Chapter 1
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap.
We only know four symphonies, four concertos, and over two hundred songs composed by Johannes Brahms. A highly curated image and body of work for the rest of the world to obsess over. Almost two hundred years later, the legacy he so carefully built still lives on. My legacy involves a missing violin and an empty savings account. It won’t outlast me.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap.
A thin breeze comes through the open window. I’m at the usual table at Croco Du Marais, facing the usual corner. With the wind comes the music. The guy has tight curls and a kind smile. He taps on a wood box with his left foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap. The woman next to him, a short, thin frame with a mess of brown curls on her head, jumps on top of the bench next to them, ignoring her partner’s eye roll.
Her guitar shines against the morning sun. Her hands move through the frets of her guitar like my pen moves across my journal. She wears a plain white t-shirt, rolled up on her sleeves, and boyfriend jeans. I catch her smile. Without missing a beat, she exaggerates a bow. Do I pass her on my way here this morning? Does she grab groceries at Épicerie Causses? Have they played long in this corner?
Tourists enjoy their version of La Vie en Rose as much as I do. They finish to a round of applause.
“For our next song—” She stops when a tall, stocky police officer with his arms crossed points at her.
“You need a permit,” he calls in heavily accented English. “No permit, no play.”
Their audience scatters. The musicians scoop their earnings and pack their guitars. I’ll miss their music until one day someone else takes that corner and stays for good. Would they feel familiar, too?
“Au revoir!” she says, backing away with a theatrical bow. “Check us out at Truskel tonight!” The guy pulls her away, like a father pulling a five-year-old from a candy store.
My phone vibrates. I don’t have to check it to know it’s my alarm. Time to head home and change for my shift.
Étoile is upscale dining. One of the best in the arrondissement. The dining room has 23 tables, ranging from intimate two-tops to tables that seat six and a glass ceiling that lets the Parisian sky in between wisteria vines. For eight hours each night, I inform the plat du jour and wine pairing, keep my back straight, my smile intact, and stay invisible until I’m needed.
Our Pâtissier’s special tonight is a Pavé de Chocolat, a flourless chocolate terrine sliced into regular slabs. Dark chocolate cake base moistened with locally-sourced espresso syrup. Alternating layers of smooth ganache and praline feuilletine. A mirror glaze on top. A smear of blackcurrant coulis on the plate. Magnifique.
It’s past midnight when I wave the other servers bonne nuit and head out. It’s a warm night with a light breeze. The cobblestones of Paris keep me company as I make my way home. The bright green neon lights flickering catches my attention. I halt. A black door surrounded by band posters.
Truskel.
Truskel. Tonight. I hear her voice in the back of my head. There is no way those musicians are here this late. No way. But maybe... I open the door and the music deafens me. Not Brahms. Just a cover of Oliver Campbell’s Awakening.
The place is big enough for a dozen tables, a small stage, and a full bar. Busy enough to avoid being seen, but empty enough to hear the chatter between people. I am about to close the door when the bartender sees me and says, “Bienvenue à Truskel, monsieur!” She wears a band tee I don’t recognize and her hair up in a ponytail, mixing two drinks in front of her like a professional. I freeze, eyes glued to the vodka bottle in her hands.
The bartender gives the drinks away and stares my way. “Que puis-je t’offrir?” She takes the bottle away. “Water to start?”
“Please,” I say. “Did I miss two musicians who said they’re playing tonight?” She cocks her head and gives me a playful smile. I see. Musicians playing in a music bar. “Dark skin. Curly hair. Two guitars.”
“Those musicians,” she says. “Not yet.”
I sit at an empty table, enjoying the acoustic song. For the first time in a long time, I can feel my heart in my chest. It’s there. It’s working. I’m alive. Maybe the plan is wrong. Maybe music bars are okay with bartenders who can recognize that all I should ask for is water.
“Bonjour, Truskel.”
The musician from earlier sits in front of the piano. She looks my way and smiles. I smile back. She nods at me. I nod back.
There are two types of musicians worth listening. Technical musicians are about precision and theory put to the test. There is an invisible line they cross from boring to extraordinary. Extraordinary technical musicians are rare. The other type of musicians worth listening are those who are not the best, but they have soul. They play from their gut. They take chances that everyone else finds erratic. They leap without looking where they’ll land. I don’t understand them, but I appreciate them.
