They all stopped what they were doing and watched as Geoff climbed on stage and opened his guitar case.
At that point Lenny said: ‘What are you doing, Geoff?’
‘I’m going to show you that I’m the best guitarist you’ve ever heard.’
‘For Pete’s sake! You’re fired and that’s that. Just fuck off to the station and catch a train to Hook.’
Geoff changed his tone and became wheedling. ‘We’ve been playing together for six years, Lenny. That has to count for something. You have to give me one chance.’
This seemed so reasonable that Walli, to his alarm, felt sure Lenny would agree. But Lenny shook his head. ‘You’re an all right guitar player, but you’re no genius, and you’re an awkward bastard too. Since we got here you’ve been playing so badly that we were on the point of being fired last night when Walli joined us.’
Geoff looked around. ‘What do the others think?’ he said.
‘Who told you this group was a democracy?’ Lenny said.
‘Who told you it’s not?’ Geoff turned to Lew, the drummer, who was adjusting a foot pedal. ‘What do you think?’
Lew was Geoff’s cousin. ‘Give him another chance,’ Lew said.
Geoff addressed the bassist. ‘What about you, Buzz?’
Buzz was an easy-going character who would go along with whoever shouted loudest. ‘I’d give him a chance.’
Geoff looked triumphant. ‘That makes three of us against one of you, Lenny.’
Dave put in: ‘No, it doesn’t. In a democracy, you have to be able to count. It’s you three against Lenny, me and Walli – which makes it even.’
Lenny said: ‘Don’t bother about the votes. This is my group and I make the decisions. Geoff is fired. Put your instrument away, Geoff, or I’ll sling it right out the fucking door.’
At this point Geoff seemed to accept that Lenny was serious. He put his guitar back in its case and slammed the lid. Picking it up, he said: ‘I’ll promise you something, you bastards. If I go, you’ll all go.’
Walli wondered what that meant. Perhaps it was just an empty threat. Anyway, there was no time to think about it. A couple of minutes later they started to play.
All Walli’s fears departed. He could tell he was good and the group was good with him in it. Time passed quickly. In the interval, he went back on stage alone and sang Bob Dylan songs. He included a number he had written himself, called ‘Karolin’. The audience seemed to like it. Afterwards he went straight back on stage to open the second set with ‘Dizzy Miss Lizzy’.
While he was playing ‘You Can’t Catch Me’, he saw a couple of uniformed policemen at the back talking to the proprietor, Herr Fluck, but he thought nothing of it.
When they came off at midnight, Herr Fluck was waiting in their dressing room. Without preamble he said to Dave: ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one,’ said Dave.
‘Don’t give me that shit.’
‘What do you care?’
‘In Germany we have laws about employing minors in bars.’
‘I’m eighteen.’
‘The police say you’re fifteen.’
‘What do the police know about it?’
‘They’ve been talking to the guitar player you just fired – Geoff.’
Lenny said: ‘The bastard, he’s shopped us.’
Herr Fluck said: ‘I run a nightclub. Prostitutes come in here, drug dealers, criminals of all kinds. I must constantly prove to the police that I do my best to obey the law. They say I have to send you home – all of you. So, goodbye.’
Lenny said: ‘When do we have to go?’
‘You leave the club now. You leave Germany tomorrow.’
Lenny said: ‘That’s outrageous!’
‘When you’re a club owner, you do as the police tell you.’ He pointed at Walli. ‘He does not have to leave the country, being German.’
‘Fuck it,’ said Lenny. ‘I’ve lost two guitarists in one day.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Walli. ‘I’m coming with you.’
27
Jasper Murray fell in love with the US. They had all-night radio and three channels of television and a different morning newspaper in every city. The people were generous and their houses were spacious and their manners were relaxed and informal. Back home, English people acted as if they were perpetually taking tea in a Victorian drawing room, even when they were doing business deals or giving television interviews or playing sports. Jasper’s father, an army officer, could not see this, but his German-Jewish mother did. Here in the States, people were direct. In restaurants, waiters were efficient and helpful without bowing and scraping. No one was obsequious.
