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Blessed
Night
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by
Pierre Alexandre |
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| I
felt free, better than I had felt for days on end. I had just been
kicked out of the apartment of my would-be friend and agent, after
it had proved that, really, I could be no profit. How quickly I
could turn from low presence to a terrible burden in just a few
hours could dazzle as somewhat magical, but then, a few minutes
had been more than enough for Ford (the model agency, not the motor
company) to inform me that even they could not sponsor me for an
employment-based visa unless I already had a solid professional
background. |
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Too bad. When I reported the fact to my friend/agent, she stated
I had no reason to stay anymore, she made me pack my luggage (which
I had happily kept mostly unpacked) and leave. It was eight at night,
a beautiful October night in Manhattan, and I had nowhere to go.
I used a free phone number to get in touch with the airplane company
which had brought me to the States, and spent half an hour laughing
with the girl on the other end, who did everything she could to
help me through. And more. She gave me all the necessary information
so I could expect to get a ticket back to France the very next day,
when the company desk would open at the airport of Newark--where
surely I could sleep, in the meantime. |
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At least, it would have been safe place. But what, I was in the
core of the Big Apple, couldn't the night be spent in many other
ways? So I thought, and so my night trip began, a piece of luggage
in each hand. My first stop was at the bus station, nonetheless,
where a very friendly guy working there told me of all I needed
to get to Newark. Just ten dollars, and a bus was leaving every
twenty minutes. Most convenient. We chatted for some one hour or
two, or more, exchanged e-mail addresses, and then again I was on
my way. |
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On Broadway, soon. But disappointed. All the shows were nearly over,
and you could not even go to the movies after eleven. Sad. At one
point, I stopped at a Mexican restaurant, for I had swallowed nothing
since dawn and it was quite cheap. I was surprised to realize that
the whole staff there was Chinese. I uttered a bad Chinese "thank
you" (xičxie) when I was handed my taco; it was enough to break
the ice, and we began to talk about one thing and another, between
broad smiles. |
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Still smiling, departing, soon I was on Broadway again, having walked
for some three hours with my luggage and feeling more than half
tired. My back was aching, too. I took a rest to admire the work
of street artists, drawing your portrait for a share of good bucks.
I had none to spend away, of course, yet I exchanged a few words
with an older man from Shanghai, who proved quite interested by
my coming from France and proposed to work for what French money
I had left. Not much, honestly, but I did not need it. So I had
my portrait drawn, while talking a bit about France, the Far East,
immigration and family. I had a necessary rest, then, I enjoyed
the blather, it felt good. When it was over, I took the man's address
and promised to send him a few more French coins. I will within
the coming days. |
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That artistic break over, I resumed my roving. There was surprisingly
little to do, but then, I was not a knowledgeable New Yorker, and
I sure had no money to waste. By one in the morning, I was still
walking thus, tired and not really smiling anymore, when I heard
the voice. Not a human voice, that is, but a voice nonetheless,
which filled the air all around, echoed by the tall buildings of
the night as in the day they would play with the sunlight. It was
New York. It was jazzy Big Apple itself, singing with the tenor
voice of a sax, to bestow color to the heart, and warmth to my bones.
I could not guess where it came from, not by the sole sound; it
was just there-everywhere-, it was the very night, made music. |
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Broadway was nearly empty, by then, quite surprisingly. I finally
could spot the musician, and what could I do if not carry my luggage
a bit further, across the street and up to the man. I waited there
till he had finished, enraptured as he was, to give a few of my
last coins while he was packing up. He was an immigrate, as were
all the people I had talked to that very night. He was Polish, like
my grandfather. He was a magician with music, and we talked about
his art for a while. He offered me his CD, I gave him the Horns
of Elfland, he had me read some letters from Van Gogh--as much a
painter with words as with more material colors. |
| We
talked about the power of words, of art, of music. I told him how,
after I had been kicked out, I had been in the subway to the bus
station, and in the train there, there were three vocal musicians
and I had made an acrobatic dance show on their merging rhythms
and how by the end everyone in the running train was smiling, weary
as they were. It was magic, it was worth doing. For the smile, for
the emotion, the feeling right, the sheer pleasure of it. They were
black, I white; they were of no fixed abode, what I knew I was only
for a while. We were not alike, in many ways, and yet in the moment,
in the music we were. |
| There
are things worth living, finally. The saxophonist smiled, he told
me of New York, of his love for the gigantic chaotic city, its cultural
patterns interwoven, flowing into each other endlessly but never
really merging. Its violence and its soul, its life beating fast
but deep. The coldness of some lives and the kinship of strangers.