Tonight, I meet a third kind. A musician born into music, and music bleeds out of her like a late-summer Parisian breeze. Someone who knows every key of that piano like an extension of herself. She’s technical. She’s playful. She plays from her gut. She has soul.
The last note stops my breath. We lock eyes as she walks directly to my table. I straighten my back as I say, “That officer enjoys seeing the musicians in that corner. Permit or not.”
“Did you see the kid whose parents had to drag him away today? And that woman who loved the salsa version of La Vie en Rose. Did you see that? She was so cute, clapping off beat, but still clapping.”
“Salsa?”
“Yeah, you know.” She drums on the table. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap. “But just because I refuse to go get a stupid permit in a stupid office, the cop cuts our fun. Truskel’s better anyway. But you know, I gotta pay the bills.”
“You busk for money?” I ask her. That’s an option?
“Alex and I.” She points to her partner. He hangs by the bar, leaning into the bartender while they talk. “They are so cute! I’m excited about this, but if I’m being completely honest, I’m a little hurt.” She leans toward me. “We came across Truskel like... two nights after we got here. I fall in love with that stage and he is smitten by the bartender. I tease him incessantly about the cliché.”
“Looks like she’s into him, too,” I say.
“She totally is! Which is great because if I have to deal with Alex dealing with Parisians and the stress of not having a stable source of income, I might die. Homegirl needs all the help she can get.”
“What happened?” I relax in my chair and take a sip of my water.
“Oh. Well,” she rearranges, making sure she has my full attention. “Alex found our apartment that included hot water and heat, and we could pay cash every week. Perfect!” She gets closer to me. “Between us, I found it sketchy, but I trust Alex. We get here and the place is two closets, a kitchen sink, and a hot plate, and the hot water is a pot on the hot plate.”
“Unfortunate.”
“I have to take a cold shower, but come on! Look where we are! The bohemian capital city of the world! We play music all day, sleep a little, and play more music. I’d take a cold shower any time of the day if it means keeping it up.”
We fall into silence watching the musician who follows her, a man who sings La Chanson pour l’Auvergnat with his guitar. A stretched back with the guitar halfway turned, almost playing it as a cello. A classical player.
I glance at the woman next to me. Her eyes are glued to the guitar on the stage, lit up like she’s hearing it for the first time. It’s strange. She feels like someone I’ve known all my life. Yet, I’m certain that if I had, I’d remember her. Do they live in my building? Does she open the gate for me? Do I give her a misplaced letter?
“Where’d you train?” I ask her.
“Dad’s the one who taught me everything I know.”
“Is he a musician?”
“You can say so. What about you?”
“I don’t play.”
“But you do,” she says, tapping on the table in front of her. “Is it a cello? It would be a wonderful addition to our guitars. Or a bass… less versatile and, no offense, you don’t have the bass player aura…”
“What’s a bass player’s aura?”
“…You’re definitely into classical. Or at least classically trained…”
“How do you know that?”
“…Classical guitar most likely. You follow us well…”
We lock eyes. “I don’t play.”
“But you do! The fingernails on your left hand are shorter than the others. Then there’s the tick, tick of your calluses against your glass.” I stop tapping against it. “And you’ve kept the rhythm of every song played tonight. You can call me American Sherlock Holmes. Music edition.”
“Impressive, Mrs. Holmes.”
“I’ve been trying to recruit musicians in Paris. And you, my friend, complement us.”
“We just met.”
“Your aura.”
“The non-bass player aura?”
She gives me another one of those smiles. It makes me smile. “Yin.” She points to her and Alex. “Yang.” She points at me. “You see it too.”
I take a drink from my water. I look at the stage. There is something there. Like recognizing a song I’ve never heard before but already know. Just like the stranger in front of me. This place feels familiar. Would my fingers know how to play it if I jump on that stage? Is that stage calling me just like it called her?
But we just met. I’m not changing the plan, even if I could.
“So you play the piano and the guitar?” I say instead.
“One is travel friendly, the other is the love of my life. Have you tried playing Chopin on a guitar? Homeboy was a pianist and a pianist alone. It makes my guitar gently weep.”
“Some people like that.”
“Why would they want that?”
“They want to feel together in their sadness.”
