Symphony in Blue (6 page)

Up on the small stage, Jules pulled his bow out of the violin case and tightened it. He glanced at Jason as he ran the cake of rosin against the horsehair. Jason could tell he was nervous. A week had passed since David, the trio’s pianist, had announced he was quitting Blue Notes, and since then, Jules had avoided the topic except to ask Jason to set up a series of auditions for replacement pianists.

“I’m really sorry,” David had told Jason, Jules, and Henri over coffee during a rehearsal break. “With all the traveling we’ve been doing the past few years and the twins, I just can’t do it to Marie-Claire anymore, especially with Didier starting kindergarten.”

Jason could only imagine how difficult it had been for Marie-Claire to care for two babies and a rambunctious five-year-old while David toured with Jules’s trio. Jason knew he couldn’t have handled being without Jules for as long as Blue Notes had been on the road, and he and Jules didn’t have any kids to worry about. Since the release of their second album,
Blue Fields
, eight months before, Jules and Jason had only spent about a month at their Paris apartment.

“Hey.” Henri sauntered in a few minutes later, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Ten minutes early
. Jason repressed a grin. Guy was a good influence on the drummer. These days, Henri only showed up late when there was a delay in the metro service.

“How many today?” Henri glanced at Jules and began to set up his drums a few feet away from the old upright piano.

“Two today, two tomorrow, and two on Friday,” Jules answered as he depressed the A key on the piano and began to tune his violin.

Jason winced inwardly—the piano was, as always, just slightly off pitch. Maurice, the club’s owner, was notoriously tightfisted, and Jason had, on occasion, tuned the piano himself when the weather changed and the monthly tuning was still weeks away. Not that any of them would complain. Maurice had purchased a new piano and allowed the trio to rehearse at the club during the daytime in return for the trio’s promise that they would play there at least once every three or four months.

“Where’s David?” Henri asked as he lifted his stool onto the dais.

“He said he just can’t do it.” Jules sighed and shook his head. When Henri cursed under his breath, Jules added, “Give the man a break. You know how hard this is for him. He doesn’t want to quit any more than we want him to.”

Henri made a face but said nothing. None of them had been looking forward to auditioning pianists to fill David’s spot, although the list of pianists vying for the position was quite impressive. Jason had arranged most of the auditions himself by calling in a few favors. Several of the pianists had budding solo careers in Europe but preferred playing in an ensemble. Blue Notes brought in enough money now that landing a spot as the trio’s pianist had even tempted a few Americans to make the trip.

Jason pulled his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and looked over his notes. As if on cue, a very tall man wearing jeans, a black shirt, and a leather jacket walked into the club. “Günter Zimmerman,” he said as he shook Jason’s hand. Jason introduced Jules and Henri.

“I thought we’d start out with a few pieces we’ve recorded, then do a little improvisation,” Jules said after they’d all settled in and he’d set some sheet music on the piano stand. “Do you know ‘Le Baiser’?”

“Of course.” Günter smiled back at Jules. The song was one of the most popular from the group’s first album, and although the album hadn’t sold an outrageous number of copies, Jason had heard it played on some of the European jazz stations when they’d traveled.

Jason wasn’t surprised Günter had done his homework—he’d heard great things about the German pianist from one of his American contacts. Classically trained, with a number of albums under his belt as a studio pianist, Günter was Jason’s first choice, hands down—on paper, at least.

“Let’s just play it through straight one time. Then we’ll let you improvise on the second verse,” Jules said.

Günter played the opening chords of the piece, bright, vibrant chords that always called to mind Jules’s inspiration:
Le Baiser de l’Hotel de Ville
by Robert Doisneau, a 1950 black-and-white photograph of a couple kissing in front of Paris’s city hall. Hearing the intricate and lush harmonies of the piano always made Jason imagine that someone had given Jules one of those extra-large boxes of Crayola crayons he’d loved as a kid growing up in the States and that Jules had used the many colors to bring depth to the photograph. This thought made Jason smile; he guessed Jules had never been the kid who colored within the lines.

