Coffee, Jazz, Whiskey, Sex
By Neil Griffiths
“I play the drums.”
She was waiting to order coffee. She wasn’t aware that she’d spoken to him, although she’d been looking in his direction and wondering who he was and whether he might work nearby. But asking him a question, specifically “What do you do?”, which she supposed must have, given his response – no, she hadn’t done that. Had she asked him anything it was more likely to have been: “Do you work around here?”, the answer revealing the possibility of meeting like this again—information of much more use. Perhaps she’d assumed he did work close by, that he was, like her, a clinician, so what she had in fact asked was about his speciality, and as a non-medic he’d interpreted this as a general enquiry about his occupation. But that wasn’t really the issue: she’d asked him a question without being aware of doing so. During her first neurosurgical rotation she’d studied the Libet experiment which claimed to provide evidence that our brains decide on actions a good few seconds before we are consciously aware of making them. But that wasn’t the case here. In this instance, she wasn’t aware of anything at all, which was a kind of double ignorance.
Perhaps she had misunderstood completely, and she’d said nothing and he was introducing himself to her, and had chosen this rather gnomic way of doing so. This would be much more interesting. But then he was standing in front of her. Obviously people can and do lean back and turn their heads to say things when they are queuing, but that is mostly in a tight space, and when they are with people they know, which again wasn’t the case here: the cafe was only busy-ish and there was plenty of space. It was more like she’d tapped him on the shoulder and he’d leaned back to find out what she wanted, and at that point she’d asked him a direct question. She definitely couldn’t remember tapping him on the shoulder, and if she had, that would be way too much stuff not to be conscious of. She might have to self-diagnose some kind of tumour.
She found him handsome, that at least could be relied upon. His cranium – she knew all about craniums – was balding and domed, and she decided, noble, or perhaps less grandly, no-nonsense, as if a full head of hair was a kind of vanity, requiring attention that could be better spent elsewhere, on more serious matters. His eyes were strikingly blue, like something once liquid had crystallised trapping light within it. He was wearing a loose black crew-neck sweater over a white t-shirt and black jeans. She reflexively looked down to the back pockets to see if there were any drumsticks there. (Where else would they be on a man who played the drums?) But there was just the square relief of a wallet. She liked his hands. They were lean and knuckle-y, as if his fingers were possessed of an extra joint, giving him extra dexterity, an advantage she assumed, if you were a drummer. She accepted that at this point there was no actual evidence of his claim – no visible drumsticks at least – although she could think of no reason not to take him at his word. Whether he looked like a drummer she couldn’t say. But then he didn’t actually call himself a drummer. He said “I play the drums”, which was different. When asked what she did for a living she tended to say “junior doctor’”, no subject, verb or indefinite article, as if her identity had been completely subsumed by her profession. If only she could say “I play at being a doctor” it would so much nearer the truth.
“What kind of music do you play?” She felt naive asking this. It sounded as if she knew nothing about music, or couldn’t by looking at him make a guess, which she thought these days maybe you should be able to do. She regarded herself as someone who liked music, but knew from past experience when someone asked, usually a man, “What music do you like?” she didn’t have an answer.
He smiled. “Jazz. Free Jazz.” He mimed a delicate tap of a cymbal in front of him. They both then moved forward a step and he was asked for his order.
“Americano, please, black. Small.” He turned to her. “What would you like?”
“The same, please.”
She wanted to explain that she really did want the same, in case he thought she was just copying him to be easy, unfussy, and that she might really have come in for something more elaborate, large.
He had cash in his wallet, folded notes, a credit card slipped in between.
She had detected a faint accent, a slight over-pronunciation of vowel sounds, and suspected he might be Scandinavian, or very posh German schooled here. He looked Scandinavian. It was the glow: a tan from years of winter sun and general healthiness from a diet of oily fish.
“I like jazz.”
She had no evidence to back this up, except she couldn’t think of a time when she found herself listening to jazz and turned it off, or thought: “I don’t like this”. Yet she had to admit she’d struggle to name a living jazz musician and briefly thought: “Are there any?”, despite having proof in front of her. But then he’d said “free jazz”, qualifying his first answer. She could just about imagine what this might sound like.