“I’d rather take a stab at making their sadness go away and join us on stage to jam it out. Music cures everything.”
I laugh. “Have you tried playing with the flu?”
She stares at me, then at my hands. “No way you play a wind instrument. If you tell me you play the tuba, I might faint.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Yes!”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“It’s okay. The day I find a tuba in the wild is the day I win the lottery.”
The French guitarist finishes to moderate applause. “Why are you hurt?” I ask, watching the empty stage.
“What?”
“You said you’re a little hurt about your friend and the bartender,” I say, as Alex walks towards our table.
She waits until Alex is within hearing range to respond, “Because we’re finally roommates and he gets a girlfriend and I’m the only one that has to take a cold-ass shower at our place.”
Alex snickers. “Grazie said you can take a shower at hers, but you always forget your clothes.” He gives me a double take, then stares at Julia. “Wanna join me?”
She turns to me. “What’s your name?”
“Sam.”
“Julia.”
Julia sits at the piano playing something soft, nudging my way. Play with us. I take a sip from my water. I tap their rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap.
It’ll take me twenty minutes to walk to my place and back to join Julia. It’ll be rough, but I have soul. Alex and Julia can accommodate. I need to make sure none of the strings are loose. I haven’t played in a while.
What are you doing, Sam?
Being on that stage is being seen. It’s getting attention and that is not part of my plan. I need to stay focused. So I finish my water, leave the glass by the bar, nod towards the bartender, and go outside.
The second the door closes behind me, Paris is too quiet. Breathe in, count to four. Breathe out. I lean against Truskel. Can I feel their music? Nothing. This is a hole in the wall with a door to another dimension.
I’m about to leave when the door opens. Julia comes out with one headphone on. She stops to put her guitar case on her back.
“Have we met before?” I ask her.
Julia’s green eyes find mine. “It’s just the universe, knowing that whatever you play will sound heavenly with two guitars.”
“It’s the violin,” I tell her. Her eyes go wide. “I was about to head out if you’d like to walk together.”
With the guitar case on her back, she says, “Lead the way.”
Walking past midnight with a warm breeze next to a woman who talks in run-on sentences is the last image I had in my head this morning when getting ready for work. But here I am, enjoying it. I haven’t heard this much English since I moved.
“…but really, Alex can be stiff for improv. Love him to pieces, but we need someone else to take him out of his shell.” I tune into Julia’s monologue. “My best friend conforms. I need someone who doesn’t.”
“What makes you think I don’t?” I ask when it seems like I can.
“Your whole aura feels like one big mystery burrito wrapped in a shroud of darkness,” she says. “No offense.”
“None taken?” Depends on the type of burrito. A homemade spinach tortilla with grilled chicken and—
“So yeah, a writer or a player. I think we can do something together. We can take inspiration from my notebooks, or we can write our own stuff… I’ve never played with a violinist before. It’ll take me a beat or two to get it right.”
We walk in silence before I realize she’s waiting for my answer. “I don’t do stages.”
“So be our writer!”
“I don’t…”
“You don’t write?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. “It’s a journal. Nothing in it is good.”
“So we make something good. Come on!”
As if making something good requires the same energy as making tea. Does the sun rise every morning? Does it set every evening? Then you and I are making something good together.
“Someone else would call this harassment.”
“I call it charm,” she says. “Alright, friend, ball’s in your court.”
“I hate basketball.”
“Same.”
“Aren’t you from…”
“Don’t make me into a cliché, Sam.”
We turn a corner and I see my building. It’s past midnight and my new friend is a five-foot-tall woman who shouldn’t wander alone. “Where do you live?” I ask. “I can walk you home. If you’re okay with that.”
She looks me up and down, as if she’ll know if I am trustworthy enough to know where she lives. “Only if you promise me you’ll think about it.”
“About walking you home?”
“About playing together.”
“Writing together.”
“Tomato, potato.”
Julia’s place adds ten extra minutes of company. I want to keep walking and talking until we see the sunrise at the top of the Sybille at Chattes Beaumont. By then, an entire lifetime would have happened, we’d go our separate ways, and I’d be better for it. Instead, I give her enough space to pull out her keys and open the door. She turns and says, “A violin and two guitars can make magic.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“Good night, Sam.”
“Night, Julia.”
