The Jazz Cellar – Part 1: Sunday Set

The jazz cellar was down a set of worn brick steps off Frenchmen Street, under a sign so faded it was mostly rust. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the sweet, sharp smell of spilled bourbon. The walls sweated. The piano was out of tune in exactly the way Dana loved.

She booked the same table every Sunday, the one by the pillar at the back, where she could see the stage and nobody could see her. She came alone, ordered a glass of sherry, and listened.

The trumpeter had been watching her for months.

She knew it the way you know a song is about you. He played with his eyes half closed, his cheeks full, the brass gleaming under the single spotlight. Every set ended with a ballad, and every ballad ended with a long, low note that seemed to hang in the smoke, and then his gaze would drift across the room to her pillar, and stay there a beat too long.

Tonight, he stopped in the middle of a song.

The band faltered, looked at him, and then the piano player shrugged and let the notes trail away. The room went quiet. Dana looked up, startled, and found the trumpeter standing at the edge of the stage, his instrument hanging from one hand, his expression very serious.

"You've been coming here for six months," he said, into the sudden silence. His voice was low and warm, with the slow drawl of the Ninth Ward. "I've been playing for you for six months. I'd like to know your name."

The room laughed, and then clapped, and someone whooped from the bar.

Dana's face flushed hot. "Dana," she said, loud enough to carry.

"Marcus," said the trumpeter. "Thank you. That's a beautiful name for a girl who listens like that."

He lifted the trumpet again and played a single long note, slow and tender, directed straight at her pillar. Then he grinned, and the band came crashing back in.

After the set, Marcus came down from the stage with his instrument case under his arm and walked straight to her table, weaving through the crowd like he had all night to do it.

"Can I sit?" he asked.

"You're very forward for a musician."

"I'm very honest for a musician," said Marcus. "Most of us only say what we mean through the horn."

She laughed, and he sat, and the pianist behind them began to play something soft and slow.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marcus, leaning forward.

"Yes."

"Why do you come here alone every Sunday? You never dance. You never talk to anybody. You just sit and listen like the music is a letter you're trying to read."

Dana turned her sherry glass slowly on the table.

"Because my husband used to bring me here," she said quietly. "He was a bassist. He died two years ago, and every Sunday I come back, to hear what the room still remembers."

Marcus was silent. The piano played on, soft and sad.

"Then I'll play something for him," he said, very gently. "And for you. Only if you'll tell me his name."

"Eli," said Dana, and her voice wobbled.

Marcus nodded. "Eli," he said. "And can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me walk you home tonight, along Frenchmen Street, with the trumpet case and the bad jokes? And maybe, one day, come back and hear the song I'm about to write about the woman who listens?"

Dana laughed, through the tears. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise not to play that long note in the middle of Bourbon Street. The tourists will think you're dying."

"Deal," said Marcus, grinning. "Green?"

"Green," said Dana. "Very green. Now play me the rest of that song, Marcus, the one for Eli. I want to hear how it ends."