They watched the coffee being made, following the process with gentle nods as each stage was completed. The free jazz drummer put his hands in his back pockets and rocked on his feet.
She decided he was definitely Scandinavian and she felt herself about to declare: “So you’re a Scandinavian free jazz drummer then?” But she didn’t. Instead she pointed to herself and said “Junior doctor” and raised her eyebrows. She couldn’t think why. Then added: “Are you playing in London?”
Change was placed into the palm of his hand. He was offered a card to collect stamps for a free coffee. He said, “No thank you.” Then turned to her. “Do you want my stamps?” She produced a card from her purse. It was stamped and handed back.
“One to go!”
The coffee cups were made of thick white textured cardboard like luxury stationery.
“The coffee is good here. I’ve tried everywhere round.”
He smiled. “I live in Japan.”
She felt like something had been stolen from her, something personal, treasured. She couldn’t think what.
“Do you want to sit down?” Did she look faint or was he just inviting her to join him?
She decided moving to Japan was out of the question. Not that she really thought about the possibility, in the sense that it might somehow be acted upon, but she accepted that before he’d mentioned Japan she had on some level imagined what being with him might feel like. It wasn’t really conscious, but now that this future was denied to her she needed to acknowledge something like that had been thought. If she were being totally honest, she needed to accept there was also a microsecond of fantasy when she had more than contemplated moving to Japan, decided in favour and lived through the first few joyful exotic weeks. She was OK with this. She seldom acted on such thoughts, seldom made stupid mistakes, and tended towards the belief that the willingness to entertain such possibilities was in itself a kind of freedom.
At the table, opposite him, she said, “I’m specialising in paediatric neurosurgery.”
“Children?”
“You know ... have a rummage around their little heads.”
He looked out the window, knuckles supporting his chin. Had he not heard her?
“Where are you from?”
“Norway.”
“Are there a lot of jazz musicians in Norway?” She suspected not: there weren’t that many people in Norway. Maybe proportionally there were a lot of jazz musicians, but that wasn’t the question she’d asked. She needed to be more precise.
He turned to her. “I know a lot.”
“I know a lot of doctors.”
“I don’t know many doctors.”
“I don’t know any jazz musicians.”
“I play free jazz.”
“I don’t really know what that is, although I can guess.”
“It’s not as free as you think?”
“You mean you have to pay for it?”
He laughed. He was polite; she can’t have been the first to make that joke.
“It sounds freer than it is.”
She studied his face. His skull was prominent and his teeth good. There were faint lines under his eyes.
“I like you. Shame you live in Japan.” Not being bold was boring.
“My son is in Japan.”
She’d meant to order a sandwich. It was her break and she was on until ten. But all she had before her was a cup of black coffee and a Scandinavian free jazz musician with a son in Japan.
“It’s not good. Not for him. I’d see him more if he were in Europe. But his mother is in Japan.”
“You’re not with her?” She hoped not. She was aware she willed a broken home.
“No. Not really. But when you have a child.”
“Is she Japanese?”
“No, Norwegian.”
“Is she a jazz musician?”
“A visual artist. Very controversial. In Japan.”
“I don’t think I would have heard of her.”
“No.”
They paused to take a sip of their coffee.
“Are you successful?”
“Don’t you recognise me?’ He smiled and broke open a packet of sugar, held it over his coffee and tipped it in, swirled the liquid in the cup. There were no stirrers to hand.
“What if I Googled you?” She found her phone in her bag. “What’s your name?”
“Really?”
“Why not? I’ll only do it later.”
“Not if I don’t give you my name.”
He gave her his name and she thumbed it in.
“And...there you are. With your very own Wikipedia page.”
She clicked and moved the screen a little further away to read: “‘A leading light of the Scandinavian Free and Avant-garde jazz scene.’” She looked up. “Are they different?”
“Not really.” Then: “Like maths and algebra.”
“Interesting analogy.” She continued: “‘Superhuman technique’”, “‘a virtuoso improviser’”. So you’re a bit shit then?” She checked he wasn’t offended. Can you tease a Scandinavian?
He gently lowered her hand. “What if I Googled you?”
“Probably get my Facebook page. And a hundred others with my name.”
