The Colour of Sunday Afternoons Page 14

  Joe felt a tap on his shoulder.

  He turned around to see a huge, handsome, overbearing man in an Italian suit, smiling at him broadly. His hair was short and his skin was a very dark brown. He could have been a movie star, Joe thought – the kind you see starring in action films.

  The man spoke in a surprisingly light voice, an almost musical whisper. "Well, well, well. I see you've brought him at last, Jimmy. You must be Joe Mathews. Welcome to Club Vivax. We've been ... waiting for you. By the way, folks ’round here call me Orson. I own this little place." The huge man held out his hand. Expecting a vice-like grip, Joe was surprised by the almost absurdly gentle, clammy handshake.

  Orson indicated the technician at the drum kit. "Freddie's just fixing the skins. I'll get the rest of the band for you. You wanna drink?"

  "Yeah," said Joe. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” The imposing man walked over to the bar and summoned a waiter, who rapidly started collecting drinks.

  Joe had never dreamed in such vivid colour before. Where was that attractive woman in the green sequin dress? he thought. Now that was something worth dreaming about. He was finally enjoying this dream, after all.

  Jimmy ran a hand through his hair. He whispered to Joe. "Orson knows how to run a club. He's the best. But it's not his real name, right? Whatever you do, don't ask ..."

  Jimmy fell silent as the waiter, dressed formally, in black tie, arrived with a tray of flute glasses filled with bubbling champagne. It looked like normal champagne to Joe, except it was the colour of emerald.

  "Green champagne, sir," the waiter said. "Speciality of the house."

  Joe shrugged, took one, and drank it. He figured he was dreaming, anyway, so where was the harm? He reached for a second glass.

  Jimmy looked a little surprised by this, but said nothing. He took a glass for himself. The waiter departed.

  Orson, back from the bar after chatting ostentatiously with several patrons, spread his huge arms wide and placed one slab-like hand on Joe's shoulder, the other hand on Jimmy's shoulder, and murmured, "Now, you boys enjoy yourselves. And take it easy on the champagne. You're on in five minutes."

  Jimmy and Joe were left standing by themselves, watching the action in the busy but strangely silent club. "There's your bass player," said Jimmy.

  Joe looked up. To his surprise, the stunning woman he had seen earlier, in the green dress, was getting onto the stage. She had long, cascading, chocolate brown hair and pale skin. She picked up the double bass from its stand and caressed it like a lover. A few bass notes drifted across the room.

  Jimmy continued. "Don't forget what I said, now. Victoria sure is something, but you don't wanna see Orson get mean. Stay away from her, okay?"

  "Sure," said Joe.

  He was soon startled by another tap on his shoulder. It was a stocky, bald man, with skin was so pale it was almost grey.

  Joe had no idea who this man was, but Jimmy spoke up. "Frank! How you doin’, old buddy? Ready to get this show on the road?"

  "Always, J. So, this must be Mathews?"

  The bald man looked directly at Joe, his face dull and boring except for his intense eyes: they were an electric shade of green.

  "Yeah. He be the man.” Jimmy turned to Joe. "Sorry, Joey. Didn't introduce you. This is Frank, the drummer. I mean, THE drummer. What this man doesn't know about drums, you don’t need to know. Frank's a super-pro."

  The man smiled. "Aw, c'mon Jimmy."

  The room hushed as Orson's subdued voice echoed from huge speakers which hung from the walls like boulders on a cliff face. Orson, on the stage, in the spotlight, was an even more impressive figure than he was face to face.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Orson. Welcome. Tonight, we have something very special. All the way from The Other Side, we have a sleeping man: Mr Joe Mathews!"

  This brought gasps from the audience, followed by applause.

  Jimmy pushed Joe in the back.

  Not knowing what else to do, Joe made his way, with the drummer, to the stage. Soon, Joe was seated at the piano and ready to play.

  Orson smiled at his lovely wife, Victoria, who stood about the same height as the tall double bass she held; she seemed to ignore her husband as he left the stage. Instead, she smiled cryptically at Joe. Joe thought this was a little odd.

