text: Saliva seeped from the scales as his fingers slipped between them. His reed felt moist against his tongue and his saxophone weighed heavy on his neck. Through the haze of smoke, the sound of Art Thompson bounced off the walls of the small club. Squeezed in a blue suit, soaked in rum and sweat, the dark figure towered above the mainly white crowd. To him, it was like any other show, but as the war loomed in everyone's heads, he took their fear and anxiety away and replaced it with moments of euphoria and magic, or the closest thing to it. The bass player plucked at the strings, the pianist softly tapped on the keys and the drummer lightly tapped the cymbals then making the odd brush sound on the snare drum. Standing around them were two other brass players holding a tenor saxophone and a trumpet. The crowd stood to attention. Usually, they would be dancing, but they couldn't dance to this. Not that it wasn't good, but what Art played was something different than what they were used to hearing. It was a style they had never heard him play before. Some people would think it strange and somewhat narcissistic to play something they didn't pay to listen too, but this was Art. You couldn't tell him what to play. In that moment and in that room, no-one existed but him, the music and his saxophone. They were captivated that he hadn't lost the passion or hunger to perfect his sound. The fresh-faced musicians around him watched in awe. He was their god, their Messiah. They lost track of how long he'd been playing for and they weren't going to stop him now, not while he was on his trip. Art fluttered between the high and low notes, taking small breaths out of the corner of his mouth. It was erratic and chaotic at times, but somehow it worked. Bits of spit flew out of the bell of the saxophone, hitting people standing by the front of the stage. The pianist, bassist and drummer were in sync with Art. A thin white man sat on the edge of his seat and tapped his foot. Next to him, another white man looked on in concentration and seemed to be studying Art's fingers as they moved. In the middle of the dance-floor, no one uttered a word. In the seats surrounding the club, dark silhouettes of people sat observing him. The drummer whose face was pouring with sweat caught eyes of a young woman. A man's arm instantly wrapped around her to let him know that she was with him. The drummer laughed it off and continued to dictate the tempo. The pianist noticed this as well and dragged the high keys to get the drummer's attention, all done seemingly without the crowd suspecting a thing. That is what you call talent. They both locked eyes and chuckled at each other, with the pianist sticking his tongue out at him. While all this happened Art's eyes remained lowered, almost closed, unaware of what was going on around him. He held his saxophone close and tight, like someone whom he cared for. There and then he began to think of the letter he received that morning. Enclosed was a picture of a baby in the arms of a man. On closer inspection, he knew it to be him and his father. He didn't pay too much attention to the letter apart from the words from his mother: "Your father has passed away." He read the whole letter, but that sentence stuck out to him. He didn't even cry. Instead, he reached for a bottle of rum and turned to his saxophone, playing any tune that came into his head. He usually reached for his horn as soon as he woke up, but this time he didn't want to part with it. He'd stop playing to fetch another drink but wouldn't detach the instrument from his neck brace. After a few more drinks, he would forget the saxophone was still attached and it would swing and clipping him on the face. Even complaints from neighbours couldn't stop his constant playing. He'd probably be kicked out of his flat by the end of the evening, like so many times before, but he wasn't bothered at all. Art didn't have an appetite. Rum and the saxophone were his only hunger. Playing and drinking, with the image of his father cradling him on the ledge of his fireplace. Art got drunker and drunker as the day progressed. Then at that moment, on the stage, Art's eyes closed and his cheeks inflated. He held the note for half a second until a numbing pain formed around his jaw. The note dipped in pitch and a shriek like sound came from his horn. Art at that moment sobered up. The audience shuddered and wondered if it was part of the piece. The band looked on with concern. He pulled the saxophone away from his lips, turned to his bandmates and grinned at them. They laughed thinking it was some sort of a joke, to see if they were still focused. He placed his tongue back on the reed and waited for a perfect time to start again, between the drums, bass and piano. Art took a deep breath and blew into the mouthpiece, again, taking the tip of his tongue away from the reed. He worked his way down the scales and everything was going well until the numbing pain returned. His cheeks flopped and he made a quiet raspberry sound. He tried to fight through the pain, but what came out of his horn, sounded like two foxes mating. The two white men down the front winced. A woman behind them covered her ears and a murmur descended around the room that the band couldn't disguise. Art stopped for a few seconds. The band passed each other odd glances. They knew something was wrong. Art looked down at his saxophone with stern eyes, like it was her fault. He pulled the horn to his lips, in an aggressive manner, and with all his strength, took a deep breath. His finger rested on the octave vent. His eyes tightened, and he blew as hard as he could. At that moment, everything went silent. Darkness enveloped around him, but he felt relaxed, young and at ease with everything, in his own world