A Chronicle of Charlotte

One

Tears of blood welled in her eyes as the sullen voice of the saxophone wailed on. Patrons who could not discern the sweet agony of the music moved on, their minds drawn towards pursuits of inebriation and sexual conquest. The music spoke of different truths. It spoke of profound sorrow, and of hope in the face of great loss.

It had been over fifty years since Kirsten had heard anyone with a soulful sound such as this. Of course there were others with more skill: John Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Dexter Gordon. She owned albums by all of them and the emotions they carried were well known to her. But this young man, David brought something she never thought she would hear again.

She knew her failings and was well prepared. Reaching into her purse, she produced a scarlet handkerchief and dabbed the red drops forming at the corners of her eyes. This routine had quickly become habitual. Every night that he would play, she would attend. Normally, she would be the one to entrance - the one to lure others to her. Instead, she was drawn as if he possessed a rapture that bound her will and forced her to listen.

David had recently arrived and sought to play at the local Jazz clubs, from Calypso's to Nineteen Blues Street. He had occasional shows, but nothing on a regular basis. The aging patriarchs of the jazz scene had begun to settle in areas with decent clubs. They had no desire to move about, and it made it hard for newcomers to the business to have earned any distinction among the regulars. Time, the club that she was now seated in, had relaxed its format and provided an opportunity for performers like David. This was his third performance in two weeks. Kirsten knew she would be here for the next.

She watched as he dipped the sax down low, moving in a rhythm with the sounds. He reminded her so much of another, a man by name of Luther. He also had drawn from this wellspring of spiritual strength. Kirsten could watch as he would summon forth an inner turmoil and translate it into a beautiful lament. She had listened to Luther for months, spending her nights in clubs such as Stokely's and The Tin Weasel. Kirsten had eventually approached the man and spoke with him. She found him to be receptive and quick to talk. Soon enough, she had learned the true nature of his pain: a wife lost to sickness. Luther had claimed that his songs were not really about her absence, but he could tap into those potent emotions and use them to fuel his music. She could attest to the raw power he unleashed onstage.

It was so long ago, and yet David's music opened those wounds anew. She had grown to love Luther, as those of her clan were wont to do. She could have made him love her in return, but the injustice of such an action struck her. For one, this was in the mid-thirties and relations between whites and blacks were frowned upon in the most lenient of towns. It would have caused him too many problems, regardless of her sway within society. And more importantly, having him focus on her may have drowned out his sense of loss, surely affecting his music. She was too selfish to let that happen. She regretted the choice, as a sudden heart failure left him dead one morning five months after their first conversation.

Now she looked at David, young and robust, yet still possessed with that same heavy burden. She didn't expect him to die from a heart attack this young. Would something else claim him just as she had found her Gabriel? No, fate could not be so cruel, even to Kindred like Kirsten. As long as he would continue to play in this area, she could content herself to just listen and marvel from the shadows.

David reached the end of his set, and for once seemed to acknowledge the crowd. A handful of subdued applause echoed from various points in the room. The audience wanted to thank him for his gift, but catcalls and loud clapping were inappropriate for this venue. He stood up from his seat and lifted the microphone. As he said "Thank you," to the audience, his eyes moved directly to Kirsten. She caught her breath at his gaze, which could have lasted for minutes. Then he had taken his saxophone and left the stage.

Perhaps she would not remain an anonymous listener in the shadows after all.

B.Mooney