Before The Pearly Gates

By Christopher Layne

Miles Appleby is a complicated and tormented soul. A successful oral surgeon at an exclusive practice in Chicago, he has always been driven by the high expectations of his father. Increasingly, he feels isolated and slowly comes to the realization that he leads an empty life. Miles, however, carries a secret that involved a woman who Bill, his close friend, had been seeing shortly before he suddenly left his homeland for another life in London.

Ever plagued by relationships that fail, Miles meets an engaging woman, Juanita, who finally ignites something in his life giving him warmth and meaning. In a strange turn of events while attending Bill’s untimely funeral near London, he gains a different perspective as to why certain events unfolded, and the secret that Miles had been so careful to protect is slowly revealed by a person called Laura. As the story reaches its zenith, the stories of these four characters finally become pieced together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398459199

Christopher Layne

Christopher Layne was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He studied English literature at UW Madison, and then dentistry in Chicago at UIC before later moving to England to practise as a dentist. He now lives in a small coastal village where he finds inspiration to write and play the piano.

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About the Author

Christopher Layne was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He studied English literature at UW Madison, and then dentistry in Chicago at UIC before later moving to England to practise as a dentist. He now lives in a small coastal village where he finds inspiration to write and play the piano.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of my parents.

Copyright Information ©

Christopher Layne 2022

The right of Christopher Layne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398459175 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398459182 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398459199 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

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Havana Jazz

One

1981, New York – I stepped out of the taxi, barely missing a slushy puddle, and flopped back onto the rear seat. The curb was too high and frozen with ice to mount, so I got out on the other side and was promptly sprayed by a passing car. What a great start to my new life, I thought. The driver wasn’t helpful and watched me struggle with my luggage, so I deliberately waved a ten-dollar bill in front of him, then dropped it in the snowy sludge and left the passenger door open for him to close. Jerk, I thought to myself, then lumbered with my things into Penn Station. Nothing changes in New York City, including the awful January weather. The grey unwelcoming sky made the tall buildings seem all the more oppressive and lowered the thick atmosphere to a suffocating degree. And yet, I was quietly excited about my journey, as I’d never travelled any distance by train before. I hadn’t really left New York from the time I was small. Was Chicago going to be any better, I wondered? It had to be, I told myself, and as I approached the entrance, I wondered what my parents were thinking as they began their new life.

It must have been in the early 1950s when my parents sailed from Havana. Friends advised them to take the shortest route to Miami, but they listened to my uncle instead, who told them to come directly to New York by boat. He was already well established there and said he would sponsor them. Back in Lisbon, he was well regarded as a musician, but the repressive regime forced him to leave. It was the same for my father, also a musician, only he chose Cuba over America. He would never admit it was a mistake because he met my mother there. His claim was that America was his ultimate destination, only he took the long way around to get there.

For a while, though, he had a good life in Cuba. My mother was a dancer, and he spotted her performing in one of the jazz clubs, and it was love instantly once their eyes made contact. They soon became a popular duo, and in time people flocked from miles around to watch my mother dance to the heated sound of my father’s Flamenco guitar. They married quickly, and I came along even quicker, but it wasn’t long before they began to feel the crunch of political repression in Cuba. That’s when they decided to enlist the help of my father’s older brother in New York City.

My mother wasn’t so well after I was born, and I had some medical problems that eventually needed attention and treatment not available in Cuba. My uncle said he could help with all of that, too. It is only a vague memory now, but I can recall that when we landed, I was taken away from my parents and isolated for quite some time and saw a number of doctors. What lurks in the bowels of my mind is the vision of stony white tiles on the walls and the strange people in long white coats speaking a language I didn’t know yet. Somehow, though, my uncle was able to intervene, and one day we were given the all-clear. We were put on a boat again and left Ellis Island for good. At the other end were my uncle and his wife waiting to help us make a fresh start in the Land of Plenty, the Land of Milk and Honey, Freedom Forever, and lazy taxi drivers who sit and watch you struggle to get out of their smelly cabs!

