• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction
• Famous-Fiction
• Historical-Fiction

By Root 29783 0

id he was a real gypsy, a French gypsy, and he only had three fingers on his left hand, his string hand. Incredible. They had sat almost all night, Andy and the queer, playing them and replaying them, and the queer expanded and began to talk, how he had seen him once in the flesh in a Paris bistro, how Django had quit without giving notice, leaving a thousand francs a week to go off with a third-rate gypsy band that was touring in the South, the Meedee, he called it. The queer thought that was wonderful. The queer did not offer to proposition Andy. Either he forgot all about it in the excitement of the music, or else he wanted to keep his real love and his business separate. It was as if this queer only propositioned men who were too dull and insensitive to appreciate guitar, so he could degrade them for their lack, and himself for associating with them. He had driven Andy down through the fog to the dock to catch the last launch, and in the fog Andy could not even remember where he had been. He tried to find the house again, once later on, when he found he could not buy the records anyplace. But he never could find it. He could not even recognize the street. He was not even sure which hill it was. It was as if street and house had vanished from the earth, and he was pursuing the fading ghost of a long dead dream. He shipped out without ever seeing the man again.

That was the end of Andy’s story.

Nobody said anything for quite a while.

“Thats the kind of a story I like,” Slade said finally. “That poor lonely queer. All that money and nobody he could talk to.”

“Queers never have anybody they can talk to,” Prew said bitterly, remembering Maggio. “They like it like that. Poor little rich boy,” he said bitterly. But still, it was the kind of story Prew liked too, weird and unreasonable and senseless, almost occult, yet with a thread of hope still running always through it that maybe his theory that all men were basically alike, all hunting the same phantasmal mirror, was true.

“You dont know where I could find some of them records, do you?” Andy asked.

“I wish I did,” Slade said. “I wish I could help you. All I know about him is his name,” he told them guiltily. “I didnt know it meant so much to you. I lied to you a while ago, I’ve never even heard any of the records.” He looked at them anxiously. Nobody said anything.

“Gimme a drink,” Andy said finally.

“I’m sorry,” Slade said. “Listen,” he said, “play that blues again, will you?”

Andy wiped his mouth and played it.

“Jesus,” Slade said. “Hey, listen,” he said embarrassedly. “Now that you’ve got the melody for them, why dont you write your blues right now?”

“Oh, he’ll remember that all right,” Prew said. “We can always do it some other time, when we get back in garrison. He wont forget the tune, will you, Andy?”

“Oh, I dont know,” Andy shrugged disconsolately. “It aint much good anyway, is it?”

“No!” Slade said. “No, listen. If you put it off, it’ll end up just like your story about Django. A half forgotten memory,” he said, “of something you were going to do once, when you were young.”

They all of them looked at him.

“Never put things off,” Slade said, almost frantically. “You’ll wake up and find them gone.”

“We aint got no paper nor pencil,” Prew said.

“I got a notebook and a pencil,” Slade said eagerly, getting them out. “Always carry them. To write down thoughts, you know. Come on, lets write it now.”

“Well, hell,” Prew said embarrassedly. “I dont know how to start.”

“Figure it out,” Slade said eagerly. “You can figure anything out. Its about the Army, aint it? Its about re-enlisting. Look,” he said. “Start it with the guy getting discharged, paid off.”

Andy picked up the guitar and began to play through the minor melody slowly thoughtfully. Slade’s almost frantic enthusiasm was catching. He was high and pouring out the energy on them, like Angelo Maggio used to work himself up to when he wanted to win at poker, Prew thought.

“Here,” he said, “give us your flash so we can see.”

“You think its all right to have a light?” Slade said.

“Sure,” Prew said. “Hell. The