The Wilful Daughter Page 3

  He smelled baking bread. But the scent of the baking soda made him realize it wasn’t bread, not like they made in Europe. Not panne or brioche. It was biscuits. He hated biscuits. He closed his eyes and he was in the small apartment in coldest Harlem.

  “Try this, son,” she said. They smelled good but there was always something wrong with those biscuits: too salty, too hard, too flat. No amount of butter, jam, or jelly could help. How could a four-year old boy tell his mother she was the world’s worse cook?

  “I’m not hungry,” he had told her, his little skinny legs swinging on the side of the tall wooden stool where he sat. “Mama, when we go to live with the white lady are you gonna cook for her?”

  Paulette Jenkins looked at her son and down at the dozen or so rocks that she had just created. She laughed. “Little Man, you trying to tell me if I cook I’m gonna kill that woman?”

  “No, Mama.” He had looked down at the floor ashamed. He loved his mama and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  She had walked over to him and kissed him. “Little Man” that’s what she had called him, never Peter his given name. “I know I can’t cook worth a hill of beans. That’s what your great Aunt and Uncle used to tell me after I moved in with them when my grandmother died. They would say: ‘Paulette you clean up the bedrooms and you wash this and you wash that. But don’t you dare go in that kitchen ‘cept to eat.’”

  She laughed again and that made it okay for the little boy to laugh too. She pulled him off the stool and handed him the pan of supposed biscuits. “Go ahead, toss them. Toss all of them in the trash. I got some potatoes that you like, we’ll eat that tonight. Can’t mess up potatoes too much. Besides, we gonna live with the white lady starting Monday. Your mama’s cooking days are gonna be over.” She rubbed his skinny belly. “Maybe eating some good food you’ll gain some weight.”

  Little Man Jenkins had thrown them in the trash one by one. Then he climbed into his mama’s lap. “Is Daddy gonna be able to find us when we move in with the white lady?”

  She frowned. He was an innocent child so she kissed him. But even a child could have seen that it pained her to answer. “Little Man, your daddy is with Jesus. He ain’t coming back to us. But. . .” She kissed him many more times as she told him this. “He can see us from heaven. God always tells him where we are.”

  He opened his eyes. The coffee called to him. Mrs. Maple would soon be knocking at his door. She was smitten with his European charms. She would be dressed to the nines as she gently tapped on the heavy wood: “Mr. Jenkins will you be joining us for breakfast?”

  His charm was natural for he was a most handsome man. The only thing he knew he inherited from his worthless father. He had lived in Europe with his mother and the white lady for many years before he knew that his father never married his mother and had been killed gambling away the money he should have used to pay rent. Left his mother not one cent, she couldn’t even bury him. Every man should leave something of value to his sons and daughters. The Piano Man had his father’s looks and nothing more. His children would have more, he was working on that.

  He would have to go down this morning to tell Mrs. Maple that he did not usually rise for breakfast. He would tell her about the rich coffee they had on the continent. He would tell that he would, perhaps, start eating breakfast when he started teaching at the college.

  The letter he had written months before in response to an inquiry for an instructor of the musical arts for the college named Morris Brown paid off, as did the letters of recommendation from Europe. They had received greater praise than those written by the people from New York who suggested him for the position. Colored writers he had met in Europe before the war who had taken up residence in Harlem, calling it “up south.” In three weeks he would be the professor of music at a college.

  He had never even been inside a classroom, but what did these hicks know? They had been told he was the best. He was the best. And he had trained and paid for it.

  The smell of the coffee was so strong he knew it was rich and black. Like espresso. The only thing Italian Herr Bogle liked was espresso.

  He had handed the queer looking white man a cup as Mrs. Lathon Gross had requested. The old man touched the boy’s hands before he could pull away. “Strong,” he said in thick German. Peter could speak and understand every language of every country they visited with Mrs. Lathon Gross over the past six years. German was not new to his young ears.

  “Good fingers.”

  She spoke in a prissy, frilly voice to the elderly man. “I taught him everything he knows. But he is so talented. He needs to know more.” Mrs. Lathon Gross had no idea how much German the boy understood, and he was not about to let her in on his secret. “You can teach him so much more than I can, dear Herr Bogle.”

  Mama had been polishing silver in the next room. She had never bothered to learn more than the needed words for shopping when they went to these countries. He caught her out of the corner of his eye and she nodded. It was her way of saying it was all right to get to the piano stool and show off. He was still small for his age, his hands the biggest part of him. She may not have known what Mrs. Lathon Gross was saying to Herr Bogle in so many words, but she knew it was about her son.

  When Peter started to play, the white people stopped talking and watched him. The old woman smiled and the queer looking white man couldn’t stop staring at the small Negro with the big hands.

  Three years later the Piano Man was staying with Bogle in Germany while his mother and Mrs. Lathon Gross remained in the south of France. He knew the rich woman treated him like a dark skinned son paying for his musical education and giving him a little spending money. He knew that she did not know that Herr Bogle said it was not enough. Never enough.