Jasper was planning a series of articles about his travels for
St Julian’s News
, but he also had a higher ambition. Before leaving London, he had spoken to Barry Pugh and asked if the
Daily Echo
might be interested to see what he wrote. ‘Yea, sure, if you come across something, you know, special,’ Pugh had said without enthusiasm. Last week in Detroit, Jasper had got an interview with Smokey Robinson, lead singer of the Miracles, and had sent the article to the
Echo
by express post. He reckoned it should have got there by now. He had given the Dewars’ number, but Pugh had not phoned. Jasper was still hopeful, though, and he would call Pugh today.
He was staying at the Dewar family apartment in Washington. It was a big place in a swanky building a few blocks from the White House. ‘My grandfather Cameron Dewar bought this before the First World War,’ Woody Dewar explained to Jasper at the breakfast table. ‘Both he and my father were senators.’
A coloured maid called Miss Betsy poured orange juice for Jasper and asked if he would like some eggs. ‘No, thanks, just coffee,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting a family friend for breakfast in an hour.’
Jasper had met the Dewars at the house in Great Peter Street during the year the family had spent in London. He had not been close to them except, briefly, to Beep, but, all the same, they had welcomed him to their home, more than a year later, with open-handed hospitality. Like the Williamses, they were casually generous, especially towards young people. Lloyd and Daisy were always happy to accommodate stray teenagers for a night or a week – or, in Jasper’s case, several years. The Dewars seemed the same. ‘It’s so kind of you to let me stay here,’ Jasper said to Bella.
‘Oh, you’re welcome, it’s nothing,’ she said, and she meant it.
Jasper turned to Woody. ‘I assume you’ll be photographing today’s civil rights march for
Life
magazine?’
‘That’s right,’ said Woody. ‘I’ll mingle with the crowd, taking discreet candid shots with a small thirty-five millimetre camera. Someone else will do the essential formal pictures of the celebrities on the platform.’
He was dressed casually, in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, but all the same it would be difficult for such a tall man to be inconspicuous. However, Woody’s revealing news photographs were world famous. ‘I’m familiar with your work, as is everyone who’s interested in journalism,’ said Jasper.
‘Does any particular subject attract you?’ Woody asked. ‘Crime, politics, war?’
‘No. I’d be happy to cover everything – as you seem to.’
‘I’m interested in faces. Whatever the story – a funeral, a football game, a murder investigation – I photograph faces.’
‘What do you expect today?’
‘No one knows. Martin Luther King is predicting a hundred thousand people. If he gets that many, it will be the biggest civil rights march ever. We all hope it will be happy and peaceful, but we’re not counting on it. Look what happened in Birmingham.’
‘Washington is different,’ Bella put in. ‘We have coloured police officers here.’
‘Not many,’ Woody said. ‘Although you can bet they will all be at the forefront today.’
Beep Dewar came into the dining room. She was fifteen and petite. ‘Who’s going to be at the forefront?’ she said.
‘Not you, I hope,’ said her mother. ‘You stay clear of trouble, please.’
‘Of course, Mama.’
Jasper noted that Beep had learned a measure of discretion in the two years since he had last seen her. Today she looked cute, but not especially sexy, in tan jeans and a loose-fitting cowboy shirt – a sensible outfit for a day that might turn disorderly.
She acted towards Jasper as if she had completely forgotten about their flirtation in London. She was signalling that he should not expect to take up where he had left off. No doubt she had had boyfriends since then. For his part, he was relieved that she did not feel he belonged to her.
The last member of the Dewar family to appear at breakfast was Cameron, now seventeen. He was dressed like a middle-aged man, in a linen jacket with a white shirt and a tie. ‘You stay out of trouble too, Cam,’ said his mother.
‘I have no intention of going anywhere near the march,’ he said prissily. ‘I’m planning to visit the Smithsonian.’
Beep said: ‘Don’t you believe coloured people should be able to vote?’
‘I don’t believe they should cause trouble.’
‘If they were allowed to vote, they wouldn’t need to make their point in other ways.’
Bella said: ‘That’s enough, you two.’
Jasper finished his coffee. ‘I need to make a transatlantic phone call,’ he said. He felt obliged to add: ‘I’ll pay for it, of course,’ though he was not sure he had enough money.
‘Go right ahead,’ Bella said. ‘Use the phone in the study. And please don’t trouble about paying.’
Jasper was relieved. ‘You’re so kind,’ he said.
Bella waved that aside. ‘I think
Life
magazine probably takes care of our phone bill, anyway,’ she said vaguely.
