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  Francine pulled him out of the corner and turned him around with an hour of frank talk.

  “Yusef, look, let’s get something straight, O.K.? I know I’m not the only woman in the world who digs you, O.K.?

  “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not seriously into sharing anything. I’m the kind of woman who feels that everything I have is mine.

  “I feel you’re mine, O.K.? but I know that it would be foolish for me to come onto you like that, O.K.?

  “So, let’s work this out like African adults, O.K.”

  They worked it out.

  They spent alternate weekends with him whenever he wanted their company and, in the interim, got about the business of what they felt they had to do in Life.

  The situation was not a hang up for either of them. Some of the people who knew about their arrangement thought it was “unusual,” others felt that it was a hip—modern thing.

  Babalade Ofayemi often complimented Yusef on his success.

  “You’re doing something a lot of brothers at home can’t do well.”

  The women were completely different types, which seemed to help matters. Linda was heavily into the spiritual side of things. She loved to go to the park to listen to the rustling of the trees, or to the lake to listen to the water lap against the rocks.

  Francine was earthier, sexier, but they both shared an Africentric perspective. They wore African designed clothes, ate African foods, worshipped in the West African tradition and ignored as much of America’s Eurocentrism as possible.

  “I can’t be bothered by all that sick shit.” Yusef was the first to acknowledge that his relationship with the two women “freed” him up to create more, to explore sections of himself that he had previously neglected.

  “You’d be amazed how much creative energy is lost, runnin’ around out there trying to find a clean piece o’ pussy.”

  The sisters were both in their late 30s, successful in their fields (Linda Price, the spiritualist, college level sociology instructor. Francine DuValier, export-import. He often wondered how many of Linda’s kente cloth outfits had come thru Francine’s hands) and weren’t programmed for the idea of a conventional marriage.

  Francine: “I went the route for ten yrs, from 20 to 30, had the child, the lawn with the husband attached to the lawn mower, the bills, the whole avocado and I was unhappy.

  “I don’t know, maybe I’ll think differently in the future but, for right now, I have exactly what I want—the attention of an attractive, creative, inspiring man who plays with my ears just the way I like to have them played with. And plays with my head with his music. I’m happy.”

  Linda: “Who was it that said, ‘A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing?’ I’m not a cynic.

  “I take a lot of pride in thinking and feeling that I’m into values and not prices.

  “Yusef would be a superb value on any market and I feel privileged to share a part of my life with him.

  “He’s an extremely fragile, sensitive human being who makes me feel important, needed. Beneath that warrior’s facade is the soul of a beautiful child.”

  Yusef Malik sliced bananas, cantaloupe, apples, half an orange and a kiwi into his cereal bowl, doused a few tablespoons of yogurt on the mixture and sprinkled wheat germ over everything.

  He sprawled in his breakfast nook, listening to Master Bismillah Khan blow the shenai, leisurely spooning his fruit up, absorbing the shimmering sound of the huge cottonwood tree in front of his kitchen window.

  Damn! I really hate that I never got a chance to play with Bird.

  The thought was like a recurring thread of frustration.

  Yeahhh, I’ve played with the best we have right now but Bird was the best for all time, like me.

  The gush of egotism straightened his shoulders, sucked his gut in. Who knows? Maybe I will have a chance to play with Bird someday.

  He finished off his fruit brunch with a flourish and began preparation to make the two o’clock rehearsal.

  Can’t be late, not good for the New African classical musician’s image.

  It would’ve been impossible not to notice them sitting at table three, fifteen minutes before the beginning of the set, the chubby white haired guy who looked like a symphony orchestra conductor and the beautiful young woman with the intense grey eyes.

  Hubert Frame whispered to Mel Terry as they mounted the stage.

  “Now that is what I call a beautiful white woman.”

  Yusef studied the couple and the people surrounding them, something a stage performer was privileged to do as he faced the audience.

