Chapter Text
The radio studio hummed like a beehive under the blazing sun.
The lamps crackled with heat; cables coiled across the gray floor—black as snakes, stretching their copper maws toward the microphones. Staff hurried back and forth, exchanging brisk words: someone gathered papers that had slipped off a desk, someone checked the sound levels, someone else waved down the audio engineers—only three minutes remained before going live.
Franklin Whitford—a young man in a neat beige suit, a starched-collar shirt, and a bright green tie—sorted through his cue cards. He did so with such unhurried ease that one might think he was browsing a menu rather than preparing for an interview.
Across from him sat a black man in a jacket.
“Incredible,” he said with a faint smile. “Me, on the radio… Mamà would be proud.”
“Undoubtedly, Mr.—” Franklin’s eyes flicked briefly to one of the cards. “Mr. Dupré.”
The words came out dry, though that was only natural. Another workday, another broadcast, another name which, while different from the usual Boston fare, would remain for Franklin nothing more than a sequence of letters.
The studio door opened.
“Mr. Crane,” the technician greeted.
“Good evening,” the producer sighed, his voice languid.
Harold Crane always looked tired. Wiry, with a hooked nose and pencil-thin mustache—so sparse it gave the impression he drew it on every morning before the mirror.
“This isn’t a radio station, it’s a circus. Let’s hope at least something here works as it should…”
He was about to move on when his gaze caught on the figure seated across from Franklin. His thin brows lifted, just slightly.
“Hey, Walsh” he snapping his fingers toward the nearest technician and gave a small nod toward the table. “Who’s that supposed to be?”
Walsh hesitated for a moment.
“Ah—yes. We had a last-minute issue. Mr. Bennett dropped out—some kind of incident, we didn’t quite get the details… we had to find a replacement fast.”
“And you found… him?”
Walsh shifted awkwardly.
“He played the Starfalls opening—and a couple of other good venues. He’s been getting attention. On such short notice, he’s the best we could manage.”
Crane gave Chester another measured look, from head to toe, his gaze lingering for a second on the black case by the chair legs. Then he exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples.
“Wonderful.”
He straightened, as if shaking off his irritation, and approached the table with practiced ease. The smile came quickly—professional, well-rehearsed, never quite reaching his eyes.
“Gentlemen.”
Franklin merely nodded, not lifting his gaze from the cards.
“Good evening, Mr. Crane.”
Crane gave him a brief, approving pat on the shoulder—casual, familiar, the sort of warm patronage reserved for one’s best employees.
Chester rose and extended his hand.
“Thank you for having me, sir.”
Crane returned the handshake, fleetingly—just a fraction of a second longer than he would have liked.
“We haven’t had musicians on the program in quite some time. Thought we might… freshen things up.”
Chester smiled faintly.
“Le plaisir est pour moi,” he said softly, a trace of irony in his tone, before adding in English, “The pleasure’s mine.”
Crane’s smile didn’t falter, though it grew thinner.
“Let’s keep the broadcast free of… that French of yours,” he remarked, lowering his voice slightly. “This is Boston, not a Louisiana parlor. I trust you understand.”
One of Chester’s brows twitched, almost imperceptibly.
A brief silence settled.
“Two minutes to air!” the technician called from behind the console.
Crane seemed to remember where he was. He gave Franklin another pat on the shoulder—already moving.
“Gentlemen, get to work.”
Without turning back, he headed behind the glass, where his silhouette quickly dissolved among the reflections of lamps and instruments.
Franklin put on his headphones, adjusted them, tilting his head slightly.
The red light came on.
“Good evening, dear listeners,” Franklin’s voice flowed smooth and velvety. “This is Franklin Whitford with The Voice of the New Generation. Tonight, we welcome a man whose music is being heard more and more often in the city’s finest establishments—and, if I may say so, is already beginning to lay claim to becoming a hallmark of Boston jazz. Mr. Chester Dupré… it is a pleasure to have you in our studio.”
Chester leaned a little closer to the microphone.
