Author Party with Sax

We were listening to Lester Young, an old Verve recording from the ‘50s, his tenor so pure it hurt. Hearing these sessions one would never guess how heavily he was drinking, how sad his life had become; one could only sense the joy of creating such beauty. That was the era when people we knew discussed Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, The Seventh Seal, Truffaut and the new French cinema. That was an era in which people thought they were wise and, dare I say, suave. After the reception for the visiting novelist, we walked the pre-dawn streets, mist beginning to rise above the river. The phantoms of steel mills that years later would disappear before our eyes loomed through the dim light. And it could have been Paris, a row of yellow streetlamps reflecting off wet pavement, all the cafés closed, far too early for the pigeons. I realize I have forgotten the writer and her books, forgotten the wine, and the clichéd small talk. But the graceful phrasing of that solo, blown so sweetly, echoes from the sleeping tenements like a prayer.