  Joe supposed he had better play. He counted in the band, “Two, three, four!” and launched into playing from the sheet music on the piano. It was a song he knew well, Gershwin's It A'int Necessarily So. Victoria, on double bass, in her stunning dress, and Frank, the drummer, followed without surprise, as if it had all been rehearsed before.

  Jimmy stood near the stage, nodding in time to the beat. The audience seemed entranced. Joe played superbly for several minutes, even if it was only a dream. Jimmy was right: Frank was a pro. The drums were out of this world. And as for Victoria, she played the bass like she'd invented the thing.

  When the song came to an end, there was wild applause from the crowd ... but, to Joe’s eyes, the audience seemed to be getting a little hard to see. White fog was drifting up over their faces from the floor. As Joe stood up to take a bow, he noticed Victoria coming over to congratulate him. In fact, she walked straight up and kissed him on the cheek. Joe's heart beat a little faster. This was his kind of dream! he thought.

  "Well played, stranger," said Victoria, in a voice that was more breath than words. She stood very close. Then she suddenly stepped away.

  Joe was enjoying the lingering scent of her perfume, until he noticed Orson – muscles rippling under the Italian suit – scowling angrily and making his way quickly to the stage. This made Joe's heart beat even more frantically. He wasn’t sure he liked this dream any more. He sat down at the piano again and decided he'd better play another number, but when he looked at the music, it wasn't music but sales figures. He turned the page, and there was the budget for the Zemtril conference.

  Joe was really getting confused now.

  Beyond the stage, the room was fading rapidly to white.

  Joe saw that Orson, having reached the stage, was arguing violently with Victoria. Just as the huge man turned away from his wife and began stomping menacingly over to the piano, Joe heard Jimmy's voice—it was strained and urgent.

  "Time to go, buddy!” Jimmy jumped onto the stage, rushed in front of Joe, and tried to protect him from Orson, deftly deflecting the big man's rage.

  It was time to run for it.

  Joe grabbed his sheet music, got up from the piano, and ran into the audience, or at least into what used to be the audience; there was nothing around him now but a white fog. He glanced at the music book in his hand. It was open to a page which looked exactly like a corporate memo informing him of promotion. None of this made the least bit of sense to Joe.

  Before he could figure it out, even the music book disappeared, and Joe was left standing in total nothingness.

  It was silent.

  There was nothing but white, and no sign of Orson or Jimmy.

  Joe was alone. He took a moment to catch his breath.

  A familiar voice rang out from behind. "Had fun?"

  Joe looked around, gingerly. A chubby leprechaun was the only vision he saw. "Shamus! What happened? What was all that about?"

  "Oh, nothing. Just someone I thought you should meet.”

  "Jimmy?"

  "He called himself Jimmy?! He gets craftier every time.” An expression of concern flashed across Shamus’s face. "You didn't sign anything, did you?"

  "No. Should I have?"

  Shamus exhaled, evidently much relieved, and said nothing.

  Joe wanted very much to wake up. "Now what?"

  "Good question, Joe. Good question. I think you'd better meet someone else. Come with me, now. This way!"

  Shamus wandered off into the mist. Joe followed him, dutifully.

  "Like the countryside?" Shamus asked casually, and sure enough, at once they seemed to be walking down a quiet country lane.

 
; A whole rustic scene had suddenly materialised: rolling fields, blue sky, farmhouses in the distance. Cows grazed the meadows. Birds drifted overhead.

  “Nice,” said Joe.

  They came upon a pleasant cottage, with a green picket fence. A man was working in the garden. He looked exactly like Joe, but was wearing a red checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and brown corduroy trousers. The man carried a large watering can. He whistled happily to himself as he watered a patch of daisies. Nearby, a very contented ginger cat was snoring peacefully in the sunshine. As Shamus and Joe approached, the man looked up.

  Joe groaned. "Don't tell me," he said to the gardener, without waiting for Shamus to make introductions. “You're me, right?"

  The man smiled. "If you want me to be. But call me Jack. It'll save confusion. I hear you've met Jimmy."

  "Yeah."