Günter now repeated the opening chords, but this time he expanded on them with playful and slightly exotic riffs. Chords became long arpeggios interspersed with dissonances that nearly resolved, then morphed into new dissonances. Jason admired the clever way Günter took what Jules had written, discarded the melody, and created an entirely new take on the harmonic framework of the piece. It was brilliant, and Jason was sure Jules and Henri knew it. The sound, however, was not Jules’s sound.

“I loved the way you did that,” Jules said after they’d stopped playing. “But I’m going for a more muted approach to the piece. Something along the lines of the classical music you might have heard in the late 1940s. Stravinsky. Shostakovich. The richness is in the sounds, not the texture of the playing.”

Jason heard Günter struggle with this concept when they began to play again, and this time Jules stopped. “More like this,” Jules said as he played a few bars on his violin. Once more they played, and once more Jules stopped them. “Jason? Can you come here for a minute and show him?”

Jason hadn’t expected that. “Sure.” He wouldn’t tell Jules he was more than a little uncomfortable playing in front of someone like Günter; he knew Jules needed him to help without David around to demonstrate.

Jason began the piece much as Günter had a few moments before, then veered away from the score. “Long lines,” he said as he stretched one of the chords into several bars. “Keep the melodic line recognizable.” He glanced over at Jules and Jules smiled at him. The distinct melodic line, even in the improvised sections, was one of the trio’s hallmarks and something Jules felt strongly about.

The audition ended about an hour later with Günter thanking them for their time. In the end, Jason decided, he’d done an excellent job with the improvised sections. Jason knew that even if the other auditions didn’t go as well, Günter would make a great pianist for the group.

T
HREE
DAYS
later, Jules’s achingly beautiful violin echoed in the empty club as the last of the pianist auditions drew to a close. Jason loved hearing Jules play to a full crowd, but there was something otherworldly about the way the overtones of Jules’s violin danced off the ceiling, the chairs, the walls, and the tables when there was no one else in the room. Like echoes in a large canyon, each sound that met Jason’s ears seemed to take on a new life, as if by sending the notes out from his instrument, Jules was coaxing them to find their own resonance.

Three days of playing with different pianists, and Henri and Jules were obviously tired. Jason couldn’t have enjoyed it more. Listening to rehearsals made him feel closer to the music than when he heard the trio perform. From time to time in some of the other auditions, Jules would ask Jason to demonstrate something for the pianist. Not that any of the pianists were bad. In fact, number five on their list was as strong a candidate as Günter. Rick was an American Jason had met in Philadelphia on Blue Notes’ last US tour.

“Thank God that’s over,” Henri said as he poured them all shots of Maurice’s best cognac an hour later. “Three days in a row. Really. Was that necessary?”

Jules scowled at Henri. “You’re a lazy ass, you know.”

Jason laughed and picked up his glass. “I’ll let you two talk by yourselves.”

“You’re not staying?” Henri lit a cigarette and blew smoke at Jason.

“We talked about this, remember?” Jason wasn’t surprised Henri had forgotten. He probably hadn’t paid attention when they’d discussed how to handle the auditions. Jason didn’t mind—Henri’s laissez-faire attitude was a nice change of pace from Jules’s intensity from time to time. No doubt their very different personalities were part of the group’s success. “You two need to make the decision. If you can’t agree, I’ll be the tiebreaker. This is your trio. I’m just your manager.”

“You agreed,” Jules reminded Henri, who just shrugged and took a long drag on his Gitane.

“Fine.” Henri waved his hand dismissively and crossed his legs. “Make us do your work for you,” he said, his playful expression belying his words.

Jason laughed. “I’ll be at the café down the street. Call me when you need me.”

L
ESS
THAN
an hour later, Jason was back at the club. “We need you,” Jules had told him over the phone. Jason hadn’t been terribly surprised that Jules and Henri disagreed over their choice of pianist. No doubt Jules preferred Günter’s crisp, no-nonsense style and Henri insisted on the slower, more laid-back groove of John Regan or Rick Clement. This wouldn’t be easy.

“Another cognac?” Jason asked Henri as he settled down at the table that was covered in résumés, handwritten notes, and the three now-empty glasses.

“Why not?” Henri grinned and returned a few minutes later with the bottle.

