Page 47 of Shadow Ticket
It’s April. Natch. First time he’s ever heard her on shellac. Her voice is different—electrical as a thunderstorm, yet somehow reluctant…Orchestral backup seems to be a little more grand-scale than usual—strings, a Latin percussion section.
If I Tell You (Bolero)
If I tell…you, if I
tell you, what it’s, all a-bout…
Somebody better sell, you,
a tick-ket on the next-train out,
forever—
Leave
me to my real times, just
be off and away…
don’t even think of me at mealtimes,
waitin for that souf-flé…
To fall— Just
remem-ber when you asked me,
Asked me what’s it all about,
I coulda let-it sail
past me, but
was-there really a-ny doubt,
that someday,
darlin I’d fum-ble, and you’d
have-to-be dumb not to tumble, so unbel-
-lievable with you, but
less, com, -pli, -cate, -ed, with, out…
oh, dim-
-wit of my dreams, yeah,
strange-as-it seems, that’s
what it’s about…
all about, my ba-by—
all about…
Plays it over a couple more times, nods out, wakes up to find the turntable of the Victrola still and empty, and no promise of a restful evening. A quick pass up and down the train looking for the disc and the shellac merchant who sold it to him, but nobody up at this hour has heard anything, though maybe once there might’ve been a McKinley Somebody or other, except he’s long retired, some say to California.
