Clifford's Blues by John A. Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

listening, for the first time, to the echo of the church in my music. Had it always been there, the heavy low-down weeping spiritual for funerals, the happy, ripping sanctified church beat that bounced along all by itself? I let myself out on “Joy to the World,” and threw in extra “joys” wherever I found space. And the chicken was cooking and smelling through the house. I filled up my glass again with some Cliquot. Why not “Jingle Bells”? Then I got into the melody of “Joy” with the harmonics of “Jingle.” You always hear other music in the music you’re playing. I just joyed and jingled up a storm. Let the champagne get warm, too, but Dieter Lange has plenty of it. And the chicken sure was smelling good, man.… Chicken. Dieter Lange was really looking over the chickens that came in last month. He told me so. I said to myself that I’d better study this war some more, otherwise Dieter Lange would have my ass right over there in the camp. If he found a better ass than mine. But Anna would say no. She wanted to learn English. Maybe I could even give her more time to be with Bernhardt—if she liked my cooking—and I was sure going to leave them some of my roast chicken with stuffing and gravy. Sir! Play the piano, sing a little, give English lessons, turn a trick, and cook. Shit, The Cliff would be indispensable.
    All this time I was bruising the board, matching keys and jumping from one number into another, and I started to find secret places between, before, and after notes and chords. I started a tune with harmonics instead of doing melody followed by the ad-lib, and I thought listeners should be able to track the tune without the melody, just by the harmonics. I felt good when I got up to check the chicken and get myself another bottle. I wondered what those poor bastards over in the camp were eating.
    It was getting dark. I saw The Cliff ease outside and start walking into town. Everybody’d be inside having Christmas dinner. No one would see me. Walk clear to Switzerland, into the Alps with the snow on top of them. I could do that if I was white, like that snow up there, just walk until someone asked for my papers. Maybe no one would. I sat down again and discovered sounds between sounds that I’d never played before, because I’d never thought about listening to them. It was like discovering that within a forest the trees had branches and limbs and leaves and roots, and the leaves had veins and the roots had hairs. I played around with some quarter notes, backing the pedal and ending runs up instead of down, so they sounded like questions instead of answers. I put a little stuff on some notes, stretched and bent the tones of some, and squeezed others. I braked, cutting off timbre, and the beat, the rhythm, was there. It has to be, but I found that it could be in no sound as well as sound. I played so long that the chicken got cold, but I think I found something. I know Dieter Lange and his gang won’t like it. For me it is a precious fountain. A Christmas tree. A Merry Christmas.
    Wed., Dec. 26, 1934
    I had this dream when I went to sleep: I had finished my dinner. I was high and feeling very good. I put on every sweater I could find, then put on one of Annaliese’s dresses, her heavy jacket, and her hat. I pulled on her everyday overshoes. I stuck bread and sausages and cheese into every pocket. Then I left the house. The road was empty and everything was white with snow and ice. I tried to stay in the shadows. My breath curled out in white balloons. My steps made crunching, squeaking noises. With each sound, a light in a window went out. And, as I passed each streetlight, it, too, went out. Light was always just ahead of me; darkness lay behind me. I smelled myself as I walked. I smelled of Anna’s perfume, and I walked like a woman. I felt silk things move and slide on my body, even though I didn’t remember putting them