We talked and walked, and he invited me to stay at his place. |
| We
were both a bit anxious, of course. Fear doesn't fully disappear
with music. But it proved a bond strong enough for him to offer
a stay, and for me to accept. We went our way, since then, we walked
on the same tune. We came across a street merchant, who had received
that very day a beautiful automatic watch. A real wonder, either
a perfect copy or a stolen original. Two hundred and sixty dollars
for the tourist, and still a good deal. Of course, we were broke.
And yet, the eyes of my saxophonist were gleaming, and the street
merchant knew we were not of the "other kind." We were street kin,
if you wish, and the price went down. I had a few bills left, I
could spend as much as forty dollars and still have enough to take
the bus to Newark. I haggled with the merchant, hard and smiling,
we agreed on fifty dollars. Barely. The saxophonist gave the ten
missing dollars, and we left on a hug with the merchant. It was
obvious he felt a pang for having dealt his watch for so little.
But it was also obvious that he felt somewhat relieved that my friend
had it. For he would really care for it, for he deserved it. For
we had all given and given up something, in fact, and this watch
was heavy and shining with that warm feeling of something shared.
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| That
was not much, in itself. But in such a city, ruthless as it can
be, it had… meaning. The night was blessed, blessed by music as
we went back to the saxophonist's place, a four-store house in Brooklyn
which someone let him use till it was sold. It was empty, clean,
a palace in a safe and quiet neighborhood, fifteen minutes away
from Manhattan. I fell in love, as my new friend had. Had I had
the necessary near million, I would have bought the place immediately.
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| For
the moment, though, I had barely enough to go to the airport. I
brought my luggage to the fourth floor, twelve times bigger than
my last university room, then went back down to share a last meal
with my saxophonist. It was so good, having felt so hungry! We parted
then and went to sleep. My friend offered me his sweaters and other
clothes to make myself a comfortable bed, but for a night, I decided
that bare floor was good enough. I just laid there a few of my own
clothes, did accept cushions for a pillow, and soon was asleep.
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| It
had been four in the morning, at eight I was up. I was only a bit
stiff, and in fact I felt really well. I washed my hair, changed
myself, I took the Good Earth and began to read. Later, my friend
would wake up, we would have a delicious and healthy breakfast-cereals,
milk and fruit-and then, we would settle in the garden. It was cooler
than cold, the air so pure it was like sparkling; it was the very
end of October and yet winter would only gently, nearly shyly announce
its later visit. |
| I
had been unweaving some martial motions there, waiting for my friend,
in a succession which was no longer so much of a series of combinations
than of a multiple flow, that of the soft breeze, just as natural
and deep as my own breathing. I am no master in any art, for having
practiced too many and not enough of any, but this one time I can
tell that it was right. Every motion, every step, every breath.
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| Blessed
morning, born from a blessed night. The saxophonist and I talked
a lot about a lot, and I was rather surprised to discover that this
man, who knew nothing of the Zen spirit on any theoretic basis,
still knew more than most of the so-called specialists I had known.
His music had guided him, beyond technique mastered, just as could
have some martial art, in fact, or the art of calligraphy or some
other form of self-awareness or no-self. The Zen spirit is as difficult
to explain as music itself. |
| Some
things cannot be told, they must be experienced. Sometimes, it takes
years before you can hope to reach what you are striving for, and
then, you cannot reach it but when you stop to strive for it. When
you stop to do and you begin to be, when the technique has become
so natural that you don't think about it any more than you think
about your own breathing; when you can expand beyond your own self,
thus also accept to be part of a greater whole. We all are part
of a greater whole, which is never the same greater whole that politicians
and other gurus will tell you about. |
| Forget
it, I lost the thread of my story. It is nearly over, anyway. What
can I say more? Not much. I phoned to the airport, I could get a
plane; my friend was sorry to see me go, and I was sorry to go,
though I knew I had to, by then, as I know I shall be back. I gave
him my favorite book, Songmaster, then he had us have a most copious
and delicious lunch before we went to the ferry. Magical trip, close
to that ocean I love, to admire the city from another angle. Finally,
he came with me up to the bus station, where we parted on an au
revoir, --and some eighteen hours later, I was back to France. |
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<
The End. (Or is it?) >
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