The Last Flight of Poxl West Read Online Free PDF Page B

little.
    â€œAm not a waiter,” I said, using the tiny bit of English I had learned from my grandmother’s American cousin. “I find one.”
    â€œI do not want a waiter,” she said. She spoke to me in German now, having picked up on my accent. “I saw you listening to us. From looking at you I thought you were an American and perhaps a fan of brother-duo singing music. But you are not.”
    â€œI am not,” I said.
    â€œYou should know!” she said. “He is the greatest American folksinger of all American folksingers. Bill Monroe, one of the brothers in the Monroe Brothers, along with his brother Charlie Monroe. They are the finest of all brother-duet singers in America, the Monroe Brothers.”
    â€œI don’t know their music,” I said. And with a boldness I would never have had back in Leitmeritz, a young man on his own in a new life, prepared not to repeat the mistakes he’d witnessed in his father’s reticence, I said, “But I’d like to hear more of it.”
    â€œWe’re here every Saturday night,” she said.
    Although I’d begun working at the café I did go to see Johann Schmidt, my father’s business associate, who might have provided me some lucrative work but who told me he would be leaving for the United States in only a matter of weeks. He was sorry he could not be of more help, and he handed me a wad of guilders to absolve himself of whatever guilt he felt. It was enough money to give me some freedom for a month or two, and I did my best to convince him I was simply grateful for his generosity.
    The following Saturday, the Tennessee Sisters were to play again, and again I listened. With every song she sang it seemed that the lead singer was looking right in my eyes. I’m sure, looking back on it, that every man there felt that way, but I only knew then that I did. I was leaving for a walk along the Nieuwe Maas when I saw some boy about my age attempting to talk to her. Accosting her, more like. He was speaking loudly when I approached, and when he saw me, his voice dropped to a guttural growl.
    â€œFinally, he has arrived,” Maybelle said. She and this dark boy both turned to look at me. “Are we to go listen to some of the music of Bill Monroe and his brother Charlie now, as you promised? The new LP from Decca Records just arrived from America.”
    The boy thrust his hands low in his pockets. His shoulders moved forward and there was a bulge down where he held his hand. We had not talked again since that first meeting. I did not want trouble with this boy.
    â€œYou were going to meet me at the front of the café,” I said, picking up her meaning. The pink scar beside her cheek drew brighter as she smiled, took me by the arm, and took a couple steps away from the guttural boy.
    â€œNext time we will decide to speak in either Dutch or German,” she said.
    We walked quickly away before the boy could speak again. We walked all the way to the Nieuwe Maas, gas lamps lighting the path to the harbor.
    â€œWill you tell me your name, then?” she said. “I am Françoise.”
    â€œI thought it was Maybelle Tennessee.”
    â€œThat’s my stage name. I’m Maybelle, and my partner Greta is Lilly. These names work better with Tennessee than our own.”
    â€œI’m Poxl,” I said. She looked at me. “Leopold Weisberg. Leopold, Leopoldy, Leopox, Leopoxl, Poxl.”
    We walked together up the Nieuwe Maas. I told her about Leitmeritz and about my passage on the train from Prague just the week before. We walked near each other as we passed under the lights along the harbor’s edge. Uneven cobblestones lined the embankment.
    â€œWhat was that boy after?” I said.
    â€œSomething he could not afford,” she said. She was looking at her hands when she said it. Now she looked up at me. “But,” she said. “Thank you.”
    Now she grew quiet, as if