where no one bothered him. Away from the promoters and club owners who would tell him what to play. Away from men who attended shows to try and romance women, and away from those who would talk over the music as he played his heart out. He was brought back to the first time he set eyes on the saxophone. The horn had lost its shine over the years, but it still worked like the day his father gave it to him. He was brought back to a place. A place he hadn't been to, or thought about, in a long time. Far from London's cobbled streets and unforgiving winters. A place where Manicaria palm trees surrounded arches of tropical forests, sandy beaches and small villages that only spoke in French patois. His father had played the saxophone in many calypso bands around the island of Trinidad. Calypsonians like Art's father were treated like criminals because they spoke out against the British colonial rule, which meant some native islanders would distance themselves from his family. Strangely, his father made most of his money playing for society's elite that sympathised with their views, despite their unfair reputation. Art accompanied him to some of the shows and he would be surrounded by aristocrats in their lavish homes, far from the shanty house his family lived in. However, the shows Art remembered more fondly were performed in small dingy tents. Even though the people they played for were poorer than poor, they dressed immaculately. Men dressed in freshly pressed suits and women in colourful dresses. They'd sing songs with the hope of social and political change. The long evenings were spent drinking and dancing until the sun came up. Although his family were poor, Art's father never did it for the money, it was all about the music. That was something that had always stuck with him. When he gave Art his saxophone, it was like a rite of passage, like it was his turn to carry on where his father had left off. He played with the calypso bands, just like him, until one day in the middle of town, he heard music playing from a radio station in a small diner. The radio picked up signals from England and American. He couldn't remember who was playing and what they were playing, but whatever it was, Art wanted more. He returned to the diner regularly just to hear the music, music that he eventually learned was jazz from the radio hosts. Much to the disagreement of his father, Art began to play with more of a jazz influence. Bandmates of the time didn't fall in love with the music like him, so when he decided to leave his native home to explore the music that he fell in love with, it was no shock to his family. His father knew he could play because it was in his blood so he had no concerns about that, but he had hoped that Art would go back to playing calypso music. That wasn't Art's calling. Making his way from Trinidad to the English shores, all he had was the clothes on his back and his saxophone. There were times he went from job to job, woman to woman, dive home to another dive home but in the end, all he ever needed was his music. He remembered the days when he played to the sold-out crowds in the West End. Art was lot skinnier back then and his white tuxedo always looked baggy. The band of mainly Caribbean migrants wore the same as they played many nights throughout the seasons. Rain, sleet, snow and the sun, people flocked to hear to their music. Drinks flowed, people swayed and lovers romanced. The money was good and the lifestyle was infectious as Art rubbed shoulders with people who in different circumstances wouldn't pay him any attention. The conversations were trivial, but Art listened respectfully as they spouted out their opinions on music, art, politics or whatever drivel came out of their mouths. All the time he sat with a rum-based drink clenched between his hand and wondered how he was going to play that evening. Around this time, Art's father heard his music on a pirated radio broadcast back in the motherland. Being the perfectionist, he judged his tone and the way he annunciated certain notes when switching octaves. These long letters to Art only built-up frustration in him as a player. Although Art knew his father wasn't the greatest saxophone player in the world, not even the greatest in Trinidad, he still held his father's words in high regard. Any criticisms Art received, he felt determined to amend them. Sometimes he'd play until his mouth refused to work and his lips would bleed from the split reed. Sometimes when Art was in the presence of the band, instruments in hand and the crowd peering up at the stage, he would think dreadful thoughts such like 'I'm nowhere near as good as these men,' 'What if I accidentally hit the wrong note?'. The worst thought of all was: 'what if one day I won't be able to play anymore?' From then onwards, every night he performed he suffered from lightheadedness and heavy breathing like he thought he was going to die on some occasions. In those times the glass became his friend. After two or three drinks, Art felt more comfortable with his surroundings and almost forgot about the anxiety that always plagued him before shows. The crowd would never know and as long as he played something they could dance and romance too, they didn't care. He would often dream that his father would walk in on one of these shows to see him centre stage and give him a standing ovation. As time passed, he started to lose his passion for playing for the crowds at the West End. They smiled, they danced and even applauded, but after a while, he realised they never actually cared for the music. The band were all made to wear the same white tuxedos. The freedom he felt to express himself was slowly fading away. Art wondered if his band-mates felt the same. They looked happy enough, but inside were they