Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (8 page)

 

I have set up my own studio above Faber Shipping for several reasons: The smell of turpentine is rather harsh and I prefer that it be confined there, rather than in my digs above the Pig. And then there's that great northern light I get through the high windows and the splendid view of the harbor lying there all sparkling in the summer sun.

I shall take in students, should any want to have me for an instructor. Having studied under the great Goya, as well as Mr. Peet of the Lawson Peabody faculty, I have credentials. There are large flat tables for lettering and sign work, as well as for the grinding of oil paints, and easels for the painting of pictures on stretched canvas.

Refurbishing the Pig's sign was the first job I assigned myself. It had been taken down by John Thomas and Finn McGee and placed upon a table. I put gilt on the sign's frame along with a band of gold around the pig's pennywhistle, then pinked up his rosy little rump. When my two stalwarts hung the sign back up, it glowed in the sunlight and looked every bit the trademark of a fine and prosperous establishment—The Pig and Whistle, Publick House & Inn. I know, I know, the Sin of Pride, the sin to which I am most susceptible, but still, my chest did expand and I was most proud to see it hanging there.

I have taken several of the tavern's upstairs rooms for myself, the ones facing the street. Faber Shipping is a place for work—this is where I come to relax. The larger of the rooms has a pair of doors leading to a small balcony that hangs out over State Street, and I enjoy sitting up there of an evening, sipping a little something and watching the life of the city.

Of course, Maudie and Bob have moved back upstairs, just across from me, and the rooms on the third floor—six of them—are for rent to respectable customers.

When Amy and I had come back from Dovecote to resume work on our various projects, I once again teased her with the prospect of displaying
La Maja Virginal
, as we stood in the empty great room of the Pig.

“See,” I said, pointing to a space above the bar. “It would fit real nice right there. Good proportions and all.”

“Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. “And it would get you closed down in a minute. The BAWS is watching your every move. And don't forget, my wayward Sister, that Judge Thwackham's sentence of twelve strokes of the cane for Lewd and Lascivious Conduct still hangs over your head, should you ever appear in his court again.”

“I know, Amy, I know,” I said. “But suppose I cover up the naughty bits with drapery. Wouldn't that make it all right?”

“No, it would not,” she said, drilling me with her eyes, “for it would be snatched away right after the first drunken sailor comes up with five dollars in his hand asking that the drapery be removed. And you would probably be the one to do it. Remember, Sister, this is Boston, not Paris! Or even New York!”

Oh, very well,
I thought, sighing and consigning the painting, rolled up in its map tube, to the stack of other rolled canvases in my studio.
Perhaps someday I shall donate it to the American National Museum, should this country ever get around to having such a place. We shall see . . .

 

Busy, busy, Little Miss Tidymouse . . .

I have opened up the kitchen area, as I believe people like to see how their food is prepared—cleanliness of staff, freshness of ingredients, and all that. The floor is tiled in the kitchen area and easy to clean. Jemimah Moses stands, right now, at the stove, preparing lunch for the three tables of hungry customers. Steam rises from her pots and curls up and out the vent placed above.

Molly Malone is waiting on the tables in saucy serving-girl rig—nothing like a pretty Irish girl bouncing about for improving business, I figure, and it is good for her, too. She is spirited and vivacious and revels in the convivial life of a public house, and needs to be known in this town for more than just being that Arthur McBride's main squeeze.

I look about me, well pleased at the changes in my lovely little inn, when there comes the clatter of a coach pulling up outside. Most people come to the Pig either on foot or on horseback. There is a stable out back to accommodate those travelers. Curious, I go to the door and am met with a surprise . . .

“Clarissa!” I exclaim upon seeing her. “And Lissette, too! Come in! Welcome! Oh, it is so good to see you both!”

I get an air kiss from Clarissa—one in which lips do not quite meet cheek—and a much more affectionate one from Lissette.

“We heard you were back,” says Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, of the Virginia Howes, looking about and holding a perfumed hanky to her perfect nose, “and Lissette wanted to see you. Can't imagine why, but here we are, nonetheless.” She gazes around. “How common, how utterly common.”

Lissette is less aloof and much more kind. She spins about and says, “Eet is
tres charmante, ma chérie!
You seek to capture zee simple
ambiance
of zee Parisian café, zee bistro, no?”

