Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [37]
“Tommy is my nephew,” Bernice Hungerford said quickly, holding out her hand. I shook it briefly, and then shook hands with her nephew. His expression was studiedly bored, but he was slightly nervous.
Mrs. Hungerford was a truly striking woman, now that I could see her under the bright lights of the dressing room. A white cashmere stole was draped over her left arm, and she clutched a gold-mesh evening bag in her left hand. Her burnt sienna eyes never left my face. I was amused by the scattering of freckles on her straight nose. The freckles on her face and bare shoulders belied her age sure enough.
With a straight face, Vernon said: “Mrs. Hungerford was very impressed by your concert, Mt Mansfield. When I told her that you had studied under Segovia in Seville for ten years, she said she could tell that you had by your intricate fretwork.”
Bernice Hungerford bobbed her head up and down delightedly and shook a teasing forefinger at me. “And I recognized the tone poem, too.” She winked and flashed a bright smile. Her teeth were small, but remarkably well matched and white. “You see, Mr. Mansfield,” she continued, “I know a few things about music. When I hear Bach, it doesn't make any difference if it's piano or guitar, I can recognize the style. That's what I told Mr. Vernon, didn't I, Lee?” The woman turned to the implacable Lee Vernon who was covering his drunkenness masterfully. Only the stiffness of his back gave him away.
“You certainly did, Bernice. But I had to tell her, Mr. Mansfield. She thought you were playing a Bach fugue, but it was a natural mistake. She didn't know that it was a special Albert Schweitzer composition written on a theme of Bach's. Quite a natural mistake, indeed.”
“If we don't get back to your guests, their throats will be dreadfully parched, Auntie dear,” Tommy said lazily. “We've been gone, you know, for the better part of an hour, and that's a long time just to refurbish the liquor supply.” The careless elisions of his voice were practiced, it seemed to me.
“But if we take Mt Mansfield back with us, we'll be forgiven.” Mrs. Hungerford patted her nephew's arm.
“I don't want to hold you up any longer, Mrs. Hungerford,” Vernon said. “Why don't you and Tommy wait in the package store. Your liquor is ready, and I'll do my best to bring Mr. Mansfield along in a minute. All right?”
“But you will persuade him, won't you?” Mrs. Hungerford said.
“I'll certainly try,” he replied cheerfully.
As soon as they had gone, Vernon closed the door, leaned against it and buried his face in his arms. His shoulders shook convulsively, and for a moment I thought he was crying. Then he let out a whoop of laughter, turned away from the door and sat down. Recovering, he wiped his streaming eyes with a forefinger and said, “I'm sorry, Frank, but the gag was too good to resist. When she started that talk about Bach and Segovia at the table, I had to go her one better. But it's a break for you. She has a few guests at her house, and only stopped by here to pick up some Scotch. I told her that she mustn't miss your performance, and when you came out with that tricky, weird chording and impressed her so much, I thought it might be a break for you. Anyway, the upshot is that she wants you to go home with her and play for her guests. Should be worth a twenty-dollar bill to you, at least.”
I shrugged into my corduroy jacket. All through the talk about Bach and Segovia I had thought they were attempting some kind of joke at my expense, but apparently Mrs. Hungerford actually believed I had studied under the old guitarist. Vernon had gone along with the gag, which was a break for me, although I detested the condescending sonofabitch. If she wanted to pay me twenty dollars I would accept it, play my three songs, and then get out of her house. I had already made up my mind not to return to the Chez Vernon. A final concert for a group of rich people who could afford to pay for it and wouldn't miss the money would