The invitation arrived by messenger. 5 p.m. Friday at 54 rue M, where New Year Eve is not just another day and where I gave the first Mrs. Jones her only Charleston lesson.
It is the most celebrated apartment in town, unless you count the Murphys’. The big living room with mirrored walls and angular white furniture looks much less austere filled with talented people. Mr. Jones waves me over from the piano bench; he shoos the cats (“Anything” and “Goes”) onto the zebra-skin rug, pats for me to sit down.
I can barely hear him over the room roar and cocktail-shaker rhythm section, but I just make out the words…“that black-and-white baby of mine.
As he whispers in my ear I can see the Senegal Matrimonial Masks hanging in the hall, apparently they didn’t make it to Oxfam after all.
Jazz captures the movement of the music and atmosphere of that very long weekend.
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