Madam (34 page)

Although she knew Anderson had a penchant for politics, she never thought he’d actually thrust himself into the ring. But apparently, it was true, and she felt a twinge of envy—she would never say so, but she didn’t want him going off to Baton Rouge. She liked him right here. She rose, moving across the room to stare out the window, lest any indication on her face give her away.

“I’ve been seeing the vacant house down the street all lit up as of late,” she said. “You haven’t told me your plans for it.”

Anderson took a long, contemplative swallow of his brandy. “It all just came about. I happened upon a sweet little thing who’ll do whatever I say and won’t mind servicing the Negroes.”

“I see,” Lulu said, trying to keep a measured tone. “It’s an awfully large and grand house for servicing Negroes.”

Anderson weighed his words, careful not to sound overly enthusiastic. “It won’t be only Negroes. She’ll run a proper full-service house.”

“Do I know her? Surely I must have heard of her?”

“She calls herself Josie Arlington.”

“Hmm . . . Don’t believe I’ve ever come across a Josie Arlington.” She repeated the name over in her head, knowing that immediately after Anderson left she would summon everyone in her circle, from Sullivan to her politico clients to the little Alley scamp Anderson paid off every now and then, to find out just who this Josie Arlington was. But for now, she kept a steady demeanor. “Where’s Miss Arlington from?” she asked nonchalantly.

Anderson knew Lulu wouldn’t take kindly to his planting a neophyte in a bordello as beautiful as Lulu’s own. He thought it through. She had to find out eventually, and he’d rather it came from him. But admitting to Lulu that her biggest competitor in Storyville was going to be a lowly girl he’d plucked from the Alley, that was taking it too far. Besides, Lulu needn’t know details that no longer mattered.

“Where’s she from?” Anderson repeated, then chortled. He leaned his head to rest against the wingback chair. “Where’s anybody from? Where’re you from, Countess?”

She turned to face him, catching his eyes. A sly smile played on her painted lips. “Same as you,” she replied. “Everywhere and nowhere.”

Ferdinand stared with disbelief at the thick roll of cash that had made its way into his palm via Mr. Flabacher. He tucked the money inside his jacket and, still wearing his happy-glazed expression, stepped outside. The cool air felt refreshing on his flushed cheeks. By the light of the flickering gas lamp, he strolled across the porch, inhaling the fragrance of hyacinths, the perfume only adding to his delirium. He thought of the Greek tragedy of Hyacinth, which he’d read about in literature class, and how the beautiful, young boy became the victim of a jealous wind god. His thoughts then darted to the Countess’s offer to have him play at Frenchman’s, and he grew giddy all over again. Just then, he tripped over something on the porch and staggered to catch his balance. He looked down, wondering what in the heck was sprawled out like that. Only it wasn’t
what
, it was
who
.

“Sorry, sir,” Ferd stammered. “I didn’t see you there.”

A man drunkenly stirred. “Where ya goin’?”

“Just getting on my way,” Ferd said, and he continued forward.

Another voice rang out. “How dare you turn your back to my brother, Negro.” Stepping from the shadows was Alabama boy Acey LaRue. “You disrespectin’ my brother?”

Ferd felt a chill come over him. “I mean no disrespect, sir,” he said.

“Don’t
sir
me. You don’t even have the right to speak to me.”

Pierce LaRue hoisted himself up from the ground. “Where we come from, we owned your kind.”

They moved closer to Ferdinand and he could smell the alcohol on them.

“This here’s a backward town, Negroes minglin’ with the superior race,” Acey said.

Ferd’s heart pounded. His muscles began twitching.

“I think you need a lesson ’bout how the world really works, boy.”

Pierce drunkenly lunged, but Ferd took off running at full speed, his long legs bolting down the walk and across the street. One thing was for certain, the lanky kid could run, and the LaRue brothers, in their dinner suits and inebriated states, were after him like a pack of turtles—only, in Ferd’s mind this was hardly the case. To him, the burly men were on him like wolves. He didn’t look back the entire way.

When he at last charged up to Grandmère’s house, he thrust himself through the back door and hurried to bolt it behind him. Gasping for breath, he collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

As if it couldn’t get worse, he heard stirring in the house. Now he’d gone and woken Grandmère, and he’d have to explain his whereabouts. If the Devil was trying to scare him away from music- making, the attempt was a darn good one. But Ferd didn’t recognize the footsteps as Grandmère’s slippered shuffle. Instead, two tiny bare feet approached. A little girl, arms crossed, stood before him.

“You going off to hear the blues on brass without me?” Améde demanded.

Ferd hid his shaking hands behind his back. “Shhh.”

“If Grandmère catches you,” Améde warned, “she’ll slap you to sleep, then slap you for sleeping.”

“You go on back to bed, Améde.”

“You ill or something? You don’t look right.”

Slowly raising himself up, Ferd took off his sweat-soaked jacket—his gorgeous tailored jacket, hadn’t wanted it to see a single crease earlier in the night, and look at it now. With his legs exhausted, he hobbled toward his room.