as frustrated as he was. Most of them played with ease like they had been playing since they came out of their mother's womb, but half the time Art felt like an imposter, intruding on jazz. At one show, the great Coleman Hawkins attended, much to everyone's excitement. That afternoon before the show, Art practised like never before and started drinking early. An icon in their presence that made the rest of the band step up their performance but Art wasn't as sharp as he usually was. It was as if his dad was in his head, criticising his every finger movement, breathing technique and even his tone. The bandleader knew something was up and called him out. Art responded in a low tone "I'm trying. I guess my trying ain't good enough for you." Art calmly packed away his saxophone and walked out on the band that night and never to return to the venue. What felt like a lifetime to him, to others was a second. In the distance, he heard the crashing of a few cymbals and the light flicker of the piano. His eyes opened to a white light directly on him and dark silhouettes of people sitting in the distant. A black mist clouded his vision. He stumbled back, trying to find his balance clawing onto anything near. His bandmate, Ken Webb, stopped him from falling. Eventually, the mist cleared and he found himself looking at a stunned crowd. The piano, bass and drums were playing in sync. He watched as Ken stood beside him and placed the trumpet to his lips. The crowd half-heartedly cheered him as he stood back to let Ken play his solo. The show must go on. His heart fluttered as he felt his whole world crumble around him. Art felt his jaw, almost thinking that would help the stiffness. But he knew the truth. He was over. Finished. Fin. Finito. He looked around at his audience as they watched a fallen idol. He jumped off the stage and rushed through the crowd, his saxophone in the air. People stared in amazement as he ran past them, out of the front door and into the cold night. The faint sound of Webb and Art's band was all he could hear. Nothing in the street moved. In his solitude, he wiped the sweat from his head and sat down on the curb, placing the saxophone between his legs. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and swiped a match on the damp curb. It didn't light to Arts disappointment. Art took his horn and laid it on the concrete ground next to him. He held his head in his hand, staring at the cobbled streets with his unlit cigarette in his mouth. Trying to free his mind and remain calm, he heard the sound of someone running from the other side of the street. Gradually the footsteps got closer to him until they stopped right in front of him. "Need a light?" The voice spoke, similar to the patois of his native home. It was a voice he hadn't heard in a while and as his eyes left the floor, there stood a tall lanky figure in an all-white tuxedo with freshly shined shoes. He nodded, and the man in the tuxedo bent down and lit his cigarette. Art took one long drag and blew it in the air, purposefully ignoring the man and looking directly down the street. The man waited for a response but Art continued to take quick drags of his cigarette. "Take care." The man said in a soft and calm tone as he strolled down the dark street, his hands in his pockets. Art turned to watch him until he disappeared into the darkness of the night and felt remorseful of his interaction of him. Art kissed his teeth loudly and slouched between his legs. Art felt like something or someone was behind him but tried to ignore it. "Don't you know who that is, mister?" shouted a small dangerously skinny boy in excitement. "Why? Do you?" Art replied coldly. The boy's eyes lit up. "Do I! That's Joe 'The Breeze' Green! He's the best trumpet player there is!" "Oh he is, is he?" said Art, teasing the boy. "Yeah!" The boy squealed. "When have you heard The Breeze play then?" Art said in a patronising tone. The boy thought for a second. "I haven't Sir, but I heard he is." "Maybe." Art replied, with a small grin on his face. "He's never played here, I tell you that." Art removed the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the ground. "How old are you son?" He asked. "I'm eleven Sir. I'll be twelve in a week's time." "Shouldn't you be at home? It's late out here." "I ain't got a home." Art then locked eyes with the boy and noticed the dirty clothes that rested on his shoulders, the tattered trousers and the soles of his shoes that had withered. He felt bad that he had responded coldly to the boy, but he didn't let on. "You aren't even old enough to get into the place." Joked Art. "No, but, I can still hear it from out here." "How often to do you sit out here and listen to this music?" "Anytime I can sneak out." Art laughed a little and shook his head. "Where do you stay? You shouldn't be out here at the moment, who knows when those sirens are going to start sounding off." "I ain't going back to the orphanage." The boy said, standing back from Art. "Maybe go back before you get in trouble." Art replied. The boy shook his head and all was quiet for a moment. "What's your name, my boy?" Art said, trying to break the silence. "Riley." "Look Riley you aren't gonna' hear no Joe 'The Breeze' Green's in there. He's at the West End by now, playing to the people with money." "Why aren't you playing with him?" Asked Riley. Art thought for a second. "I used to play for those crowds, probably in that same tux." Riley, inquisitive as ever asked, "Then why stop?" "It's hard to explain." "Why?" Art's eyes rolled and he kissed the inside of his cheeks. "It's hard to talk about. And I doubt a ten-year-old would be able to understand." "I told you? I'm eleven, twelve in a week's time." "Oh," said Art. "Sorry about that." He was genuinely sorry. Riley walked