Play Dead (19 page)
“I’m Carver,” he said. He didn’t ask for my name. “Maybe we can work a trade, then?”
He motioned for me to come behind the bar and lifted up a trapdoor at the far end. Wooden steps led down into the opening. There must have been a belowground level window dug out since it was dim but not pitch-dark. He started down the steps, again motioning me to follow. Whatever he was after, it didn’t seem love potions were high on the list. I hesitated, then followed him down into the dark. Lou saw me at the last moment and bounded over the bar, doing his Olympic hurdler imitation. He might be distracted and having fun, but he wasn’t going to let me go off into a dim hole in the ground by myself.
As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dim light I saw I was in an old-fashioned root cellar. Potatoes and carrots, turnips and onions and yams, plus vegetables I couldn’t even identify, were stacked neatly or hanging in mesh baskets from the ceiling. Unfortunately, the cellar smelled like a fish tank long overdue for cleaning. I wrinkled my nose and Carver immediately took me by the arm.
“Yes! Exactly! This place is so moldy it’s ruining my winter store. The smell is starting to creep up into the front room, and that’s bad. Bad for business, bad for my reputation.”
“You want me to get rid of the smell?” I asked.
“No, no. Not just the smell. The mold. I’ve tried everything, even spraying the wall with beryl root water, but nothing works. It just comes back.”
“That’s bad,” I said. “If beryl root doesn’t work, you’ve got a tough case here.”
Pretending that I knew what the hell beryl root was made me feel a bit of a con artist, but at the same time it was kind of fun. It was like participating in an intense role-playing game.
I made a show of looking around the room, running my finger across several walls, and muttering to myself. One thing I’ve learned over the years is the importance of putting on a good show. If you simply do a workmanlike job without the trappings, people tend to be disappointed whether you get results or not. You can’t make it look too easy, even if it is. That’s why a lot of great musicians never get any recognition—they make it look so simple that no one except other musicians recognize their brilliance.
“Bones,” I said solemnly. “I need bones, the older, the better.”
Carver drew back. “You’re not going to do any of that black magic stuff, are you? No offense.”
“Why?” I said. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not. It makes me nervous; that’s all. Doesn’t seem natural, you know?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I never use the dark arts.” He didn’t seem entirely reassured, but started back up the steps.
“I think Georgie has an old bone he’s about worn out,” he said. I assumed Georgie was the dog I’d seen lying by the fire. At least I hoped so.
It took him only a couple of minutes to locate the bone and return to the cellar. I took it from his hand, ignoring that it was a truly disgusting object. I wrapped my mind around the deadness and let the energy flow through, meanwhile spinning around like an out-of-control lawn sprinkler, flinging lifeless pulses throughout the room. In five seconds I had coated the walls and floor so that nothing would grow there for five years. No mold. No fungus. No bacteria. I made it as sterile as a hospital operating room. Perhaps I had found my true calling. Transdimensional disinfectant specialist.
“Is it done?” asked Carver as soon as I stopped twirling. He ran his hand along the wall, where the mold was already starting to turn brown.
“Problem solved,” I said.
We climbed back up the stairs to the main room. Jackie had taken a seat by the fire and Georgie, if that was who it was, was resting a shaggy head in her lap. Malcolm was on the other side of the room, deep in conversation with a man who looked like a Hollywood version of a sheep farmer.
I sat down next to Jackie, and Carver brought us two large ceramic mugs of the hot spiced cider. It was the best thing I’d tasted in a long time. He also insisted on two steaming bowls of stew, also delicious. Jackie ate hers with enthusiasm, which surprised me.
“I would have thought you’d be a vegetarian,” I said, “given your other eco principles.”
“I am. But sometimes I do eat meat.” I let it go at that.
I looked around the room, which was almost empty, except for the sheep farmer and a lone figure at the bar. Malcolm joined the guy at the bar and struck up another conversation.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, as Carver came over to clear away the soup bowls and refill the cider mugs. “No customers? This is a bar, right? And an inn?”