Penn Station was vast, and I soon took a seat in the general waiting area to get my bearings and to catch my breath. Periodic wafts of hot air competed with the ingress of the cold outside as the large entrance doors opened and closed. I didn’t have to worry about getting my ticket, as it was all taken care of for me well in advance, and as I looked around and up at the central clock, I could see that I still had plenty of time before boarding the Lake Shore Limited, an overnight train to Chicago. The recollection of waiting in the holding area at Ellis returned, and I was prompted to speculate on what the future held for me. The same medical problems I had as a child never left me, and the train I was waiting to catch was no guarantee to a longer healthier life. What I was really waiting for was truly the unknown.

The railway lines were deep below ground, and after my mind wandered sufficiently, I made my way to the tracks. My case was heavy, and I had to keep shifting it from hand to hand. The last thing I wanted was to injure my hands, for they were my livelihood and about the only thing I could count on. As I neared the bottom of the escalator, I could make out the track numbers, and suddenly I found myself standing in front of my train. The doors were wide open, and I stepped right up to the threshold and paused, giving a few remaining thoughts to what I was leaving behind, then lunged across to the start of my journey.

A roving porter spotted me and kindly collected my belongings once he’d checked my ticket. ‘Right this way, ma’am,’ he uttered as I followed closely behind him. My compartment was in the next car, and once he saw me in, my luggage was effortlessly placed on a holding rack. ‘Dinner’s at six sharp in the diner car, ma’am,’ he finally said in a friendly drawl before excusing himself. The bed was a pull-down one anchored off the wall, which the porter briefly demonstrated before he left. While it was still up, there was a sofa type seat near the window, and I sat down to peer around the compact room. The window looked out onto blackness, for the train was stationary and underground, but once I felt the sudden jolt of movement, I remained seated, waiting for something to come into view. Gradually things lightened as the train pulled out onto the main yard of tracks, and I was greeted with the same grey winter light, only now it had dimmed considerably with dusk and took on an eerie salmon colour. I could just about make out flurries of snow that had started to gather on the tracks, the ones not in use, and the rickety-rackety sound of the train picked up momentum as the urban scenery dwindled into the countryside. Quite some time must have elapsed before I noticed my watch approaching six o’clock, and I certainly didn’t want to be late for dinner. I quickly splashed some water on my face and removed some smudged mascara, then rubbed a little red into my pale lips.

The corridor outside my compartment was narrow, and my balance tottered as the train swayed from time to time. I must have passed through several cars before emerging into the diner. Another amicable porter caught my eye and pointed where to go. Once I was close enough, he said, ‘Evenin’ ma’am, would you care to take a seat just over here?’ I smiled to say yes and found myself sitting across from an older woman who was well dressed. It made me feel slightly uncomfortable, but once I sat down, the lady conveyed a warm hello then promptly said that the food was mediocre. She seemed to have already finished her main course and was on dessert while reaching for a bottle of wine sitting in a chiller by the table.

‘Don’t bother with the beef, my dear,’ she began. ‘I’d go with the turkey and gravy. The carrots and creamed potatoes aren’t too bad, either.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied.

‘Have a glass of wine,’ she continued. ‘There’s a glass left, and I’ll order some more. It’s French and goes well with the turkey…by the way, I’m Nanette, Nanette De Carlo.’

The waiter appeared soon afterwards to take my order, and I went for the turkey entree. Before he left, Nanette ordered another bottle of wine then asked my name.

‘So sorry,’ I began. ‘I should have introduced myself. Juana Paredes, but please call me Juanita,’ I said to her.

‘Oh, what a gorgeous sounding name,’ she said in an exaggerated way. ‘And where is your accent from?’

‘I think it’s my lisp you’re hearing.’

‘It’s not Spanish, is it? I knew someone from Puerto Rico once, and she sounded just like you, but her English was perfect…like yours.’

I smiled to myself. I got this type of thing all my life because of my lisp. Perhaps I should have spoken some Spanish to her, but she was harmless enough. Besides, she shared her wine with me, so the least I could do was be courteous and answer the question.

‘You’re not too far off,’ I said. ‘Cuba, I’m originally from Cuba, but I grew up here, in New York. It’s originally a Portuguese name, though.’

