In his big, echoing loft, Cletus entertained her in a smart new hat pushed over his forehead and an old brown flannel bathrobe tied with a tassel. On Saturdays they listened to Gregorian chants, Brahms and jazz. Cletus read her poetry, Countee Cullen:

So I lie, who never quite

Safely sleep from rain at night—

She burst into tears. Cletus roared with laughter, flung his hat on the floor, jumping on it, swung her up from the partly eviscerated couch into which she had sunk while listening to him, and danced her around the room.

She went to a few parties where she met rich people. They weren’t Communists, Max explained, but they supported various organizations such as Spanish refugee aid groups. She wandered through beautiful silent rooms full of real paintings and leather furniture and bowls of fresh flowers. In the living room, Calvin Schmitter might be sitting bolt upright, at his feet the hostess in a long gown, gleaming up at him with factitious interest. “They only play,” Max said.

One of Cletus’s friends was a trumpeter named Melvin Johnson. His skin was black, his eyes were huge, his teeth were white and even. He was in the navy for a six-year hitch.

“Guess how old I am?” he asked Annie. “Thirty,” she said. He hooted with triumph. “Forty-three!”

He carried his trumpet around with him in its purple velvet case. Sometimes he took it out and fitted it together and blew a riff. He had an Italian woman friend whose husband was away in the army, stationed in the Philippines. He showed Annie her photograph. “Beautiful!” said Annie, looking at the somewhat blurred but opulent figure of a handsome middle-aged woman.

“Like me,” said Melvin.

He told her stories about the great jazz musicians. He’d been with Basie for a while. He’d played with different bands all over the country, even up north near Canada where your cheeks froze solid and you couldn’t hardly blow a note. He was just a little kid when he’d started working back down South in the hotels, bringing the men their whiskey and women. He loved the horses and, when he was in the money, used to spend all he had at the track. By some special magic, he was able to imitate the particular characteristics of famous racers. Gallant Fox was his favorite.

“See, he had those short little legs, up to here, you see?”—measuring on his own long legs—“and just when you thought he was dying on his feet, here he’d come!” And Melvin would gallop along the rail with his arms. “Look,” passing the first horse, “now, see!” passing the second, “and here he is!” racing past Annie’s shoulder, “winning!”