The alarm clock rang at eight sharp. I cursed this damned punctual tin can and then, forcing my eyes open, stared lifelessly into the empty whiteness of the ceiling. I knew I had to make myself get up, I definitely had to\u00e2\u20ac\u201dsince I had promised Valery, Val, my best friend, to help him with the repairs on his can, an ancient “Moskvitch.” I raised my hands, palms gripping an imaginary gymnastic bar, a habitual exercise, and then\u00e2\u20ac\u201dwrithing and groaning\u00e2\u20ac\u201dstruggled to pull myself up, but every time, after each painful effort, my hands\u00e2\u20ac\u201dwith this imaginary bar\u00e2\u20ac\u201dended by falling back heavily on my chest. To anyone watching, it would all have looked funny and even idiotic. But there was no one to disturb my romping around as I fought against this stubborn ghostly bar. Another series of jerks\u00e2\u20ac\u201dhands, legs, body almost in a knot\u00e2\u20ac\u201dand a mighty spring inside me threw my body and soul out of the bed.<\/p>\n
The outside door shut, leaving behind me the wet darkness of the entrance hall, and I was immediately immersed in the warmth and bright light of the summer morning that had enveloped the city. Val lived in an apartment block not far away, on the bank of the Yauza river, a tributary of the Moskva. I set off beside the cast-iron parapet of the embankment. The river ran by, its murky waters patterned with oily stains rushing towards its estuary.”\u00a0In the courtyard, by his father\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s old crate, a Moskvitch, stood young Val. His early bald patch made him look much older than I, though we were the same age.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u02dcWell, Val, let\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s get started, we haven\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t much time. Got a date at four,\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 I said.<\/p>\n
I lifted the car with a jack, spread a mat under it and crawled on my back to take off the gear-box. Everything in this jalopy was greasy, dirty, everything leaked and dripped. Moreover, it appeared that the clutch was broken, too. Curses and groans accompanied my superhuman efforts to undo the rusted bolts and nuts as I gradually managed to make some progress. Then, at last, the gear-box was free. (1)In the early Sixties, when these events took place, as well as in the earlier period, the Soviet regime did not favour this kind of music, so young jazz lovers usually listened to the nightly jazz programmes on the BBC or the Voice of America.<\/span><\/p>\n The pianist played an ornate, lacy melody evoking associations with Bach\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s themes. Absolutely precise phrases, each in its proper place, lined up in a polyphonic series, mutually complementing and merging into one intriguing and enchanting tune. A saxophone entered with a beautiful mellow shave joining the current of piano tones, and followed them with improvisation full of trilling drive and then, solo, building up an airy crystal-clear edifice of sounds.<\/p>\n I crept out from under the car. Val gazed at me inquiringly.<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcWhat \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcs the matter? Need something?\u00e2\u20ac\u2122<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcNo. Yes. I need to know, where that music\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s coming from.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcFrom Zhorka\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s flat. See that window on the second floor? He must be drinking now, I reckon, is Zhorka. When he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s had a couple he usually puts his tape-recorder on to max.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122<\/p>\n Dirty and messy as I was I set off in the direction which Val had shown me and, stopping under the window, looked up. The alto sax went on weaving its intricate and, at the same time, simple and melodious pattern. It seemed as though this music was spiralling high up, I could visualise it clearly – winding higher and higher, into the skies. Heavenly music. But who was playing it?<\/p>\n My legs carried me to the front door drawn by the sound, which was getting stronger as I approached. Poor neighbours, they must hate this Zhorka, and his jazz. Second floor. Volume at full. White button of the doorbell. I looked at my hands, covered in grease, then at the shining whiteness of the button, and cautiously pressed it with my nail. The recorder, at top volume, seemed about to explode, and hardly anybody could hear my short, shy ringing over the music. Then I resolutely pressed my dirty finger on this virgin white button again. At last, the door opened. On the threshold, in the twilight of the hallway, stood a lad in a white T-shirt. His round face gleamed red \u00e2\u20ac\u201c with booze and with the joy of life reigning over these premises. His small round eyes beamed tipsy good humour and his lips sported an amicable smile.<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcWho\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s this, Snow-white?!\u00e2\u20ac\u02dc he said. \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcSnouu-wahy-tie, Snouu-wahy-tie!\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 he kept repeating, choking with laughter and rejoicing at his own joke. Exhausted with laughing, he stared at me again, and asked:<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcWho are you? And why are you so dirty? What do you want?\u00e2\u20ac\u2122<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcI want to know what music that is, and who\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s playing?\u00e2\u20ac\u2122<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcAh, that\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s it. C\u00e2\u20ac\u2122min then, Snow-whitie,\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 he said again collapsing with laughter.<\/p>\n I stepped forward into the room with the roaring recorder, I saw sheets of music paper and copies of American magazines scattered over the piano, an exquisite candlestick , a big decanter and glasses on a coffee table, and a Himalayan mass of empty bottles in the corner.<\/p>\n
\nIt was at this moment, that I suddenly heard the music \u00e2\u20ac\u201c mysterious and unfamiliar. It was jazz, I knew, jazz I loved so much, as I used to spend nights listening to it on my short-wave radio (1)<\/strong><\/span>. The music I was hearing now sounded, however, absolutely new to me.<\/p>\n
![\"Russian](\"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/rifftides\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/12\/Russian-Story-illustration.jpg\")
<\/a>\u00e2\u20ac\u02dcMy name\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Zhorka. Want a drink?\u00e2\u20ac\u2122<\/p>\n