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Night Music
short story

Anya

If it wasn't for the dog, I would never have found it at all.

It was tucked into the back corner of one of those monster-edifices present in every town of a certain size, a hotel so heavily scaffolded it didn't look like it would be able to stand on its own once the traction was removed. The building itself was unremarkable – typical mid-nineteenth century, big stone steps leading to thick leaded glass doors edged in bronze. But as I say, I wouldn't have taken a second look, except for the dog.

I was wandering Vieux Quebec, the old walled city, and the cleanest place I had ever been in my life. It was truly beautiful, and all the more remarkable for the complete absence of litter, and the complete absence also of anyone who seemed unfriendly or put out. People smiled back on the street – and for that, mon amis, you don't need to know a single word of French.

And then there was the dog, without a leash, without a collar. It was a little fox terrier, and I saw it from a block away coming up the street toward me with its little bouncing trot. Being a great lover of other people's dogs, I knelt and held out my hand for the little guy to sniff and scratched him hard behind the ears. Immediately he rolled over onto my foot.

"Hey, dog," I said, digging my nails into the short fur of his belly, "Where are you supposed to be? Does your master know you're out?"

The terrier didn't look like a stray. He was well-groomed and shiny and seemed well-behaved also. I kept rubbing his stomach and looked around for someone who looked like they had lost a dog.

There was a lull in the traffic just then, and instead of remembering what I was doing, my ears fixed on a thin sound coming from the building beside me, the one I just described. I could see "Hotel Dellacourt" written in big bronze letter above the door, but almost everything else was obscured by the levels of metal scaffold and boards and white tarpaulin. What I heard was something I had been hoping to hear all night. I had crossed the city seven times already, and was yet to come upon one single club among all the ones lining the little streets that played music that excited me – like this jazz did. I could make out the educated whine of a saxophone, and something that I was sure was the pin-sharp delicacy of a muted trumpet. The door of the Dellacourt was propped open a few inches with a piece of lumber, and it was this small opening that let the trickle of lovely music escape into the warm night.

The dog flipped itself onto its feet and trotted up the stairs, each step taking a toss of its head and complete contraction and extension of its body to complete. I followed, thinking that the dog probably belonged to the hotel, and I really should find out. It would, quite incidentally, give me a chance to investigate the source of the music.

The lobby was grand, and also under construction. The ceiling of the reception area rose two stories to bronze and marble buttresses. There were a pair of bronze art deco birds flanking the entrance. At the far end of the room was an ancient elevator with metal grillwork. The dog, on his own errand, ducked under one of the red velvet settee couches and emerged a moment later with an orange plastic ball between his teeth.

I laughed. "You do belong here," I said, and turned in the direction of the music.

Past the reception desk, I followed the corridor perpendicular to the front of the building, the dog trotting after me with the ball in his mouth, me running my hand along the red and gold felted wallpaper. The hall turned a corner – and there it was.

The doors and the whole of the wall were glass, and "Night Music" was written, in English, across the glass in golden flowing letters, floating through stenciled swirls of white and black. Inside, I could see more bronze and black, and rails around the stand-up bar, and exploding pinpricks of light that were candles on the tables. The door said nothing else, nothing about hours, or entertainment, or cover-charges. Oh well, I told myself, if it's a private party, they'll just tell you to get out, and no harm done. In some ways, it was worth being an Anglo in Quebec. I understood and could speak French fairly well, but I could always claim ignorance when it came to social customs. I took a deep breath, made sure the dog was otherwise occupied and wouldn't follow me, and went in.

The door was heavy and opened smoothly. Inside, the lighting was dim and subtle. The colours were dark but saved from being morose by the tiny candles on each table, the dark glints of bronze, the shimmer of the old mirrors on the walls, the reflections caught in the glass top of the bar. I caught my breath. I was in love.

Every stool along the bar was occupied, and it looked at first as if every other seat was taken as well. I was beginning to feel vastly underdressed, wished I had changed back at the hotel into a skirt or something evening wear-ish, at least gotten out of my running shoes. I had tried to be as comfortable as possible for all the walking I had to do today between meetings at various hotels – but it had been a strictly casual day. I had had no idea leaving dinner that I would find a place like – this.

