The Saxophone Lessons – Part 1: Squeaks

The saxophone made a noise like a goose being stepped on.

"Again," said Jonah, calmly.

Andre blew. The goose returned. He lowered the horn, cheeks burning. He was thirty-two, a tax accountant from Baton Rouge, newly moved to New Orleans, in a pressed shirt and a pair of very polished shoes. The room was small and warm and smelled of oil and reeds and old wood. A ceiling fan turned slowly. On the wall hung a framed poster of a long-dead trumpeter and a crooked clock.

Jonah, thirty-six, the teacher, was lean and tall, with close-cropped grey hair, a trim beard and sleepy dark eyes, in a loose linen shirt. He sat on the piano stool, one long leg crossed over the other, entirely at ease. "Every saxophone player in this city made that sound," he said. "You know who didn't?"

"Who?"

"Nobody. Squeaks are the good part. It means the horn is waking up."

"It sounds like a goose."

"Then you're in good company. Geese are very musical."

Andre laughed. His shoulders loosened. Jonah stood, adjusted the strap on his neck and corrected his embouchure with two fingers under his chin, warm and light. "Roll your lips. Like you're about to say 'oo.' Breathe from here." He pressed a hand low on Andre's stomach. "Now."

Andre breathed. He blew. A low, round, golden note rolled out and filled the room. It was imperfect. It wobbled at the end. But it was a note.

"There," murmured Jonah.

"That was a saxophone."

"That was you."

For weeks, Andre came on Tuesday evenings. He learned scales, then simple tunes. He practised on the balcony of his flat until the neighbours applauded, ironically, then sincerely. Jonah taught him patiently, joking, humming along on the piano. After lessons they sat on the steps outside with iced tea in the humid evening, listening to the city.

"Can I ask you something?" said Andre.

"Yes."

"Why did you say the squeaks are good?"

"Because they're honest," said Jonah. "Everything else you can fake."

"Green?" said Andre, a reed, a note.

"Green," said Jonah, with a slow, warm smile. "Very green. Play me the blues."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Gig.