Will I ever find him? That was the question I struggled to get out of my mind as I stepped off of the Greyhound bus in my swanky black dress and three inch stilettos. And maybe it was more of a fear than a legitimate question, but in any case, my quest had led me here, searching desperately as if he were a phantom. As soon as my feet hit the hot Louisiana pavement, I knew I was in New Orleans. My senses were immediately engulfed in a cornucopia of fried catfish, Cajun fries, and French architecture, all fused together with backstreet banter, and the melodious blues.  Although I had made this trip, with more than enough apprehension, something inside me wanted to call this place “home.”

Exhausted from the ride, I wondered if I should hail a cab to the nearest hotel for a quick nap. Looking down at the piece of folded notepaper in my hand, I decided not to stop. It had been too long already. As I left the bus station on Loyola Avenue, I walked straight ahead until I  found Poydras Street where I turned right. Then I turned left on Carondelet and stayed on this street until I reached Bourbon St. It was all in the instructions I was given. Searching, I found my way through the semi-crowded streets, beside the murky Louisiana waters, and southern street vendors. It was almost dusk and a purple and orange haze dressed the sky. I stiffened my neck as a sudden breeze swept over me. Eventually I saw a group of men, sitting on crates underneath a tree. They called out to me when I neared them.

“Hey, sweet thing.” The first one held a flute in his hand.

“You look lost. Can we help you, young lady?” The second one held an instrument that appeared to be a trombone, if my memory of high school band served me correctly.

“I’m not lost but I’m looking for someone,” I said, adjusting my silk scarf around my bare shoulders.

“Who are you looking for, sweetheart?” The third one, who looked older than the others, pulled his beard.

The first one wasted no time. “I can be the one you’re looking for.”

I didn’t even blink or look in his direction. “I’m looking for Tony. He might live around here and he plays the sax.”

“Oh you’re looking for The Jazz Man.” The second one stood up, started snapping his fingers, and spun around.
“He’s something big around here.”

“You kin to him or something?” The third man squinted his eyes, waiting for an answer.

The first man put down his flute. “Naw man, can’t you see she’s a singer?”

He was right. I did sing in the choir at Missionary but that wasn’t why I was here.

The second one spit out a wad of something that looked like chewing tobacco into a bag as he stared me up and down.

Recognizing their unsavory intentions, I rejected all of their advances. Afterall, I was on a mission to find The Jazz Man, who was more than a legend to me, despite their primitive descriptions.

“He’s playing at a place called Sula’s right up the street there.” The first man pointed as the other men just looked.

“Right up the street, darling.” The third man took off his hat, revealing a matted mess of gray hair.

“Thanks.” I walked on with my head held high toward the direction they spoke of. They seemed helpful, but what could they possibly know of my situation?

“You’re welcome, darling.” The second one grinned, showing two missing front teeth.

“Hey, if Tony don’t treat you right, remember me,” The third one said.

Could they know that Mama sent me here, after her death, that in the contents of her will she revealed to me her deepest and darkest secret? It was a secret that could have potentially destroyed the semi-perfect world as I knew it. And I hated her for it for a while. Everyday I wondered “Why me, Lord?” I wondered until I reconciled the weakness of her flesh in my heart. Although I once idolized her, she was human, after all. Then after months of prayer and supplication, I had decided to find The Jazz Man.

As I continued to pass numerous restaurants and nightclubs, I knew that the French quarters was everything I was told it would be. Finally, I came upon an older stone building with two white columns in front. It simply said Sula’s Place and I could smell the shrimp and deep fried crawfish even from the outside. Immediately, I missed Mama’s seafood delights.

Concerned about possibly tainting my sanctified image by entering this probably raunchy jazz club, I quickly slipped through the wide French doors into the small lobby, and then into the smoke filled dining area. A huge well dressed man walked over to me.

“Excuse me, sir, but does anyone know Tony Blanchard?”

“Yes, ma’am. You mean big Tony, The Jazz Man.” The man’s breath reeked of cheap whisky. “He’s over there by the piano.”

I glanced across the room, careful not to make eye contact.
“Thank you.” I pushed aside my inclination to leave this place and never come back. Instead, I took a seat in a corner booth and waited, noticing the midnight blue carpet and misty blue lights against a red and white checkered background. Now that was original.

I looked over at him again as he stood by the piano, tall and svelte with long, narrow hands. His eyes were a sea foam green but his skin was the color of roasted pecans. Interesting.

When a waitress came over speaking in standard Creole, which was something I had learned from my mother, she looked at me sideways when all I ordered was a Coke. Yes, I wasn’t the usual customer and I didn’t come to patronize this antiquated establishment. If the truth were told, my motivation was deeper than drinks and cheap entertainment; I had an agenda that was almost divinely ordained.

Suddenly, the quiet rolled away with the smooth introduction of the saxophone. I watched his fingers curl around the base of his instrument, lovingly. I stretched my shapely, but tired, legs out as the mellow tunes tickled my ears. I drummed my fingers against the metal table. Sweet, sweet melodies lingered in the air. Play on Mr. Jazz Man; play on.