  They weren’t father and daughter, that seemed fairly obvious. And he was obviously not the sugar daddy type, not with a glass of Seven-Up and a draft beer gracing their barren table.

  “Uh one, uh two, uh one two three!”

  The Sunday rehearsal was validated by the first piece, a boppish thing written by Max Pregasetti. They were tight, right in the groove, crisp.

  The audience was with them. Yusef tried not to betray his surprise. Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe there is hope for these burned out yuppie assholes.

  His attention returned to the old man and the young woman. He was doing a bit of animated whispering in her ear. She looked slightly puzzled but nodded as though she were in agreement.

  Very interesting. Very …

  The piece came to an end as though every nerve ending of the music had been frozen into compact cube. The audience exploded with appreciative applause.

  Yusef Malik took inventory of the men on stage with him; Mel, Hubert and Babalade. They had the kind of cohesion happening that comes from playing together for a while, rehearsing strenuously, being sensitive to each other.

  They were all writers, supplying the quartet with a wonderful collection of pieces.

  “Mambo Mandela” was Hubert Frame’s contribution. He signalled for Babalade to lay the foundation for a slow, lushly accented mambo, slipped Yusef in, gave the piano an opportunity to doodle throughout and leaped on top of all of it with flute playing that reminded Yusef of Bismillan Khan’s shenai.

  Pausing for more applause they followed “Mambo Mandela” with Babalade Ofayemi’s “Ibeji.”

  “I wrote this piece for my twin sisters back home, Taiwo, the one who comes first and Kehinde, the one who comes after.”

  “Ibeji” was two different moods in the same groove.

  Babalade tried to make them understand while they were rehearsing the piece; “I want you to give me the feeling of two different people who went thru the same birth channel.”

  Ofayemi’s mouth was split by a smile at the conclusion of their musical reading.

  “That’s what I mean, like that, that’s what I want,” he called out to the quartet above the sounds of the applause.

  The evening was going well. Yusef nodded politely in response to the applause. So far, so good. No “white drunks,” no yuppie couples sweating and climbing all over each other because the music had stirred their libidos, no Black people overreacting to the music because they felt the need to assert their connection to the music.

  He locked eyes with the young white woman at table three. She seemed to be in a hypnotic state, her eyes glazed her mouth relaxed and smiling. The old man had stuck his thumbs into his vest pockets and leaned back with an air of satisfaction on his face, midway into his second draft beer.

  “Berimbau Bass” was Yusef Malik’s contribution to the evening’s first set. He was fascinated by the African-Brazilian berimbau, a bow shaped instrument with a gourd resonator, that was used as a “time keeper” for the playing of the African—Brazilian martial art called Capoeira Regional and the older, more ritualized style called Capoeira Angola.

  He had transcribed a rhythm called “Angola” from the berimbau gunga to the bass. Mel Terry thought it was a masterpiece.

  “I ain’t never heard no shit like it. The rhythm is totally insistent, but at the same time it has nuances on top of nuances.”
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br />   Yusef played the simple figures that made “Angola,” added Babalade playing counter point on pandiero, used Mel’s percussion piano as a backdrop and gave the singing voice to Hubert’s alto saxophone.

  Several Brazilians visiting the club had gushed over him about the piece.

  “Tuda bem, senhor, tuda bem.”

  The fugal complexity of “Angola” grabbed Yusef’s total focus for a few choruses, forcing him to close his eyes for a moment.

  When he re-opened his eyes it seemed that the woman’s face at table three had become luminous. He studied her expression; it wasn’t groupie—goofy, it was something else.

  They played into his solo on “Berimbau Bass,” it was time to stretch his imagination to the sky. In the vacuum left by the other instruments, Yusef re-established the theme of “Angola” three times, and then played the notes backwards.

  He took note of the expression on her face, it was flexible, absorbent. The old man prodded her with his elbow, as though to emphasize a point, and excused himself.

