Chapter 151
Chapter 151
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 152
Chapter Title: Reunion at Blue Bottle
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Blue Bottle had opened on a small scale near Harlem in New York over seventy years ago.
It was your typical jazz bar, but what made it unique was that its owner was white.
A white man opening a jazz bar in Harlem, which had long since become black territory.
A white guy playing black music in black turf? Unthinkable.
It was tantamount to begging to get stabbed or shot.
But nothing of the sort happened.
Even the blacks of Harlem couldn't touch an Irish-American white guy back then.
The owner, a young man at the time, was known simply as Liam—nobody knew his full name. A long scar ran from his forehead down to his jaw on the left side of his face, and his thick arms, fitting his massive build, bore seven gunshot wounds, earning him the nickname Seven.
An Irish-American white guy with a face scarred like it'd been slashed by a knife and covered in bullet wounds?
Even the fearless blacks of Harlem wouldn't dare touch him.
This was back when New York nights were dominated by Irish and Italian mafias.
Back when New York's blacks feared the mafia more than the KKK.
The KKK didn't have the guts to step into Harlem, but the mafia would sweep through without regard for the law.
Thanks to that, his untouchable jazz bar started drawing crowds.
Fights rarely broke out, thanks to the owner, making the place at least safe inside. Jazz bands and singers worried about their safety began flocking there.
From the blacks' perspective, they could get white people's food—high-quality booze at decent prices—which was a big draw too.
The place grew fast, and before long, it became a spot where whites mingled with blacks.
That was possible only because of Liam, the owner.
Liam didn't care about race. He despised discrimination.
As a result, Asians started showing up too, and Blue Bottle became a free space where all races mixed.
In time, it became an indispensable Harlem landmark.
A place where blacks and whites fused, where they joined the black rights movement—what could you call it but a racial utopia?
But as New York developed further and white middle-class folks pushed into Harlem, blacks started getting displaced outward.
Harlem, the blacks' holy ground and symbol, was no longer just for blacks.
The dangerous yet romantic spot remained a birthplace for genres like jazz but now even drew tourists.
Around then, the second-generation owner who inherited Blue Bottle relocated and spent the next twenty years in the new spot.
Compared to the original location, the one thing unchanged in this bigger, more show-friendly jazz bar was the lone side bar table from the old place—installed among several bar tables, antique enough for a museum.
And at one corner of that table sat the chair used for over seventy years, along with the old man perched on it—the first-generation owner, Liam. That was everything unchanged.
Of course, gone was the sturdy, charismatic young man who'd built Blue Bottle; now it was a shrunken old man with a protruding belly.
“Hey, you damn fool, didn't I tell you never to touch the booze I'm keeping here? Where'd it go?”
Liam's voice, past ninety, boomed with surprising power.
“Sigh, Liam. Look, it's right here.”
“Huh? Was it there? This booze...”
“You say every time you might come back someday and we'll drink it together. You say it thirty times a week, you know?”
Unlike his voice, his mind wasn't fully intact, as expected for his age.
“Keep it safe. Precious stuff. Not for a greenhorn like you who can't even get on stage.”
The young bartender in charge of the oldest bar table was actually an aspiring jazz pianist.
Unable to take the stage, he was working as a bartender close to it.
He grumbled at Liam's words.
“I'll stand on that stage someday—no, a bigger one than your Blue Bottle. Don't regret it then and whine.”
“You? Hahaha, that's the funniest thing in my 96 years. You'll be lucky to step on that stage a few times. That's your limit.”
“How would you know, Liam?”
“Me? I know. How many years have I been in this game? I've been owner here since before your parents—no, grandparents—were born.”
The bartender couldn't argue.
Countless jazz artists had started on Blue Bottle's stage, going local, national, global.
And the man who'd spotted them and given them their shot on that stage was none other than Liam.
But the bartender couldn't accept Liam's negative view of his limits.
He said a bit rebelliously.
“But it's not set in stone, right? Take the owner of that booze—you said she was the best. Where is she now?”
Liam chuckled wryly.
“Back then, there was a wall she couldn't climb.”
“Even with talent?”
“Yeah. The wall of race.”
“But jazz is black music at its best?”
“Who said black?”
“Then who?”
He gazed at the kept booze and said.
“Back then... it wasn't easy to overcome. Asians got worse treatment than blacks like you or even lesser whites like us Irish. And a woman? Impossible.”
“So the owner of that booze was Asian—a woman, no less.”
“Yeah.”
