The King of Ragtime Read Free Page B

auntie, she be the one tell me about Mr. Europe, and you know who
she
get it from? Mr. Scott Joplin’s missus, no other. Joplins live right nearby, and Miz Joplin sometimes buy groceries at my uncle and auntie’s. You ever meet Scott Joplin?”
    Blake took a deep breath. “Oh, I heard Joplin play a couple times.”
    Dubie’s eyes were like lanterns. “You ever hear him play ‘Maple Leaf?’ People in Sedalia, they still say hearing Scott Joplin play ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ was like hearing Gabriel blow his horn on the Judgment Day.”
    “Some men get to be more in remembrance than they ever was in life,” Blake said. “Fact is, there was lots better players than Scott Joplin, but never a composer could touch him. Scott Joplin is the King of Ragtime. He says it himself, and it’s truth.”
    Dubie flashed a look like a six-year-old whose mother had just walked out of the kitchen and left cookies on the table to cool. “But all the newspapers say Mr. Irving Berlin be the King of Ragtime.”
    The boy burst into hilarious laughter, but stopped on a dime at the sight of Blake’s face. “I’ll tell you, and I’ll tell you true,” Blake said. “No one ever lived on this earth, had ragtime in his soul like Scott Joplin. There were plenty of rags before ‘Maple Leaf,’ but it was ‘Maple Leaf’ and Scott Joplin, put ragtime on the map.”
    A thought crossed Blake’s mind; he stopped, considered, then decided to come out with it. “All right, here’s something for you. If you want to take your tunes to the very top, go see Irving Berlin. I used to play at the Boathouse in Atlantic City, and Mr. Berlin would stop by, Lord, those pointy bright-yellow shoes he always had on.” Blake shook his head. “He’d holler, “Play my song for me, Eubie, you know which one. So I’d play ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ for him. That man can’t even play piano himself, and his music ain’t in any way ragtime, but oh my, how he does know just exactly what people want. Give him a few years, and mark my word, he’s gonna be the biggest composer
and
publisher in the whole country, never mind just in New York. You want me to write down his address for you?”
    Dubie, open-mouthed, and, for once, silent, nodded.
    Blake pulled a blank music sheet from his pile, picked up his pencil, and wrote, in heavy block capitals, WATERSON, BERLIN, AND SNYDER. STRAND THEATRE BUILDING, BROADWAY AND 47 TH STREET . Then he gave the paper to Dubie, who smiled, folded it, stuck it into his shirt pocket along with James Reese Europe’s address. The kid’s smile grew into a full-faced grin. “I’m sure on my way, now, Mr. Blake. Not very long, an’ you gonna be playin’
my
tunes for people.”
    Eubie Blake smiled. “Good luck, boy.”
    ***
    Five o’ clock. The young couple hurried out of the office, skipped down the stairs, through the door, and out into the swirling, boiling mob on the sidewalk. The girl reached for the boy’s arm, then grasped his hand instead. The crowd pressed them together; he felt the softness of her breast against his elbow. His heart leaped, and he stopped walking to admire the treasure at his side. Full lips, neatly painted, flashed him a smile of expectation. Warmth beamed from wide brown eyes. She was beet-cheeked, breathing heavily from the heat of the day, and maybe more. The boy grabbed her by the arms, pulled her to him, and planted a hard kiss on her mouth.
    She quickly pulled away. “Martin, not out here on the street, with everybody watching.” But she was still smiling.
    “Where else, then? We have no place we can go.”
    “We will.”
    A fragment of a tune ran through Martin’s mind. ‘Oh, tell me how long…do I have to wait. Why can’t I get you now? Why must I hesitate?’ Hesitation Blues was what he had, all right. But the piano tune reminded him of his appointment; he put his hand to the girl’s back, started steering her along the sidewalk. “Come on, we don’t have much time. I have to