  Yusef smiled at his departure. That draft beer has hit the old dude’s bladder.

  The old man’s departure left the two of them alone. Riga leaned forwarded intently. So, this is the jazz music.

  She studied the attitudes and postures of the men on stage; Mel Terry, the pianist tinkled in a few notes from time to time. She was puzzled about the entrances and exits he took.

  The music gave the appearance of being thrown together, but she knew that this appearance was a deception. It was obvious that whatever they were doing would collapse if there was one miscue.

  She tried to pat her foot to the rhythms that Yusef was weaving in and out of in his solo, and gave up the effort.

  The music was complex. She counted times and discovered a four/four time that led into a two/four time that segued into a six/eight and then back into a four/four.

  Yusef plumbed the elements of “Angola.” She felt him going deeper and resisted for a few beats.

  I can’t understand this.

  Her resistance was skillfully pushed aside by the brutal insistence of his ideas.

  Come with me come with me come with me …

  Professor Bronte slid back into the seat beside her, studied the expression on her face for a moment and leaned back feeling satisfied with his experiment.

  He didn’t like African-American music in general, but he respected the complex nature of it, and he felt certain that Riga had absorbed enough of the flavor to be able to infuse Lade Sat’s “Sun Food” with the proper spirit.

  Yusef Malik used space and time in a way that delighted Riga; she felt good about the music, stimulated and slightly bewildered.

  Yusef literally danced the music to a conclusion by performing a little ginga with the bass. The people around her erupted into applause, shouts of pleasure—“Yeahhh!”

  Riga was too stunned to applaud at the end of the set. The lights came up, people milled around them, it was over.

  Professor Bronte stood and asked, “Well, what do you think? You think you understand better what I’ve been saying?

  “Yes, yes, I think so,” she answered in a faraway voice. Yusef Malik spoke to her from the stage with a questioning, eyebrow. “Well, what do you think of that?”

  She walked to the edge of the stage apron and reached out to shake his hand. They exchanged a firm handshake, the Professor beaming over her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she said, and backed away, melting into the crowd filing out.

  Yusef strolled near the water line on the beach at 57th Street, something he often did after the last set at the club.

  He felt too keyed up to go home, didn’t want to hang out with the band members (or the groupies) and felt no urge to call Francine or Linda.

  He stared at the shimmering image of the moon on the lake and thought of the idea for a piece of music.

  I’ll call it “Black Moon”

  The moonlight on the water, the glistening of the downtown lights, the billions of stars overhead, the distant sound of city noises made him feel as though he were a creature from another place.

  He walked a few yards away from the gently lapping waves and sprawled on the sand, cradling his head in his hands to stare at the sky.

  God, how stars are the most beautiful things in the world and people run around buying diamonds and stuff to put on their bodies; what they need to do is put some stars in their eyes.

  He closed his eyes to feel the clusters of stars bursting behind his eyelids.

  I wonder who that woman was? If we could only get more people to listen to the New African Classical Music with that kind of intensity. And the old bird with her, wonder who he was?

  Musical themes were triggered in his subconsciousness by the lapping of the water against the shore, a stray car horn honking, ethereal voices whispering in both of his ears simultaneously rhythms.

  He sat up slowly, he could sense the cool air of dawn coming over the horizon, followed by gorgeous streaks of dull, blue and yellow.

  How many dawns have I seen, in how many places?

  The southeastern coast of Spain, Tokyo, Paris, Amsterdam, Quebec, Berlin, Geneva, Madrid, Lakeside, Michigan.

  He stood, placed his fists on his hips and scowled at the lights that were being extinguished downtown.

  It’s always the same, lovely at night, fucked up in the day time. O well …

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and walked away from the beach, time for practice.

  Riga felt the last notes of “Sun Food” throbbing away from her violin, each note an invitation to beauty, clarity, love, rhythm, sensuality.