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “But this time of year I don’t get much out-of-town business, and anyway, it’s still early. People will start coming by in a couple of hours, and by nightfall there’ll be a good crowd. Are you staying the night?”
I hesitated. I didn’t know what Malcolm had planned, and there was that money thing as well.
“No charge,” he said. “I owe you, after all.” He smiled. “We have some musicians playing tonight.” That settled it.
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll take you up on that.” Malcolm would just have to live with it.
Carver nodded and returned to the bar as Malcolm ended his conversation with the sheep farmer and joined us.
“Anything?” Jackie said.
Interesting. Malcolm was asking around, trying to get a line on . . . what? He made a little gesture at Jackie and shook his head.
“Did you help our barkeep with his problem?” he asked me, deflecting.
“I did. He offered us rooms for the night. I accepted.”
“Good, good,” he said, abstractedly. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”
For what? I wondered.
I CAUGHT A SHORT NAP IN THE ROOM CARVER provided, then sat by the fire as the inn slowly filled up. Everyone who came in appeared to be working class—farmers, carpenters—men with rough hands and women with rough clothes. They were friendly enough, but reserved. They talked easily among themselves about work, weather, and that universal topic of humanity: who was doing what to whom. The people of this singularity, if that was what it was, were close to perfect. It wasn’t long before I stopped thinking of them as pawns or window dressing and started to think of them as very real people.
Just after dark, a bunch came in carrying musical instruments and were greeted warmly. A young woman with long red hair took a beautifully polished and well-cared-for fiddle out of a battered case. She had a face that was delicate but roughened by weather, as were her hands. When she tuned up and tried a few practice runs, it was clear she could play.
A tall, balding fellow brought a set of hand drums, and a smaller guy with more than a few missing teeth came in later. He looked like he could have come straight out of
Deliverance
. He was carrying an odd-shaped case, and when he removed the instrument it appeared to be a cross between a mandolin and a lute, with five double strings. I listened as he tuned up into a modal tuning with the two bottom strings as a drone. I asked him what the instrument was called and he looked at me strangely, as I might if someone were to come up to me at a gig and ask the name of the instrument I was playing. It was a ludan, he informed me.
Deliverance
. He was carrying an odd-shaped case, and when he removed the instrument it appeared to be a cross between a mandolin and a lute, with five double strings. I listened as he tuned up into a modal tuning with the two bottom strings as a drone. I asked him what the instrument was called and he looked at me strangely, as I might if someone were to come up to me at a gig and ask the name of the instrument I was playing. It was a ludan, he informed me.
The three conferred for a while, agreed on something, and started off with a fast and lively air in 7/8 time, something between a Hungarian folk tune and klezmer music. The woman playing the fiddle was outstanding, playing increasingly more complex variations at each go-round. The songs they played, not surprisingly, were all unknown to me. But not entirely.
The music was familiar—an unusual blend of styles, but they were all styles I could identify. As I listened, I heard occasional phrases and even longer passages that reminded me of tunes of my own, long-ago half-done compositions, fragments of past tunes I’d started to write and then abandoned for one reason or another. It was a disconcerting feeling. Maybe Malcolm had been straight with me when he’d asked for a drop of my blood—this was certainly music that was in my blood.
But at the same time, it wasn’t my music at all. Surprising twists, clever rhythmical shifts, and unconventional harmonies all played a part. It was as if they’d taken musical ideas from me but altered them and made them their own.
That gave me an idea. Perhaps this wasn’t another world, but it wasn’t a mere construct, either. Maybe a little of both—a world that Malcolm had accessed, but at the same time managed to change and make it somewhat his own. And a little of mine as well. He’d taken a drop of my blood and woven it into the ritual. So part of me had gone into making it what it was—and thus the almost familiar music.
