Mood Indigo By Pat Jurgens He poured a little brandy into the glass and raised her in his arms while she drank it. A young man stood staring out at the silent harbor. As the boats slid quietly past, their lights made little pools of illumination on the water. The fog that had been impending all afternoon came rolling in. It was a bitterly cold fog. It cut through his thin overcoat and he pulled the collar up around his chin. He shoved his hands down in his pockets and leaned against one of the rotting wharf posts. A girl came out of the fog and stood staring as the man had stared. She was poorly dressed and her thin shoulders shivered visibly. She saw the man and went up to the other side of the post. "Mind if I lean here, mister?" "No go ahead." "Thanks." She leaned heavily against it and her breath came irregularly and laboriously. Her face was pasty white. The man gave her a steady sidelong glance. She had the look of a desperate, hunted animal. His brows drew together in a frown. "Anything wrong?" he asked softly. "Huh oh, no." "Come on now, don't give me that. What's up?" He turned towards her and gripped the sides of the post with his long sensitive fingers. "Why don't you mind your own business?" Her words caught in her throat and allied themselves with the sobs there. She tried to turn away from him, but a sharp, searing pain knifed its way through her lungs and chest. She tried to catch hold of the post to keep herself from falling, but her hand missed. She looked up into his eyes with a frightened, confused look, then her knees gave way. He moved swiftly around to her side and slipped an arm about her waist. She was grateful for that arm. He wasn't much taller than she, and his build was slight; but he seemed strong. "Think you can walk a little way if I help?" he asked. Her lips were drawn tight, but she managed a little quavering smile. "Is it far?" "No, just in front of the old warehouse." His arm tightened about her waist, and she put her arm around him. She took a few steps, but it was too difficult for her. "I I can't." "Sure you can," he smiled, and swung her up into his arms. She scarcely weighed an ounce; he had no trouble carrying her. Her head dropped to his shoulder, and her long hair clung to her face in heavy damp clusters. Suddenly he started whistling, low and mournfully. As she listened, it seemed that there was the whole mood of the city in that melody, the city blanketed in fog. It was the city at midnight. It was all the dives along the waterfront, the cop walking his beat, swinging his stick, wishing it were time to go home. It was people, unknown, yet vital. The melody soothed her, and at the same time filled her with an excitement shaded indigo. He pushed open a back door and carried her into a small room. There was no furniture except an old couch and a table with a phonograph on it. He laid her gently down on the couch, and went over and closed the door. For a moment she held herself rigid with her eyes closed. It was as if she were afraid to relax. He stood looking down on her deathly white face, long straight blond hair, pale lips, and small hands. She wasn't pretty, but she was human; and somehow, that seemed more important. He saw her taunt muscles, took off his coat, covered her with it, and went over to turn on the phonograph. As he put the needle on the record, the long slow notes of Duke Ellington's Mood Indigo came flowing out. She recognized it as the melody the stranger had whistled as he carried her over. She relaxed and opened her eyes. He watched her and smiled. She smiled back. His body began to sway in time to the music. Then his feet began to dance slowly, with perfect rhythm. It was the expression of everything she felt deep down inside. It wasn't a dance that could be taught. It came from out there in the smoky saloon. It came from the waterfront. It came from the traffic. It was a dance of the city, the expression of a mood a mood indigo. She looked at his face as he danced. It was a young face; but in the eyes and the corner of the mouth page fourteen was age. There was age as only time can etch it. And yet he was young. He was the composite of the child down the street, the old artist who had seen the ideals and morals of a generation crumble to dust, the idealist who still retained his optimism. He was all the little people in the world rolled into this dancing figure of man. The record ran out, and the tinny piano from the next room could be heard. He started it over again, but this time he didn't dance. He came and sat down on the edge of the couch. "That was beautiful," she said. "I've never seen anything like it before." "No," he said, "and don't ever expect to. How do you feel? Better?" "Yes. I think so; only I'm so cold." He got up and went out of the room. In a moment he returned with a bottle of brandy and a glass. He poured her out a little in the glass and raised her in his arms while she drank it. When she was through he took the glass and lowered her gently to the couch again. She lay quietly for a little while; then as the color returned to her cheeks, she felt the need to talk. It didn't matter that she had never seen this man before. Somhow, nothing mattered. "Thanks for bringing me here. I guess I shouldn't be out. It's my lungs and the fog, you know?" "Yeah sure, kid, I know." "I don't belong in the city. They didn't want me to come. But you know how it is same old routine you get tired of it. A farm is different though; I found that out. The air's clean. And you don't ever get rich, but you always eat. Three meals a day. Mom was a swell cook. I wanted a job to be on my own. I came here. 'Sorry no work nothing today nothing nothing.' Know what I mean?" He nodded, got up, and started the record again. She coughed a little. "Two months ago I caught a cold. I still had it when I went walking in the rain and fog. I was in the hospital for a month and a half. Then I got a job in a laundry. Damp air, bad food, too long hours, now this." She coughed some more. "What are you going to do now?" he asked. "I want to go back to the farm. Back home. This will kill me. But I haven't any money, and I can't go back to that laundry." "No no you'll go home." "How can I?" "I'll give you the money. You can repay me some day. Just send it here. They'll find me." She looked up at him. Her eyes were bright with gratitude. She reached out her hand and put it on his arm. "What's going to happen to you now?" she whispered. "Me? I'm just a small time guy." "Couldn't you do something with your dancing?" "No. You see, I don't dance as the top-notchers dance. I dance with my heart. I can't express myself with words; I have to do it that way. When I hear music, I never feel the same way about it twice, so I don't dance the same way twice. See what I mean?" "Yes, I see." "Do you feel stronger now?" "Yes, I think I'll go." "Yeah, maybe you'd better." She sat up, buttoned her coat and rose. He reached in his pocket and handed her some bills. "Here you are, kid. Good luck." She took them and said, "Thanks. I suppose I'll never see you again?" "No, never. You'll stay on your farm, and I'll stay here." He opened the door, turned off the phonograph, and they went out into the night. Outside, the fog had grown more dense. She held out her hand, and he took it in his for just a moment. "Goodbye, Lady of the Fog," he said. "Goodbye, Stranger." Then she walked away, straight and strong, because she had a friend in that city of friendless people. Just before the fog swallowed her up, she turned and waved. He waved back, and she was gone. When he returned to the little room, the owner of the saloon was waiting for him. He faced the young man. "Nine dollars and eighty cents," he said. The young man pulled his empty pockets inside out for answer. "I'm sorry then, but I can't let you stay." "Okay, I'll go. I understand. Thanks for letting me stay as long as you did." "Sure, kid, sure." He opened the door and left. The young man put on his overcoat and went over to the phonograph. He took off the record, flipped it gently with his finger and laid it down. He went out into the fog, and walked slowly back to the waterfront. The young man stood staring out at the harbor, but this time he couldn't see the boats as they slid silently past; because their lights couldn't cut through the fog. He pulled his collar up around his chin, and shoved his hands far down in his pockets. Suddenly he started whistling low and mournfully, with the whole mood of the city in the melody, a mood shaded indigo.