The cover of a book may have very little to do with the actual content that lies beneath it. Indeed sometimes it’s the cover, rather than the pages inside, that truly tells the story.
Bernard lovingly held onto the new lady, posing her in the gas station window so I could get a good look at her. My friend truly loved only three things in life — whiskey, women and fiddle music — and he lived every moment of his life with a passionate thirst for all of them.
Anybody could see how much he treasured her, how proud he was to show her off. There was plenty to be proud of: She wore a one-piece bathing suit that drew all eyes to her long-chorus-girl legs as they tapered down to her fine-high-heel-clad ankles; her blue eyes smiled like they wanted to be more than just friends and the rhinestone headband she wore in her hair sparkled above her blonde curls. This girl was a knockout. I stepped through the door to get a closer look.
Her beauty seemed like it belonged in another time and, for sure, in another place. I was mystified why someone with her looks and class would be hanging around a gas station in a town like Reserve, New Mexico. I mean, even though it was the county seat and all, it was just not what you’d call a booming metropolis; it was more of a two bars, one jail, no stoplight kind of a town. In fact, the height of culture for miles around was the annual fiddle contest at the fairgrounds, Saturday jackpot ropings at Sam Trujillo’s place and the daily drama that played out at Uncle Bill’s Bar across the street.
“This is Jole,” he said by way of introduction, crowing and crackling the way he did when he was excited about something. “Jole Blon.” He said it boisterously, as if he was introducing her to a sold out house at the Grand Ole Opry. Wrapping his arm around her he strutted over to the doorway where I was standing. I tried not to stare. I stared.
“Wow! Where did she come from?” I asked with genuine amazement. I’d never seen something look so real that really wasn’t real. Here she was — a painted up, painted on pinup girl, the sort of image that belonged on the fuselage of an F4 fighter plane, smiling out at the world from the top of an old fiddle case.
He smiled to let me know there was a story coming.
“The old man picked her up when he was in the war and he got a [Japanese] POW to paint her on the case. She’s been waiting a long time for you bud.” He gently handed her over to me.
I really had no choice. I gently opened up the case and found a plain looking violin lying inside.
“Play me a little of that Jole Blon,” he said, watching my every move.
The name, Jole Blon, referred to a Cajun waltz that had been released just as World War II was coming to an end. The song had left Louisiana, spread into East Texas and, ultimately, overtaken the warm rural heart of America.
I looked inside the fiddle for a name, found it, and read the word silently — Suzuki. Genuine Japanese, I thought to myself. I tuned her up and rosined the bow as Bernard fidgeted in anticipation. The war had been over for 33 years and it’s probable that he’d been waiting for this moment ever since.
Lifting her up, I hit the strings a few times with the bow and started to saw the best I could, playing the song that had brought a boy’s dad home from a war with a pretty girl made of paint. The moment was powerful.
The fiddle was terrible. It sounded shallow, flat and had no character or tonal pull. It was for sure not the sort of instrument you’d waste any time thinking about ever playing again. Nonetheless, I pushed on with my duty and finished the song. When I was done, I laid her down and looked up. Bernard was glowing.
“D—! The old man sure knew how to pick ‘em!”
He paused, waiting for my comments. They were comments that never came.
“Tell you what; let’s all three head over and have us a little toddy to celebrate.”
Haltingly, regretfully, I walked with him across the street, knowing that I would soon be asked to perform with a pretender, a Japanese girl who wanted people to believe that she was French-Cajun, a pretty faced poser who had no heart.
I held my secret and my friend held his beauty. It was the kind that ran only case deep.
Dave Munsick is a local musician and storyteller in Sheridan County.
