The glory trumpeter Old Eddie's face, wrinkled with river lights, looked like a Mississippi man's. The eyes, derisive and avuncular at once, swivelling, fixed me. They'd seen too many wakes, too many cathouse nights. The bony, idle fingers on the valves of his knee-cradled horn could tear through 'Georgia on My Mind' or 'Jesus Saves' with the same fury of indifference, if what propelled such frenzy was despair. Now, as the eyes sealed in the ashen flesh, and Eddie, like a deacon at his prayer, rose, tilting the bright horn, I saw a flash of gulls and pigeons from the dunes of coal near my grandmother's barracks near the wharves, I saw the sallow faces of those men who sighed as if they spoke into their graves about the Negro in America. That was when the Sunday comics sprawled out on her floor, sent from the States, had a particular odour, a smell of money mingled with man's sweat. And yet, if Eddie's features held our fate, secure in childhood I did not know then a jesus-ragtime or gut-bucket blues to the bowed heads of the lean, compliant men back from the states in their funereal serge, black, rusty Homburgs and limp waiters' ties with honey accents and lard-coloured eyes was Joshua's ram's horn wailing for the Jews of patient bitterness or bitter siege. Now it was that as Eddie turned his back on our young crowd out feteing, swilling liquor, and blew, eyes closed, one foot up, out to sea, his horn aimed at those cities of the Gulf, Mobile and Galveston and sweetly meted the horn of plenty through a bitter cup, in lonely exaltation blaming me for all whom race and exile have defeated, for my own uncle in America, that living there I never could look up.