<0001. Band Meeting> <0002. Welcome to New Orleans>

〈0001. Band Meeting〉

December 23, 2024. Evening. A small club somewhere in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

The three women let out long sighs as they trudged into the musicians’ greenroom.

The stale smell of cigarettes had seeped into the room, and the wallpaper was yellow with age. On the table in the center lay a bourbon glass with all the ice melted, a crumpled set list, the business card of the session drummer who had just played with them, and a paper napkin with the session bassist’s contact information scribbled on it.

The creaking metal chairs were old enough to have been thrown out years ago.

Lydia Coleman collapsed into one of them and immediately rummaged through her bag for her vape. Katty Fisher retrieved hers from a corner of her trumpet’s hard case. Louise St.Claire, the only nonsmoker among them, took a couple of steps back.

Lydia drew deeply from her vape, then slowly exhaled the vapor. Katty puffed away at hers like a baby working at a bottle.

She blew out a long, cloudlike stream.

“Why did I even bother quitting smoking? Now I just suck on this thing like an addict instead of smoking cigarettes.”

Lydia answered with a faint smirk.

“…You and I are both nicotine addicts. At least we cough less since switching to these.”

From the corner of the greenroom, Louise exhaled a sigh instead of vapor.

“The tempo got away from us again tonight.”

A silence followed. Lydia spoke quietly.

“I know.”

“The drummer kept rushing from the second tune onward.”

Louise’s voice was calm, but fatigue lay beneath it.

“The bassist followed him, and Katty kept pushing and pulling according to her own phrasing. I had to repeat the left-hand riff just to hold the rhythm together.”

Katty shrugged.

“But the gig didn’t fall apart.”

“No. It didn’t.”

Louise paused, slowly spreading and closing her fingers.

“But we can’t keep doing this. My left hand has its limits. I want to play the piano, not serve as a drum machine.”

Lydia set down her vape and remained silent for a while.

“Should we hire more expensive session players?”

Katty immediately shook her head.

“No. The guys we brought in tonight could play.”

Louise nodded as well.

“Their ability isn’t the problem. The problem is, no matter whom we call…”

She looked down at the crumpled set list on the table.

“They never blend with us. Everyone has their own convictions and their own established style.”

It was a problem all three of them understood.

Silence settled over the greenroom once again.

Katty took the vape from her mouth and muttered,

“It’d be nice if we could solve the drum and bass problems at the same time, but finding two people at once would be even harder.”

Lydia nodded.

“Let’s make at least one position permanent. If we have one of our own in the rhythm section, we’ll be better off than we are now, even if we keep using session drummers.”

Louise thought for a moment before agreeing.

“Then we should fill the bass position first. We need someone who can hold the center between the piano and the drums.”

“They need the chops, obviously, but they can’t insist on playing everything their own way. We need someone who can blend with us.”

The words left Lydia like another sigh.

Katty scratched vigorously at her white hair, then looked back and forth between Lydia and Louise.

“…Liddy. Lou.”

Lydia looked up.

“Yeah?”

Louise turned toward Katty as well.

“Yes?”

Katty took another pull from her vape before speaking.

“I have an older brother.”

Louise’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly.

“…You have a brother?”

“We were raised practically as strangers.”

Katty said it as if it were nothing, though the end of the sentence came out just a little dry.

“But apparently he’s a professor teaching jazz bass at Berklee now.”

Lydia slowly leaned forward.

“Can a professor who teaches kids at a music school join our band? No, wait. If he’s at that level, wouldn’t he be pretty set in his ways?”

“No.”

Katty gave a crooked smile.

“I don’t want to play in a band with my own brother. But I can ask him if he knows any promising kids, can’t I?”

“Someone young with the skills, but who won’t insist on doing everything their own way?”

When Lydia put it that way, Katty clapped her hands.

“Exactly.”

A short distance away, Louise sank into thought.

“…If they’re a Berklee student, will they be able to come all the way down here to New Orleans so easily?”

〈0002. Welcome to New Orleans〉

Friday, January 10, 2025.

Cynthia Lenosky stepped outside the domestic terminal at Louis Armstrong International Airport and saw that the asphalt roadway in front of the terminal was wet. When she looked up, low gray clouds covered the sky.