She'd become a famous pianist but never made TV or went global—had she despaired at limits beyond her control and suddenly returned to Japan?
Come to think of it, was that kid Japanese? Or Korean...? Nah?
Whatever, Japan or Korea—neighbors, right?
Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Look at those black-haired tourists over there—can't tell Korean from Japanese.
Ah, but Chinese are distinguishable.
Flashy, tacky clothes, loud and messy.
And that group's probably Japanese—high chance.
Japan loves jazz almost as much as America.
“Hmm... yeah, she must've been Japanese.”
Thinking that, Liam eyed the Japanese tourists.
Wonder if that yakuza-like bastard's still alive? He'd be over seventy too.
Monster of a guy—probably not dead.
Rifling through hazy memories, he scanned the Japanese tourists.
A pretty young girl and a young man doting on her—Asians age well, so he's older. Father, maybe?
Beside him trailed a woman a bit younger than the young man.
And behind her came an elderly woman.
Silver-streaked hair neatly pinned back, wearing glasses.
“Hmm?”
She looked familiar.
Straight-backed posture, slender frame, slightly upturned chin, cold eyes.
“...Jade?”
He shot up in shock.
His knee twinged sharply, but he ignored it.
Meanwhile, the group, seated after staff guidance, chatted with the staff—then the elderly woman rose.
And headed toward his spot, the “old table.”
Liam's heart raced.
A past connection he thought lost forever—the greatest pianist of his life, who hadn't fully bloomed due to race and gender walls and left abruptly.
“J-Jade?”
“You really haven't kicked the bucket, huh?”
“Is that you, Jade?”
“You still have the booze I left?”
“Of course, of course.”
At Liam's words, the wary bartender swiftly fetched the bottle Liam checked daily and placed it on the table.
Hennessy—cognac that symbolized wealth in Harlem back then.
“We had just one drink before parting, but time's taken its toll—it's way down.”
“Shall I pour one?”
“Straight for Jade, right?”
Liam, who couldn't recall yesterday, nailed details from decades ago.
His eyes, sharp moments ago, now sparkled with nostalgia.
“Young back then. On the rocks, please.”
The bartender nodded politely, silently adding well-cut ice and cognac to a glass, and served it.
“You've aged too, huh. How've you been?”
“Taught kids at a university in Japan.”
“Meaningful work, in its way?”
“You know Uesugi Himari?”
Liam didn't react, but the bartender flinched.
“Sounds Japanese—some big artist?”
“You don't remember? Winter Sea—I played it for you. World-class jazz pianist and composer...”
“Ah! Right, yeah. Good song.”
“She's my student.”
“So you've spread your unfulfilled dreams through an excellent pupil?”
But Liam's expression wasn't bright.
Pupil or not, the Uesugi Himari piano he remembered didn't evoke Heo Ok.
“I still miss your piano. Even now, I doze off here and wake up back in those days when you all—and you—played. Dementia, yeah. But it's fine. I get to hear that playing again.”
Heo Ok gave a bittersweet smile to the man who longed for her piano.
Seeing her, Liam's face turned bittersweet too.
“We'll never hear your piano from back then again, will we?”
“I've aged too.”
She couldn't pull off the flashy techniques of youth anymore.
“Your piano now would be great too, but I miss those days.”
At Liam's words, Heo Ok looked away.
“But I've raised an even better pianist.”
Her gaze landed on Yeonwoo.
“Your grandson?”
“Yes, more than I deserve.”
That was when it happened.
Locals passing by spotted Yeonwoo, approached, and timidly asked something.
“Yuin by any chance? Oh my god!! It's Yuin?!!”
In the rowdy jazz bar, a woman's shriek carried to everyone, leaving Liam puzzled.
“Your grandson seems pretty famous?”
“Y-Yuin?”
“You know her?”
From Liam's question, the bartender realized this old man really didn't listen to current music.
“You don't know the genius boy topping Melboard charts for weeks? Come on, Liam...!!”
“Melboard number one?”
Liam's eyes widened as he looked at Heo Ok.
“You've finally conquered America's walls and taken the world, huh?”
Even if it was through blood, not herself.
Heo Ok gazed proudly at Yeonwoo.
“My most precious child, who holds everything I have.”
Liam couldn't help smiling at the warm smile from Jade—New York's ice queen, always expressionless.
Heo Ok hadn't given up everything.
She'd reclaimed what was lost, and through a child who was everything to her, finally surmounted the walls she couldn't.