‘Oh, goodness gracious, aren’t you the most fascinating young lady?’ she returned.

‘That’s kind of you to say, and are you from New York, too?’ I asked, trying to change the subject.

‘Oh certainly not, I live in Chicago, but I travel this line quite often. You see, I have a niece who lives in New York. I hate flying, and I don’t drive, so the train is my only choice, although I suppose I could take a Greyhound bus,’ she finally said.

The waiter arrived with my entree and the second bottle of wine. He pulled the cork and asked Nanette if she cared to taste it first, but she simply told him to pour me a glass then to fill hers.

‘So are you visiting Chicago, or do you live there, Juanita? It’s such a dreadful time of year everywhere, so cold and snowy.’

‘It can’t be much worse than New York,’ I piped up, ‘but Chicago’s my first visit and I’m going to be working there.’

‘Now let me see,’ she paused. ‘I would say you’re a teacher. Do you teach Spanish?’

I paused while I chewed my food. I had a bad tooth at the time and had to be careful when I ate. The turkey was pretty tough after all, and the carrot cubes were tasteless, but at least they were soft, and the creamed potatoes were just like mushy slop. I think Nanette could see I was having difficulty and sensed I was about to choke.

‘Oh my dear, you must forgive me. All I’ve been doing is asking you too many questions. I’ve been thoroughly nosy, so shame on me. There’s plenty of time to chat later,’ she said with a curious air of importance.

I’d more or less finished what was on my plate and took a big slurp of wine to wash it down. I could feel her glancing my way, itching to talk some more, and I knew she noticed how much turkey I’d left on the plate.

‘I’m afraid that’s all I can manage,’ I began. ‘The portions are very generous, and besides, one of my back teeth is bothering me…it’s been like that for a while, but the turkey was delicious.’

‘Teeth can be such trouble…terrible things. I know a very good dentist, an oral surgeon in fact, if you need one. Now you mustn’t neglect a bad tooth.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Nanette, but I’ve had a few problems with dentists in the past, and I try to stay away from things where I bleed. Anyway, I was about to tell you that I do teach…so yes, you were right, but it’s music, and I also perform.’

‘How marvellous…fancy, you’re a professional musician. So where do you teach, not at Northwestern by any chance?’

‘I haven’t started yet, but it’s at the music conservatory downtown, and then I’m hoping to get a few jazz slots lined up at some of the big hotels,’ I replied.

‘Which music conservatory do you mean, dear?’

‘The American Conservatory of Music…if you’ve heard of it,’ I returned with the faintest hint of false humility.

‘Oh, of course…what a fine institution, and one of the oldest music colleges in the state,’ she spouted with an equal air of embarrassment.

By now, Nanette had given me another glass of wine and drained the remainder for herself. Her speech was a bit slurred, and when the waiter came around about dessert, I thought this would be a good time to call it a night. I asked him when breakfast was served and he replied that it was seven o’clock sharp. Nanette piped up to say they stop serving even if you’re a few minutes late. I smiled again and slowly got up after the waiter left.

After thanking Nanette for her company and the wine, she said, ‘Sleep well, my dear,’ as though we were lifelong friends, then insisted she give me her number if I ever needed anything in Chicago. I said we’d see one another at breakfast, and she could give it to me then. ‘Seven o’clock sharp,’ I said and then she laughed.

Two

The next morning had arrived all too soon, along with the weather I left behind in New York. The tooth kept me up a while so that once I fell asleep, I managed to oversleep. A rap at my door told me the train was already pulling in. I didn’t see Nanette before getting off and couldn’t spot her anywhere on the platform as I alighted. I regretted not getting her number at dinner and guessed she would rapidly become a fading memory.

I had arranged to go directly to the conservatory, as Miss Lipschitz was expecting me at ten o’clock. She was the one who gave me the position there and was also dealing with my accommodation. The taxi rank was close by and underground. As I stepped up to the next one in line, the driver immediately jumped out to help me. I could tell right away he was Hispanic, so I automatically spoke Spanish to him. He was a jovial older man and overweight, but he managed to get me to the conservatory pretty swiftly and also carried my things inside the building. I gave him a generous tip for his trouble.

