Hey, everyone. Raymond Simmons has been bugging me to tell his story, and now I finally have. This is the sequel to Pianissimo. I would recommend you read that before you read Mezzo Forte.
This is part one.
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“That’ll be fifteen cents, sir,” the liquor cashier said, eying the bottle of alcohol that was placed before him. His eyes, bright and wild, made it clear that he was just as drunk as Raymond Simmons wanted to be. Ray nodded and dug his long, pointed fingers into his coat pocket in search for change. He pulled out a dime and three pennies.
“Fifteen, not thirteen, sir,” the manager reinstated. He raised his bushy eyebrows at his customer. Ray bit his bottom lip.
“This is,” Raymond whispered, “all I have.” He didn’t dare look the liquor manager in the eye.
“Then we don’t have a deal.” The manager swiped the bottle of liquor from the countertop and stowed it underneath. Raymond stood behind the counter for a moment, uncertain of what to do.
“Is there anything else I can buy?” he asked, his eyes traveling up the man’s hairy arms. The cashier had a tattoo of a heart on his biceps. Cupid’s arrow pierced it. Because that’s how love always is, ain’t it? Always pierces you through the heart. When you least expect it – WHAM! You’re dead. You’ve fallen for the wrong dame, mister.
“Not here you can’t. Liquor is getting mighty pricey. You’d better get some change before it hits the twenty cent mark.”
Raymond nodded silently and turned his heel to walk out of the musty room. He looked through the grimy window and saw flashing lights – the jazz pub. Ray looked longingly at it.
He swiftly opened the door and stepped out into the polluted Chicago air. Raymond could make out the saxophones from the bar as they squealed out their tunes, high and screechy. He could distinctly tell apart the piano, ragtime by the sound of it, jazzing up the keys.
His gut churned violently. Oh, how he wished that he could be that pianist. Oh, how he wished that he could go in there and throw out a concerto like he had been able to do three years ago. Those were the days, he thought. Those were the last golden days of my life.
“Raymond! Hey, it’s Raymond!” a voice cried. Raymond, surprised, turned to his left and saw a large figure stumbling down the sidewalk. The man was wearing a brown top hat and a matching suit coat. His tie was what really made him stand out though – it sparkled in the jazzy lights, even though there was no sun to reflect off of.
“Hugo? Marley Hugo?” Raymond asked, exasperated. It couldn’t possibly be him! But it was! The large man had the same puffy moustache and little sideburns. His white hair declared his age to be older than he looked.
“It’s Mr. Raymond Simmons! No! It couldn’t possibly be you!” Hugo was just as shocked as Ray. His bright blue eyes seemed to dance in his sockets, extracting as much information as he possibly could.
“I can’t believe it!” Raymond said, grinning from ear to ear. “I haven’t seen you for ages!”
“Three years too long, huh?” was Hugo’s excited reply. He excitedly stuck out his arm and Raymond shook it.
“So, how have you been?” Hugo asked. His eyes brightly danced in the light.
“I’ve been alright. Nothing special. I’ve actually been searching for a job. You know, one of those local pubs. In fact, that’s where I was going next,” Raymond replied, pointing over to the jazz pub. Hugo followed his finger and laughed out loud.
“Well, you’ve got to be extremely good to get in there. Well, my God, look who I’m talking to! It’s Mr. Raymond Simmons! Who do I think I am?” Hugo laughed.
Raymond smiled politely. “Please, call me Ray. I like it better that way, Mr. Hugo.”
“And you must call me Marley,” was his reply. “Hugo is such a… fat man name.” The two men chuckled at that comment.
“Well… it’s a warm night and I have been itching for a drink. Do you mind the pub? I’ll buy.” Raymond was about to protest, but Marley held up his hand. “No, no, it’s my gift to you. After all, we haven’t seen each other in three years! What do you say?”
There was an awkward silence as Raymond thought about it. He had been longing for a beer – for that was the reason he had gone to the liquor store in the first place.
“Sure,” he said and grinned.
They were instantly greeted with the delicious aroma of alcohol. The beverage was served heavily in the pub, only to be downed by thirsty men. At this time of night, the bar was full of people – drunk and swaying. The act was performing on stage, and the ragtime was banging over the crowd.
Marley tugged on Ray’s shirt and motioned to follow him. The two men walked through the thickening pub and collapsed on a table. Marley waved to a waitress, and they ordered a shot of whiskey.
“So, how have you been doing? Find yourself a wife?” Marley asked, licking his lips.
A wife? Ray frowned and bit his lip. He didn’t want to be reminded of Lydia. She was gone. Out of his hands.
“No, I don’t need a wife.” They chuckled sheepishly.
