Anna
Bella
and
Piano Man Sam
by Deborah Henson-Conant
I'll tell you something now, if you want to
hear. It's a story about my grandparents that nobody's ever
told.
For years, my Grandmother pretended to be leading a normal life: three
children, a husband who sold used auto parts, a house with a back porch
and a screen door, a cherry tree in the garden. But she was not normal.
I know this to be true. Because every night at eleven-forty-five, after
she put my mother and my two aunts and my Grandfather to bed, she'd
get up secretly and fix the pillows in her bed to look like she was
still sleeping there. She and my Grandfather slept in two separate
beds in the same room. Then, she'd sneak downstairs and open a secret
trap door in the kitchen pantry. And right below their house there
was a passageway, a tunnel, that went straight from the secret cellar
to another house, many blocks away.
Halfway along the passage, she was right under City Hall;
that was where her dressing room was. She'd stop there
take off her nightgown and put on this brash and feathery
costume, sequins and rhinestones all over, and she'd paint
her face and put one long, purple feather in her hair.
You would have never recognized her in a thousand years.
This was in the 1930's. During the Depression. During Prohibition,
when there were secret speakeasies all over Portland, Oregon. And
that's just where she was going. At twelve-thirty, she was right
at the other end of the tunnel, where she could hear the rumble of
a boogie-woogie piano and hear the announcement, "And now the
lovely, the talented, the exceptional beauty and wit (wild applause
and shouts from the crowd), Miss Anna Bella Bellissimo!" (even
wilder applause and shouts). Then, she'd open the trap door and right
before her was the split in a crimson curtain.
She'd quickly lock the door behind her and step out onto the stage,
into the spotlight. She'd look over at Piano Man Sam, give a wink
and then sing and dance the night away. At one-fifty, when she'd
finished her fourth encore of the night, she'd blow kisses to the
crowd and back herself behind the curtain. Quick as a light, she'd
be back down the trap door, and running down the passageway. She
could hear the music for a block or two, but then it faded. Down
the tunnel she hurried, and raced into her dressing room. While she
was taking off her costume, she drew the water into a huge white
porcelain bathtub that stood behind her dressing table. For seven
and a half minutes she'd soak in the tub, in the light of a candle,
sipping on a hot cup of tea nad gazing at a single bud in a small
base hanging from the hot water handle, thinking maybe she could
still hear a faint echo of the music. Then, she'd jump right up,
dry herself off in the candlelight, pull on her nightgown and run
down the passage to the pantry. Ever so quietly, she'd open the trap
door and then fasten it tight behind her. She'd pour herself a small
glass of milk and sneak back up from the kitchen, sipping at the
milk enough to get a small white moustache, to prove she had a reason
to be up.
In her room, she'd look over at my Grandfather, sleeping there so
soundly, like a lump, never dreaming about his wife's shenanigans,
and she'd feel a little guilty. She'd fall asleep thinking about
the music and about Piano Man Sam. Sometimes her heart went out so
surely to his that she wanted to throw her arms around him, and run
away with him to Paris, but then she'd think about my Grandfather
and my two aunts and my mother and she thought it was better not
to. By two-fifteen she was fast asleep.
Now, my Grandfather, who was a heavy sleeper, never heard my Grandmother
get up. He was the kind of person who was dead asleep when he was
asleep, but he was also the kind of person who could wake up exactly
whenever he wanted to if he set his mind to it. And for reasons he
never divulged, would wake up at exactly twelve-ten every night.
He'd look over at my Grandmother's bed, rearrange his pillows so
it looked like he was still there and pad downstairs in his bare
feet. Then, he'd ever so quietly open the back door and sneak out
into the garage. In the garage was a special room for his repair
tools, and on the floor of this room there was a brilliantly concealed
trap door. Well, no sooner did he open the trap door than he'd start
down his own secret passageway. and halfway down the tunnel, when
he was right underneath the Police Station, there was another little
room, this one with an old candelabra on the wall. He'd go there,
light up the candles, tear off his pyjamas and put on a natty black
tuxedo and stick a fresh red rose in his lapel. Then, he'd pull a
silver mask over his face, and put on a silk top hat.
At twelve twenty-five, he was down the rest of the passageway, and
climbing up the stairs on the other end. Now, here was another trap
door and this one opened behind a huge upright 'Winchester' Grand
piano. It was the only piano 'Winchester' had ever made and it was
a beauty. One of a kind. He flung the tails of his tux out behind
him and sat down on the piano bench. The crowd went wild. He was
so intent upon his playing of this wonderful instrument that he never
noticed much for the first few minutes. And then, always, the apparition!
At twelve-thirty promptly, Anna Bella would appear. With a cherubic
wink of her eye, she'd signal him for the first song, and from then
on, he felt he was in heaven. Halfway through the night, he would
always get carried away with one of her songs and he'd throw her
the rose from his lapel. It made his heart swell when she took it
every night and blew him a kiss.
At ten minutes to two, Anna Bella would disappear behind the curtain
and my Grandfather would play for half an hour solo piano, his own
compositions. He wondered if she ever stayed behind the curtain for
a minute to listen to him after her act was over, and if she ever
knew that he poured out his love for her in these songs. He always
played one heart-breaking , melancholy waltz for her first, hoping
she would hear at least some of it. He almost told her once, in a
letter, how much he loved her, but then he thought of my Grandmother
and my two aunts and my mother at home in bed, and he decided it
was better not to. At two-twenty, he'd take his bow and saunter off
the stage. He'd hang around backstage for a few minutes talking to
the magic act, hoping Anna Bella might appear again, but she never
did.
Then, he'd creep behind the piano
and sneak back to through the trap door, always just a little
bit sad. Down through the tunnelway he'd go, change his suit
for his pyjamas in the dressing room, and crawl back up into
the tool shed. He'd sneak back into the house and pour himself
a glass of cider, then tiptow upstairs. There was my Grandmother,
breathing a little louder now. He'd always stop to kiss her
cheek and look at her for a moment before he got into bed,
always glad that he hadn't told Anna Bella about his wild
ideas. He'd pad softly to his own bed and sit for a minute
on the edge, looking out the window at the night sky. Then
he'd lie down, and stretch out full, and finally drop slowly
back into sleep, his own music still softly in his ears,
thinking about the night and the old 'Winchester' and the
long passageway and the beautiful, talented woman he loved.
AN
ADDENDUM: Years
later, after Sam had died,
I read this story to my
grandmother, and she
denied it - in part.
"That's not true!,"
she said
,
"Your grandfather
and I never slept in separate beds."
This is my
1990 recording of "Anna Bella"
on the album "Caught in the Act"
with guitarist Chieli Minucci and percussionist George Jinda.
(The sound you hear at first is crickets, rain and thunder)
This text will be replaced by the flash music
player.
To buy this CD see
the Products
Catalog and look for "Caught in the
Act"
Below:
French harpist Jakez François
improvising on the melody "Anna Bella."