The conservatory was within a beautiful older building, and I couldn’t help but eye its clean yet ornate lines up to the sky before going in. Just inside was a coffee shop and the aroma of coffee and food spiked my appetite. There was a free table by the window, which I took, and soon a waitress came over to take my order. I ordered a short stack of hotcakes and syrup and, naturally, plenty of coffee. A heavy-looking up-side-down ceramic mug was directly in front of me, which she turned over to fill, then pointed to a stainless-steel jug with half-and-half in it, and pointed at a glass flask of sugar with a wide pouring spout. I thanked her, and she smiled and promptly turned away. I got the impression she thought I was foreign.

The view was interesting from where I sat. I looked directly onto the main avenue, which was dominated by yellow cabs. The sidewalk was wide and awash with pedestrians, probably rushing to work. I had a good feeling about the place. Just across the road, I could see two enormous lions guarding the entrance to another impressive building. They were green apart from a few shiny spots where passers-by had rubbed the bronze statues with their hands, and I guessed it might have been a museum.

My breakfast came, and I was famished. The hotcakes were delicious, and I couldn’t recall ever eating so quickly. I just gobbled them down, and it occurred to me that I could quite easily make it a habit eating there on the days I’d be at the conservatory. It wasn’t going to be very good for my waist or my teeth, but so what, I thought, life’s short.

After I finished, I went into the foyer to check the directory, and Miss Lipschitz was on the tenth floor. Just opposite a grand looking staircase in marble was a bank of equally ornate elevators. The hall bustled as the elevator doors constantly opened and closed with people getting in and out of them. They were each manned by an operator who sat on a little stool and asked in a monotonous voice which floor you wanted.

The elevator cars were works of art in themselves, while their cabins were finished in wood, brass and marble. They transported their occupants to their daily quarters, where they either made a living or sought advice of some sort from a professional. That word ‘professional’ made me smile as I never thought of myself as a professional until Nanette mentioned it. Professionals were people like lawyers, doctors, and accountants who took a lot of money from you and kept you coming back for more. I didn’t see myself as doing that. I was a musician, a classically trained pianist who also played jazz because it was my passion and ran deep and hot in my blood. I played because people wanted to hear me, and it transported them to another world, one that was devoid of their daily troubles, and it didn’t cost them much to escape.

But I was also a teacher, and I concentrated on theory because, the way I saw things, anyone could sit down and learn notes on a page of music. That was the unimportant part of playing because what really counted was to understand what you played, so that was my job, to teach what the composition was all about.

Perhaps it was because I grew up with so much music around me, and both my father and uncle were such sticklers about precision and quality that I automatically followed suit. So here I was, after years of studying myself, taking on the role of a professional. But what I aimed to give my pupils was something that would stay with them for good, and all it would only cost them was the time and effort they were willing to put in.

As I stepped inside the lift and told the operator I wanted floor ten, I thought about the encouraging letter I’d received from Miss Lipschitz recommending me for the position at the conservatory. A few minutes later, the door opened, and I stepped out to the muffled sounds of music and piano playing. A surge of excitement came over me as I headed down the corridor looking for room 1011, Miss Lipschitz’s office. I felt self-conscious, dragging my suitcase behind me as though I was a refugee just off the boat seeking shelter. But in a sense, I was a kind of refugee because I was leaving one place for something better, and I had been given a chance. This was a career break that no one else had wanted to offer me, and I was on my own now.

The first month passed very quickly, what with getting settled into my routine and learning the ropes at the conservatory. Miss Lipschitz took very good care of me on all accounts, and I felt particularly lucky with my practise and teaching room. It was large, overlooking the lake, and the piano was a small grand with a beautiful tone. At first, I didn’t have that many pupils, and several were still in high school, making the trek downtown from their suburban homes and uncertain whether to make music their career. All of them shared dedication and commitment to learning, and that was what counted. I was unable to fill more than two days a week with teaching, but there were other activities at