“What about you?” Raymond asked. “Are you and Martha still together?” Marley didn’t reply for a while. He stared at the table, his fingers tracing the etchings on it.
“She passed away a year ago…”
“Oh,” Raymond whispered. “Marley, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring her –“
“Nah, it’s fine. What’s gone is gone. We can’t waste our life dwelling on what’s passed. So, I decided after the funeral that I would pick myself up. I’d move towards the future.”
Ray froze. Those words – ‘We can’t waste our life dwelling on what’s passed’ – hit him like a bullet.
Lydia. She was his. She and him. They always used to go together. It was never just Raymond. It was never just Lydia. It was always them.
Until Peter came along and stole her heart away. He chained it up and locked it in a box. Soon, Lydia and Raymond became two again.
Raymond hadn’t picked himself up like Marley had. He had been left in the gutter of love. The filthily gutter. It trapped him in it, never releasing. It was like the shackles that convicts had to wear, with the lead balls and iron chains.
“Here you are,” the waitress quickly slapped the shots on the pub table. Marley glanced cheerfully at her, red in the face.
“Thank you m’dear.” Ray watched Marley's eyes lower to her butt as she scurried off. He chuckled again. “Such fine women they have these days…”
“So, Marley,” Raymond changed the subject, “are you still working in a performance hall?”
“Eh? Ah, no. I’ve retired. I’m getting too old for a full time job, anyway. And besides, now there is room for another person to take my job. I wouldn’t want to be wasting money, you know?” He winked.
“No,” Raymond muttered, tracing an etch in the table. “No, I don’t know. I’m looking for a job right now. I was going to come here and see if they needed me in the band, but it looks full at the moment.” His whiskey remained untouched, while Marley had drained his.
“A job, you say?” Marley bit his bottom lip and itched his head. “I remember an opening down at a club just east of here. It’s just over a few streets. Not that bad of a place. Well, not as good as this place here, but it would do you good. I’m sure that they would love to have a concert pianist!”
“Are you talking about ah, what’s the place? The, uh, pub where the whores swarm?” Raymond raised his eyebrow and spoke in a hushed whisper.
“That’ll be the one!”
Raymond sighed and picked up his shot glass. He raised it level with his eyes and watched the amber liquid fizz and bubble. Then he placed it on his lips and downed it, wiping his mouth after.
“Well, I’m not too sure about that place. I wouldn’t want to get in any trouble.”
“Oh, no! You wouldn’t get in trouble at all!” Marley added, “The whores aren’t very attracted to musicians for some odd reason. Just the customers.”
“Well –“
“Come on. You need a job, and I’m giving you the details! You either take it or leave it. You’re choice.” Marley folded his arms stubbornly, although Raymond could see a faint twinkle in his eyes. Raymond smiled sheepishly.
“Sure. I’ll take it.” I hope the pay is decent.
Raymond didn’t even have to audition. As soon as Marley and him stepped into the whore pub, the band conductor greeted them kindly. It seemed as if they had known each other for quite a while.
“Raymond Simmons, this is Arnold Freeman, the jazz conductor,” Marley spoke proudly. Arnold Freeman was a black man, but very tall and lean. He was completely bald, and his head glared in the lights. He stuck out his hand, and Raymond shook it.
“Raymond was a concert pianist a few years back, but has gotten off of the hook if you know what I’m saying.” Marley winked. “He’s interested in the opening that you have for a new pianist.”
“Really?” Arnold Freeman smiled and showed his white teeth. “Well, we’ve never had a concert pianist before. He should be interesting.” The man studied Raymond for a moment and then said, “We perform every night at seven thirty. Pay is two dollars and sixty cents a performance. The music ain’t that hard at all. You’d need to have it memorized by next Thursday.”
“Yessir,” Raymond said and nodded. “I can do that.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Let me go get you the music. I’ll be right back.” Arnold Freeman walked off into his back office and Marley nudged Raymond with his arm.
“See? Eh? I got you a job!” The old man squealed with excitement.
“Thank you,” Raymond said gratefully. “Thank you so much.”
Raymond wasn’t happy. Raymond wasn’t happy at all. He didn’t want to work in a prostitute pub much more than he wanted to work in the sewers. He knew he didn’t have a say in the matter; a job is a job. What’s done is done. ‘We can’t waste our life dwelling on what’s passed’ in Marley’s words.
“Yeah,” Raymond muttered later that night as he felt the familiar piano keys under his long fingers. The music was laid out in front of him, urging him to practice until dawn.
And that’s what he did. Raymond Simmons played the piano for the first time in three years. He knew he had to move on. He had to get another life – one besides the one with Lydia. She was lost.
Until he found her at the whore house.
