoes, but each item was positively savory.

Once he'd swallowed a few mouthfuls, Erik sat back and surveyed his guests. Neither was meeting his gaze; their attention was firmly fastened to their plates. Normally, this would be complimentary to a cook, but he was suspicious of what had passed between them.

"All this chewing is riveting, really," he said sarcastically, "but could one of you swallow and pause long enough to explain your simultaneous disappearance?"

Christine held a finger in the air as the chewed the last delicious essence from a bite of chicken. "I was being given the third degree by Mr. Khan."

"Really." Erik turned his dark gaze to his old friend, who pointed to his bulging cheeks and made no reply.

"Yes," was all Christine would offer before taking her next bite.

"And what did you ask her, Khan?" Erik's eyes shone with a dangerous light.

"Let him eat, Erik. He was just looking after your interests." Christine reached across the table and squeezed Erik's hand. "It's what best friends do. Remember Meg?"

Erik rolled his eyes and picked up his fork. "Remember? I wish I could forget..." but the look he shot Nadir was distrustful. "I'd still like to know what..."

"On to more pertinent things. How long is Mr. Khan going to be in town?" Christine gave a watery, apologetic smile as she interrupted.

"I shall be here through next Sunday, I believe."

"Then you will have to join us in the park." Christine grinned. "You taught Erik, you must be an amazing musician."

Erik looked up sharply. "Christine. No. I don't think Nadir..."

"I'd be honored."

Christine shook her head. "We'd be honored. In fact, I think you should pick the music. I can play flute or cello -and the newspaper apparently believes I can sing. Erik...he can play anything under the sun. So, if you pick it, we will play it."

"Christine! No!" Erik was the picture of horror. "You don't know what kind of music he likes!"

Nadir wiped his mouth with his napkin and smoothed his goatee. "Hmm...what should I choose. With only two days to practice, I have to make sure it's something you kids can handle."

Erik harumphed and folded his arms across his chest.

"Erik? What kind of music does he like? It can't possibly be too bad."

"Jazz. The blues. And when he plays them, he requires..."

"Erik to sing." Nadir's predatory grin startled Christine before she began to laugh.

"Oh, don't laugh, Christine. I told him about you, Miss Any-Register."

Christine's smile melted away. "Oh no. Nono. I can't sing jazz."

"Too late," Nadir proclaimed. "I have already decided on our playlist."

Dinner ended uneasily. Nadir borrowed paper and pen and wrote his list down, along with which instruments each person should be prepared to play. He set the list on the table with the air of a king making a decree.

"You might want to start working tonight. I shall return tomorrow for a bit of rehearsal with you." He lifted his walking stick from its place behind the door. "Miss Daae, it truly was a pleasure. I'm sure you'll make Lady Day proud." He bowed and was gone.

Christine and Erik barely replied; they were poring over the list. "Well," he proclaimed. "It looks as though you will be spending quite a bit of time in your lower range. We've been working on a bright tone – that will be completely inappropriate here. I'm going to have to show you how to put some smoke and grit in your voice."

"We have a duet," she pointed to the last song. "The Moment I Saw You? Erik, Nadir certainly has an interesting sense of ..."

"Of irony. I could have warned you of that. But before we get into his germane choices...tell me all about your little chat with my good old friend." Erik made himself comfortable on the sofa with his arms still crossed over his chest.

"Would you do me a favor?" She gestured at her face. He nodded and slipped the mask off. "That's better." She settled down beside him in the half-lotus position, facing him. "First of all, why do you think I should tell you what we talked about, if we went out of our way to talk about it without you there?"

The bluntness and rationality of her question caught him off-guard.

"We've never kept secrets from each other..." he began, but the shake of her head stopped him.

"Maybe not, but there's plenty you've carefully skimmed over. I don't blame you. No point in digging up ancient history." She leaned over and pried one of his hands away from his chest. "But all he wanted was to make sure I knew what I was getting into."

"Getting into?" Erik snorted. "What am I, the Le Brea tarpits?"

"No." This was quickly becoming uncomfortable. "But you certainly have your sticky points. He wanted to make sure I knew those points. He doesn't want you getting hurt."

"And what are my sticky points?" Erik tried to invest this question with a wry and sarcastic humor.

"Your temper, for one thing." She turned his hand over in hers and rubbed her thumbs over his knuckles. "Apparently you risked your ability to play your violin quite a few times."

"That's in the past..."

"But it's not. You still have that temper. You just locked yourself away. Nine years, Erik? You've been in this apartment for nine years?"

There was a long silence. Erik studied the movement of her hands on his. "It's better than what I was up against out there. Christine, you just don't know."

"He also wanted to know if I'd seen your face. He was surprised when I said I had." She was cautiously working her way around to what she really wanted to know. "He wanted to know my feelings about it. I told him that I've asked you not to wear it around me."