Come to think of it, they said it rained this morning. Rain instead of snow… I really am in the South.

Cynthia squared her shoulders and slowly breathed in the air of the unfamiliar city.

It was damp, but it was not mild. A nearby digital sign displayed the temperature in both units: 10°C and 50°F.

A northwesterly wind happened to be blowing as well, making the weather feel fairly chilly even to Cynthia, who had just arrived from New York.

It’s winter, but the air is wet.

The air in Brooklyn had been cold and dry when she left that morning. Here, however, the winter air of New Orleans carried a cold dampness. Faint traces of wet concrete, automobile exhaust, rain-soaked soil, and vegetation mingled together.

It feels like late autumn in New York after rain.

With the gig bag containing her bass guitar slung over one shoulder and an Eastpak backpack holding a few personal belongings clutched against her chest, Cynthia looked around.

Then she suddenly found herself looking straight at the woman who had said she would come to pick her up: Katty Fisher.

Cynthia’s eyes widened.

In the pale light reflected from the wet pavement, Katty looked slightly unreal, beautiful in the way of a character from an anime or a video game. A long, slender frame. Warm tea-brown skin. White hair bleached to a nearly matte finish. Even her indifferent, rough-edged military look could not entirely conceal her beauty.

Katty was holding a piece of corrugated cardboard, probably torn from a supermarket box. Written across it in crooked black marker were the words:

MISS CYNTHIA LENOSKY

When their eyes met, Katty folded the cardboard halfway and spoke.

“Hey. You’re Cynthia Lenosky, right?”

Cynthia hesitated, then cautiously bowed her head.

“Hello…”

“I’m Katty Fisher. Trumpet. Where’s your luggage?”

“This, and my instrument.”

“I’ll take it.”

Before Cynthia could decline, Katty hoisted the bass gig bag as if it weighed nothing.

“The car’s in the parking lot. This way.”

With that, Katty strode ahead.

Cynthia followed her, still holding the backpack against her chest.

A short while later, they entered the short-term parking area. Cynthia spotted Katty’s car and tilted her head.

The round little dark green vintage car was as small as a toy.

“…It’s… smaller than I expected.”

“Classic Fiat 500.”

Despite its age, the car was spotless. The chrome bumpers gleamed almost strangely. It had clearly been cherished for a long time.

Katty opened the passenger-side door for her. For a moment, Cynthia wondered if the door was broken. Then she took a closer look.

“This door… opens the opposite way from other cars?”

“The hinges are mounted on the other side, see? They call it a suicide door.”

“…That sounds a little frightening.”

Cynthia carefully folded herself into the passenger seat.

Katty wedged the bass gig bag diagonally into the cramped back seat.

Once the door closed, Cynthia caught a faint mixture of old leather, gasoline, and cheap air freshener.

Katty inserted the key and turned it. The engine shuddered awake with a rattle.

“You’re not scared, are you? Some people get nervous around old cars.”

The Fiat hummed and trembled its way out of the parking lot, then crawled onto the road.

Cynthia looked out the window.

Purple, green, and gold fabric decorations hung here and there along the streets.

Something resembling the unfinished frame of a parade float stood outside a warehouse.

A Ford Transit van was parked by the roadside. Men and women, young and old, were unloading brass instruments from it—tubas, trombones, and others. They were members of a brass band.

Cynthia watched them through the window and murmured,

“…The whole city feels excited.”

Katty turned the wheel with one hand and gave a quiet laugh.

“Mardi Gras season’s starting. It’ll get a whole lot crazier in February.”

“And I can feel the humidity even though it’s winter.”

“Summer goes completely insane. We walk in da soup every summer.”

Cynthia looked at Katty.

“Ms. Fisher. You’re joking…”

Katty flicked the Fiat’s steering wheel around with one hand and laughed.

“Not kidding! I mean it!”

Damp air blew in through the window.

Cynthia turned back to the passing city.

Purple fabric decorations hung from building after building.

Inside the open door of a bar, people were drinking beer even though it was still daytime.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a brass band rehearsing echoed through the streets.

Katty winked.

“Welcome to New Orleans.”