“Thank you for having me. It’s an honor to be here.”
For a second, Franklin glanced at his cards, more out of habit than necessity.
“Tell our listeners—how did your journey begin? Have you been in Boston long?”
“Second year now. Before that, I traveled across most of Louisiana with a small band. You know how it goes—five young men with fire in their eyes, their last dollars spent on instruments, and instead of a proper carriage, an old truck ready to fall apart at the nearest gas station.”
He paused, as if listening to the distant hum of those old roads, and smiled.
“But sooner or later, a man wants to leave his native swamp behind. So I came to see whether my music could thaw a Boston heart.”
The corner of Franklin's mouth shifting just enough to pass for a smile—or perhaps only a trick of the light.
“It seems you’re succeeding.”
Chester let out a short, quiet laugh, something lively flickering beneath it—almost mischievous.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I was simply lucky enough to meet the right people here.”
Franklin nodded, already lifting his next card, when the musician added, almost casually:
“Though I’ll admit, it’s not so easy breaking through here for men like me. Massachusetts doesn’t take kindly to skin darker than a glass of milk.”
On the other side of the glass, Harold Crane choked on his coffee so abruptly that even through the partition it echoed—a dull, ghostlike sound.
Franklin looked up from his cards, meeting Chester’s gaze directly for the first time.
“In any large city… there are difficulties,” he said evenly.
Chester inclined his head slightly, his smile sharpening.
“C’est la vie.” [That's life.]
Franklin held his gaze a moment longer than the format allowed. There was neither approval nor open irritation in his expression—the remark had been made, heard, and quietly filed away.
He lowered his eyes again as though nothing had happened.
“I’m told you’re a master of improvisation, Mr. Dupré. Would you care to prove it for our listeners? Perhaps play something for us now?”
Chester smiled—lightly, almost gratefully.
“With pleasure.”
He bent down, flipped open the case, and in that instant the metal of the saxophone caught the studio lights, flaring so brightly it seemed a small sun had been kindled in the room. His fingers slid along its curves—sure, precise, with the kind of care that spoke not merely of habit, but of devotion. The reed settled into place; a breath—short, gathered—
And the air filled with… not quite a melody.
Flight.
A swift, whirling rush, bright with playful sparks. It soared upward, then circled back, leaving behind a trail of warm, trembling notes.
Franklin found himself holding his breath. His gaze fixed again on Chester’s fingers, dancing over the keys.
The man had talent. To deny it would have been to lie to himself.
“That… performer has too loose a tongue,” Crane muttered under his breath. “If he tries another stunt off script, I’ll have all your heads.”
The technician nodded nervously, eyes glued to the console.
The final notes faded. Chester lowered the instrument with an almost careless ease, as though he had not just climbed somewhere above the ceiling, but merely set a period at the end of a sentence.
“Impressive,” Franklin said, allowing himself a restrained applause. “No wonder your performances draw a crowd.”
Chester’s lips twitched. He inclined his head—a polite gesture, though touched with the ease of someone accustomed to attention. The saxophone rested gently on the table as he sank back into his chair.
“I like improvisation because there are no wrong notes. And if there are… they tend to be the most beautiful ones.”
From there, everything flowed smoothly—almost flawlessly. Franklin asked his questions; Chester spoke of nightclubs, fellow musicians, and the cold Boston winds he still hadn’t quite grown used to. With a faint smile, the saxophonist sent his regards to Mrs. Harlow—a distant relative on his father’s side, who had offered him a hand when he first stepped off the train and helped him find his footing.
As the broadcast neared its end, Franklin leaned forward slightly.
“Thank you for this evening, Mr. Dupré. I have no doubt our listeners will be hearing your name again.”
A brief pause.
“And before we close… would you like to say a few words to them?”
Chester looked up, as though weighing his answer—but Franklin had already caught the glint in his eyes: Dangerous, boyish, promising something unnecessary.
“If I may…” he began softly. “I wouldn’t wish them luck so much as… resilience.”