Jasper went into the study. He called the
Daily Echo
in London and reached Barry Pugh, who said: ‘Hi, Jasper, how are you enjoying the US?’
‘It’s great.’ Jasper swallowed nervously. ‘Did you get my Smokey Robinson piece?’
‘Yes, thanks. Well written, Jasper, but it doesn’t make it for the
Echo.
Try the
New Musical Express
.’
Jasper was disheartened. He had no interest in writing for the pop press. ‘Okay,’ he said. Not ready to give up, he added: ‘I thought the fact that Smokey is the Beatles’ favourite singer might give the interview extra interest.’
‘Not enough. Nice try, though.’
Jasper tried hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Thanks.’
Pugh said: ‘Isn’t there some kind of demonstration in Washington today?’
‘Yes, civil rights.’ Jasper’s hopes rose again. ‘I’ll be there – if you’d like a report?’
‘Hmm . . . Give us a ring if it gets violent.’
And not otherwise, Jasper inferred. Disappointed, he said: ‘Okay, will do.’
Jasper cradled the phone and stared at it pensively. He had worked hard on the Smokey Robinson piece and he felt the Beatles connection made it special. But he had been wrong, and all he could do was try again.
He returned to the dining room. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting Senator Peshkov at the Willard Hotel.’
Woody said: ‘The Willard is where Martin Luther King stays.’
Jasper brightened. ‘Maybe I could get an interview.’ The
Echo
would surely be interested in that.
Woody smiled. ‘There will be several hundred reporters hoping for an interview with King today.’
Jasper turned to Beep. ‘Will I see you later?’
‘We’re meeting at the Washington Monument at ten,’ she said. ‘There’s a rumour that Joan Baez is going to sing.’
‘I’ll look for you there.’
Woody said: ‘Did you say you’re meeting Greg Peshkov?’
‘Yes. He’s the half-brother of Daisy Williams.’
‘I know. The domestic arrangements of Greg’s father, Lev Peshkov, were hot gossip when your mother and I were teenagers in Buffalo. Please give Greg my regards.’
‘Of course,’ said Jasper, and he went out.
* * *
George Jakes entered the coffee shop at the Willard and looked around for Verena, but she had not yet arrived. However, his saw his father, Greg Peshkov, having breakfast with a good-looking man of about twenty who had a blond Beatle haircut. George sat at their table and said: ‘Good morning.’
Greg said: ‘This is Jasper Murray, a student from London, England. He’s the son of an old friend. Jasper, meet George Jakes.’
They shook hands. Jasper looked faintly startled, as people often did when they saw Greg and George together; but, like most people, he was too polite to ask for an explanation.
Greg said to George: ‘Jasper’s mother was a refugee from Nazi Germany.’
Jasper said: ‘My mother has never forgotten how the American people welcomed her that summer.’
George said to Jasper: ‘So the subject of racial discrimination is familiar to you, I guess.’
‘Not really. My mother doesn’t like to talk about the old days too much.’ He smiled engagingly. ‘At school in England I was called Jasper Jewboy for a while, but it didn’t stick. Are you involved in today’s march, George?’
‘Kind of. I work for Bobby Kennedy. Our concern is to make sure the day goes smoothly.’
Jasper was interested. ‘How are you able to do that?’
‘The Mall is full of temporary drinking fountains, first-aid stations, portable toilets, and even a cheque-cashing facility. A church in New York has made eighty thousand sandwich lunches for the organizers to distribute free. All speeches are limited to seven minutes, so that the event will end on time and visitors can leave town well before dark. And Washington has banned the sale of liquor for the day.’
‘Will it work?’
George did not know. ‘Frankly, everything depends on the white people. It only takes a few cops to start throwing their weight around, using billy clubs or fire hoses or attack dogs, to turn a prayer meeting into a riot.’
Greg said: ‘Washington isn’t the Deep South.’
‘It isn’t the North, either,’ said George. ‘So there’s no telling what will happen.’
Jasper persisted with his questions. ‘And if there is a riot?’
Greg answered him. ‘There are four thousand troops stationed in the suburbs, and fifteen thousand paratroopers close by in North Carolina. Washington hospitals have cancelled all non-urgent surgery to make room for the wounded.’
‘Blimey,’ said Jasper. ‘You’re serious.’
George frowned. These precautions were not public knowledge. Greg had been briefed, as a senator; but he should not have told Jasper.