A Short Story Written A Life Ago.
I loved it when Billie Holliday sang it. I loved it when Ella Fitzgerald sang it. But it was Sinatra’s rendition that made my heart swell, with an ache that beckoned a deep nostalgia, trailed almost immediately by a flustered panic.
What was her name again?
I could never pronounce those French words and suspect I would never come close to understanding what it means to be French. He always poked fun at his own people — one of his kneejerk phrases was Sacré Francaise!, which I would later recall frequently when I think of our time together.
Yes, Marci Deschamps – a jazz chanteuse from Dijon, the city in eastern France famous for its sharp mustard. She carried herself expectedly, with the grace of what you would expect from a jazz singer. Often in a slinky, sequined black dress – classy yet sensual – carrying an understated elegance in the mist of the night. Her voice – husky – added a tinge of sadness to the otherwise spirited classic.
“When the jungle shadows fall…
So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you…”
“Hmm. Keeps repeating you. You. You. Night and day, you are the… Oh, hi.”