Prologue: Manhattan
Manhattan, March 14, 1959
Manhattan, March 14, 1959
That day he showed up pale and
slump-shouldered, barely holding onto his
saxophone case. Elaine Swaine, his last and
closest companion, had to coax and nearly
had to carry him off the plane. He said
nothing about the plane, the trip, his return
from Paris, his affliction, the final flight, not a
word. He entered his room at the Alvin Hotel,
Fifty-second Street, New York. What time was
it? What difference did it make? For him, time
had ceased to exist long ago.
The room looked the same as when he had
left it a few weeks before: the bed, the table,
the chairs, the easy chair next to the window
overlooking Birdland, the nightstand with
photos of relatives, the record player, the
stack of records: Dick Haymes, Lady Day,
Ella, Sarah, Al Hibbler, Frank Sinatra. There
was also the gin stashed away, and the
bourbon in the clock. He had returned to his
universe. He took possession of it, marked it.
His move was to unpack his instrument. He
rested the sax on the table, next to the
crumpled black hat.
slump-shouldered, barely holding onto his
saxophone case. Elaine Swaine, his last and
closest companion, had to coax and nearly
had to carry him off the plane. He said
nothing about the plane, the trip, his return
from Paris, his affliction, the final flight, not a
word. He entered his room at the Alvin Hotel,
Fifty-second Street, New York. What time was
it? What difference did it make? For him, time
had ceased to exist long ago.
The room looked the same as when he had
left it a few weeks before: the bed, the table,
the chairs, the easy chair next to the window
overlooking Birdland, the nightstand with
photos of relatives, the record player, the
stack of records: Dick Haymes, Lady Day,
Ella, Sarah, Al Hibbler, Frank Sinatra. There
was also the gin stashed away, and the
bourbon in the clock. He had returned to his
universe. He took possession of it, marked it.
His move was to unpack his instrument. He
rested the sax on the table, next to the
crumpled black hat.
He sat down. From the chair, he watched the
street. He drank gin, bourbon. He poured
again and again. He smoked, and he drank
some more. How could he hold that cigarette
with fingers so weak and transparent? The
smoke rose. The spirals glided to the ceiling,
sliced intermittently by the fan blades. He
gazed at Birdland. What did he see? Ghosts?
A void? Maybe nothing; maybe there was
nothing in the gaze itself that time. Maybe the
world itself was gone by that particular
moment. He remained in this collapsed
state, in the silence of the room, in the din of
the street. Then he stretched out. Elaine held
his hand, spoke to him, told him some New
York jazz gossip, what had happened in the
city while he had been gone. He was
listening to his favorite tune by Frank Sinatra.
His lips moved as he blew into imaginary
mouthpieces. He was accompanying
Frankie. He'd have given anything to cut a
record with him.
street. He drank gin, bourbon. He poured
again and again. He smoked, and he drank
some more. How could he hold that cigarette
with fingers so weak and transparent? The
smoke rose. The spirals glided to the ceiling,
sliced intermittently by the fan blades. He
gazed at Birdland. What did he see? Ghosts?
A void? Maybe nothing; maybe there was
nothing in the gaze itself that time. Maybe the
world itself was gone by that particular
moment. He remained in this collapsed
state, in the silence of the room, in the din of
the street. Then he stretched out. Elaine held
his hand, spoke to him, told him some New
York jazz gossip, what had happened in the
city while he had been gone. He was
listening to his favorite tune by Frank Sinatra.
His lips moved as he blew into imaginary
mouthpieces. He was accompanying
Frankie. He'd have given anything to cut a
record with him.
Here was I, a gypsy for a world to romance
Now the world is in my arms...
The notes faded out; his lips ceased to
move. The twitch of a smile, his last, and he
faded away. Elaine hurried to the phone for
medical help. But when the doctor arrived,
there was nothing lieft for him to do but
confirm the death of Lester Willis Young,
March 15, 1959, at 3:00AM in New York City.
Cause of death: cardiac arrest due to
malnutrition and cirrhosis of the liver.
Then the police arrived. In that hotel room,
what was left of Lester Young? A saxophone,
the Pres's, the one he called "Bby", stuffed in
a postal sack, along with five hundred dollars
in travelers checks, a ring, a wallet, and one
unpaid bill for seventy-five dollars. That was
all the police found. That was all that
remained of Lester Young. That was it. The
end of the journey.
Now the world is in my arms...
The notes faded out; his lips ceased to
move. The twitch of a smile, his last, and he
faded away. Elaine hurried to the phone for
medical help. But when the doctor arrived,
there was nothing lieft for him to do but
confirm the death of Lester Willis Young,
March 15, 1959, at 3:00AM in New York City.
Cause of death: cardiac arrest due to
malnutrition and cirrhosis of the liver.
Then the police arrived. In that hotel room,
what was left of Lester Young? A saxophone,
the Pres's, the one he called "Bby", stuffed in
a postal sack, along with five hundred dollars
in travelers checks, a ring, a wallet, and one
unpaid bill for seventy-five dollars. That was
all the police found. That was all that
remained of Lester Young. That was it. The
end of the journey.
From Pres, the story of Lester Young
Luc Delannoy
Translated by Elena B. Odio
The University of Arkansas Press
Fayetteville. 1993.
Luc Delannoy
Translated by Elena B. Odio
The University of Arkansas Press
Fayetteville. 1993.
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