  Ignoring Joe, Shamus went through the garden gate, up the path, and opened the front door of the cottage. Over his shoulder, he called out, "I'm just having an Irish coffee." Then he went inside and closed the door behind him.

  Joe interrogated his look-alike across the picket fence. "Do you normally let him walk into your house like that?”

  "Oh, he's harmless. He’s only trying to help, you know. It's a tough job being an angel – at least, so he tells me." Jack picked up a trowel and kneeled down, then started turning over the dirt. "I think I’ll plant some geraniums here," he said, as if it were a matter of great import.

  "But wait a minute. I don't garden! If you're me, how come you're gardening? I play piano, and Jimmy played piano; that I could understand. But this doesn't make sense! I’m not a country man."

  Jack tilled the soil. "You don't slow down much, do you, Joe? All these things you want to do, but you don't slow down and let anything happen."

  Joe protested. "Slow down?! How can you make things happen by slowing down? Things happen fast or not at all, especially in business. I have to move fast just to keep my head above water. And I'm always trying to do two things at once: you know, music and career. It's not easy."

  "Okay," said Jack, with a shrug. "There’s no need to get defensive. I know it's not easy. But you really should take the time to play your music." Jack examined an earthworm, then carefully placed it to one side where it wouldn't get hurt. He took up his trowel again.

  "You mean ... you understand how hard it is?" Joe asked, confused. This was new to Joe's experience of life. He was from The School of Perfectionism and No Excuses. This kind of gentle talk was a surprise to him.

  "Of course, of course. Look, Joe, you don't really need my help. Play your music, that's all. But make the time for it. You can't do everything at once. And I hear you're going to be promoted?"

  Joe threw his hands up. "Everyone seems to know that’s for certain, except me. This is ridiculous! Okay, so what if I am going to be promoted? What’s your point?"

  Jack sprinkled seed in the dirt, deliberately avoiding looking at Joe. A few seconds passed. The cat still slept peacefully. Jack buried the seeds. "You don't want to accept it, do you?"

  Joe fumed. "What?! How can you say that? I've put my whole professional life into learning what I've learned – now, at last, I can grab the big opportunities. I can make it to the top. I can do it. I know I can."

  Jack stood up and brushed the dirt off his hands. "Joe, until you start being honest with yourself, you'll get nowhere. Not to the top. Not anywhere." Then his expression softened. "Never mind, Joe. Just promise me one thing."

  "What?" Joe felt like he was under a microscope, being dissected.

  "Don't forget this little talk, okay? Here, take this."

  Jack held out his hand. Resting on his palm was a gold tiepin, in the shape of a saxophone. Embossed on it were the letters ‘MSJ.’

  Joe took it and turned it over in his hand.

  "MSJ?" he asked, as he stuffed the pin into his pocket.

  Jack ignored him and looked at the sky, as if he were worried it might rain before sunset. A minute passed. Shamus was coming out of the house, walking down the garden path. Joe figured it would be time to go, any second now. Jack still hadn’t answered.

  "Oh," Jack said at last. "Nothing. It's just the name of a private music school. You know, a little office in the suburbs, two or three teachers, twenty or thirty students coming in for lessons after school: nothing major. The Mathews School of Jazz.”

  “Huh?” Joe had never heard of it.

  “Yeah. It’s just a little memento. Anyway, I have to go. See you later, Shamus." Jack smiled patiently at Joe. "Goodbye, Joe."

  Before Joe could say a word, Jack had gone.

  The entire scene had shimmered and faded away.

  Joe was surrounded by white nothingness again.

  Shamus, standing by Joe’s side, looked very impatient. "Okay, that does it – I am absolutely knocking off work, right now. Go wake up, human! I need some sleep." Shamus stomped off into the distance and disappeared.

  Joe was left alone.

  He looked around at the enveloping whiteness. There was nothing to be seen anywhere, for miles. Joe felt dizzy – so dizzy, in fact, that he had to lie down, had to close his eyes. A moment later, he cried out in pain. “Ouch!”

  Something very sharp was sticking into Joe's arm.

  He opened his eyes and sat up. Startled, he realised he was back in his bedroom, awake, with the budget papers scattered around him on his bed.

