Madam (14 page)

Fashionable men and women mechanically nodded as they shielded their Champagne glasses from the judge’s spittle.

But one man was truly listening, and intently so: Alderman Sidney Story, who unabashedly plucked off his spectacles and wiped the saliva with his handkerchief. He vehemently shook his head. “While I agree, Judge, that was the origination of the problem, this plague of vice in our city is more complex than—”

Judge Beares interrupted him with a loud hiccup. Then he turned to address the others. “It’s their offspring of lewd and abandoned women. Always comes back to the Frogs!”

Story was intent on having the judge’s ear—and it was the reason he’d shown up tonight, uninvited—but he was becoming deeply concerned that his message was being corrupted by the steady clip at which Beares was ingesting his liquor.

“Indeed, Judge, their offspring are vermin,” Story reinforced. “And just like any plague, we must confine the contaminated—”

“You can take the whore outta France,” Beares said, mocking a French accent, “but you can’t take the French”—he lewdly lifted and lowered his eyebrows—“outta the whore!” He cracked himself up, and his throng of admirers dutifully laughed along.

Alderman Story found none of this funny, and it would never occur to him to feign it. “Judge,” he pushed, “may I count on you to join me in proposing containment of these vile Jezebels who entice men to immorality?”

Beares fidgeted as he reluctantly turned to address Story. He leaned in close enough that he could smell the alderman’s hair tonic, spread thick across remaining strands that clung to his high, shiny forehead. “Alderman, this is not the time nor place to discuss your proclivity for a district of vice. You sound like an obsessed schoolgirl. Besides, hounding me at my own party isn’t the way to change my mind.” Beares hovered for a moment, wanting his words to sink in. “Now,” he said, stepping back, “another one of these”—he held up his near empty glass—“that may do the trick!”

“But, Your Honor,” Story persisted, “I have a duty to fulfill. The people of this city are looking to me to contain the wanton, the degenerate, and the diseased.”

The judge turned askance—was it possible the alderman was still talking?

Story continued, “When Mayor Flower appointed me head of the Public Order Committee, I was given a mandate to lead this lost Southern flock. And that is my sole mission.”

The judge glared back, serious now. “Get yourself a drink, Mistah Story. You are in dire need of one.”

But for a sip of altar wine, Story didn’t drink, and he was about to inform the judge of this, only he was interrupted by one Mr. Smithson, the cousin of a wealthy New Orleans plantation owner, who’d traveled from Georgia just for this party.

“Pardon me, Judge, may I take a moment?” Smithson asked.

“Please,” Beares pleaded. “Where were you twenty minutes ago?”

“Without meaning to be rude . . .” Smithson began. The judge burped. Already, Beares wasn’t liking the sound of this conversation either—why must his guests be so darn uptight? It was a
party
, after all.

Smithson continued, “There is a person present who is inappropriately making eyes at my wife. Under other circumstances, this may serve to flatter me, but . . . this man is a Negro.”

Beares confusedly scanned the room, looking out over the sea of powdery white faces.

Leaning in, Smithson said in an enunciated whisper, “The pianist.”

Beares slowly turned his round body toward the music. There, at the piano, was Mrs. Smithson, marching bawdily to “The Saints” and spilling herself and her drink all over the piano player.

“Ferd-i-nand,” Mrs. Smithson slurred loudly, “I like that name.” Other nearby guests cast withering, sideways glances at the spectacle.

Beads of sweat covered Ferdinand’s upper lip, and he ached to reach for his handkerchief, but he didn’t dare take his fingers or eyes from the piano keys. “Thank you, ma’am,” Ferdinand politely responded. “Was chosen by my godmother. Christened me after the king of Spain. But the king was worthless. Everyone knew the power was with the queen.”

Mrs. Smithson cooed and fanned herself, dribbling some drink on the piano. Ferdinand flinched—not the Steinway!

Across the room, Beares reluctantly turned back to Mr. Smithson. “Ah yes,” Beares said with a deep breath, “I
see
.”

