The van was the best the Band could afford. For the Band was no wealthier than the sum of its members. How could it be? Its sound was New Orleans Revival with a touch of folk: it was out of fashion and therefore out of pocket: it was glad enough often enough to play and sing for its supper and no more.
The name of the band was the Citronella Jumpers. Acid green stickers and posters covered the battered sides of the yellow van. ‘Revive with the revivers’, they begged, a mysterious enough message in its native England: incomprehensible here in France.
The gig was Karl’s. That is to say, he it was who had been approached to join the Festival, offered free accommodation and subsistence by Monsieur le Directeur, in return for entertaining the entertainers at the Folklorique of Blasimon-les-Ponts. Karl’s sister was Monsieur le Directeur’s aunt. Karl had a hearing aid: he was a Marxist, and had been to Eton. But Jack was musical director; Jack was leader of the Band. Jack chose the numbers, beat in the time, kept musical discipline – but it was Karl’s gig. That is to say, the moral responsibility for our being in France was Karl’s, and Karl’s alone. When things went wrong, Jack shrugged; I loved him the more for his insouciance. I, who was in the habit of organising, taking responsibility; who know that to make money you must spend money, who would in a trice have invested in a new van and reprinted the posters and required Monsieur le Directeur to pay for them, who would have written out a schedule daily and had the Festival Office xerox it free, so that all the Band met up at the same time at the same place; who would have consulted maps before we set out, thus saving at least five driving hours of our journey, who would have had in writing the terms of our contract and presented them to each of the Band and made sure all understood them before setting out; who would have ensured that our accommodation was not in a disused town hall twenty kilometres from the Festival centre, who would have named as drivers for the purposes of insurance the two Band members who drank least and not the two who drank most – I did none of these things. I shrugged like Jack and twined my limbs with his, and thought who cares? What has efficiency to do with music? Art and efficiency are at odds. The worse the Band was organised, the better the Band would play. Jack said so. Jack knew how to live. I could feel the life of his body in mine; how could I doubt it? Besides, I loved him.
Now let my story begin. For three days we journeyed. For four days we had stayed at the disused town hall, the Hôtel de Ville of the village of Roc Fumel, twenty kilometres from the town of Blasimon-les-Ponts, where the Band played by day in the cafés and in the market square; and by night in the Cabaret – when it could get itself together that is. And for eight nights and seven days my mind had been held caught, captive, stopped like a video with the pause button pressed. On the ninth night, for some reason, it started up again, busier than ever.
For some reason, I say, but in my heart I knew why, though I resisted the knowledge. My disguise had been penetrated. Jack knew. Sandra the secretary had become Starlady Sandra, and love was no longer enough: she needed all her wits about her, yet again.