"I'm sure that shorted a couple of his circuits." Again, Erik tried for sarcasm, but achieved only bitterness.

"No. What 'shorted his circuits' was when I asked him why you still wear it in his presence." Christine waited. It proved to be a sore point with Nadir; how would Erik respond?

Erik's expression softened. "It is not his fault, if that is what you think. He has asked me not to in the past, but when I take it off his eyes suddenly find urgent business in any area of the room that doesn't include me. You can't hold it against him, Christine."

"I don't. But I think you do." He shook his head in denial, but she pressed on. "Have you noticed how differently you behave with him? You are much colder and harder with him. He's known you your entire life, but you treat him like a business associate instead of a friend."

Erik shrugged. "I told you that you were different from anyone I've ever known. Speaking of different – you look amazing tonight. Your hair is...how did you get it to do that? And I've never seen your eyes look so...so...And your lips..."

Christine smiled. He was changing the subject with his usual heavy-handedness, but the compliments were doing her a world of good. "A good stylist and a talented aesthetician are a modern woman's mask, I suppose. I'm glad you like it. I intend to wear this on Saturdays." She stood up and spun in a circle to show off her newly-smooth curls. "I had to make some effort at matching you. Can we practice that duet now?"

They spent two blissful hours practicing the setlist, until Christine's voice showed signs of fatigue. It amazed her that Erik's never seemed to tire or weaken. It was a perfect instrument, producing flawless sound hour after hour. She retired to the sofa to rest while he continued making notations and changes to the music to better adapt it to the performers and their instruments.

This was how Christine found herself in front of a crowd of hundreds testing out the silky, sultry tones of greats like Etta James and Lady Day. Nadir coerced each of them into singing three separate songs and one duet– of his choosing. Each piece had to be re-arranged for their instruments, which turned out to be the only difficult part of their preparation. By the time they were tuning up on the park green, even Erik had to admit that they were a mean blues-jazz trio.

Christine sang "Slow Like Honey", What a Little Moonlight Can Do", and (with a biting pain that twisted the song's meaning and chilled the crowd) "It's Alright with Me." After each song, the crowd cheered a bit louder. When she bowed and turned away to take up her cello, the flash of a camera dazzled her eyes even as the thunder of applause crashed over her. A storm. We've literally played up a storm. A smile played on her lips. Wait 'til they hear him.

Erik stepped forward, his fedora tipped over his eyes so that he would not see the crowd. He opened with "The Sky is Crying" and when he finished, he realized the audience had doubled – maybe trebled – in size. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Nadir nodding slowly. Christine was looking at him with an expression that kindled a fire between them. Bolstered by his back-up, he turned back to the crowd. Slowly, he began to smile. "Lovin' in My Baby's Eyes" rolled through the crowd, making them smile, sway and lean against one another. He closed with Buddy Guy's "Sweet Little Angel." The crowd was deliriously clapping, hooting, screaming.

When Christine returned to Erik's side, they hushed expectantly. In rehearsal, the focus was getting the harmonies perfected, along with tone and delivery. All that was done and past. Now, Erik and Christine joined hands and found their place on that silver cloud. "The Moment I Saw You" was a love song often sung by performers with no more than a nodding acquaintance with one another.

Performed by these two, it became something more than a feel-good wartime love song. Their peculiar circumstances invested every word with a deeper meaning. Their voices, perfectly complementary, carried their love into the music. When the song ended, there was silence as they kissed. No one in the audience dared breathe or move. The spell was cast; every spectator was held in its grasp, enthralled. Only Erik and Christine moved, and they moved as in a dream. Later, some in the crowd would conjecture that the kiss was staged, only to be shouted down by their contemporaries. "No way," these wise observers said, "You can't stage love like that."

Nadir began gathering together the instruments, preparing to leave. He saw trouble in the form of a man with a professional-looking camera and a woman with a microphone and perfectly beauty-shopped hair heading their way. Erik and Christine had not yet broken for air.

"Paparazzi!" He whispered urgently, but the couple were gone to a place where they could not be reached.

"Sir? Sir? I'm Zoe Bertrand, with the Seattle Times; entertainment division." The woman approached Nadir with her microphone, while the man trained his camera on Erik and Christine and began snapping pictures. They broke apart, suddenly realizing the world hadn't actually fallen away from them. Erik's grip on Christine's hand tightened painfully.

"No pictures," he growled dangerously, but Christine squeezed his hand harder than he was squeezing hers and kicked his ankle.

"Just look mysterious, Erik. It's your cover, remember?" she whispered. If he began assaulting the press, their little dream could turn into a nightmare quickly. None of the tenseness left him, but he contorted his face into something that he hoped passed for enigmatic neutrality.