There was another pause. He swirled the coffee again, more absently this time, as if just to observe the motion in the cup.
“I’m playing tonight if you want to come?”
“Where?”
“A club in Dalston.”
“Dalston?” In her mind she’d contemplated moving to Japan, going to Dalston shouldn’t be a problem.
“I can put you on the guest list.” He turned back to the window and rested his chin on his knuckles.
“I’m working until 10pm.”
“Then you can make the second set.”
*
She wakes up at 6am feeling like she might still be a little drunk. He is next to her, a little further down the bed. She has most of the sheet, and it seems at least lying down, she is longer than he is. He isn’t snoring, something she’s come to expect from a man after late night drinking. His body is as lean as his hands. He claimed to be forty-four, but it’s the body of a younger man, an athlete, a competitive swimmer or a cyclist. After the ‘second set’ of a music that was violent, combustible, louder and more chaotic than anything she’d ever heard he looked like some kind of alien, his body hollowed out. Free jazz seemed to require superhuman exertion, like a terrible, mortal battle was taking place, an impossible endeavour, foolhardy.
She’d arrived ten minutes before he was due to go on. He welcomed her and they kissed. He gave her the beer he was holding. He pointed to a seat at the front with an A4 piece of paper on it. Reserved. She thought of questions to ask him, about the other musicians, the club, but he was distracted and pulled away to check things: the angle of the microphones around his small drum kit, to reaffix tape over cables at the front of the small stage. She sat on the reserved seat and checked her phone for messages.
After the performance she felt as if she had no right to be there, as if she were lost among strange people and her tribe were elsewhere listening to harps and flutes. She hovered in a way that she knew couldn’t be appealing. She decided to tell him that if he wanted her to spend the night with him she would. He seemed flattered and gave her a vinyl LP of a concert in Berlin being sold on foldaway table by the door. His photo was on the front cover. It was awkward to hold somehow, waiting for him to pack away his drum kit, something he did alone, slowly, methodically, pausing now and again to take a sip from a bottle of beer. With a lot of the audience gone, she feared the others thought she was just hanging around for an autograph. The information on the back cover of the LP listed the musicians and instruments they played. He was down as leader as well as drummer and was credited with the music. There were no song names, just duration times for Side One and Side Two. The album was called Polar Reflections.
At 2am they caught a cab to house of a friend of his, ironically going a gig in Norway. There was a key under the mat. In the kitchen he poured whisky into heavy-bottomed, cube-shaped glasses.
“John has very good whisky.”
She confessed she wouldn’t be able to tell; she’d once got hideously drunk on whisky and that was all she could taste now, the past, vomiting over a wall into a canal. Her palette had never matured. She swilled it around, looked at it suspiciously.
“Drink – it’s really good.”
She declared a new memory for whisky was needed so she kissed him, knocked it back and then kissed him again. She could tell he was exhausted. He pulled his t-shirt away from his body, ducked his nose under the collar.
“I need a shower.”
“Me, too.”
They showered together and then went to bed.
*
When she returns from the toilet, he opens his eyes, studies her, closes them again and pulls the pillow down under his cheek and grips it there. The dawn light is greyish, the room lacking quiddity: just a hazy bed, a tangled sheet, a pale man asleep. She looks at him, her arms folded across her breasts. How much sleep had they had – three hours? She sits down on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap. She feels far from her flat. Leaving the house now would mean discovering where she is, asking for directions from a stranger, hoping the tube is open. She casts her eyes around the room for her clothes. The mattresses moves under her and she feels him reach across the bed, and then after a brief pause, run a finger down her spine. It isn’t so much a single stroke, as a reading of her vertebrae, as if its lumps were a kind of braille. She senses his need to comprehend something. A body there, naked and new. She suspects there were ways to touch a body she lost long ago.
“Do it again.”
He does so and after the third time she lies back down and turns to him. He is on his side, a hand supporting his head. She moves his other hand to a breast. He is obedient, like a creature she’s tamed. She closes her eyes, withdraw into herself. She’s come to learn that her body has a wonderful bluntness in the early morning, sensations travelling slowly, in big pulses of feeling.
“Promise me I never have to listen to that music again.”