“Judge, you must instruct your Negroes on proper decorum. I don’t proclaim to know what’s acceptable or not in New Orleans, but where I come from, such behavior can put your entire reputation at stake.”

“Yes, yes,” Beares sighed wearily. “I’ll go handle her . . . him.”

With a grunt, Beares made his way over to the piano. “Mrs. Smithson,” he gushed, taking her hand and kissing it, “so glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Isn’t it a divine evenin’, Judge?” she chittered.

“Yes, well, my dear, your husband’s been looking all over for you.” He nudged her away from the piano.

“Toodle-loo,” she said with a silly wave to Ferdinand.

Ferd looked to the judge, embarrassed for the woman. Beares inflated his cheeks and then slowly blew out the air. “You know, kid, you got real talent on that piano. I mean it, real talent.”

“Thank you, sir. I never dreamed I’d play on a Steinway. It takes my breath away.”

Beares started to answer, then decided against it and instead pulled a wad of cash from his vest. “Such stellar playing, I think we’re all done for the night.”

Ferdinand’s fingers halted. Perplexed, he looked to the judge.

Beares leaned in. “I’m gonna be honest with ya, kid. Some of our guests—the stuffy, pigheaded ones with no ear for music—well, they got a problem with a Negro man talking to their wife.”

“Sir,” Ferdinand said, confused, “I’m a Creole—”

“Yes, but they don’t know that in Georgia.”

He shoved the cash into Ferdinand’s jacket and waved over the young black maid. “Show this good man out. And give him a pint for the road.”

She dutifully curtsied, her eyes darting to Ferdinand with a touch of sympathy. She watched as he stiffly pushed himself back from the piano, a mere shadow of the eager young man she’d met at the door just hours earlier.

Judge Beares quickly removed himself from the unjust scene. What a shame, he thought, that others saw color so markedly. He, personally, found no harm in colored Creoles mixing with whites—Creoles had European heritage, after all, just the same as he. Just the same as Smithson. Still, there was no point in making issue; in Smithson’s world, as in the rest of the South, a man was either white or he wasn’t. It was New Orleans that had blurry vision.

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed ten, just as Beares felt a hand on his back. What
now
? It was his butler, his head bowed.

“Judge, a guest be waitin’ in the foyer.”

“Well, show him in.”

The butler cleared his throat. “Judge,
she
be waitin’ in the foyer.”

Beares felt a sudden pang of heartburn. He thrust his empty glass at the butler and hurried to the foyer.

There awaited precisely whom he’d feared: Countess Lulu White, cinched into an ivory corseted dress and ablaze in diamonds. Dramatically, she removed her mink stole and flashed the judge a perfectly disingenuous smile.

“Didn’t know you were hosting a soiree,
mon cher
,” she said, her tone silky yet biting at the same time.

“Oh . . . my . . . uh . . .” Beares stuttered, then lowered his voice. “You’re early.”

The Countess brought a monocle to her right eye, which intensified her glare. “Then you have plenty of time to introduce me ’round.”

Beares halfheartedly chuckled at what must surely have been the Countess’s attempt at a joke. But she expectantly stared at him in an unblinking way that only the Countess could pull off, making the judge squirm even more. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and wait for me,” he offered. She raised an eyebrow in return, and Beares tried to soothe her with a deep, hushed snarl. “I sure can’t wait for you.”

All this while, Alderman Story had been strategically eyeing the judge. When he’d noticed that Beares had left the parlor, Story swiftly meandered his way through the crowd, plotting that this would be the perfect opportunity to corner the judge and reinforce his mission. But as Story approached the foyer, he froze at the sight of the garishly dressed, flame-haired, white-powdered octoroon. There was no questioning what walk of life the flashy woman inhabited. Story let out a gasp and instinctively averted his gaze. “Christ forgive you,” he blurted.

From the corner of his eye, Beares spotted Story, and, as it quickly sunk in that the situation looked as compromising as it actually was, Beares began to flutter like a fly trapped in a jar. He batted Lulu away, not caring that she balked—she, of all people, didn’t take kindly to being shooed.