  She slowly removed the violin from beneath her chin and dabbed at the perspiration on her top lip. She had “felt” her way thru Lade Sat’s “Sun Food,” playing some of the parts in a way that made it seem as though she were improvising.

  She had allowed the music to dominate her, using her techniques as a release valve.

  Professor Bronte leaned over to pat her on the cheek, his eyes glistening.

  “Yes, now you understand, Riga. You truly understand.”

  Riga smiled. “Yes, I do understand, I must find out more about this music called New African Classical and the people responsible for creating it.”

  Mo’ Music

  It was clearly a freedom buy for all parties, plus maximum benefits. David and Martha had put their coins together for tickets to Ghana, West Africa, and I was chosen to be the caretaker of their luxurious 8th floor apartment in South Commons, overlooking Lake Michigan.

  No idea how it came about; one minute I was in deepest Los Angeles, battling Crips, Bloods, the freeways and Hollywood producers, next minute I’m in Chicago, sipping birthday cake and agreeing to water the family’s hallucigenic plants during their absence.

  For three weeks, I was going to be responsible for the plants, have the honor of representing the household in the local bodega and get my full share of staring at the lovely little boats down in the lake.

  It was the perfect set up for a honeymoon. I called this outrageously gorgeous Choctaw-Ukranian woman in California to come visit me …

  “Yes, I’ll be there on Friday.”

  “But today is Sunday, what’re you planning to do, hitch hike?”

  “No, silly, I can’t fly, I’m afraid …”

  This, from a person who strolled around nude on the parapets of four story buildings.

  “O.K., lover, see you on Friday.”

  “I’ll be on an early train, call you when I get in.”

  “You better.”

  Nothing to do ’til Friday but stare into Lake Michigan. I have never lived higher than two stories above the ground in Chicago and now, come Friday, there we were, doing one on one orgies miles above the ground.

  “I’ll only be able to stay five days.”

  “Let’s do the best we can with that.”

  We fell out of the sky a few times, started up rhythms that sloshed water out of the lake basin, br
utalized each other with tenderness …

  “Did you …?

  “I did, five times, did you?”

  “Yes, I’m still doing it …”

  We filled up on Billie “You’re My Thrill” Holiday, Billie “Why This Strange Desire,” Billie, this desire that keeps mounting higher, Billie, Billie, Billie …

  We opened the lake front’s light show at night and closed it for dawn streaked nature shows. We entertained no guests.

  We couldn’t predict the ending of this dreamtime and when the numbers came up, we simply placed our cards on the table, face up.

  “I’m so glad you came.”

  “Is that a pun?”

  It took a whole night of fussy sleeping for me to get used to the idea of a bed without Semenchuk.

  She had been my sweet thang for five days and nights and now she was gone.

  I mentally kicked myself in the ass for days after she detrained, feeling stupid. I hadn’t told her that I loved her. I hadn’t made love with her as often as she wanted to make love …

  “But, baby, it’s 3 a.m., we’ve already made love three times already.”

  My aptitude for self-condemnation was exhausted a half-day later, I’ve never been one to live too seriously in the past. Time is too precious for that.

  I was an ambulating bachelor with a freak pad, money in pocket and time on my hands. I started making sorties down to the restaurant-bar for slow lunches and gin ’n tonics.

  I knew it would only take a few days for some beautiful sister to discover me, I could daydream about my honeymoon woman in my spare time, later.

  South Commons “Common Ground,” was where the Black upwardly mobile folks tripped for their rendezvous and adulterous coup d’etats. Nice place.

  It took two whole days of veal scallopini with mushrooms and wild rice, ushered by a dry white wine that rang bells on my palate before we managed to fall into each others orbits.

  “If you’re married, seriously connected or expecting someone, please ignore this invitation to have dinner with me.”

  Gorgeous, cocoa-beige colored sister with Ashanti earrings and ebony dimples in her checks. She must’ve read the note four or five times before asking the waitress-messenger, “Which one is he?”