“Maurice will bill us for that, you know,” Jason said with a chuckle. He didn’t mind. He was just pleased that the week hadn’t been more grueling and that Jules and Henri didn’t seem to be at each other’s throats.

“Let him.
Gros con.
”

Jules glared at Henri, who ignored him entirely.

“So,” Jason said as he swirled the caramel-colored liquid around in the glass and inhaled the thick, heady scent of it, “who are you two stuck on?”

Henri puffed on another cigarette. Hadn’t he promised Guy he was going to quit? No doubt he was doing it in part to get Jules’s goat.

Jason glanced at his watch: 5:00 p.m. It was going to be a long evening, although he sincerely hoped they could resolve the mess before the club opened at eight.

“We’re not stuck,” Jules announced. Jason could tell from his smug expression that he and Henri were enjoying stringing him along. Still, Jason was surprised.

“You actually
agree
?” Something was up. Jules and Henri rarely agreed on anything.

Henri blew smoke in Jason’s face and Jason fought the urge to wave the smoke away this time. Normally Jason would have been tempted to take the cigarette from Henri—he’d done that on more than one occasion—but he decided he’d roll with it and see what Henri and Jules were up to.

“We agreed.” Jules got up and wrapped his arms over Jason’s chest as he leaned down and kissed him.

“Pianist number one or number five?” Jason asked with a contented
sigh.

“I liked number one,” Jules said.

“I prefer number five,” Henri added.

“So you
don’t
agree.” Jason placed his hands over Jules’s arms and pressed his cheek against one of them. Jules rewarded him with another kiss.

“Of course we do.” Henri stamped out the cigarette and raised his eyebrows in mock disgust.

“Do you want to tell him?” Jules kissed Jason again.

“Not particularly.” Henri appeared to debate whether to light up again or drink his cognac. In the end, he pulled a cigarette from the pack and set it on the table, then took a long drink. Leave it to Henri to drink Remy Martin XO cognac like it was beer. “Good stuff,” he said when Jason shook his head. “How can I drink it slow?”

“Would one of you just tell me so we can get this done with?” Jason growled. “Who did you choose? Number one or number five?”

“We chose number zero.” Jules ran his long fingers through Jason’s hair, raking his nails over Jason’s scalp. God, that felt amazing!

Jason tried to focus, but Jules’s hands were too much of a distraction. “Number… what?”

“Number zero,” Jules repeated.

“There were six pianists auditioning.”

“True.” Henri was far too pleased with himself. He’d propped his feet on one of the empty chairs nearby and was sprawled, legs open, arms dangling, over his own chair.

“Shit.” Jason shook his head. Between the warm glow of the cognac, the long week, and the feel of Jules’s fingers as they found their way from his scalp to his chest through the space between the buttons of his shirt, Jason’s brain had taken a minivacation. “No. No way.”

“You said we could choose,” Jules pointed out with a giggle.

“I didn’t say you could choose me.”

Henri was defiant. “You didn’t say we couldn’t.”

“You told us to pick the best pianist.” Jules released Jason and walked around the front of Jason’s chair. He was grinning.

“Look,” Jason began, “you know how I feel about perform—”

“You’ve filled in at least ten times for David in the past two years,” Jules pointed out.

“And you knew exactly what Jules meant when he was trying to explain the music to the pianists.” Henri flipped the cigarette through his fingers as he spoke.

“Tell me,” Jules said as he kneeled in front of Jason’s chair and planted both of his elbows on Jason’s knees, “when is the last time you were scared of performing?”

“I’m always nervous,” Jason said without hesitation. Well, he
was
nervous when he played. Why did he feel so defensive about this?

“So am I. You know that. We all are. It’s what gives you the energy to make a performance really good.” Jules was still smiling.

“Nervous isn’t scared,” Henri added.

Who’s the lawyer here?
Jason was losing the argument.
We, the jury, find the defendant guilty on all counts.

“Tell me you didn’t have fun playing with us.” Jules chewed on his lower lip. “This week. Tell me you didn’t have fun.”

“I had fun.”

“And two months ago, in Lyon,” Jules continued. He wore the expression of a man utterly convinced. “I saw you smile while you were playing.”