Franklin tensed almost imperceptibly, but did not interrupt.
“These are hard times,” Chester continued. “Ever since Wall Street went under, the whole country seems to be holding its breath. Businesses are tightening their belts, mills are laying men off, factories are cutting wages, and honest working stiffs are wondering whether they'll make it through the winter. The people at the top keep telling everyone to stay patient, but tomorrow has never looked so uncertain.”
For a moment, the world seemed to dull in Franklin’s eyes, fading into a pale backdrop for the figure across from him. Chester sat with his fingers loosely intertwined, leaning forward just slightly, his smile light, unhurried—the smile of a man for whom another’s tension was little more than an entertaining spectacle.
His features were striking, as though carved from dark wood: a high brow, full lips, cheekbones that shifted with shadow at every movement. The warm glow of the lamp brushed his skin, casting it in bronze.
The control room fell very still. Franklin seemed to forget, that he was still at work. Then his gaze slipped past Chester’s shoulder, toward the glass. Crane, pale with irritation, was making sharp, sweeping gestures, silently shouting: wrap it up.
Franklin blinked, as though waking, dropped his eyes to the cards, and cleared his throat softly.
Behind the glass, Crane leaned forward sharply.
“...And yet,” Franklin said, “Boston is not a city that yields easily. People here know how to stay afloat. On that optimistic note, we must say good night. Thank you for joining us this evening, Mr. Dupré. This has been Franklin Whitford… stay tuned to WBNR, and take care of yourselves.”
The red light went out.
The hive stirred again: chairs scraping, papers rustling, muted voices rising.
Franklin did not take his eyes off Chester. The musician slipped off his headphones and leaned back, stretching slightly.
“Whitford!” Crane’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “A word.”
Chester merely smirked.
“Pardonne-moi, cher,” [Sorry, my dear,] he said, giving Franklin a wink. “The temptation to irritate your boss was simply too great.”
Franklin said nothing. He rose, gathering his cards with mechanical precision, and headed for the door. At the threshold, he slowed just slightly, glancing back.
Chester was bent over his case, carefully settling the saxophone inside, as though it were something alive.
Crane was waiting behind the glass, gripping his cup so tightly the thin porcelain seemed ready to crack.
“What was that, Whitford?”
“The voice of the new generation.”
“Don’t be clever,” Crane snapped. “A crisis? You actually let that go on air?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“And then you lost your tongue at the end. Where was your grip?”
Franklin lifted his gaze.
“The guest proved… more talkative than expected.”
Crane grimaced.
“Next time—keep a tighter leash.”
“I’ll take that into account, Mr. Crane,” the announcer nodded, though there was not a trace of remorse behind the politeness.
He wanted only one thing—to end this conversation as quickly as possible and return to Chester…
Beyond the glass, the musician exchanged a few words with the sound engineer, draped his coat over his shoulders, and, as though he had not a single reason to linger, headed for the exit.
He’s leaving?.. Already?
Harold exhaled wearily, the irritation finally beginning to fade from his face. He gave Franklin a pat on the shoulder and opened his mouth to say something encouraging—
—but Franklin had already stepped past him, heading into the corridor.
There, a living wall awaited him: assistants with boxes, technicians with stands, secretaries with stacks of papers. And ahead—just for the span of a single heartbeat—a slender figure with a saxophone case flickered into view.
And vanished.
The outer door slammed.
“Damn it…”
Franklin pressed himself against the wall, slipping between a metal stand and someone’s shoulder. Someone clicked their tongue in irritation; another muttered, “Watch it!”—but Franklin didn’t hear them.
The cold November air struck his face like a lash. He stopped on the studio steps, exhaling a cloud of white breath.
Under the pale streetlights, a few passersby hurried down the street—and none of them were Chester Dupré. As though the musician had simply dissolved, as easily as the last notes of his improvisation had faded into the air.
For a few seconds, Franklin stood motionless, peering into the evening gloom. Then he frowned, adjusted his tie with a habitual gesture, and returned to the studio.