Tangier, January, 1976. Trudy’s Piano Bar was in the heart of the city. A dark place, it had a long, hardwood bar, running the length of one wall, worn by years of patrons leaning against it to sip their drinks. In the front, to the left of the entrance were small, round tables. In the rear was the darkest corner, with a few more tables, and Trudy’s piano. Somewhere in all that was the hint of a dance floor.
Trudy had been a young concert pianist of some note in Hungary prior to World War II. She had fled the Nazis, ending up in Gibraltar, then making her way to Morocco, where she eventually opened the piano bar. It was the first place my friend took me.
The bar was open to everyone, but it was a special favorite of expatriates. I can testify to the fact that it was a wonderful place, never too crowded, always full of nice people, and above all, Trudy made it special.
Sadly, things didn’t end well. My friend who lived in Tangier told me that during the attempted coup everything was closed for quite some time in the quarter where the piano bar was located. Later it reopened. A gentleman of significant wealth came to Trudy with a proposal. Come play only for me, and be a permanent part of my life. It wasn’t the sort of thing that appealed to Trudy. Shortly thereafter she suffered a debilitating stroke, and she had no one to care for her. Taking that gentleman’s offer might have been for the best.
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