“Well, yes, Lissette, that was on my mind,” I say, delighted to see the spirited young French aristocrat again. “I do have a great fondness for Paris, you know.”

“Of course, I know! I read
le
book written by our own Ai-mee Tray-vel-i-an! ‘Le Bonny Light Horseperson'! I know all the places you speak of . . . le Hippodrome de Longchamp, le Louvre, la place de la Concorde . . .
I even know of
Les Petites Gamines de Paris
,
you naughty girl, you. And Jean Paul de Valdon and that leetle white tent? Ah, yes. Our French boys can be very charming, no?” she says, grinning and pointing a finger at my nose.

I blush and laugh and we both slip easily into French.

“Eh bien, Lissette, mais Paris n'est pas Boston, non?”

“Mais oui, m'amie.”
She laughs with that Parisian shrug of the shoulders.
“Et l'empereur . . . c'est vrai?”

“Oui, et Josephine, aussi . . .”

“All right, you two, enough of that,” snaps Clarissa, plainly irritated at being left out of the conversation. I recall that Miss Howe was not a particularly good student of the French language.

She looks about and spies Jemimah at her stove and calls out, “Some good southern food over heah, Mammy.”

Jemimah cuts a glance at our table and I give her a wink. Both she and I know exactly who and what Clarissa is—a spoiled young Southern Belle.

Jemimah winks back and says, “Yes'm! Lawsy! Some cornbread and hushpuppies and crawdaddies comin' right on up, you bet! 'Course we don't have crayfish up here in Yankeeland, but I know our local shrimp will do jes' fine!”

Does Clarissa catch the edge of sarcasm in Jemimah's voice? Somehow, I don't think so . . . Her kind is generally oblivious to that sort of thing from the servants. I am sure Jemimah has seen many of Clarissa's ilk in her day.

I gesture to Molly and she comes over, and I say, “Crack out the good stuff. Côtes du Rhône. Right, Lissette?” I get an appreciative nod on that, and the wine is brought out and poured. I look at Lissette's profile as she sips at the wine and recall how well the pampered aristocrat held up under the ordeal on the
Bloodhound
, sitting in the Pit with some of the commonest girls, as we all feasted on roasted rats.

“Mmmm . . .” she says. “You do know how to treat a guest, Jac-kie. When this . . . unpleasantness . . . between our countries is over, you must visit our estate in Avignon. We have some of the finest—”

Just then Ravi bursts in, his empty basket over his arm.

“Memsahib!” he says, breathless. “I have passed out all the wooden nickels to the sailor mans and they were most thankful and promise to visit soon!”

“I am sure they will. Good job, lad,” I say, putting my arm across his shoulders. “This is my son, Ravi,” I say to Clarissa and Lisette, hugging him to me and placing a kiss upon his brow.

“Your son? Rather dark, isn't he?” says Clarissa, lifting an eyebrow. “With
whom
have you been sleepin', dearest Jacky?” she softly asks, casting her eyes on a table of sailors, two of whom are Jamaicans.
All
seamen, black, white, or yellow, are welcome at the Pig, as long as they behave themselves—which sailors, whatever the color of their skin, seldom do, of course.

I laugh and let the comment pass.

“Lunch will be my treat,” I say, unnecessarily, for I know neither one has any intention of paying. Perhaps the slight smile that plays about my lips betrays my thought because Clarissa cocks an eyebrow and says, “I will trade you a surely simple luncheon for a ride in my elegant carriage to our graduation ceremonies.”

“Done, done, and done,” I say. “May Amy also ride?”
Great! Amy and I won't have to trudge up the hill to the school!

“Oh,
she's
here, too? Our dreary poetess?” The ever gracious Clarissa sighs, casting eyes to ceiling.

“Yes. She's right next door. Come, let me show you something while Mrs. Moses prepares our lunch. Won't take but a minute.” We rise and, mystified, the two follow me out the door.

Next to the Pig sits what was once a large barn and what is now a playhouse
,
a wholly owned subsidiary of Faber Shipping Worldwide. Above the doorway is a sign, all green and black and gilt, proclaiming it to be
The Emerald Playhouse
, and gazing upon it, my chest expands with pride. The sign was the second project I took on in my new studio, after having refurbished the dear Pig. The door is open and Lissette and Clarissa follow me in.

