Here Mezzo Forte part one. Pianissimo part 1 and 2 have been posted, and I will recommend you read those first. Thanks for reading this.
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The whiskey store was dimly lit. Raymond Simmons never cared much for smoking tobacco, and the man in standing in front of him in the line smelled strongly of it. He turned his nose away and took deep breaths. He also had never cared much for alcohol, except for the few occasional beers he had with Marley Hugo. Now Marley couldn’t drink too much alcohol because of his liver problems. Had it really only been three weeks ago that Raymond had purchased his first bottle of whiskey? Time seemed to go by slower—and much faster—when he was drunk.
As time wasted away, so did his money. After losing his job as a professional pianist, Raymond was still unemployed. Marley had told him he would help him find a job, but he hadn’t humbled himself enough to ask for help. Help was such a vague word, anyway, Raymond thought to himself as he stepped forward a bit in line. What kind of help do you get when you ask for help? No one could truly help him. He needed the help only he could provide.
Lydia still hadn’t made any sort of contact with Raymond after their sudden break-up of a yearlong engagement. Over a short conversation, she had expressed her feelings of leaving him for a man, whom Raymond later discovered was named Peter, in the note she gave him. That note was also a point of curious matter. Raymond seemed determined to find a code somehow encrypted into the short message scrawled on the paper. She had repeatedly told him not to go looking for her, and Raymond took that as a sort of hint. Could she possibly be in some kind of danger? Or was he looking much too into the letter, as his friend Marley suggested?
“Is that all for you?” the cashier at the front of the line said. Raymond glanced down at what he held in his hands: his wallet and two bottles of whiskey. Even though it gave him a nasty hangover the morning later and it tasted downright awful, he had taken a fancy to alcohol, especially the stronger drinks. It seemed blissful to be able to forget life for a while and become drunk.
“Yes, it is,” Raymond muttered and set the two bottles on the counter. He opened his wallet and poked through some money.
“May I see your ID? That’ll be $3.98, sir,” the cashier stated. Raymond took the money and ID from his wallet and handed it to the man, who then proceeded to place the money in the cash register.
“Thank you for shopping at Halpert Liquor store. Come again soon,” the man repeated dully. Raymond took his whiskey and ID and headed out the door into the cold January 1934 air. It had snowed heavily the night before, and in Chicago, that was not always the most pleasant thing to try to maneuver around in. The streets were lined with street lamps and cars and exhaust fumes. Raymond didn’t own a car. He figured he be best to sell it and pay for some of the remaining cost of the tickets that had been sold out. Raymond, three weeks ago, had told the audience during the middle of one of his performances at dé la Concerto Hall (a concert hall that Marley sponsored) that he simply could not perform the original composition he had been planned to play. The song was titled Lydia, Sweet Child of Mine.
Raymond couldn’t wait to arrive at the apartment, so he stopped in the middle of the street, tore the bottle cap off the whiskey and proceeded to chug it. The burn was almost immediate. He swallowed and lowered the bottle. Would the hangover this time be nearly as bad as it was last time? he asked himself.
Two hours later
“I’m worried about him, dear,” Constance Hugo said as she undressed herself. Marley was in the bedroom, already in bed, his pajamas slipped over his large body.
“Yeah, I know. I’m worried too,” was his reply. There was a certain edge on his tone. Constance knew she should investigate later.
“You really should do something, you know. You need to stop all of his alcohol consumption before he winds up becoming an alcoholic. It’s serious. You know what alcohol’s done to your liver.” Her pajamas made their way down her body, and she stepped out from the closet. Her husband glanced at her.
“You look beautiful.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said with a hint of smile on her face. “Don’t avoid my question, Marley. You need to stop him.”
“Do we have to talk about this right now?” Marley questioned, picking up a novel from the side of his bed. His wife climbed into bed and rested her head on his shoulder.
Marley had met Constance in 1915 over a pot of her mother’s famous pot of stew. Marley’s friend had been dating Constance’s older sister and invited him to come along and meet Constance. At first, she wanted nothing to do with him. She ignored his letters, his looks and his words. It was surprising to everyone in both families when she finally agreed to date him. Shortly after their courtship, they were married and have been happily married since.
“How much longer am I going to last?” she whispered, staring out across the bed. Marley didn’t move for a moment, as if he were processing what she had just said. Then—
“Now what kind of a question is that?” He sounded extremely angry.
“I have cancer. We both know I’m not going to last much longer, dear, and I’d hate to pass without helping this man come to his senses. He’s your friend, Marley. We need to help him.”
“Don’t talk like that. You ain’t going anywhere anytime soon, so shut your mouth about that. Do you hear me?”
This conversation was a strange coincidence for Marley. It hadn’t been three weeks ago that he’d had almost the exact conversation with his best friend, Raymond Simmons. It was a little bit different context, but basically the same. What if he lost her? What if he lost his wife, his most precious love in the entire world, more than money, food or pinstriped suits?
For the umpteenth time, he imagined how he could possibly live without her. She was his constant companion. She was always there, no matter what. She was there when they lost their first child just moments after she was born. She was there when times were rough at work. She had always been there.
