Enrico Rava
The Pilgrim and the Stars

I had chosen the wrong day to quit smoking.

This time, I had returned earlier than usual, it had been my day. Sometimes it happens.
The long sign of the "Tavern" was still off, but the one on Sonny boy's pawn shop was not, it never went off.
Winter on the Atlantic coast had welcomed us, bringing with it the snow that had turned the crossroads between 3rd Street and Newark Avenue into a full-blown white river, with the trash bags and parked cars turned into soaked, pendulous, geometric mounds.
As far as I'm concerned, the snowy winter, aside from making my raincoat and the tips of my Clark's shoes limp and less inclined to walk two blocks in the slush, had led me to put a final word to the most important case they had assigned to me.
As for the former, I just got rid of them on the (thankfully) warm and dry floor of the rented studio apartment, with what a homicide detective's salary could afford.
While to celebrate the end of the investigations, waiting for Frank to pass by for a real celebration, I had the usual plan: a "Don Guillermo," which I regularly procured from the Dominican gang in exchange for more or less lawful favors, and a good jazz record to relax and put me at ease. Something I hadn't managed to do in a long time here in New York.
I took from the bottom of the chest one of the many vinyls I had hauled from the last move and that hadn't yet tired me. Enrico Rava "The Pilgrim And The Stars". The vinyl was the sepia gray one dated 1975 with worn-out corners and it sat between Bitches Brew and a Chet Baker, right where it should be.
I lit the cigar, taking care to rest it on the edge of the table, and the stylus was already marking those concentric grooves while I sat on the armchair staring a bit into space, a bit at the cigar. Having closed this case, I had promised myself I would stop tormenting my lungs; this would be the last one, I would only keep it lit, taking a puff now and then to see it burn better. For the last time.

I needed to relax and leave problems outside that glass wall, seven floors below, to freeze over, knowing that with that climate they would preserve perfectly for the weeks to come.
It was my day, and I just wanted to hear that quartet that dirtied avant-garde jazz with rock. Once again, they would play for me in a private session, violating the solitude of my apartment.
I prepared a cup of coffee, holding it warmed me and gave me a chance to disconnect from the sewer of the slums frequented these last weeks.
The trumpet of the most famous Triestine in America was getting acquainted with Danielsson's double bass, Christensen's drums (these two later joined Keith Jarreth's court), and the impromptus of John Abercrombie's Jazz-box. Rava had gathered around him three thoroughbreds ready to pull him and his trumpet; regal here in paying homage to Davis, here sketchy in chasing unique melodies that shifted the fragile balances in which the three guests accompanied him arm in arm towards the conclusion of the pieces.
The atmospheric flow of that trumpet would welcome me like a warm, strong hug, as much as the content of my cup.
The ECM logo on the cover was a guarantee and the title track was proof of it. Metropolitan jazz that married well with the daily life I lived on my skin. Besides, the melody of a trumpet intersecting a delay-laden guitar, can you beat it?
I noticed the Caribbean leaves of the cigar burned better that day, fully exploiting that thirty-year-old yet still effective oxidizer.
The first side closes with my favorite "Bella", 9 minutes in which each carves out their space, passing the baton like in a middle-distance relay race (Danielsson here does wonders). In those 9 minutes, my mind was pervaded by a sense of calm that punched out the torments I had faced these last weeks. Yes indeed, I couldn't really unplug, not even now. Thankfully, the noise of the needle jumping at the end of side A brought me back with my feet firmly on the ground and less achy muscles thanks to the warmth embedded in this record, sweeping the smoky cage I had created all around me.
I flipped the record and listened standing up to the rest, staring through the blinds at the world outside.

Slowly, snowflakes were falling, marked this time by a calmer trumpet, that of "Pesce Naufrago".
It worked with its diaphragm, generating a thousand vibrations that in unison with the bass were captured by the mahogany of the table. It even seemed to me that those streaked veins flowed over one another, pushed by the irregular pulsing of that bass forcing its way between the true protagonists of the record: Rava's whimsical trumpet and Abercrombie's nervous guitar, a true stallion.
I thought and thought...
Among the flowing notes, the city had meanwhile lit up with lights and noises that clashed with the nocturne of which I was hostage. "By The Sea".
Details resurfaced in my mind, thinking back to the clues I had gathered which led me to converge all accusations on that Asian guy. After months of investigations, it seemed too easy, right? It seemed like everything matched perfectly, like the perfect fit of those four instruments recorded in '75. And if I was wrong?

Anyway... In hindsight, more than a pilgrim Rava was a star himself; part of that firmament that gave light and splendor to a memorable and timeless record. Mary Jane, the Broadway star, could also have been part of it...Or at least, the future star. For now, she was just a go-go dancer that I cared about (I'm not going to explain why) and who shuffled on the infamous stage of the "Touch". While I heard the last gasp of that magical trumpet, I realized (ironically) that the last track called "Blancasnow" was perfectly in line with what I had before my eyes. Coincidence...And if the whole accusatory structure I had built was nothing more than a big coincidence? Damn, I could already feel the prosecutor, he was waiting for nothing more than to pin me down, and I had served it to him on a platter.

Oh Mary Jane... When I asked her, "Will I see you again?"  she replied: "Sure, every weekend I perform here, now you know where to find me".
Exactly, too easy a target. If so, M.J. was still in danger. I plunged onto the raincoat with Rava's three pistons fading and catapulted into the old Buick GS400, a real museum piece.
In that snowy traffic, I proceeded fast and uncertain like Abercrombie's guitar that I still had in my ears. If I was right this time, Frank would have to wait.
I veered, almost sliced the hydrant cleanly, and sped off. Rava was already a memory.
I focused on dodging things and people, all while searching for the Lucky Strikes that had fallen on the mat. I had all night ahead. I needed to move without knowing what the enemy even looked like. And I had to do it fast.

I had chosen the wrong day to quit smoking, that's for sure.
And above all, who would explain it to the "chink" I had locked up?

The opinion of Commendatore Bossolazzi:

If you want to know how it ended, listen to "The Pilgrim And The Stars" and you'll figure it out on your own, I'm sure. Until next time. 5 medlars.