“So what do you think?” I ask of them as our eyes adjust to the semi-darkened interior. There is an empty stage at the far end of the building, with two rows of balconies extending down each side. In the center is an open area, which in Shakespeare's time would have been called the Pit, the place for the commoner patrons. There will be benches later, but there are none now, as they are under construction by Ephraim Fyffe and his crew of carpenters. We can hear the sound of their hammers coming from outside. A row of windows, high above, circle the interior, but they are presently covered with heavy drapes. “Come, let's get closer,” I say, and we approach the foot of the stairs. “Does it remind you of anything?”

“Eet looks like that awful
Bloodhound,
” says Lissette with a shiver.

“Indeed it does,” I reply. “You know that the
Hound,
itself, was admirably set up as a stage set? The Proscenium, the Balconies, the Pit, and all that? Why, the whole thing was meant to be a play, and so it will be. Our first production is
In the Belly of the Bloodhound,
as
performed by the Emerald Players, and written by Miss Amy Trevelyne. The Chorus is conducted by Miss Hepzibah Van Pelt and it's directed by Messrs. Fennel and Bean, thespians of great renown.”

As if on cue, the voice of Mr. Fennel booms out, “Act two, scene three. Places everyone! Lights up!”

There is a slight swishing sound as the drapes above are pulled back and the stage is illuminated. Both Clarissa and Lissette gasp and recoil, for there, center stage, in front of a gaggle of white-clad girls, stands a figure clad in a fine purple suit of clothes. It is Sin-Kay, himself. He notices us standing there and he levels a stiff finger and thunders, “You, there! Get in my line! NOW!”

There are times when the rational mind turns tail and runs away in the face of something totally impossible—that time was now for Clarissa and Lissette, for each of them grabs one of my arms in sheer terror, each of them, for an instant, back in the belly of the
Bloodhound.

“Solomon Freeman does a fine Sin-Kay, doesn't he?” I ask, grinning at their sudden discomfiture. Their grips on my arm slowly relax.

It appears the scene being rehearsed is the one in which the slaver Sin-Kay orders the kidnapped girls of the Lawson Peabody to line up as he calls the roll . . .
Rebecca
Adams, Ruth Alden, Sally Anderson . . .
It does not take long to get to
Jacky Faber.
The girl standing in for me blurts out, “You're a goddamned dirty slaver!” And then, “Yer nuthin' but a jumped-up nigra to me for all yer fine and fancy clothes!” snarls Polly Von, up there playing the role of Clarissa Howe. “Now yew get the hell out of heah! There are ladies present!”

“That doesn't sound like me at all,” says Clarissa, slightly breathless. “Who is she?” nodding toward the actress on the stage.

“Her name is Polly. Polly Von. She was a friend to me, back in London. A fellow gang member of the Rooster Charlie Gang.”

“She is very pretty, in a common sort of way.”

“Well, we did require a pretty girl to stand in for you, didn't we? 'Else the wrath of the Goddess of Beauty would fall upon us. Yes, she will play Clarissa Howe in
In the Belly of the Bloodhound,
should you not choose to step into that role. I, of course, will be playing myself. Some of the original
Bloodhound
Thirty-Two will be in it, as well. Would you like to reprise your very central role? Hmmm?”

She smiles at the notion, probably thinking of the dance she performed on the deck of that ship as a diversion during our attempt at escape—a diversion that worked extremely well—a dance that would have made that Salome of the Seven Veils proud.

“Would you have to place your mouth on mine again? I still shudder to think back on that. Disgusting.”

“'Fraid so, Clarissa. Amy has already written that in. But I promise to suck on a lot of peppermints just before that awful moment so you won't be offended overmuch.”

She does not reply.

“Let us go have lunch. It should be ready,” I say, and then call up to the stage, “Amy! Come dine with us. Soon it will be time for your graduation!” Amy, clipboard in hand, with several pencils shoved up into her hair, nods, says something to the Director, then joins us as we go back to the Pig to sample whatever delicious things Jemimah has prepared for us.