He laughed. “Last night you said you thought it was great.”
At the time she knew he knew she was lying. He is above her, arms rigid; she has pulled a pillow down to support the arch of her back, to raise her hips.
“Hasn’t anyone blown their brains out rather than have to listen to any more of it?”
“People tend just to leave.”
“Of course. Smart.”
A moment later she groans, and her fingers finding a little give in his lean flesh, pulls him deeper inside her.
“I liked the club.”
“That’s something.” Did she warn him she liked to talk during sex?
“And you...I like you.” She presumes he realises this but decided to say it anyway. She also wonders whether to explain that she tends not come in the early mornings despite the depth her responses, the obvious tension building up in her body. She doesn’t want him to work too hard after such a tiring night.
He turns her on her front and raises her up by her hips. She crosses her arms on the pillow and anchors her elbows in the creases of the sheet. When he lets go of her hips their contact becomes a kind of frictionless motion. He seems able to anticipate her needs, the journey her body has embarked upon, every adjustment he makes is for her. When his fingertips return to her hips, his touch is so light it is like rebalancing a picture. She’d forgive any man that music for this.
*
Side-by-side, eyes open, they look up to the ceiling. “Do you have a girl in every port?”
“There’s a woman in Toronto ...”
“Do Canadians like free jazz?”
“About the same as everywhere.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend. But I don’t like to go without sex for very long. I mean months, not days or weeks.” She pauses; turns her face to him. “How often do you practice?”
“Sex?”
“You’re funny.”
“Do you think I need to practice?”
“Not according to Wikipedia and all the hipsters last night.” She
Pauses. “I know this is going to make me sound stupid but I’m going to say it anyway: does everyone need to play so out of tune all the time?”
“I’ll mention it to them.”
“Maybe not out of tune, out of key.”
He strokes his balding head. “Did you really feel like leaving?”
“As I said, I forgot that was an option and contemplated death.”
She moves her hand to his thigh; her little finger touching his penis, soft and inert, its work done.
“Are we going to see each other again?”
“I’m only in London a few times a year, and only for a few days.”
“Is that Scandinavian for ‘no’?”
He finds this particularly funny and she watches him laugh, his trough of a stomach vibrating.
“So I’ll just leave my number then?” She rolls over and leans off the side of the bed and fumbles in her bag on the floor. She then rolls up with her phone in her hand. “OK – what’s your number?”
“Clever.” He starts in Norwegian but it is easy enough for her to guess the English equivalent so he continues. She shows it to him to check.
“What shall I call you, in my contacts? What code name, just in case this goes on for years, beyond my inevitable marriage to a cardiologist? Maybe ‘I play the drums.’” She thumbs it in and then presses the ‘call’ button and after four seconds a muffled buzzing sounds in the corner of the room where his jeans are dumped.
“What would you like me to call you? What code name would you like?”
“Something jazzy.”
“I don’t really know what that means.”
“I know. Maybe just key in a completely random set of letters with no coherence or pattern.” The buzzing stops. “How about my name? You do know my name?”
“You don’t think I’ll call you, do you?” He has turned onto his side and looks at her, sitting up, her back to the wall, sheet pulled over her breasts, arm across her stomach. She looks down at him. His eyes are long; this morning the hard blue of enamel. She senses he needs to focus to see her. It was probably the late night, the beer and whisky, and not incipient hyperopia, although he is the right age. Her knees are pulled up and her phone still in her hand.
“I’m waiting.”
He throws the sheet aside and finds his phone and stands at the end of the bed, tapping at the screen. His hips are those of a boy. He is mostly hairless.
“OK – it’s done.”
With an arm outstretched he presents the screen to her. She has to move forward to make it out.
“‘Hot chick london’”. Ha! I like that.”
“Are you sure you’re a doctor?” He sits on the bed at an angle, one knee up, and looks around at her.
“Are you suggesting I’m not a serious person?”
He smiles and throw his phone onto the bed. “Are you?”
“You don’t have to be sensible to be a doctor, just intuitive and decisive. And if you don’t mind – I think I’ve proved that.”
For a second she looks stern, and then with her fingers clutching the edge of the sheet, she whips it up, creating a bloom of white in the air, and the whole world disappears.