Jack of Diamonds (103 page)

I had no doubt that the gangsters would follow through on their threat. How could they not? If my daughter defaulted on her debts, her fame would only exacerbate their very public humiliation. Frantic to raise the money any way I could, I contacted Abrihet’s family, but I had not reckoned with the conservative and aristocratic Amhara people. Horrified that Ayana would choose to ‘flaunt herself’ as a model and had, in their view, debased herself, they refused to help. Even Fenet, who I’d thought would be more enlightened, turned her back on us. Perhaps she blamed me for her sister’s death; I will never know.

In desperation I began to wonder if there really were diamonds in Diamond Jim’s crop. I hated myself for even considering it, but as my finger caressed his breast I’d find myself wondering if they could be gems or merely industrial-grade diamonds. I lay awake at night, tortured by the dilemma I faced: to kill my best and most faithful friend on the basis of a story told to me by simple men in the heart of Africa, or to risk my daughter’s face, and possibly her life.

To make matters worse, I was asked to play at the last night of the London Proms, the traditional grand finale of the season. Diamond Jim and I were to perform George Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue
, one of our most popular numbers. Heartbroken, I accepted, no longer caring if I were recognised. Time was running out, and I knew that I had to save my daughter, no matter what it cost me. This would be the last time Jack, Jim & Jazz performed together.

When the program finally arrived I gave it a cursory glance. A young American pianist named Steven Rooth would be performing Rachmaninoff. Something stirred my curiosity momentarily, and I read on, noting that he had been toured in Canada by the Sue Stinchcombe Talent Agency. A coincidence, I guessed, and thought no more about it.

I lay awake at night. I couldn’t kill Diamond Jim. I told myself that if the diamonds were somehow contained in my own throat, I’d gladly take my life. Oh, god, hadn’t I been through enough? I admit I was bitter and sorry for myself and blamed myself for Ayana’s gambling addiction: a child’s game would destroy everything I loved.

Much later I would learn that, around this time, Sue Stinchcombe had decided to come to London, ostensibly on business, but really for a holiday with her other shareholders, Mac and the twins. While she wasn’t responsible for Steven Rooth’s appearance at the Royal Albert Hall, she’d contacted him and he’d given her a single ticket to the performance. In return for this favour she invited him to dinner at the Dorchester after the concert, because he’d already met Mac and the twins on his tour of Canada. He accepted and asked if he could bring a guest.

On the final night of the Proms, I prepared myself and Diamond Jim as best I could. Apart from the night of Abrihet’s death, it was the worst night of my life, even worse than when Sammy Schischka crushed my left hand. Every loving nuzzle, whistle or squawk, every sign of affection from Diamond Jim, twisted a knife in my heart.

The young American virtuoso appeared before us and I found myself transfixed by his performance. I couldn’t help wondering what sort of life I’d have had if only I’d followed the path set out for me by Miss Bates and become a classical pianist. How different might my life have been?

We were on next, and as Diamond Jim and I walked out onto the stage, the audience broke into thunderous applause. They were clearly all regulars, and knew us of old. I felt their warmth and love enfolding us, and I very nearly broke down. But Diamond Jim was a true performer, and kept me focused. The music came to my rescue, and I began to play that long, haunting, sinuous opening to
Rhapsody in Blue
, Diamond Jim prancing and swaying on my shoulder in time to the music.

After the big finale, the crowd went wild, stamping and shouting, then starting up a chant of ‘
Encore! Encore!
’ They damn near lifted the elegant Albert Hall roof. Diamond Jim and I took our bows, but nothing would satisfy the crowd until I raised my harmonica, glanced at my old friend, and began to play Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’. When that lazy languorous tune finally wound to an end, I waited for the applause to quieten and stepped up to the microphone. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said. ‘This is the last performance by Jack, Jim & Jazz  . . .’ My throat closed up.

Diamond Jim, leaning against the microphone, said, ‘That’s all, folks. Goodnight and goodbye!’

I could see people in the front row weeping.

Sue was, apparently, close to the front of the stage and couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw me walk on. Despite my greying hair and my mangled hand, she instantly recognised Jack Spayd. As soon as I finished speaking, she left and waited outside the stage door, where she finally accosted me as I headed for home with Diamond Jim perched on my shoulder.

My first reaction to seeing someone from Las Vegas after such a public performance was to run, especially after the visit from the Cockney Sammy Schischka but, after a quick look around, I realised that Sue couldn’t possibly do me any harm. In moments, we were hugging and Diamond Jim was protesting, and Sue was wiping away tears while I swallowed hard. She invited me and Diamond Jim to the dinner she’d planned, explaining that my old friends from Canada would be there.

‘Sue, I can’t; you know why.’

‘No, Jack, this is different, there’s nobody present who can harm you, I promise. The twins, Mac, tonight’s soloist, Steven and his mom – a quiet dinner in a private room with old friends, I promise.’

‘Diamond Jim will need to come. Will they allow it?’

‘You bet.’

I didn’t want to tell her this might well be DJ’s last supper. We took a taxi to the Dorchester, and Sue filled me in on some of her life since I saw her last. We arrived to an overwhelming welcome from all my old friends and, in my fragile emotional state, I was soon reduced to tears.