But no one stopped me, or did more than nod in my direction as I stood. The band was just setting up; it looked like I hadn't even missed their first set. There was a little sign by the stage set on a little easel identifying them as Steve Jensen and the Chicago Swing Summit. Good, more Anglos.

The waitress passed me with a full tray, up the two steps beside the drum kit to the raised area of the bar. It would be a good night for her, I thought. The patrons were relaxed, and good music, as I was very sure this would be, meant lots of drinking and people who stayed 'til close.

Then, following her with my eyes, I saw the one empty seat in the whole bar. It was right at the top of the steps, a little table with a glorious view of the sunken stage. The woman already in the other chair was beautiful, I thought, with the kind of classic, regular features that made me think I'd seen her somewhere before. A magazine cover, perhaps. It would seem right. She was drinking beer from a tall glass, and the candlelight threw dancing amber lights over the wall beside her.

I climbed the stairs and tried out my sign language on her so I wouldn’t have to jump right in with my faulty French. Fortunately, she was very good at interpreting my motion, and nodded for me to sit down. I arranged myself, turning my chair enough to see the stage without blocking her view, and decided that it would be most comfortable to cross my legs. When the waitress came, I ordered the vin rouge de maison, which she seemed to understand. I would know when my drink actually arrived.

The woman in the chair opposite said something to me in quick French, and I caught enough to explain I was alone this evening. "Moi aussi," she said and sighed.

"Bon soir." One of the musicians had taken the microphone, and the background jazz faded out to nothing. "Nous sommes Steve Jensen et le Swing Summit de Chicago, and that is the extent of my French." Those who understood in the audience, which seemed to a fair proportion, laughed. The woman across from me was frowning slightly, and I leaned toward her and translated. She laughed, her smile lighting her face.

The waitress brought my drink, red wine. I smiled gratefully and handed her a ten. Numbers are hard for me to understand.

The musician continued, in English, which turned out to be a very good thing, as it was the only forewarning I had for the rest of the evening. "I am told that Thursday nights here are traditionally a – how do I say? – an unusual time here." More laughter. "Some of you are acquainted with Thursday nights, I see." Nods, but no applause. It was a little too early in the evening for that. "And I'm glad to see at least a few of you can understand what I'm saying. My French is poor – and I've been told my grasp on English isn't too strong at times either."

I was looking over the band members, five of them. The man who was speaking held the mike in one hand, a trumpet in the other. He had a wonderful colour to his skin, ruddy without being red, a very short cut to his hair except for a bit of fullness over his brow. His build was solid and powerful, his eyes almost Asian. The drummer had moved into place so close I could pat his balding head if I wanted. He wore glasses and twiddled with his drumsticks as if he couldn't bear to leave them down even when he wasn't playing.

The guitar player for some reason struck me as a perfect composite of every jazz guitarist ever – short, balding, dark haired, mustachioed, slightly Latin looking. I thought the bass player would have made a wonderful classical musician, long nose, delicate face, brown hair that fell a little long over his face. His hands moved slowly up and down the fret board, and I caught him as I watched slip his hand up and stroke the curled head of the bass, pretending he was checking his tuning. The fifth member of the band was wandering, and I guessed that the trumpet player and this other man, on sax, would probably take turns with the lead. I had a very good feeling about them.

"So," the trumpet player was saying, "I hope we get a little into the set before we're interrupted. It's Thursday, so anything can happen." He turned to the saxophone player, and nodded, then moved closer to the mike. This was it. I found myself smiling uncontrollably. I am such a suck for live music. "This song was already a classic the first time it was played. This is Summertime."

They began. I sneaked a look at my table companion, and she was enjoying it as much as me. I was not quite able to restrain myself from singing along, and I was glad to see she had the same problem.

Without a break, over the generous applause, they moved into the next piece, and the woman next to me asked me something that I didn't understand. When she repeated, this time with hand gestures, I understood she was looking for a light for her cigarette, and I told her I would look. It would give me a chance to see the band from the front. The saxophone was so beautiful.