Tony never stopped playing his horn to say a word, even as the crowds became thicker. Instead his lips moved with rhythmic precision as he seemed to hollow out his soul. Mama warned me about him in her will. She said he had the most beautiful lips she had ever seen, and indeed he did have them. I had them too. I touched mine to make sure it wasn’t a dream. No, it was real. I had traveled so far just to take a glimpse of him, and just to hear him play.

It was funny that in this atmosphere, I imagined them holding each other on a sultry summer evening, filled with music and mirth. I could see them filled with love for each other, embracing their dreams, each of them young, and one of them betrothed. I supposed there was talk of art as mother painted the most intriguing landscapes. Maybe each stroke of her brush seduced him or soothed him, whichever was the truth. Mother was gorgeous, talented, and besides, who could ever walk away from those dark, smoky eyes of hers-eyes like hot coals burning? At least that’s how I saw it. I imagined that The Jazz Man took her in his arms and vowed his best musical composition to her. Maybe he made promises neither of them expected him to keep. But the details didn’t matter; I was here by God’s grace.

The sweet sound of the saxophone continued to play and in my heart I knew what was told to me in the attorney’s office six months ago was true. It didn’t ache anymore though, now that I knew who he was, and that he was. Now that God had delivered me from being self-righteous. It no longer bothered me that my father back home knew where I was and knew that I had to find The Jazz Man. My time had come and this moment in history could never be denied. Denial, now that was an interesting word. I guess Mama must have been in denial my whole twenty-seven years.

I moved forward through the crowds, making my way to the stage against the odds. Then I lingered near the piano and waited for a pause in the performance. Finally, I got my chance and I stepped on to the stage, uninvited. I eased over slowly. Since no one stopped me, I perched myself on the piano stool, ready to test the skill I hadn’t used in years, ready to see if I could measure up in any way to The Jazz Man.  I looked at him with pleading eyes and he looked at me with curious ones. I spread my fingers across the keys and began tapping my way through a familiar song, the one Mama sang to me for years. Then I opened up my fabulous lips and bellowed out Mama’s song. Needless to say, the audience was stunned. I could tell by the way Tony’s mouth dropped that he was stunned too.

“Who is that?” The people whispered amongst themselves but I heard them.

Upon hearing my voice, The Jazz Man turned to me. He glared at me as if he had seen a ghost. Maybe it was Mama’s eyes. Mama and I had the same smoky eyes.

Then he picked up his saxophone and he began to play alongside me. It was what seemed like the greatest musical accompaniment of all time. Together we poured our hearts out during this impromptu performance.  When it was over, the audience applauded and Tony stared at me.

“That was real good, little lady,” Tony said.

“Thanks.”

Tony took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. “You from around here?”

“Nope. I’m from Chicago.”

“Chicago, huh? I see.” Tony looked at me as if he were looking through my soul.

I admired how gracefully he held his horn. I admired everything about him, despite the tales Mama left me, despite the emptiness I once felt.

Tony swallowed. “You look like her, you know.”

“I know.” That was all I could answer.

Tony took a puff of his cigar. “She doing well?”

“She’s dead.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

I bet he was. Suddenly, the beautiful fairytale images were gone and I imagined that Mama was one of his good time girls, one of many perhaps. Then it occurred to me that he never really cared at all, that there were no landscape paintings or inspired musical compositions, that it was what it was and I was just a product of a balmy New Orleans night gone awry. Maybe, it occurred to me, that he didn’t even know Mama’s name. Lord, why has thou forsaken me?

When I looked up I saw tears in his green eyes. He reached under his shirt and revealed a thin chain around his slim neck. He unclamped it, took off something that hung from it, and placed it in my hand. It was a charm.

“I want you to have it.” Tony said in a smooth voice.

The charm was immediately familiar as I opened my hand to receive it. Upon closer examination, I realized it was the other half of the heart missing from Mama’s bracelet. I remembered holding Mama’s frail arm and asking her about that missing charm. My eyes betrayed me as tears rolled down my warm cheeks. I rolled up my sleeve to reveal Mama’s bracelet and the other half of the heart charm that dangled against my warm skin. I closed my fist and held on tight, swallowing months of emotion in one moment.

Then, without another word, he picked up his saxophone and strode off the stage. He quickly eased through the tables and disappeared into the crowd. Within seconds, I left the piano, and went back to my table, feeling satisfied. The band ascended onto the stage, and their sound entered my ears, drowning out the mystery that was in my heart. Thank you Lord for giving me peace.

After I composed myself, I left a tip on the table, took a deep breath and walked out of Sula’s Place with my emotions intact. I was no longer in search of The Jazz Man. Instead, I left knowing not only that he was, but that he was partially responsible for the music in me. He and God, that is. And the music that He put on the inside of me played on.