from nowhere , Frieda!’ Wolfgang replied angrily. ‘He borrows money and he buys things, then he waits for the mark to go down and pays back the debt. Simple jazz economics. Wish I had the guts to do it. He didn’t get rich flogging old ladies’ jewellery in Belgium, he’s just smart, that’s all.’
Frieda sat down again and tried to smile.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Wolf. I’m being unfair, I know that. It’s just very hard at work. I never thought my first job as a doctor would be watching children die. You know TB’s up 300 per cent on pre-war levels?’
‘No, I didn’t know, as it happens. I haven’t had time to study the city’s medical statistics. I’ve been busy working all night making sure my own kids don’t starve. And my wife for that matter.’
Frieda took his hand across the table and squeezed it.
‘Yes. I know. And of course I’m glad about your new boss. It’s terrific that he likes your music.’
‘You know how much I hated trotting out tea dance music in Wannsee and Nikolassee for the old ladies,’ Wolfgang said, ‘but I did it because we need to eat and because you want to work in a public-funded medical centre where they pay you bugger all.’
‘I know. I know,’ Frieda conceded.
‘And now I’ve actually got a gig I enjoy , I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I am. I am pleased, Wolf, and I mean it, I’m sorry. Sometimes my work gets to me, that’s all. And I am grateful for how hard you work for us, you know that.’ She leant across the table and kissed him. ‘It’s not quite how your marriage plan was supposed to work out, is it? I seem to recall I was going to support you.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘A jazz man supporting a doctor.’ Frieda smiled. ‘Only in Germany! Only in Berlin.’
Hot Hot Hot!
Berlin, 1923
EVERYBODY CAME TO the Joplin.
High life. Low life. Good guys. Bad guys.
Plenty of beauties, plenty of beasts.
From day one the place simply throbbed with easy money, booze, sex, drugs and jazz.
The sex and the drugs were supplied principally by Kurt’s friend Helmut the ‘queer pimp’, whom Wolfgang now discovered dealt in narcotics as well as prostitutes.
He regularly offered Wolfgang both.
‘Take your pick,’ Helmut loved to say expansively, pointing out various exquisite young girls (and boys) who were club regulars and whom Wolfgang had no idea were prostitutes. ‘Take two and make yourself a sandwich. Don’t worry, they’re all clean as whistles. Six months ago they were at finishing schools; now, I’m afraid, Daddy’s poor and growing girls and boys must eat.’
Wolfgang politely declined the offer of sex but he was happy to accept the occasional chemical stimulant. They were long nights and the trumpet is a demanding task master.
He didn’t tell Frieda of course. But Frieda wasn’t there and he didn’t have to play by her rules. Not at the club.
He was after all a jazz man. Jazz men didn’t play by anybody’s rules. That was the point. A little cocaine with your champagne? A puff of something dreamy to chase along the single malt? Why not? How could a man say no?
And if, as the nights went by, he found himself chatting more and more to Katharina between sets, so what? Was it a crime? He liked her. And it wasn’t just because she was beautiful, although that didn’t hurt. Or that she was intriguing and enigmatic.
Fascinating even.
Wolfgang had met lots of fascinating girls.
Lots of girls who did the same impression of a cold-eyed sultry vamp, so popular in the movies.
The point was he really did like her.
She was interested in the same things he was, equally inspired and excited by them. Not just jazz either, but all kinds of art. When Katharina talked about art, her face became animated and her eyes started to sparkle. All that carefully posed haughtiness evaporated and it became clear that her world-weary indifference was just a youthful pretension and she was still a gauche teenager at heart.
She wanted to be an
Frieda sat down again and tried to smile.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Wolf. I’m being unfair, I know that. It’s just very hard at work. I never thought my first job as a doctor would be watching children die. You know TB’s up 300 per cent on pre-war levels?’
‘No, I didn’t know, as it happens. I haven’t had time to study the city’s medical statistics. I’ve been busy working all night making sure my own kids don’t starve. And my wife for that matter.’
Frieda took his hand across the table and squeezed it.
‘Yes. I know. And of course I’m glad about your new boss. It’s terrific that he likes your music.’
‘You know how much I hated trotting out tea dance music in Wannsee and Nikolassee for the old ladies,’ Wolfgang said, ‘but I did it because we need to eat and because you want to work in a public-funded medical centre where they pay you bugger all.’
‘I know. I know,’ Frieda conceded.
‘And now I’ve actually got a gig I enjoy , I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I am. I am pleased, Wolf, and I mean it, I’m sorry. Sometimes my work gets to me, that’s all. And I am grateful for how hard you work for us, you know that.’ She leant across the table and kissed him. ‘It’s not quite how your marriage plan was supposed to work out, is it? I seem to recall I was going to support you.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘A jazz man supporting a doctor.’ Frieda smiled. ‘Only in Germany! Only in Berlin.’
Hot Hot Hot!
Berlin, 1923
EVERYBODY CAME TO the Joplin.
High life. Low life. Good guys. Bad guys.
Plenty of beauties, plenty of beasts.
From day one the place simply throbbed with easy money, booze, sex, drugs and jazz.
The sex and the drugs were supplied principally by Kurt’s friend Helmut the ‘queer pimp’, whom Wolfgang now discovered dealt in narcotics as well as prostitutes.
He regularly offered Wolfgang both.
‘Take your pick,’ Helmut loved to say expansively, pointing out various exquisite young girls (and boys) who were club regulars and whom Wolfgang had no idea were prostitutes. ‘Take two and make yourself a sandwich. Don’t worry, they’re all clean as whistles. Six months ago they were at finishing schools; now, I’m afraid, Daddy’s poor and growing girls and boys must eat.’
Wolfgang politely declined the offer of sex but he was happy to accept the occasional chemical stimulant. They were long nights and the trumpet is a demanding task master.
He didn’t tell Frieda of course. But Frieda wasn’t there and he didn’t have to play by her rules. Not at the club.
He was after all a jazz man. Jazz men didn’t play by anybody’s rules. That was the point. A little cocaine with your champagne? A puff of something dreamy to chase along the single malt? Why not? How could a man say no?
And if, as the nights went by, he found himself chatting more and more to Katharina between sets, so what? Was it a crime? He liked her. And it wasn’t just because she was beautiful, although that didn’t hurt. Or that she was intriguing and enigmatic.
Fascinating even.
Wolfgang had met lots of fascinating girls.
Lots of girls who did the same impression of a cold-eyed sultry vamp, so popular in the movies.
The point was he really did like her.
She was interested in the same things he was, equally inspired and excited by them. Not just jazz either, but all kinds of art. When Katharina talked about art, her face became animated and her eyes started to sparkle. All that carefully posed haughtiness evaporated and it became clear that her world-weary indifference was just a youthful pretension and she was still a gauche teenager at heart.
She wanted to be an
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