"Je cherche des allumettes," I told the bartender, hoping I had said it right, and that I would catch the response if I had. It's my biggest problem speaking a foreign language, that I spend so much time phrasing even the simplest question I forget to concentrate on the answer. I don't usually look pleasant when in a language I'm not particularly comfortable with either. I squint.

I've always loved looking at and describing people, so bear with me, because the barkeep is a very important person, and if you meet him someday by accident, maybe in that same little Quebec City jazz bar, you should be sure to make his acquaintance.

He had a flat mess of grey steel-wool hair pulled from his high hairline into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His face was lined, and the skin looked beaten and tough, and its colour was a tawny yellow. He made me think immediately of gypsies I'd seen in the south of France – his thick eyebrows, the weather-beaten look, and especially the glint in his eyes. He wore a white shirt, loose at the neck, the two little silver chains from the buttons hanging down unfastened. His eyes were dark, but as to the colour I had no clue. He was polishing long stemmed wine glasses expertly with a white linen cloth.

"Matches are on the counter," he said, the sparkle in his eyes turning on me and his long hand disengaged itself from the glass he was cleaning and pointed. His voice had a touch of the European. Whatever it was really, English was not his first language. "No," he laughed, "Your accent is very good. I didn't really mark you right away as English, until after you'd spoken. Like a child you were, taking its medicine. You must have problems with you accent."

I frowned. I had thought my accent was the least of my worries in French. Vocabulary, conjugation, connotation – those were where I was still weak. "What do you mean?" I said.

"With a good accent, people think you are French, or at least good at the language. With a bad accent, people must compensate for you by speaking slower and clearer. You make it difficult."

I laughed. How could I have been so quick to take offense?

"You are a wise man," I said.

"Halley," he said, offering his hand. "I've been everywhere, done everything, and speak most of the languages you can name. Test me if you don't believe me."

"Anya," I said, giving the formal of my Russian name. "Fluent in Russian and English, shaky on my French, good enough in German to enjoy Wagner the fourth time around, and with barely enough Italian to order pizza. I'm a translator for a banking firm. I've done very little and been only a few exciting places. Test me if you don't believe me." I took his hand and we shook, very firmly and business-like.

"Oh, I believe you," he said in very nice Russian.

Then I couldn't stand it any more. Anya the diplomat, never a very strong part of my personality, turned into Anne the nosy parker. "So what's going to happen tonight?" I said.

Halley smiled, one corner of his mouth curling up to show a sharp canine against the carmelian of his lip. "Very direct. You don't like to censor yourself."

I cursed myself. "I just wanted to know. I feel like an outsider, and I always try to fit in. Sometimes you just have to know the gossip." I grimaced, watching my reflection in the mirror behind him squint back. "Curiosity killed the cat, but probably not just the first time it asked a question. Maybe I'll get a couple of answers before the trouble catches up."

He set the wineglass he'd been polishing down on the bar between us. "When you finish, I will send the waitress over with another glass for you on the house."

"Oh, no –" I protested. "That's not necessary.

"If only for one reason," he continued, "To show you that sometimes curiosity is to the cat's benefit. Don't stop, Anya, ever."

"And if some day those inexplicable lights turn out to be the front end of a car when investigated more closely?"

"Then it is your time," he said. "No one can argue with that. Make sure you see as much as possible and try to ask all the real questions before then."

Behind us, the band finished another song and launched into some great old stuff that I recognized but couldn't name. The saxophone player was taking the melody, with the trumpet playing muted counterpoint.

"Good, uh?" said Halley, and when I turned back I saw he was looking at me, not at the band.

"Yes, very good," I said. I could see my own reflection over his shoulder, brown hair in a loose braid over my shoulder, the collar of my absolutely not-dressy shirt. "Sorry, matches?"

He motioned again, and I nodded him thank you. I hoped my companion hadn't been desperate for her smoke.

She accepted the matches and lit a cigarette, inhaling with her eyes closed. Maybe it was the same as how I liked a glass of wine with jazz; she needed a smoke and a beer.

"Qu-est-ce qu'il a dit?" she asked me finally, exhaling.

I smiled. "Il a parlι en Anglais. Je suis Anglaise."

