The Jazz Cellar – Part 2: The Long Note

They walked the long way, down Frenchmen Street, past the closed-up shops and the bars spilling light and noise onto the sidewalk. Marcus carried his trumpet case in one hand and Dana's sherry glass, unbroken, in the other, because she had refused to leave it on the table.

"That's a terrible habit," he said.

"It's a sentimental one," said Dana. "Eli always said I'd take my glass to the grave."

"Then I'll make sure it's full when we get there."

The street grew quieter as they walked. A busker was playing a slow blues on the corner, his guitar case open for coins. The air was warm and sticky, the sky heavy with a coming storm.

At the corner of Esplanade, Marcus stopped and opened the case. He took out the trumpet and turned it over in his hands, the brass warm from the cellar.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you let me play you the song? Here, on the corner, before the rain starts? It's about a bass player who taught a woman to listen."

Dana's throat tightened. "Yes," she said. "But only if you let me sing the wrong words."

"There are no wrong words," said Marcus, and lifted the trumpet.

He played slowly, the notes rising into the humid night, soft at first and then fuller, a melody that climbed and fell like a conversation. The busker on the corner stopped playing and listened. A couple walking past held hands and stood still. Dana closed her eyes, and for the first time in two years she heard Eli's bass in her head, low and steady underneath, holding the melody together.

When Marcus reached the long, final note, he held it until his breath gave out, and the whole street seemed to hush around it.

Then the rain began, sudden and heavy, and everyone scattered, laughing.

They ran for the awning of a closed bookshop, soaked and breathless, and stood pressed together under the narrow roof while the storm poured down onto the street.

"That was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me," said Dana.

"It was a bit wet," said Marcus.

"Yes," she said. "That's why it was perfect."

He laughed, and then grew quiet, watching the water run down the glass.

"Can I ask you something else?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you come back to the cellar next Sunday, and sit at your pillar, and let me play the song the whole way through? Not for Eli, though he'd like it. For you. So you can hear what the room remembers now."

Dana's heart was pounding. "Yes," she said. "But only if you let me choose the ballad after it."

"Deal," said Marcus, and turned to her, the rain dripping off his hair. "Can I kiss you now? Under this awning, while the whole street is drowning?"

"Yes," said Dana. "And if I say stop, we'll go back to the cellar and drink very bad whisky until we forget the storm."

"Good," said Marcus, and leaned in.

He kissed her slowly, his hand warm against her wet cheek, the taste of rain and brass and something sweeter underneath. Dana's fingers curled into the front of his shirt, steady and sure, and she kissed him back as the thunder rolled over the French Quarter and the rain drummed on the awning above them.

When they parted, both of them were laughing softly.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Dana. "Very green. Now walk me home, Marcus, through the rain, and play me the last bar again, very quietly, so the whole street can hear it."

"The whole street will think I'm crazy," said Marcus.

"They already do," said Dana, and took his hand, and they walked out together into the storm, the trumpet case swinging between them, the long note still hanging in the wet air.