  “Make him play something sweet.” He did not like the man who lived with his teacher while they were in Germany. The man’s reputation preceded him. The other boys that had once studied and stayed with Herr Bogle had gone home. Some said the old man “touched them” explaining nothing more. The Piano Man knew what they meant, but he had never been touched by Herr Bogle except on his hands. Bogle was in love with the Piano Man’s hands, but he never mentioned anything else.

  He came up to Peter who was looking out of the window in the large room of the conservatory instead of watching the man watch him. “He wants you to play something sweet.”

  “Chopin?” The Piano Man said and gave the old man an angry look. Bogle had changed so much since this annoying but wealthy man had moved in. “He deserves nothing. He has no taste in music. You said so yourself. The way he acts here is not. . .proper.”

  “Please, Peter, for me. Play something lovely. You can play anything and he knows it.” The old man moved closer and Peter smelled him, powerfully unclean by the acts that had sent the others away.

  The Piano Man had not moved. “He cares for us, Peter.” He spoke in accented English. “In more ways than one. The others are gone. Your money is small. He could ask for more. Please,” the old man begged. “Just play.”

  The young Piano Man crossed the huge room passing the sofa without a glance. He played something, he did not know what. He had been told for this man sweet was romantic so his choice of tunes was romantic. From his piano stool he could see them, and hear them even though they attempted to whisper. He thought of Chloe as he played, the daughter of the housekeeper of Mrs. Lathon Gross, who taught him romance in exchange for lessons in English. Whenever he played sweet songs, he thought of her.

  Now he tossed the sheets off and stared at his erection. He had been hoping it would go away. Chloe was no longer a part of his daydream. She was fat and married with several babies. But thoughts of the girl in the red dress last night lay at the part of his mind that he could not control. He would not get out of this bed all day if he kept thinking about her.

  “Mr. Jenkins?” a shrill voice called from the hall.

  Quickly he covered himself. She did have the keys to all the rooms. “Mrs. Maple?�
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  “Yes, Mr. Jenkins.” The widow lady cleared her throat and spoke is a hushed tone now that she had his attention. “Will you be joining us for breakfast?”

  He said politely. “Yes, ma’am. I seem to be a bit more tired than I presumed. From my trip yesterday. It is just now taking its toll. I shall be down presently. Please do not hold the meal on my account.”

  “Oh no, of course, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. Most of my lodgers are up and ready to go. We will make sure there is plenty left for you. . .”

  “I am not a big eater of breakfast, Mrs. Maple. Coffee will be just fine,” he protested.

  “Of course, whatever you say. But after such a long trip. I mean from New York and before that from Europe, Paris, France. Well, you may need your strength. I will make sure we save you a little something.”

  He knew it would do him no good to protest. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You are most welcome. I will see you shortly.”

  She left and with her went his erection. He could thank her for that. But he would keep in mind that she was a widow when she asked for the rent and he was short of funds.

  No, in this place that could not happen. He let his mind wonder to the previous night and the small delicate woman with the long coal black hair. He had been playing a blues tune that he loved. Some shapeless woman was singing in a loud gravel filled voice. The words made him laugh, as well as the other men and women around for they knew the double meaning.

  “I like what you do to me when you take me for a buggy ride” was his favorite line. The women all gave a giggly “a huh” when she sang “stroke it from side to side.” They all knew the meaning of this.

  And he knew it as well. These blues people sang, these songs about broken spirits and hearts that needed to heal were all true. Find a woman who understood these words down here in the belly of the south and she would lay with you and make you feel so good you’d want to get up and slap your mama.

  That’s when he had seen the girl, watching and listening. God she was beautiful. It was obvious she didn’t understand much of the song. That was until one of the men next to her whispered something in her ear. And even in that faint light he had seen her blush with understanding. She had pushed her companion away as he laughed for having embarrassed her.

  But she watched the Piano Man, watched him play. Watched his hands, long and brown as they danced over the keys. Women liked that. All women in Europe, in New York, in every place he had ever been.

  “I don’t know what you playing but you doing the job.”A man shouted as he grabbed a woman and pulled her close to him.

  Miss Emma was smiling when she said: “Lord, look at what he’s doing to the women. I don’t know if it’s his looks or his playing. They done started breathing hard. I bet you he can make a woman wish her corset was looser once she gets started thinking about this Piano Man, he say that’s what they call him up north, laying them long fingers on them.”

  When he first felt the gaze of the girl in the red dress, he began to feel a dampness on his collar. That’s when he decided to show off. When the shapeless woman stopped singing he had started to play like a demon. Faster and wilder. The old creaky piano of Emma’s suddenly took on a life of its own. The girl had watched in amazement, her eyes widening, while the rest of the people in the joint encouraged him and cheered him on. When he hit the last note they applauded so loud Emma told them to hush up ‘fore the law came down on them. The Piano Man was sweating, his dark handsome face soaking wet. He watched the girl as she applauded with ladylike charm. He realized then that she didn't belong there.

  A charming brown skinned woman came over to him. “You so good. I ain’t ne’er heard no playing like that. And look at you sweating and all. Here let me wipe your head and face.”