  Joe switched on the bedside lamp. It was 5:00 am! He'd be wrecked tomorrow, he thought angrily. Then he felt the sore spot on his arm and looked for the cause of the trouble. A sharp, golden tiepin was lying on the bedspread, where his arm had been. He picked it up and turned it over in his fingers; it was a tiny saxophone. It seemed familiar, but he couldn't recall where he had gotten it, and at five in the morning he scarcely cared. With a yawn, Joe put the pin on the bedside table, swept all the budget papers roughly onto the floor, and flopped back onto his pillow. He was totally exhausted.

  Sleep came quickly. It was a tremendous, dreamless relief.

  Chapter 14

  Jane stood outside the door of Margaret Hoffman's tenth-floor office. It was never easy seeing City Hospital’s Chief Pharmacist, but today at least, Jane thought, it should be relatively painless. After all, the new drug inventory program was running seamlessly. It was a chance for Jane to make Infosolve look good in the lucrative hospital market. Jane knocked sharply on the door.

  Hoffman’s voice rang out. "Come!"

  Jane opened the door. "Good morning, Dr Hoffman.”

  The Chief Pharmacist swivelled the computer screen on her desk to face Jane. "Ms Hamilton, do you know what this is?"

  Jane sat down and peered at the screen. "Looks like your monthly purchasing budget, to me.”

  Hoffman paused, her pinched features expressionless. "Damn right it is! And running perfectly. The Formulary Committee were very impressed when I showed them the five percent saving this new system gives us. Let me show you something else, Ms Hamilton." Hoffman rose and made her way to the huge rolling shelves at the far end of the office. Sliding the first set of shelves to one side, she selected a folder in the second set, removed a bundled report, and finally slapped it down on the desk in front of Jane as she resumed her seat. "There's the Committee's report. Take a look for yourself."

  Jane flipped through the report for a few moments. "I'm glad we could help, Dr Hoffman. That’s what we’re here for. Any time."

  Hoffman agreed gravely. "I still don't like these overpowered calculators. We did perfectly well without them in the old days. But I have to hand it to you, Hamilton. You've done a good job."

  Jane was pleased. "If you have any other problems, just give me a call.”

  "You know," Hoffman said slowly, "when I first met you, I thought you were another of these ladder-climbing young pups, more interested in her own career than in her customers. Well, I was wrong. Rest assured, we'll be keeping our account with Infosolve indefinitely." Hoffman got up and escorted Jane to t
he door. "It's Jane, isn't it?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Thank you, Jane."

  Hoffman seemed almost to smile as she shook Jane’s hand, then she turned and paced back to her desk.

  Jane left the office and made her way back to the elevators. She couldn't help laughing quietly to herself. The Dragon Woman of City Hospital, she thought, had actually smiled.

  Back at Infosolve, Jane tried to sneak by reception. Grace, never content to let Jane pass without at least some needling, bowed with a flourish. "Greetings, Jane. I'm glad our leader is back among us! What news from the provinces?"

  Jane laughed. "Oh, cut it out, Grace! Can't you be serious for a second?”

  "Serious? You want serious?" Grace looked left and right, then leaned across her counter. "So, Jane, tell me about the M ... A ... N!"

  Jane rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Grace. How did you find out? On second thoughts, don't tell me. It was one perfectly innocent little date, Grace, that’s all."

  "Just one little date?" said Grace. "Not going to see him again, eh? What's the problem? Facial hair, or was it the IQ? Compared to all those bald executives you've been dating, I'd say he must have had more hair and more brains. Sounds good to me."

  “Hey,” said Jane. “Stop knocking bald men. My father was bald, and he was a handsome guy. You’re too superficial.”

  “Whatever you say. So? What happened?”

  Jane wondered if she should bother replying at all. "Okay, Grace. I may as well tell you. It's pointless trying to keep a secret. I asked him out again."

  "You ... asked ... him?" Grace put on her best blank expression.

  "Yes, I asked him. What's wrong with that?"

  "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Dinner?"

  "No. I've invited him sailing. I’ve borrowed a Laser from the City Yacht Club. I haven't been sailing in years. I thought it would be fun to try it again."