If one took Constance out of Marley’s life, there would be nothing. She was his wife. His beloved wife.
“I feel absolutely terrible though. Honestly, Marley. Invite him over for dinner tomorrow. God knows he needs it as much as I personally do. I want to talk to him, dear. Please. Find him and ask him to dine with us. I’ll set out the special china and tablecloth. He needs someone to love him right now.”
Marley’s usual reply of “Mmph” followed her words.
“I love you, dear,” she said and kissed his cheek. He turned and kissed her on the lips. It was a passionate kiss, and not a very common one at that.
“What was that about?”
“I can’t imagine losing you, Constance. I can’t…” his voice trailed off.
“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you,” she whispered, and laid in bed and closed her eyes. Marley couldn’t sleep, though.
The next evening
Raymond tugged his fur coat around him as he stepped outside his apartment building. The snow was still heavy, and the air was thick with smoke and pollution. A block away was the local jazz bar, and he could hear the beginning performances play. He missed being able to perform in front of audiences. He missed the lights, the feeling and the piano.
Yes. He missed a grand piano under his fingertips, luscious melodies just waiting to be pounded out. He missed Paul Bennett, the conductor of the orchestra at Marley’s concert hall. He missed the applause.
He was going to be a few minutes early to Marley Hugo’s lofty house on the corner of 78th, so he decided to take a quick detour around to the band and watch them perform through the windows. As he approached the building, he felt a twinge of jealousy as the sounds of a jazz piano enveloped his ears. He desperately wanted to be the one playing those chords. Oh, it was almost too much. He wanted to go back inside of his apartment. He wanted to go in the bar. He wanted to go to Marley’s house. He wanted Lydia. Oh yes. Over anything in the world, he wanted Lydia. Something in her letter made him realize she was not a lost cause. There was a way. There was always a way.
“Hey,” someone said behind him. Raymond turned around and saw a dreadful looking woman standing behind him. She had a deep scarlet dress on, and black gloves. Her red hair was a rumpled mess, and Raymond knew instantly what had just talked to him.
“Please go away. I don’t want you,” he said as politely as he could. The prostitute’s smile faded away.
“Sir, there’s no need to be worried. I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Please,” Raymond pleaded, “just go away. I don’t want to get in trouble. I don’t want your services, and I really don’t want to talk right now. I’m on my way to somewhere.”
“My name is Emilee. I was just wondering if you had any change. Anything at all. Please?” The prostitute reached out and took a hold of Raymond’s fur coat and began petting it.
“I don’t have anything! Please leave me alone or I’ll call the police!” Raymond said as he began to walk away.
“Please! You don’t understand! I need something to show Peter! If I come back empty handed, he’ll hurt me again. Please. You don’t understand, mister. I need something. Anything. A penny. A quarter. Anything!”
Raymond froze in his tracks. “Peter?”
“He’s my employer. Please, sir, you must have something on you.”
It couldn’t be. No. There must have been hundreds of Peters living in Chicago. Raymond took the chance.
“Listen to me. Do you know a Lydia Brown? Please! You might be able to help me. Lydia Brown,” Raymond said, clutching the prostitute’s shoulders. He stared into her eyes, which were an amazing color of brown, almost like chocolate.
“I don’t know any Lydia’s. I need some money! Please! I’m begging you,” she cried.
“I don’t have anything! Get off me, you wretched woman!” Raymond shouted and pushed her off of him. She collapsed to the ground in a fit of tears and wailing. Raymond was shocked with himself. Very rarely did he ever use violence against another human—especially a woman.
Luckily, no one was out on the cold streets at this time, and Raymond bent down and took the prostitute’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, red in his face. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Let go of me,” she said, squirming out of his grip.
“Look, I have a dollar on me.”
She eyed him cautiously. He held it out, but she didn’t grab it.
“You can have it if you try to remember if you have seen Lydia Brown. She has written me a note and she made a reference to Peter. I know this may seem a bit of a stretch, but I need to you think if you have seen any woman with your employer named Peter,” Raymond said, searching her eyes.
The prostitute laughed. “Peter has many women. He’s a pimp.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“Well, sure. But I’m not going to discuss it here, obviously. If you want to know more,” she said, taking the dollar, “you’re going to have to take me home. I have to make a living too.”
“Damn you,” Raymond cursed. “I will not have you. At all. What’s your name?”
“What’s it to you?” she replied.
“Everything. Please, I will not report you. I just need to know your name.”
“Emilee. My name is Emilee.”
“Thank you,” Raymond said. “If you ever hear of a Lydia Brown, please try to find me. I live in that apartment building around the corner. Please. I know it’s a bit of a stretch for that Peter to be the right Peter, but I need to find out. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re welcome. I’ll see you around, then,” Emilee said, clutching the dollar in her hand. “You’ve saved me. Thank you.”
Raymond nodded and continued on his way, a giddy excitement in his heart. Never once had he ever planned to talk to a prostitute, but maybe, just maybe he had found the Peter. Although, the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed to be true at all. He hadn’t done anything but show a prostitute where he lived. And they were so abundant nowadays, Raymond thought. There’s a whore at every corner.