over to Art while in his silence and sat down next to him on the side of the pavement. Riley saw Art's saxophone and began touching the scales. With a side-eye, Art noticed him. "What you doing?" Art asked in an authoritative tone, something reminiscent to his father. "Just seeing how it works, I ain't' never seen one up close before. Are you going back inside now mister?" "No....I'm done for the night." He said looking up at the black sky. "Look you better go back to the orphanage, it's not safe out here." "I don't want to. I wanna listen to music." "Look, boy, I'm trying to tell you, go home. It's not safe." Then as soon as he uttered those words, a loud shriek pierced their ear-drums. Without thinking Art jumped to his feet. Riley held his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound. Then there was roaring above them as two aeroplanes passed them. Red lights shined through the hinted blue clouds. Art pushed aside his saxophone and picked up Riley, holding him close into his chest. He ran for the club doors. As the entrance door slammed shut on itself, Art's saxophone laid on the pavement alone. Everyone turned as Art burst through the door with Riley snug in his arms. The crowd were huddled together, silent around the dance floor. Art sat down with Riley still in his arms and closed his eyes. He looked down at Riley who looked as frightened as everyone else and he thought of his father again. Art didn't have any children or any that he knew off, but he thought of the picture his mother sent him of his father and in his arms a young Art. The smile on his father's face was that of love and falling in love at once. Although he didn't pay much attention to much of the letter he then remembered the words from his mother: 'We show our love in different ways and he loved you so. He may not have shown it, but I know for certain he was proud of you and what you have done.' It was also at that point that Art realised that he left his saxophone behind, but this time it didn't bother him. Outside, an explosive rumble made everyone jump. A few people screamed and a few people even started to cry. There were a few more tremors, that but they were far away. After that, it was silent again. Everyone began staring at each other wondering if that was the end of it. Art stopped holding Riley tight. When Art saw him, his eyes were still closed and he still had his hands over his ears. Riley would never know that Art was just as scared he was. People slowly made their way outside. There was a strong smell of burning in the air and a layer of foggy smoke filled the street. With Riley still in the arms of Art, the street was untouched and his saxophone still on the curb. Questions of 'Was it a drill? Did they miss?' were mumbled around the group, but no-one knew. In the distance was the faint sound of fire trucks and ambulances sirens. Someone shouted "The show must go on!" but no-one wanted to carry on the party and they slowly made their way home. Ken Webb, walked up to Art and patted him on the shoulder and headed back into the club with the rest of the band to collected their things. The crowd weren't ready to risk a few more hours as sitting ducks to the Germans and dispersed quickly. Art and Riley watched as they went in different directions until it was just the two of them. He put the boy down. Art bent down to pick up his saxophone and held it at his side. Riley looked up to him in wonderment. Out of nowhere, a person ran from the other side of the street, covered in dust. He had on the same white tuxedo and shoes as Joe 'The Breeze' Green. He was screaming something, hard to understand at first. Art and Riley looked into his direction. "Help!" He repeatedly screamed until he passed them and down the street. "The Breeze..." Art whispered to himself. He looked to the floor and gently kicked the ground. "What's happened, mister?" "Not to worry little Riley." Art rubbed his face and, in his mind, pictured Joe 'The Breeze' Green. How he looked as he ran down the street, a mere 10 minute ago, full of life. "Riley. Would you please go home now? It's not safe out here." "I told you, I ain't got one mister." Art then placed the saxophone back onto his neckpiece, then turned to Riley; his eyes red. "Please go home, Riley." It was then Riley ran down the street and out of sight, leaving Art on his own. He placed both hands around the saxophone and began to play 'Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye.' He remembered the first time he performed it, and how the boys and girls coupled up on the dance floor. A married couple, cornered him one night and said they meet at his show and danced together for the first time to their rendition of that song. At the time it brought a tear Art's eyes because he felt like his playing meant something to someone. Surprisingly he remembered the whole song and all was going well until his cheeks failed him again. This time he didn't fight it. He stopped, unclipping the saxophone from his neckpiece and took one longing look at it. He placed it back on the curb and began to walk away. He heard the sound of tiny footsteps rushing up towards him. "Mister!" He turned to see Riley. "You left your saxophone." Art smiled at him, took off his neckpiece and walked over to little Riley. He handed the boy his neck strap and said, "It's yours now... An early birthday present. Take care, Riley." Riley looked shocked. He hesitantly picked up the saxophone, which was a bit too heavy for him and began to smile. "Thanks, mister," Riley shouted, watching the back of Art as he walked away from him. Art chuckled to himself and called out, "Call me Art." He slowly made his way down the empty street, leaving little Riley with his saxophone, down into the darkness, until he couldn't be seen any more.