Paris in May - D. Grey

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gathered around the entrance to the piano room to hear music as they had never heard it before in the house. He played for five minutes to demonstrate his ability, and after the point was made, he stopped. The maid and cook clapped and cheered without inhibition, and Mr. and Mrs. Carle stood speechless, knowing that they had just witnessed something special. Something out of the ordinary had been loosed in their music room that was worthy of being heard in a grand concert hall. Then the room fell silent, in part because of the unforgettable sound they had just heard. The incongruity between what they knew of their stableman—the almost ragged work clothes he was wearing versus his display of pianistic ability—made the scene almost bizarre. The myths of magical transformations take place in literature when frogs become princes and farm girls lead armies. But here in front of them, a similar emergence had taken place. Hidden in their stables was something beautiful, something that no one would have ever suspected. It left them agape with surprise, speechless, and palpably excited. In a word, they were all stunned.

      “Would you like to hear something else?” asked Bootsy, who watched the whole scene with a touch of “Gotcha” and an internal glee that only he could appreciate.

      “By all means,” answered Mrs. Carle at a volume louder than her speaking voice, which was both a sign of approval and a prod meant to accelerate the process.

      “What about some jazz?” asked Bootsy. “That’s what I like best.”

      The Carles, the cook, and the cleaning lady all found comfortable seats, and for the next hour, they listened to a master play melodies they all knew. He knew what he was doing. The intention was not just to play the piano well but also to seduce their sensibilities, so they wanted more. The rhythms may have been a little different and the melodies embellished, but they knew what was being played, and they all hummed the melodies and mouthed the lyrics to many of the songs that were played. They lost track of time and space, totally consumed by the music. After the shock and awe had worn off, Mr. Carle approached his stableman. Still sitting at the piano bench with a respectful nobility that Mr. Carle could now see, he asked the question.

      “Would you like a change in your job description?” Bootsy was not expecting this, but he did know his employers had been jerked out of their business heads and into a place that allowed purely emotional decisions. “Would you like to teach my son Kenneth?”

      Bootsy knew he had to strike while the iron was hot, and he did.

      “Would this be a complete change in job description, Mr. Carle?” This might be a chance for him to make a living doing what he was born to do. Even though he did not consider himself a teacher, he could certainly do it, and maybe he could wind up doing something that he loved and could finally leave the filth of the stable. Finally, he might be able to get back to the thing he loved most in the world.

      “Yes,” said Mr. Carle. “The only thing you would be responsible for is teaching Kenneth.”

      Then he hesitated and added, “You might also be periodically asked to play for the family’s entertainment and parties. If you agree, I think it only fair that your pay would be what any pro would make putting in the same hours. I’ll check into that. I could see you becoming the boy’s musical mentor.”

      “This might be too much to ask, Mr. Carle, but could you help me set up a retirement account? Right now, I have nothing to take me into old age,” said Bootsy.

      “Don’t push it, Mr. Johnson. But I think we can do that.”

      “Then I say yes to your offer and look forward to teaching your son. By the way, it’s been a long time since I’ve been called Mr. Johnson, and I thank you for that.”

      Mrs. Carle approached and stood by her husband, trying unsuccessfully to contain her excitement. She grasped Mr. Carle’s hand and said with a slightly exaggerated sense of dignity, “Mr. Johnson, dirty work clothes are not to be worn in the house.”

      The Carle family soon discovered what and who Mr. Daniel “Bootsy” Johnson really was. He was the grandson of slaves and not just an old stableman but an influential, genius-level piano player who had taken the New York jazz scene by storm in the late 30s to early 40s but did not like the lifestyle and the way he was treated, so he came home to rural Maryland and stayed.

      Mr. Johnson took Ken under his wing. They spent hours walking around the farm talking about music. In the music room, sitting at the piano and on a removable blackboard that was brought in, Ken was taught theory, harmony, and composition. They practiced fingering and technique. They listened to all the great jazz piano players—Cole, Tatum, Peterson, and Garner—and with Mr. Johnson’s help, Ken had the opportunity to play with some of the quality bands in the area. He learned to play different styles of music and to do so with competence. Bootsy helped him extract from all of it a style that was uniquely Ken’s. And by the time he was eighteen years old, he was more than ready to call himself a piano player who could play with anybody in any style.

      Bootsy had done his job, and when Ken left for college to study mathematics, the old man knew he had been responsible for doing something special. Before he left, Ken promised him he would take everything he learned to his beloved New York and make him proud.

      *****

      Evening had now settled over the harbor, and for the first time, Ken appreciated the expansive elegance of his parents’ new apartment. He knew the chances of ever approaching a comparable lifestyle in New York was impossible for him. After years of trying to make enough money to support a truly middle-class lifestyle, he was no closer than he was when he first arrived. Yes, there were memorable jobs and plenty of high times. Some people knew his name, and a few times, he recorded with known artists, but with the flood of competition and changing musical styles and taste, the opportunities diminished over time. He’d get gigs at cocktail parties and house parties and the few remaining jazz clubs, but it was not enough to sustain what he considered a respectable lifestyle. Like his teacher, Bootsy Johnson, Ken had come back home. It was not a triumphant return, and as he waited for his parents with his head resting on his hand and his elbow leaning on the piano, he wondered what tomorrow would bring.

      4

      New York

      Early 1960s

      After entering Yale University and except for his room and board, Ken no longer needed the support of his parents. He was a diligent, responsible student, and although not a standout in the mathematics department, was thought of as a good student. By the end of his first semester, when his versatile piano talent was recognized, Ken Carle was sought after for a variety of student activities requiring a piano. Before long, other student musicians began to call, and soon the Ken Carle Trio was born. Music students and faculty alike often brought instruments to Ken’s monthly jam sessions in the student center, where the level of musicianship was high, and an enjoyable time was had by all. Toward the end of his first year, club, bar, and restaurant owners in Hartford and beyond began to visit the campus to hear what the buzz was about. It was not long before playing in the local clubs provided him resources enough to explore the music scene in Boston and New York. Yale had been the perfect choice to nurture his analytical and musical skills. While there, he worked with many kinds of music and played with musicians of all types. He was known and he was requested. By the end of his fourth year, he thought he might be ready for the real challenge: New York City. Ken was prepared to fulfill the promise he made to the man whose essence was with him daily—his teacher, guru, and inspiration, Bootsy Johnson.

      It wasn’t much, just what he could afford—a two-room basement apartment on Norfolk Street just off Houston and relatively close to bus routes and train lines. In one room, his bed was flanked on one side by a stove, sink, and refrigerator, and on the other side, by the toilet and washbasin. Maneuvering in the room was difficult, but it was separated from the living room by a wall with a window. The place was different than anything he had experienced, but for what he intended to do in the city, it was adequate and affordable without having to appeal to his parents. With enough room to watch TV or invite a few friends, it wasn’t what he was used to, but it was all Ken needed.

      “When I start making money, I’ll move to a better

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