Meanwhile, Nadir was happily chatting with the journalist.

"No, no. It's just the two of them. You might call me a friend of the family."

"They are family? Brother and sister?" She'd been trying to pry useful information from the old man, but he'd been well-drilled on their desire to maintain anonymity.

"Not at all. Not at all."

"Husband and wife? Friends?" She saw that they'd broken the kiss and hurried over to them. "You are the talk of all Seattle. Would you care to grant your fans an interview?"

"No," grumbled Erik, earning another swift kick from Christine.

"What he means," she amended, "is that we will be happy to answer a few questions, as long as we are not explicitly identified. That includes photos that reveal my face." The photographer began nervously checking his cache of photographs.

"Well then..." the woman looked down to her steno pad. "How long have you been performing together?"

"Only a few weeks, really. It's a rather new experience for both of us."

"Ah. And are you being paid for these performances – by the Parks and Recreation division, perhaps?" It was a question many burned to know. No one worked for free...so, who was paying these two?

"No one." Erik's tone was indignant. "We give you art, and all you ask about is the money?"

"You are performing for free, then?"

Christine beat Erik to the answer. She wanted to attract fans, not drive them away. "We love making music and want to share that love with everyone. Why should live music be reserved for those who can afford concert tickets?"

"Then what do you do in your daily lives? I'm sure our readers would be fascinated to know..."

"Ah-ah-ah," remonstrated Nadir, who had come to join in. "I believe the young woman just told you she didn't want to share identifying information."

A look of annoyance marred the reporter's pretty face. "Let her answer."

"No. He's right. If you have questions about the performance or the music we're happy to answer. Otherwise, we have places to be."

"Well then." Ms. Bertrand shuffled through her notes. "Your performance this afternoon was entirely jazz and blues selections. I have a note here that at your last performance, you concentrated on classical. Is there a reason for the change?"

"Ah, yes ma'am. That would be me. The youngsters allowed an old man the pleasure of choosing their material."

"And how long has each of you been playing?" She looked to Nadir first. He chuckled and tapped his temple.

"I'm an old, old man. Let's just say that I've been playing long enough."

She rolled her eyes and turned to Erik, who still had Christine's hand imprisoned in his. "And you, sir?"

"Thirty-two years." He smirked. "Give or take a decade or two, depending on the instrument."

In desperation, the reporter turned to Christine, who was regarding her sympathetically.

"I've been playing cello for nearly sixteen years. But I've only been singing for about six months."

Here was something report-worthy. "Really? That's very surprising. Who is your teacher?"

Christine nodded towards Erik, who was growing visibly agitated. "He is. And I've never had a kinder, more patient teacher."

Zoe Bertrand cast a doubtful eye over the grumbling, taciturn man. She decided to cut this interview short. She was unused to having to fight so hard for information; most up-and-coming musicians were anxious for the publicity.

"Do you intend to continue these Saturday concerts?" Her information came from Meg, who had gleefully handed over the complete schedule. The question was more for formality's sake.

"Absolutely." Christine nodded. "But we will split our time among four local parks, playing a different one each week. That way we will reach a broader audience."

"Where will you play next?" Again, she already knew, but form was form.

"Ah, that's what we won't tell you. We hope to see a different audience at each place."

"And does your group have a name? How may I refer to you?"

Erik, of all people, supplied this one. "Strange Noise," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse us..."

"Of course." The reporter and her photographer walked away feeling completely unsatisfied.

Nadir gathered up his belonging and gestured for his companions to do the same.

"If you thought that woman was a gadfly, wait until your adoring fans get here. Seeing the press held them off, but here they come."

He was right. Now that the interview was over, well-wishers and admirers were advancing, calling out to them. Erik groaned and began picking things up as quickly as possible. When he leaned down to pick up the cello, however, Christine got a glimpse of something different in his eyes: triumph, and not a little pride. He was still acting the part of the ornery recluse, but she was no longer fooled.

They piled into Nadir's car, glad for the easy and direct transportation. Nadir and Christine raved all the way home about their overwhelming success. Nadir declared that he would have to join them for future performances. Christine agreed jubilantly. Erik said not a word. There was no thought in his mind of crowds, or music, or meddling reporters. He was replaying the moment when they'd kissed over and over in his mind.

Nadir left them at the door to the apartment building, saying he had some business he wanted to attend to in town. In truth, he'd seen the smoldering looks they'd been exchanging, and wanted to get out of the way before the fire broke out. Their lack of resistance to his departure reinforced his idea that he'd best drop in for a goodbye brunch tomorrow. After all, he hadn't created his setlist capriciously. Classical music was all very well, but in his opinion, there was nothing quite so invigorating for a couple of repressed lovers as a good grinding dose of the blues