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The first stirrings of dusk in the Village bring the place truly to life, lights burning on a sea of water vapour not quite coalesced into mist. Welcoming doorways recede into smoky holes in the wall catering to all manner of modern degeneracy, the go-go dancehalls and the bars, the pizza places and the shabby cosiness of El Faro. Smalls is a tiny spot vying for the title of best jazz venue, the intimacy of the stage and the seats considerably more compact than the wedge-shaped spot haunted by the best of the bands. But there is only one place to go for the beatnik scene featuring the hippest jazz north of Nawlins, and the experimental, brilliant concoctions arise under the red awning of the Village Vanguard. For that, Scarlett is willing to do the highly unusual and actually dress up, a halter-necked dress and heels to boot, opera-length gloves to go with it. There's an edge of Italian elegance there, given the dress looks like the night sky picked out on an indigo backdrop. "Cover is a dollar," she murmurs, "but the place is like a temple. Trust me, you hear Thelonious Monk in here, my dear monk, or Johnny Coltrane…" Trailing off, the tip of a smile graces her mouth. No lipstick but the faintest gloss, and the flowers in her hair as there always are identify her. This time, tiny azalea blossoms mark her thicker braids.
*
Dressed for an evening but still with a casual air, Blackagar shakes his head at the mention of cover with a demeanor of dismissal. What is a dollar to the once and future king? To cover the cover is only the first step, the next is to comment upon the thought of it being a temple and that draws out his slate. «A temple is not what I would call it. perhaps a palace?»
*
"Too scruffy," Scarlett murmurs, gaze ticking to the slate and up again. The dramatic black catseye eyeliner accentuates the angles nature endowed her with, and the slinky dress spools around her when she walks.
It's not much to look at, said green temple plastered with posters announcing the schedules and sets. With the bill or change handed over to the doorman, they are ushered into a smoky, small foyer whose rickety, creaking stairs lead down into a dusky room draped in black and white photographs of jazz greats. A tuba lies on one wall, a horn in a place of prominence in another. Small round tables litter the middle well facing the stage, an affair draped in red velvet curtains, a grand piano, and other instruments. Padded benches around squared tables line the outer walls, a few snug booths to the back. A good number of people dressed to the nines, or at least the sixes, already occupy the wedged-shape room. Drinks are served by waiters in black button-down shirts and well-polished shoes, the dim interior a place for lyrical dreams to take flight.
Tucked in next to Blackagar, the redhead doesn't have to stand on tiptoe to be heard. Even so, her voice is quiet, aimed for his ear. "Where would you prefer?"
*
Surveying the club,Blackagar finds a spot with dim lighting and less people that provides a quiet location compared to the others and particularly a less likely chance for contact for Scarlett. Pointing at it he begins to weave his way there and motions to a passing server with two fingers held up. What two drinks they get will be a toss up.
*
"Nothing with vermouth, please," follows up the request of two fingers flashed, for the lady knows her mind when it comes to liquor. Not that it actually does much other than offering flavour and an unexpected jolt to her palate. The full-length gloves give some protection, though baring her shoulders and upper arms flirts with disaster for any passing parrot. She follows after Blackagar, though the lion's share of her focus goes over his shoulder to the stage where the anticipated up and comers are busy assembling, a saxophonist and a drummer putting their heads together as they work on something or another. The audience does not have long to wait, and she hastens to slip into that seat. "Have you ever been here, or to a similar place? I confess I end up in here more often than naught, since New Year's." A memory slipped between them, a rooftop and a dream, woven together.
*
The memory of evenings past does bring him a smile but he pushes it down to shake his head to her. «No. I haven't been to a place as this. What did you say it was called again. This style of music». He pulls a chair for her, one that keeps her safe from incidental contact hopefully.
*
The uptick of her copper brows lends Scarlett a momentary look of surprise, but it evaporates away in the sheer normalcy of being just a girl, out for a night of music, with a rightful king to a hidden realm barely known by the majority of powers in the world. Just cause for a widening of the smile and lowering her gaze to the tabletop, shrouding the brighter glitter in those expressive viridian eyes. But her body language says it all, for a man infinitely sensitive to nuance. Might as well be blushing. "Jazz, though do not write too loud and let anyone else hear it. We are in the spiritual heartland of all that's holy and unholy about jazz, and people make pilgrimages to come here for specific artists." The server will be back any time soon to deliver drinks, and she hooks her toe around the leg of the chair, nudging it in to free Blackagar to seat himself.
On the stage, the quartet settles in, a man in a tuxedo at the Steinway and the man himself standing in front of the black metal music stand. Saxophone at the ready, the African-American man's preparations bring a hush over the captivated crowd. They know who he is; Scarlett, less so. Without much preamble, John Coltrane says, "Good evening, New York. A new piece we're releasing now, in thanks to God for bringing me through some dark times in my life and our work. This is my humble offering of gratitude. Know that no matter what, love is the way, and may you be strengthened in every good endeavour by it. A Love Supreme, ladies and gentlemen."
And so it begins with a dreamy groove and twinkling keys.