Lovely War(39)

“It is I,” said Aubrey, with a bow. “The King of Ragtime and the Emperor of Jazz.”

“Aubrey! You came back!” She beckoned him in. “It took you long enough.”

He leaned against the door. “Been too busy with concerts to get here sooner.”

“What fun! Aren’t you coming in?”

“I’m not allowed,” he said. “I tried to come this afternoon, but a lady turned me away.”

“Oh, Aubrey. I am so sorry.” Hazel felt sick about it. “Say, why don’t you come in now?”

Aubrey hesitated. “Won’t we get in trouble?”

“Who’s to know? Mrs. Davies has gone to bed.” What a rule breaker she was becoming! But some rules demanded it. “It’s revenge. She won’t let me play at the Negro hut.”

Aubrey followed Hazel inside. “Because you wouldn’t be safe there,” he said bitterly.

They reached the stage, where Colette sorted her music pages and hummed snatches of a song. Aubrey swept his cap off his head and made a deep bow. Colette was dressed, this time around, in her uniform blouse and skirt, but Aubrey was in no way disappointed.

“Aubrey Edwards, at your service,” he told her. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“You haven’t, yet,” she told him.

“Then I will be even more pleased,” said the unsinkable Aubrey, “when you acquaint me.” He glanced at Hazel and back at Colette. “Was that you I heard just now, singing?”

Hazel watched Aubrey unleash his charm on Colette. This ought to be fun. She could be cool as ice. When doughboys tried to catch her eye, she just smiled and poured them lemonade.

The king glanced in Hazel’s direction. She could see his eyes sparkling. “Your Ladyship,” he said in a stage whisper, “are you gonna introduce me to this lovely friend of yours, or do I have to guess her name?”

“It would be fun to see you try,” she said. “This is my friend Colette Fournier. Singer extraordinaire. Colette, this is Aubrey Edwards, King of Ragtime and Emperor of Jazz.”

Colette held out her hand to shake, but Aubrey kissed it.

“What is ‘jazz’?” Colette asked. “Is that what you call the music the band played here last week? C’était fantastique!”

He swelled up like a bullfrog. “That’s jazz, or something like it,” he said. “We’re not just the best band in the US Army. We’re the best band in the whole dang war. We’ll set you free, then we’ll set you on fire with our jazz beat.”

“Watch what he can do, Colette.” Hazel gestured Aubrey toward the piano bench.

He found the melody to her song and explored chords until he’d shaped it into a rag.

To him, it was child’s play, but to Colette, Aubrey had musically parted the Red Sea.

“Do that again,” Colette demanded.

Aubrey was glad to oblige her. Soon they were ragging her other sheet music.

Apollo, you remember what this felt like, for musicians first experiencing the baptism of fire that was jazz. Ragtime seized Colette. Her mind fizzed, her hips swayed. Gone were the old swoony, melodramatic refrains and hackneyed, chirpy tunes. This was oil lamps becoming electric lights. It was dynamite. Voodoo. Sorcery.

It was sexy. And so was its athletic high priest at the piano bench. He played for Colette with a there’s-more-where-that-came-from gleam in his eye. She found her gaze returning to him oftener than it should. And lingering there.

Non, Colette told herself. Non, non, non.

But there was something about the King of Ragtime that wasn’t just the music.

Aubrey had never encountered Rococo perfume, straight from Paris, and short, sleek curls pinned up like that, so glamorous and daring. And her figure! But it was her voice that hooked him. She knew where he’d take the music; when he improvised, she followed, and sometimes even steered him to modulate to a new key.

Hazel began to yawn. It was getting late. The time had come.

Aubrey made himself stand up. “I’d better go.” The hardest words he’d said in a while.

Colette offered him her hand. “Enchantée.”

“Good night, Aubrey,” Hazel said.

He made his way to the door. They didn’t invite you back, his mother’s voice told him.

He grinned into the cold night air. Who needs an invitation?





APOLLO


     The Next Morning—January 13, 1918





“WHERE WERE YOU last night?”

Joey Rice jabbed Aubrey in the ribs. They shivered in line, waiting for the latrine.

“You look like a dead body,” Joey said. “I heard you come in. What was it, midnight?”

Aubrey rubbed his eyes. “S’matter, Rice? Did I disturb your beauty rest?”

Joey poked Aubrey in the chest. “I had to lie to Lieutenant Europe and say you were at the infirmary last night at lights-out.”

That got Aubrey’s attention. “He was looking for me?”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t Captain Fish. I told him you’d got the runs.”

“Gee, thanks.” He hopped on one foot. “Move it along there, fellas! I gotta go!”

“Seriously,” Joey said, “where’d you go?”