“Alderman, you’re not leaving so soon, are you?” Beares pandered, his voice nervously loud. He hurried over and threw his arm around Story’s slight shoulders. “Come back to the party!” Story was stiff as a board as Beares tried to chummily usher him toward the parlor. “Oh, it’s always something with the
help
,” Beares flouted. He gave a snide shake of his head in Lulu’s direction. “They should be called the help
less
, don’t you agree, Alderman?”

The judge’s words pierced Lulu like a hornet’s sting. She watched Beares waddle out of sight, staring cold and hard after him before she finally retreated upstairs.

Upon his exit from the parlor, Ferdinand had been led by the pretty young maid through the kitchen, where a dozen other servants bustled about. Word spread fast among the black domestics of the household, and they looked away as Ferd walked through, thinking maybe if they didn’t notice him they could pretend his ousting hadn’t really happened. The maid opened the back door leading to the stables and the alley, and the joyous sounds from the party silenced as the door closed behind him.

Ferdinand set off in the thick night air. As he walked, he twisted his crimson handkerchief, rolling his fingers across it as if it were a string of rosary beads. But instead of going home, he crossed over the neutral ground and headed to Rampart Street.

Opening the back door of the cigar shop, he carefully stepped over a line of brick dust at the threshold, meant to keep bad spirits from entering. He found Eulalie Echo with her hand dunked in a jar, grasping at the swimming turtle. She didn’t look up at the sound of someone entering, but instead, nabbed the turtle and pulled the flailing creature from the water.

“Ferdinand,” she greeted him, still not looking his way.

He watched as she positioned the turtle on its shell and, with a slender knife and a steady hand, sliced open its soft belly. She delicately removed the turtle’s heart and held it up.

“
Cowein?
” she offered.

Ferdinand grimaced. But Eulalie just shrugged, the boy didn’t know what he was missing. She rolled the heart in a yellow powder and tossed it into a kettle warming on a little coal stove.

“You sensing anythin’ fixed about me tonight?” Ferdinand pointedly asked.

Eulalie did a quick once-over, then, with a judgmental crinkle of her forehead, she returned to her concoction, crushing dried leaves and sprinkling them in.

“Godmother,” he impatiently coaxed, “be serious here. They were all having a real good time. My ragtime was tight.”

Eulalie stirred the kettle. “And now,” she said, “Eulalie’s secret ingredient.” She took a bottle of brandy from a warped shelf and generously poured some into the kettle. Then she took a hefty swig herself. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she offered the bottle to Ferdinand, and this, finally, registered a note of approval. He swallowed some down then looked at her intensely.

“Called me a Negro.” His jaw tightened at the words.

“Step back,” Eulalie ordered as if she hadn’t heard a thing he’d said.

He took a step back as Eulalie tossed a match into the kettle, igniting a leaping flame that nearly singed his eyebrows. Ferdinand jumped back. “Sweet baby Jesus! You with all this hoodoo!”

Eulalie swiped her hands through the flames. “It’s the Jim Crow jubilee,” she hissed.

“I know what happens on a streetcar. But I was there tonight as a professor of the piano.”

“You were there as someone used to passin’,” Eulalie confuted. She covered the kettle to stifle the fire. “You ain’t never felt what it’s like to be unfree in the land o’ the free.”

Ferd rubbed his temples from all this roundabout talk. Eulalie was Haitian, so of course he couldn’t expect her to fully appreciate the higher standing of a Creole. He sank onto a chair, and Eulalie glanced at him, lines darting from her thin lips as she pursed them.

“Don’t go lookin’ like the feathers have been plucked from the peacock’s tail. It ain’t all over.”

“I’ve been having such dark spells lately,” Ferd sighed, resting his head in his hands.

“You’re just comin’ into your talent is all,” Eulalie said as she dunked a ladle into the boiling kettle.

“Then why does it feel like something’s not right, like I have too much darkness in my mind?”

Eulalie ladled out two copper cups and handed one to Ferd. He hesitantly took it.