She smiled, and spoke slowly in heavily accented English, "He always knows. You cannot – trick him."

"You speak English too," I said, feeling a bit stupid.

"A little, un peu."

I thought we must make an odd couple here, she so elegantly dressed with her long blond hair in a cascade over one floral shoulder, me with my oldest ivory cotton men's shirt and blue jeans.

"Je m'appelle Maude," she said, and I had to get her to write it on a napkin with my pen before I understood. We shook, and I introduced myself, a restaging of the recent meeting with Halley.

"Maude," I said, "J'n comprende pas - qu'est-ce qui ce passe le jeudi?" What happens on Thursdays?

"Something different, all the time. One never knows. Everything can happen." She looked past me to the stage again – the trumpet player had sat down and it was the sax that was the center of the music now. She closed her eyes. "Oh, he is very good."

"Oui," I said.

Maude was exactly my age, and a photographer. I told her I had thought she was a model, and she made a sour face and told me that was exactly how she had started out, until she discovered the down side of the fashion world. In a world of diet drugs and amphetamines, she had dropped below what could even be considered fashionably thin, put her life in danger, and decided it was time to get out. I quoted the saying for her about how you can never be too rich or too thin, and when she understood, she laughed riotously. She told me she had known far too many people who were both.

In the middle of the first set, the saxophone player sat down on the steps a few feet from us during a song he wasn't taking part in, stuck a cigarette into his mouth, and began patting his pockets. Nope. None there. No, not that pocket either. I could have sworn... Sometimes I find myself spontaneously imagining what someone else is thinking.

"Excuse-moi," I said to Maude, and scooped the matches off our table and handed them to him.

He jumped a bit when the book and fingers appeared beside his shoulder, then turned, so he could see the face that belonged to my hand. His was handsome in a forties-boyish way, dark hair, long lashes, and a brilliant smile. "Merci," he said, and I saw what Halley had meant about my accent. He spoke French as if the word was English, to be pronounced with the rules that apply in that language. Mare see. I guess I've always seen accent as built-in, that you can't say the word without the accent already there. Suppose it must depend on your teacher.

"No problemo," I said, just to get the moment of discovery out of the way.

He struck a match and lit his cigarette, and took a couple of puffs before he spoke again. "Well, if that doesn't beat it all."

I laughed. "Anya, out of Toronto. I'm just visiting."

"Chris, saxophone, Chicago. We haven't heard much English except from each other in days. Did you come for the festival?"

"I didn't even know there was one," I said, then turned to my companion who had a familiar look of concentration on her face, trying to follow the conversation. "This is Maude."

"Does she speak English?"

"Un peu," said Maude, and laughed.

The music changed, sped up. The trumpet player burst into a long cascade of notes starting high, ending low, then jumping back up again. "Wow," I said. I'm articulate when impressed.

"Excuse me," said Chris and returned to the stage.

"Il est gentil," said Maude.

I looked back at her, and she was smiling broadly. "Oui."

I don't think I saw the woman come in. At least, there was nothing about her to make her register in my mind. Likely, I saw her and dismissed her because, in the end, there was nothing unusual about how she appeared.

Maude and I were both watching the sax player, I was thinking about how relaxing and wonderful the music was, and I imagine Maude was thinking about how nice-looking our new acquaintance was. I only guess that, because it was on my mind too. Handsome, and single, according to the trumpet player, who was just in the process of making an announcement to that effect, and a great musician too. What a pair of groupies we had turned into!

As near as I can tell, this is what happened. Maude stands up to wave the waitress over. She's finished her beer and wants another. I turn away, mesmerized now by the drummer, who is playing with the butt ends of his sticks with his eyes rolled back into his head. I can't imagine why, but suddenly I am diving under the table, my hand jerking at Maude's wrist. She comes down awkwardly and catches herself only at the last moment to land on the floor mostly on her knees and my arm. I throw my free arm over her head, and we crouch like that, for an instant or for an hour. I don't know.

When I look up, I see the woman, and remark on how unremarkable she is, as I reviewed for you a moment ago – and then I see the gun in her hand. I never hear the shot.

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