Free A Good American by Alex George Page B

caused him to hesitate now. He had never seen a black face inside the Nick-Nack, and he supposed that there must be a good reason for that. He gazed down at the man’s shoe, and thought fast. After the generous welcome he had received in this town, the least he could do was to offer the same to another, now that he was in a position to do so. He glanced over at the piano in the far corner of the room. It had remained beneath its blanket since the day he had arrived.
    Nobody would complain about a little music.
    Frederick looked down and saw the man’s toe twitch. He opened the door.
    The Negro stepped into the room and looked around him, apparently untroubled by the silent standoff that had just ended. “Let’s see this piano, then,” he said cheerfully.
    The two men rolled the piano into the middle of the room. Frederick removed the tarpaulin. The instrument’s panels were decorated with elegant marquetry. The ivory keys had yellowed with age. The stranger extended his right index finger and pressed down on a key. The note echoed through the room.
    The man took off his hat and drew up a chair from the table behind him. His feet could barely touch the pedals. “Name’s William Henry Harris,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    Before Frederick could respond, the man began to play.
    For the next hour Frederick listened, the broom forgotten in his hands. William Henry Harris played that piano as if his life depended on it. Without a note of music in front of him, he delivered languid anthems, shimmering with funereal grace; stately marches, their formal pomp subverted by sharp syncopation; and breezy romps, melodic lines prancing onward, as light as air. Frederick watched as the man’s fingers danced across the keys. His right hand spun each melody out of the air and simultaneously constructed around it a gorgeous confection of harmony. His left hand steamed up and down, pounding out a rumbling bass counterpoint. The piano, unplayed for so long, emitted the odd sour note of protest, but nothing could dilute the beauty of the music. Even the faster numbers were shrouded in mournful dignity—what some were already calling the blues. A cracked holler of remorse lingered in the echo of each note.
    Frederick didn’t know it then, but this was his first encounter with ragtime, Missouri’s greatest gift to American music (although there are some who might argue that Charlie Parker, flying the coop of Kansas City and touching down on New York’s Fifty-seventh Street to ignite bebop’s flame, had a stronger claim). Scott Joplin was in Sedalia, Missouri, flush with the success of “Maple Leaf Rag,” and playing like a man possessed. William “Blind” Boone had cut his chops in the whorehouses of the tenderloin district in St. Louis, and now was pulling in large crowds across the state, stomping and wailing long into the night. Everyone was crazy for that syncopated style! The pebble had been dropped in Missouri, and the music, bright-eyed and restless, was slowly rippling outward toward the flame-bearers on the coasts, who would take that new rhythm and make it
swing
. Frederick stood mesmerized as William Henry Harris redrew his musical map. He had not moved when Polk came in through the back door of the tavern. The old barman came and stood silently next to Frederick as Harris continued to play.
    Finally Polk spoke. “Who’s the nigger?” he asked.
    Frederick frowned. “This gentleman, Polk, is tonight’s entertainment.”
    P olk did his best to make Frederick change his mind. Men wouldn’t want to be disturbed by a piano-playing midget, he protested. Frederick refused to listen. The music had put him beyond reason. He was determined to see William Henry Harris play. They agreed on a modest fee, and with a tip of his hat, the Negro disappeared, promising to return that evening.
    That afternoon, Polk anxiously drank himself into oblivion in record time. He was already sleeping peacefully on the