Jackie had moved over beside me and was listening raptly. For a while, we ignored all the other stuff between us, the conflict and magical strife. We were two musicians appreciating a wonderful set. Every so often, after a particularly neat turn of phrase, we’d look at each other and smile, and she leaned into me occasionally in a way that made me think she wished our relationship were different.
They played for about an hour, and after they put down their instruments I sidled over and plied them with technical questions about the music. I had assumed they were mostly playing by ear, the way most folk and bluegrass players do, but instead found a wealth of musical knowledge, especially from the red-haired woman. She was delighted to talk theory and asked me what instrument I played.
“Guitar,” I told her.
“Guitar?” she said. “How great is that. No one plays the guitar anymore, but I actually have one. I’m not even sure how it’s supposed to be tuned. Do you think you could show me?”
Okay, so here guitarists were a rare and honored breed, as opposed to being a dime a dozen back in San Francisco. There seemed to be a bit of wish fulfillment operating here. I told her I’d see what I could do.
“I’ ll be right back,” she said, and ran out the door.
Five minutes later she brought back a sweet threequarter-sized guitar and a tortoiseshell pick—a real one, of course, not plastic. I showed her the standard tuning and how useful that tuning can be for chording.
“Play something,” she urged.
If you’re a player and have a guitar in your hand, it doesn’t take much arm twisting to convince you to perform. I considered what to play. Something of my own? I had a flashy and complex piece for solo guitar that I sometimes used as a showpiece, something I was proud of, a piece that showed off all my technical abilities without being a sterile exercise.
I was about to launch into it when I remembered another time I’d wanted to make a good musical impression. I was young, and had been lucky enough for the chance to play a tune with the late Joe Pass. I pulled out all the stops, and was rather proud of myself, truth be told. After, he looked over at me and smiled gently.
“You clearly can play,” he’d said. “But there’s nothing wrong with simple once in a while, you know.”
Best musical advice ever. Not so bad for other things, either.
I stopped thinking and started playing, just a few random chords and runs. My ego fell away, and I was in the moment. Before I knew it I was playing a song, an old Mexican folk tune, “Blue Dove,” something I hadn’t played for years. A simple version, with some harmonized melody lines and chord voicings that brought out the beauty and heart of the melody. I forgot where I was and who my audience was. I just played and got lost in the music.
It was short, no more than four or five minutes. When it came to an end I looked over at Jackie, almost surprised to see her sitting there. She silently clapped her hands in gentle approval. The red-haired woman took me by the hand and smiled.
“My goodness,” she said. I’d rarely received a more heartfelt compliment.
The rest of the bar had mostly ignored my playing, or listened with half an ear. That’s the way it is with music sometimes, especially jazz. For most people it’s background noise, so you play for the two or three people who are really listening, and that’s enough. Not enough to pay the bills, however.
The other two musicians were getting antsy, as was the crowd.
“Time for us to play,” the woman said. “Why don’t you sit in? It’ll be fun.” Jackie looked at me in envy.
“I’d give a lot for a keyboard about now,” she said. “But you go ahead. That’s the first I’ve heard you play, you know.”
I didn’t even politely demur. I’d heard enough of their music to get a real feel for it and I was itching to join in. Not surprising, since it was also mine in a way.
They picked a tune that was clearly less complex than their usual fare, politely giving me a chance to get my feet wet. Jazz bands usually do the same, though I’ve heard tales of the old days when cutting contests were the rule. Even today if you show up as a stranger and push to sit in, the house band will often choose the most difficult chart they know, just to see what you’ve got. If you can’t cut it, well, tough on you.
The woman played the theme, a catchy tune based on a harmonic minor mode. I kept things simple; this was not the sort of music that would benefit from exotic jazz phrasings. After she played a few variations, I played a few of my own, and then we traded back and forth, each time striving to outdo each other. I could have continued, using some even flashier runs and elaborations, but it’s never polite to try to show up the house band. Not unless they’re trying to make life difficult for you. At a certain point I gave up and nodded in surrender, picking up the changes and allowing the missing-teeth guy to show off his own chops while I held down the rhythm.
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