yet, perhaps you would care to join me. What do you say?”
I have forgotten to mention that I was in fact on my way into town for a meal at the time this never-to-be-forgotten incident occurred. So I assented readily to the proposal of this peculiar, unknown man. But first I needed to extricate myself—and my flash-light—from the stream; further, being soaked through, I required a change of clothing. Luckily I soon found the torch up-ended in the mud, and miraculously it was still shining. I scrambled up the bank, preceded by my host who was already marching off into the night and appeared to have made a most remarkable recovery.
“Look here!” I shouted after him, “I’m soaked to the skin: I must go home and change.”
“So am I,” he rejoined: “who cares?” Already he was halfway down the long flight of steps leading to the main road. There was nothing for it but to follow. I found it hard to keep up with him. He strode ahead at a furious pace.
“How on earth can you see where you’re going?” I ventured.
“Well obviously I can’t all the time,” came the equally obvious reply. “Papaw’s the stuff,” he added mysteriously.
Presently we came to a sign which bore the legend: Beggars’ Bush—Bar & Restaurant; and, not pausing for an instant, my companion darted up more steps and disappeared through the portal of the establishment. And I, paying no further mind to my sodden and dishevelled state, followed suit. Eventually, having tracked him down at the bar, I was more than ready to accept the glass of beer, freshly poured, that was thrust towards me at the instant of my arrival.
A couple of beers later, still dripping, we proceeded to the dining-room, where an excellent meal was served together with a first-rate bottle of wine. I remember we talked about this and that, most of it inconsequential, and I detected a certain reticence on the part of my new-found companion to declare anything at all concerning himself, beyond the fact of his first name being Hector and that he was in Bah for a brief sojourn in the course of a world tour. It was his intention to visit some of the Indonesian islands lying to the east of Bah, before going to Australia; but he was in no hurry, ungoverned by ordered time-table or itinerary. The only other thing one could point to with certainty was that he was unmistakably British. More accurately, he was what some chroniclers and librettists refer to as an Englishman.
During the course of our conversation, he let it be known that he had been born, more by accident than by design, in England where he had also been brought up and educated. Evidently he had spent little enough time there subsequently, although his family still possessed a crumbling pile of masonry surrounded by a park, somewhere in East Anglia. As for himself, he had no ties and owned nothing, he maintained: all he demanded was freedom of movement and the right of access. When I asked Hector what he did for a living, I was made immediately aware that I had committed a gross impertinence.
“I am not a businessman,” was all he would vouchsafe to me.
How shall I describe him physically? I am not adept in conjuring up mental images of people. In Hector’s case the difficulty is compounded by a universality of physiognomy, rendered all the more indistinct by a lack of irregularity and an unfailing blandness in manner. If there was one feature that could be considered arresting, it was his eyes, which were narrowly set and powerfully intent, and which ranged according to mood from penetrating gray to a mild fulvous brown. His face, clear-cut and clean-shaven, was thin; his skin pale, yet habitually tanned by the sun. His fairish hair he wore unfashionably short, parted high on the left side, one stray lock invariably falling across jutting furrowed brow.
Like Hector of yore, tamer of horses, he bore an immemorial look.
Chapter II
Hector
IT WAS NOT SO MUCH the circumstances of my introduction to Hector as the sheer presence of the man that made such an indelible impression on me. Nowadays one refers to so-and-so as having charisma, usually someone in the limelight, such as a pop-star or politician, most of whom would seem to attract a captive band of adherents, and must therefore have and exercise this quality to some degree, whatever it may be. I am unsure of the term, and its currency is far from precise. I tend to think that the aura attending the person of Hector was more peculiar and elusive, if not unique; and I was not alone in appreciating and being affected by it. To put it plainly, I would say he was a genius, which handle may be seldom employed and must be treated both circumspectly and advisedly. There is no doubt that he had a singular talent for causing one to gasp and stretch one’s eyes that predisposed him to popular acclaim; but he was not in any sense an exhibitionist. Furthermore, his tutelary spirit, albeit beyond belief benign, was apt to lead him astray on occasion.
I could also have mentioned that other attribute by which he excelled, as catalyst—catalyst in the sense of bringing people together quite haphazardly in certain situations, if not actually working any fundamental change in the individual or collective psyche.
It was this latter quality that became apparent the very evening of my involuntary immersion in the stream. For I noticed during our dinner that a number of guests exchanged civilities with Hector or nodded in his direction. And afterwards when we adjourned to the bar, it seemed to me that he attracted quite a crowd around him: it was not as if he in any way physically compelled their presence, or even actively encouraged or acquiesced in it. They simply happened to be there; and, as I recall, a good time was had by all.
As we chatted in the snuggery, I also had occasion to observe that Hector was a more than competent linguist. He spoke rapidly and (to me) unintelligibly in fluent Spanish and French to those who expressed these languages as their mother tongues, and he owned more than a smattering of the local lingo, which could be inferred from his frequent and summary demands of the barman. The promptest service was preceded by only the one request.
He displayed also a considerable knowledge of music, most notably of the vintage jazz that regaled us for the best part of the evening, played, I might add, on an ancient gramophone at the behest of the landlord, another Englishman with whom Hector evidently enjoyed more than a nodding acquaintanceship. But the highlight of the proceedings was unquestionably the musical performance of which Hector himself was the author.
The establishment boasted a battered old upright piano. Now it is axiomatic that whenever a piano is installed in a public place, there will be a host of budding musicians and others imbued with artistic pretensions to play it.
For an appreciable while, some fellow had been plinking ineffectually, if unobtrusively, in the background, trying to follow the recorded orchestrations relayed by the gramophone. At length he gave up and resumed his seat by the bar, an air of resignation defined by his every movement. It had been a hard act to follow. We were listening to the first Victor recordings, cut in 1926, of Jelly Roll Morton and his Red Hot Peppers, intricate ensemble music, punctuated by breathtaking breaks, and played by New Orleans musicians in the grand New Orleans manner.
There came a lull in the programme provided by our publican. At the time I was deep in conversation with a Canadian couple whom I had met previously, and who, like me, professed a keen interest in birds. I was only dimly aware that the music had stopped, and then started up again. Unmistakably, it was still Jelly Roll at the keyboard, but this time in solo performance. I could claim a certain familiarity with both the composition and its rendering, for I had always been a Morton fan and kept practically all his discs in my own collection.
Yet I detected a subtle difference in timbre and execution, which struck me as odd; indeed so odd that I thought I would make mention of my discovery to Hector. On turning to address him, I found his seat vacant. And then I had the shock of my life, for I saw in one blinding flash of recognition that, quite unbeknown to me, Hector had exchanged bar-stool for piano-stool: it was he, not Morton, who was now the founder of the feast.
To say that I was entranced would be to understate the case. I passed the rest of that soiree in a state of total exaltation. He played beautifully, and, I must say, with great originality. His was no slavish imitation; everything he performed was his own highly individual interpretation. Apart from one or two numbers derived from other jazz masters, it was mostly Morton; but there