It has been weeks. Weeks of searching. Weeks of squinting at people in bars, scanning their faces for the unmistakable glint of recognition when I drop a casual, “You ever listen to Coltrane?” Weeks of disappointment.
I was naive. I thought, perhaps, somewhere in this town, there might be a kindred spirit. A basement bar, hidden behind a curtain, where an old man clutches a drink in one hand and a beaten-up copy of Kind of Blue in the other. A record shop so small you have to squeeze between the shelves sideways, run by someone who frowns at you in a way that suggests they know more than you and resent you for it. A late-night café where a pianist, lost in his own thoughts, plays something soft and strange for a handful of insomniacs.
No. No such luck.
The closest I’ve come is Juan. Juan, who met my hopeful gaze with the enthusiasm of a man who once heard a trumpet in a film.
“Ah, sí. Louis Armstrong.”
I should have left it there. But hope is a terrible affliction.
“Yes, Juan. Louis Armstrong. And?”
He thought for a moment. “Glenn Miller?”
I experienced a brief, violent urge to throw myself into the sea.
“Anyone else?” I asked, against my better judgment.
Juan, looking very pleased with himself, leaned in conspiratorially. “Frank Sinatra.”
I took a long sip of my drink. I imagined a different life. One where I lived somewhere else. Somewhere with jazz. Somewhere where saying the words “Ornette Coleman” didn’t result in blank stares or, worse, polite nods of encouragement like I was a child showing off a drawing of a giraffe with six legs.
Miguel, the town’s self-proclaimed musical authority, wasn’t much better.
“Jazz is like flamenco,” he declared, tapping his temple like a man about to deliver wisdom that would change my life. “But worse.”
At this point, I briefly considered whether exile was still a thing that countries did.
But I have a plan. I have found, in a shop that sells things no one could possibly need, an old record player. It does not look reliable. It looks, in fact, as if it has spent the last twenty years dreaming of death. But I will buy it. I will take it home. I will place it by the window, and I will let Coltrane drift out into the streets. I will wait.
And if no one comes? Well. At least Antonio will have something new to complain about.
