Date: Mon, 10 Jun 2002 20:11:59 +0100 (BST) From: ben erikson Subject: The Bergman Files Nr3 Chapter 1 The Bergman Files: Nr 3. The Gospel According to Luke or Pithecanthropus Erectus Chapter 1 He smiled at me shyly then grinned, looking me straight in the eye. What you lookin' at, angel? Listen, you weren't there, right? I say he did. And he was. An angel. And he smiled. Smiled at me. The halo round his head tilted strangely round his dark curls and he held his mouth half open, his teeth big and white. He was about 11 years old and already spinning round in the grip of a big brother or friend, 14 or so who dragged at him from behind in play, a strong forearm snaking round the younger boys neck, tugging at the T-shirt, making it ride upwards revealing a tight belly, a small navel, a scar. That's when he smiled at me. He thrust his hands down the front of his combat pants and made them bulge outwards round his waist, maybe giving his playmate a glimpse down his front. The waistband of his white briefs flashed me a grin and the older boy whispered something in his ear, made him pant with laughter, struggle uselessly in his grip. They could have fallen together except they didn't. Just one boy bracing his tight ass into the crotch of another and wriggling free as a bird, a butterfly. The older boy turning tidal. What I'd taken for a spinning halo was a dazzling white skull-cap, the details of its fine embroidery clear as tiny scars on a white belly. I was a still as high as a kite on the grass I'd shared with Jello back at his stinking rooming house, higher still to be back in the old neighbourhood. Malcolm X Blvd. Up near the Shabbaz Mosque. How did I get here? Retracing my steps from long lifetimes ago, my years on the beat; the double beat of bass drums, a beating of angel wings; my heart. The multiple meanings flying like subway trains across the beaten grass of Marcus Garvey Park. Shit, that stuff was strong. But I had a schedule to keep here; people to meet, all that. I had to blink into the spinning sun to get my head straight, found myself watching its fall between the high-rise tenements, its turning to a plain white cap at evening, embroidered by the chilly clouds of city lights, pollution. Now it's night. I walk through the hallway and look out over Harlem River Drive and think of Maddy. Think of those black kids cavorting by the mosque. Think of Jello and Kirk. Think of little Luke. Think of anything to put off knocking on that door. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the hammer I'd taken off Jello. You could do a lot of damage with a tool like this, you do it right. I weighed it in my hand and thought of that a while, thought briefly about the life of a carpenter, how that might be. Then I put it back again and turned to face the final flight of stairs that would lead me upwards to Kirk's apartment. ********************************************************* Listen up. You'll need to know this bit. Ready? OK. Kirk was Matty's second husband; she was now on husband number three by the way but that bit's not important. Don't even know why I mentioned it. Jello was number one. That's the important bit. When he married her, Jello that is, in 1976, she was 16 years old, a sparky, punky young girl fresh out of a Paris suburb and in love. In love with the whole new beatnik scene - and ready to rebel against whatever you got, just like in the movies. That James Dean's got a lot to answer for - or was it Marlon? Jello was 12 years older - a whole lot of years when your only 16. Anyway, he was back in New York after years in Europe - Paris mostly - his local legend already forgotten with the rise and fall of musical styles, known only to the kind of fans who memorised the catalog numbers of his most obscure LP's. He'd already been a heroin addict, done time for minor infractions of local law in three countries and spent two spells under psychiatric observation. He was 28 years old. He'd famously been deported from Sweden after walking onstage in the middle of a set by Anita O'Day, his mother's age at least. They loved it that he'd brought his horn along, would have preferred it if he hadn't been stark naked. Anita, to her eternal credit, loved it madly, tried to get the charges dropped and joked about it once on NBC before the whole episode was relegated to sad, uncool mythology. So basically, for all his charm, his rogue cool, his genuine claims to be a player, Jello Hawkins was on the way out. History. Kirk was his way back. And at first he was. Kirk was his discovery. A young and punky kid - about Matty's age as it happened - who played the tenor sax like Wayne Shorter on LSD. Think about it. You'd like it if you ever heard him, believe me. Check him out you get the chance. Guess what happened? Anyways once Matty had run off with Kirk and the two of them had fucked each other stupid a while and had Luke and got married and split up and got back together again and then split for good and Matty was in rehab and Kirk had custody and Jello had simply disappeared off the scene and taken various turns for the worse and ceased even to be a good informant, which, God help me, was how I thought of him in those days, and I was basically left standing there like a prick, caught in the middle as usual...then...then what? You know what? I can't even fucking remember. Maybe that spliff I shared with Jello's got me all confused. Sorry. I'm not usually like this. But this is personal, you know? Real personal. Like it is with people you love. And believe me, I loved them all. Jello, Kirk and Matty of course. Who couldn't love her. Oh yeah, and Luke. Little Luke. Beautiful Luke. I took one deep breath and knocked on the door three times. To be continued...