Finally, Sue took me by the elbow and said, ‘Jack, I’d like you to meet Steven Rooth  . . .’ I turned as she added, ‘ . . . and his mother.’ It was Bridgett, older but as beautiful as ever. For a heartbeat we both gaped at each other, then Bridgett burst into tears. She rushed into my arms and buried her face in my chest.

‘Who’s this?’ Diamond Jim demanded, and Steven Rooth looked as if he wanted to ask the same question. Bridgett and I finally drew apart and gazed at each other.

Her eyes bright with tears, Bridgett said, ‘Jack, allow me to introduce you to your son, Steven Jack Rooth.’

It was an unforgettable night, and I felt torn between learning more about my miraculous and extraordinary son I had not known existed, and talking to my lost love. When Bridgett and I were finally alone, I admit, I broke down and told her about the decision I had to face in the next few days – or, rather, the decision I’d already made.

‘Jack,’ she said, taking my scarred hand in both of hers and kissing it tenderly. ‘You gave me my son. I owe you more than I can ever repay. You mustn’t harm Diamond Jim.’

I shook my head, unable to speak.

‘There’s another way,’ she went on. ‘Will you allow me to talk with the others?’

I nodded. What the hell, I was too distressed and dismayed that just when I had found my love and my astonishing son, I would have to lose my precious Diamond Jim. ‘You’ll have to leave the room, Jack,’ Bridgett said. ‘Will you return in half an hour?’

DJ and I went for a walk around the block and returned to the Dorchester roughly half an hour later. When we entered the room, I glanced around at the ring of solemn faces, then suddenly everyone burst into laughter. ‘It’s done, Jack,’ Bridgett said. ‘We’re all happy to contribute.’

I confess, I fell to my knees and wept again.

‘So? What’s happening?’ Diamond Jim demanded to fresh gales of laughter and not a few tears.

Bridgett kneeled beside me and said in a whisper, ‘Jack, you know I still love you. I always have. I’ve never married – I couldn’t – there was only ever you.’

‘Oh, Bridgett, I thought I’d lost you forever. I love you, darling, with all my heart,’ I managed to stutter.

‘Hey! What about me?’ Diamond Jim demanded.

‘You too, DJ. We can’t be parted.’ I laughed between my tears.

At some stage during that long night, Bridgett told me that Tony Accardo, the godfather, was dead, and that Manny ‘Asshole’ de Costa had developed dementia and was in a home for the aged. Sammy had died several years back, in an auto accident, and the Chicago mob had gone completely legit with the sale of the Firebird. Because all the other players were no more, the contract taken out on me had long since been withdrawn, although Bridgett still kept her ‘paperwork’ in a very safe place.

‘Oh, Jack, I’ve been searching for you for so long. I really began to fear you were dead. Do come back to New York with me and spend some time with us. You need to get to know Steven, your son,’ Bridgett said as the sky over London lightened. ‘And you must bring Ayana.’

Just then, Diamond Jim let out an ear-piercing shriek, and bobbed up and down. We laughed and Bridgett added, ‘And, of course, you’ll be accompanied by darling Diamond Jim.’

The End

It’s been a privilege to write for you and to have you accept me as a storyteller in your lives. Now, as my story draws to an end, may I say only, ‘Thank you. You have been simply wonderful.’

With love and admiration,

Bryce Courtenay

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When
The Power of One
was published in 1988 I could never have dreamed that I would be writing the acknowledgements for my twenty-first book twenty-three years later.

As long as I can recall I have always had stories doing gymnastics in my head, and demanding an audience.

Now my wife Christine and my family would be delighted if I chose to take a break as I enter my eightieth year. But I believe it is our stories that define us as a nation and provide an indelible record of where we have come from, and perhaps vital clues about where we may be heading.

Isaac Bashevis Singer, the great Yiddish American writer and Nobel Laureate, once said, ‘When a writer tries to explain too much, to psychologise, he’s already out of time when he begins.’ Someone else once said, when asked if their work contained a message, ‘If you want a message, go to Western Union.’ Singer believed novelists are entertainers and storytellers and I think he was right. If you enjoy a book, then that is sufficient.

Regardless of the breathtaking developments in technology and medical science, I am often disheartened by the pervading sense of cynicism and disillusionment, not to mention the political rhetoric that takes precedence in the media. But the real stories journalists miss are of the individuals filled with courage, integrity and passion who have tackled the challenges of economic instability, environmental degradation, climate change, and the appalling fact that in our world clean water and food is not shared equally among the growing numbers of people on our tiny planet.

For now, though, I invite you to sit back and enjoy my latest story, be it in paper or on your phone or e-reader (what a wonderful tool the latter is). It is my fervent wish that, when the time comes, I may be remembered by those whom I entertained as a damn good storyteller. I also encourage everyone trying to write a book to take heart – if I can do it, then so can you. So keep on going, kids – much of the effort is simply bum glue. I am constantly astonished and delighted at the breadth of talent I see in my annual writing courses, and in the manuscripts that cross my desk.