a place in Montmartre that served spareribs and barbecued chicken.
What was best though was to hang around the bar of his own hotel, the Noir et Blanc, in the late afternoon during a rehearsal or a closed session. At these times everyone was very relaxed, telling funny stories, drinking Pernod, and even turning on a bit of hashish or marijuana, passing it around quite openly, commenting on its quality. Murray derived a security from these scenes—the hushed camaraderie and the inside jokes. Later, in the evening, when the place was jumping, Murray kept himself slightly apart from the rest of the crowd—the tourists, the students, the professional beats, and the French de bonne famille— who all came to listen to the great new music. And always during the evening there would be at least one incident, like the famous tenor-man’s casually bumming a cigarette from him, which would prove Murray’s intimacy with the group to those who observed. Old acquaintances from Yale, who happened in, found Murray changed; they detected in his attitude toward them, their plans, and their expressed or implied values a sort of bemused tolerance—as though he were in possession of a secret knowledge. And then there would be the inevitable occasion when he was required to introduce them to one of the musicians, and that obvious moment when the musician would look to Murray for his judgment of the stranger as in the question: “Well, man, who is this cat? Is he with it?” None of this lessened Murray’s attractiveness, nor his mystery, no less to others, presumably, than to himself; but he was never too hard on his old friends—because he was swinging.
When the Negro pianist Buddy Talbott was hired, along with a French drummer and bass, to play the Noir et Blanc, he and his wife had been in Paris for only three days. It was their first time out of the States, and except for a few band jobs upstate, it was their first time out of New York City.
Toward the end of the evening, during a break, Murray went into the men’s room. Buddy Talbott was there alone, in front of the mirror, straightening his tie. Their eyes fixed for an instant in the glass as Murray entered and walked over to the urinal; the disinfectant did not obscure a thin smell of hashish recently smoked in the room. Murray nodded his head in the direction of the bandstand beyond the wall. “Great sound you got there, man,” he said, his voice flat, almost weary in its objectiveness. Buddy Talbott had a dark and delicate face which turned slowly, reluctantly it seemed, from the glass to Murray, smiling, and he spoke now in soft and precisely measured tones: “Glad you like it.”
And, for the moment, no more was said, Murray knowing better than that.
Although Murray smoked hashish whenever it was offered, he seldom took the trouble to go over to the Arab quarter and buy any himself; but he always knew where to get the best. And the next evening, when Buddy Talbott came into the men’s room, Murray was already there.
They exchanged nods, and Murray wordlessly handed him the smoking stick, scarcely looking at him as he did, walking past to the basin—as though to spare him witness to even the merest glimpse of hesitancy, of apprehension, calculation, and finally, of course, of perfect trust.
“I’ve got a box, man,” Murray said after a minute, by which he meant record player, “and some new Monk—you know, if you ever want to fall by. . . .” He dried his hands carefully, looking at the towel. “Upstairs here,” he said, “in number eight. My name is on the door—‘Murray.’ ”
The other nodded, savoring the taste, holding it. “I’d like to very much,” he said finally, and added with an unguarded smile, “Murray.” At which Murray smiled too, and touching his arm lightly said: “Later, man.” And left.
The hash seemed to have a nice effect on Buddy’s playing. Certainly it did on Murray’s listening—every note and nuance came straight to
What was best though was to hang around the bar of his own hotel, the Noir et Blanc, in the late afternoon during a rehearsal or a closed session. At these times everyone was very relaxed, telling funny stories, drinking Pernod, and even turning on a bit of hashish or marijuana, passing it around quite openly, commenting on its quality. Murray derived a security from these scenes—the hushed camaraderie and the inside jokes. Later, in the evening, when the place was jumping, Murray kept himself slightly apart from the rest of the crowd—the tourists, the students, the professional beats, and the French de bonne famille— who all came to listen to the great new music. And always during the evening there would be at least one incident, like the famous tenor-man’s casually bumming a cigarette from him, which would prove Murray’s intimacy with the group to those who observed. Old acquaintances from Yale, who happened in, found Murray changed; they detected in his attitude toward them, their plans, and their expressed or implied values a sort of bemused tolerance—as though he were in possession of a secret knowledge. And then there would be the inevitable occasion when he was required to introduce them to one of the musicians, and that obvious moment when the musician would look to Murray for his judgment of the stranger as in the question: “Well, man, who is this cat? Is he with it?” None of this lessened Murray’s attractiveness, nor his mystery, no less to others, presumably, than to himself; but he was never too hard on his old friends—because he was swinging.
When the Negro pianist Buddy Talbott was hired, along with a French drummer and bass, to play the Noir et Blanc, he and his wife had been in Paris for only three days. It was their first time out of the States, and except for a few band jobs upstate, it was their first time out of New York City.
Toward the end of the evening, during a break, Murray went into the men’s room. Buddy Talbott was there alone, in front of the mirror, straightening his tie. Their eyes fixed for an instant in the glass as Murray entered and walked over to the urinal; the disinfectant did not obscure a thin smell of hashish recently smoked in the room. Murray nodded his head in the direction of the bandstand beyond the wall. “Great sound you got there, man,” he said, his voice flat, almost weary in its objectiveness. Buddy Talbott had a dark and delicate face which turned slowly, reluctantly it seemed, from the glass to Murray, smiling, and he spoke now in soft and precisely measured tones: “Glad you like it.”
And, for the moment, no more was said, Murray knowing better than that.
Although Murray smoked hashish whenever it was offered, he seldom took the trouble to go over to the Arab quarter and buy any himself; but he always knew where to get the best. And the next evening, when Buddy Talbott came into the men’s room, Murray was already there.
They exchanged nods, and Murray wordlessly handed him the smoking stick, scarcely looking at him as he did, walking past to the basin—as though to spare him witness to even the merest glimpse of hesitancy, of apprehension, calculation, and finally, of course, of perfect trust.
“I’ve got a box, man,” Murray said after a minute, by which he meant record player, “and some new Monk—you know, if you ever want to fall by. . . .” He dried his hands carefully, looking at the towel. “Upstairs here,” he said, “in number eight. My name is on the door—‘Murray.’ ”
The other nodded, savoring the taste, holding it. “I’d like to very much,” he said finally, and added with an unguarded smile, “Murray.” At which Murray smiled too, and touching his arm lightly said: “Later, man.” And left.
The hash seemed to have a nice effect on Buddy’s playing. Certainly it did on Murray’s listening—every note and nuance came straight to
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