scorching counterpoint of rhythm and harmony. The cornet player bent his knees like a boxer as he delivered each new blistering line of attack. Hot glissandos shimmered in the air, tearing up the joint.
After a moment, Frederick became aware that a tall black man was watching him from the front door of the club. He took a step toward Frederick and said something. Frederick shook his head in apology.
“No English,” he mumbled.
The Negro said something else—which, to his astonishment, Frederick understood. It took him a moment to register why: the man was speaking French.
“We’re full,” he said, his accent fragrant with the echo of elsewhere.
“Who is that?” asked Frederick in French, pointing through the window.
“You can’t come in. We’re full.”
“But I just want—”
“Are you blind?” said the man angrily. “This club is for blacks.”
Frederick blinked in surprise. He turned and looked again at the audience.
“You can’t come in,” said the man again.
“I’ve never heard such music before,” said Frederick. He looked back at the stage. One of the clarinet players was soloing now, a wailing chorus of glee. “Who is that cornet player?”
The Negro slowly extended his index finger, pushed the rim of his hat upward, and then pointed through the window. The cornet player stood at the side of the stage, his instrument tucked under his arm. He was clapping his hands and stamping his foot in time to the music. “That,” said the man, “is Buddy Bolden.”
Some time later, Frederick retraced his steps to the hotel, the sound of the strange music still echoing through his head. It was like nothing he had ever heard before—chaotic and loud, but full of hope and life. A perfect new music for his new country.
Jette did not stir as he climbed into bed beside her. The fresh linen felt cool on his skin, the bed wonderfully wide and soft. Frederick stared into the darkness, listening to his wife’s calm breathing. Any lingering homesickness had been eradicated by his first excursion onto the streets of America. Everything he’d seen had been unimaginably different from the dry, dour streets of Hanover, and to his surprise he was not sorry in the slightest. He was smitten by the beguiling otherness of it all.
And so began my grandfather’s rapturous love affair with America—an affair that would continue until the day he died.
T he following morning, after another gargantuan meal in the hotel dining room, Frederick made inquiries about trains heading north. The station was not far away. They set off up Canal Street, their single suitcase beneath Frederick’s arm.
A crowd of people was milling about outside the station entrance. Jette waited while Frederick went inside to buy tickets. As he strode across the concourse, he realized that something was wrong. People were moving too slowly. There was none of the suppressed delirium of time-tabled existence. His pace slowed as he noticed that there were no trains waiting at any of the platforms.
“Hey!”
He turned in the direction of the shout, and saw the tall man from outside Chez Benny’s striding toward him. His hat had been replaced by a cap in turquoise and red livery. He looked more friendly in the daylight. Indeed, he was smiling.
“I remember you!” he said, his French muddied by his curious accent. “You’re the Buddy Bolden fan,
non
?”
Frederick nodded. “Buddy Bolden, yes.” He gestured around him. “Where are all the trains?” he asked.
“There
are
no trains. There’s been flooding upriver. The Mississippi burst its banks near Greenville.”
“But we can’t wait,” said Frederick. “My wife and I have to get to St. Louis as soon as possible.” He turned and pointed to where Jette stood. Her swollen stomach was unmistakable.
The man nodded slowly. “Can you wait here?” He sauntered back the way he had come and disappeared behind a door. Moments later he reappeared, a newspaper tucked beneath his