  She pulled from her ample bosom a lace trimmed white handkerchief that smelled of sweat and vanilla and wiped his face. Ordinarily he would have relaxed and told her to take her sweet time, letting her hands cover his face and neck then move slowly to his chest where he would let her feel the pounding of his heart. He would indicate that this beating was not just from the strain of the piano playing but from her presence, or the scent of her kerchief. Or some even more brazen lie that would get him any part of her he wanted.

  This plain but beautiful country woman would have been the type. She would have been the one that he took out back of Emma’s and got familiar with had it not been for the eyes of the creature across the room.

  He kissed the rough hand that smelled faintly of the cleaning liquids his mother had once used and thanked her for caring. He went to Emma for a glass of water, not sure if he was up to the stuff she was serving

  “Man who plays like you, gots hands like you, gets lots to drink from me,” Emma said with a toothy smile, a cloudy bottle hovering over his glass.

  “I came to play, Emma. When I come to drink, I’ll take you up on your offer. I play better when my head is clear.”

  Emma laughed and placed the bottle back behind the bar. “Now ain’t that a first. I never heard tell no piano man that didn't drink his way through at least one song. They usually come in here to trade booze for a tune. Most of ‘em play their way through one or more bottles fore the evening is over. Don’t bother me ‘cause the more they play the more I sells.”

  “I play a lot, Emma. I like to play and I know lots of music. But I never found any of it in a bottle.”

  Emma laughed. “Lots of music? You know white folks type music?”

  “That’s right.” A group had gathered around him and he couldn’t see the girl anymore. They started talking about the things they heard white folks sing and play. Roy told him about a tune one lady played damn near every time he was on her property. He said she never played more than a little of it because her husband ordered her not to since he said it reminded him of his late mother. “I think the songs kinda nice, but I ain’t never heard the end.”

  “Hum it,” Piano Man told him.

  “What you say?” the friend of Jim’s asked.

  “I said hum it. Hum what you know."

  “Yeah, what it sound like, Roy?” somebody added.

  So Roy, encouraged by his friends, hummed the few bars that he knew.

  Piano Man laughed. “That one’s easy, Roy. You carry a good tune. Do you sing in the church choir?”

  They all laughed at that thought and even Roy shook his head. “Not since I been a boy, although from time to time I go to church”

  “Roy, I ain’t seen you in church since. . .”

  Just then Piano Man started to play the melody. As he said it was easy. Chopin had been the first thing he had ever learned and this piece had been in his head long before he knew what the blues was.

  The crowd and the girl were astonished. Not another sound was heard in the shack as he went through the piece as if he was playing in the greatest concert hall in Europe. He sat up so erect it looked as if his back was a board. They watched as he closed his eyes to caress each of the notes with his soul. He too had memories from this song.

  When Peter was nine, a nephew from Massachusetts came to visit Mrs. Lathon Gross. “He has been studying the piano for many years with some of the finest teachers in Boston. My brother says he is very good,” she sighed as she ate her dessert with Peter across from her at the table.

  “I hate to say it but, when he played, what I heard was less than mediocre.” She was getting fatter the longer they stayed in Europe and delighted in afternoon teas and pastry with the little Piano Man. “None of my friends who heard the boy play would say so, but they knew it. I would never ask the boy to play again before he left but he is my brother’s child and he is probably better then those in the states.” She patted Peter’s hand. “Then there is you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He had accepted all the knowledge she had thrust upon him from books to music. He had fun at these little afternoon teas.

  That afternoon she had asked one favor of Peter. “Peter, pl
ease do not play while the boy is in the house. It might embarrass him.” So Peter continued his lessons with the teacher but would only play when the boy was taking in the sights.

  Then came the day Peter went to sit at the table with his benefactor as he had always done and the nephew, a strapping lad of 16 with a superior attitude, acted appalled.

  “Auntie, what does this ignorant nigger think he is doing sitting down with us?”

  Mrs. Lathon Gross sighed as she caught her breath from the anger of his words and tried to assure him. “Please. Peter is not ignorant. I have taught him many things and trained him well.”

  “Obviously you never taught him his place.”

  While Mrs. Lathon Gross tried to smooth things over with pretty words and how she felt about those that worked for her, Peter said nothing. With perfect graciousness, he excused himself from the table and went into the next room where he sat down and played the piano. As the slurs slipped with venom from the boys lips, genius slipped from young Peter’s fingers.

  When he was finished Peter turned to find the boy staring at him in shocked silence in the doorway. He heard Mrs. Lathon Gross exclaim to the nephew’s dismay: “Just brilliant.”

  Peter walked to him and said: “I believe ignorant must refer to you, mon ami. But I should say it in English, for I realize you don't understand the piano or the language here.”

  The boy never spoke to or about Peter again.

  In the juke joint he played the last note with reverence then he rose and bowed to the amazed, silent crowd. The people in Emma’s juke joint had never heard anything like this before.

  The girl broke the silence with her fiery applause and the others joined in with clapping and verbal praise the likes of which he had never had in Europe. After all, there was nothing like the praise of home.

  He walked to the table to thank the girl. The half drunken boy with her raised one jealous eyebrow. “Go play something so we can dance,” he told Piano Man. “Ain’t that what you hired to do, play the piano?”