“Ferd,” Améde whispered after him. “Tomorrow . . . another cala?” She gave a devious but hopeful smile as if to remind her brother of their little secret.

“No more calas,” Ferd said wearily. “We’re staying put.”

“Are you getting dim? What I’m trying to say is—”

“I know, Améde. The music’s dead and buried for now.”

“You’re being scary, Ferd.”

“Sometimes things are scary, little girl. Now leave me be.” He closed his bedroom door and crawled into bed, cradling himself.

The morning sun shone brightly through the stained-glass windows of the Countess’s bordello. Empty Champagne bottles, party masks, wilted flowers, and articles of clothing were strewn about the parlor. House rules mandated that no john was allowed to spend the night, and while the girls had done a good job of shooing the males out, they’d lost the energy to get their own selves upstairs. Instead, sleeping girls still in their party dresses were draped over the sofas and nestled into the bear-claw chairs and curled up on the fur throws.

The only sound in the house other than snoring was a rhythmic scrubbing, then a sloshing of water, then more scrubbing. On their hands and knees, Addie and Boo maneuvered the scrub brush around the sleeping whores, pushing aside a leg or lifting a dangling arm. The girls were out so cold, no one stirred.

“They could make a preacher cuss,” Addie mumbled.

No one even flinched when a loud knock sounded at the front door, except for Addie and Boo, who looked questioningly to each other. “Who in their right mind’s coming by now?” Addie moaned. She nodded to Boo, who wiped her damp hands on her apron before unbolting the door. As she peered out she nearly gasped at the sight of a large-headed, misshapen little man, his arms full of all sort of contraptions.

“Yes, sir?” she said warily.

E. J. Bellocq’s shrill voice was almost as disconcerting as his appearance. “Please inform Mistah Flabacher that the photographer has arrived. Thank you.”

Wide-eyed, Boo nodded and shut the door.

“Well, who’s there?” Addie asked.

“The photographer? A buggy-lookin’ one, Ma.”

They both turned to see Flabacher, fresh and dressed in a three-piece suit, entering the foyer, having come in from the guest quarters, a gold pocket watch in his hand. “Well, good morn—” his voice trailed off as he saw the slumber-filled parlor, “My oh my, this isn’t very sightly, is it?”

“The photographer be on the porch,” Addie informed him.

“Well, at least someone has an appreciation for time,” Flabacher muttered.

He led Bellocq around to the back courtyard, where, amidst clotheslines of petticoats and stockings, Bellocq busily set up his tripod, wet plate, and camera. Flabacher shuffled about impatiently, checking his watch. “There was another big opening party last night,” he explained. “They’re throwing opening parties every Saturday night up until the official opening of Storyville on New Year’s Eve. Still, though, it’s half past noon, surely one of them should be up by now.” He called into the open kitchen window. “How’s that pot of coffee coming, Addie?”

“Still brewin’,” she called back.

“I need one of those gals,” he said.

“Which one?” Addie asked.

“Uhh . . . one who’s coherent?”

Addie popped her head out the doorway to give him a look. “This coffee’s strong, but ain’t gonna float no iron wedge.”

“I know, I know,” Flabacher said, “but can you just go wake one? The photographer’s on the clock.”

A few moments later, Addie reappeared, propping up a girl dressed in nothing but her petticoat and garters. “This be Lucinda,” Addie announced.

“Lucinda, great!” Flabacher boomed. They helped her into a wicker chair and she promptly nodded off, wilting like a dead, makeup-smeared flower.

Bellocq looked through the ground glass of his camera, then stepped back helplessly.

“Hello? Lucinda?” Flabacher said.

Her head rolled around, and she cracked open an eye . . . but then her neck lolled again.

“Lu-cin-da! We need you to wake up!” Flabacher called in her face. This time, she curled her legs up onto the chair, but to no avail; she was just getting more comfortable. Flabacher threw his arms into the air. “Well, this just dills my pickle,” he exclaimed. “Mister Bellocq, can you make the photograph in an artistic way so we can’t tell she’s . . . out cold?”

Bellocq stared blankly at Flabacher.

“Splendid!” Flabacher said. “Fetch me when you’re done.” He stomped off into the house, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Bellocq wasn’t keen on being left alone with the sleeping whore. After all, his last photographic job had been doing class pictures for the Catholic primary school. He inched toward her. Keeping distance as if she might suddenly snap to and bite him, he awkwardly stretched out his hand to touch her shoulder. Delicately, he lowered her petticoat strap. It drooped to reveal her breast. Bellocq stared for a moment, then, satisfied, he quietly stepped back, ducking behind his camera.

C
HAPTER TWENTY-SIX

W
hen Tom Anderson had suggested, strongly, that Mary take a new name, she wasn’t sure what to pick, or even how she should feel about it. “This is your chance to reinvent yourself,” he’d told her. “You can change your identity completely. Leave behind Mary Deubler. Become the woman you always wanted to be, or never thought you could be, or didn’t even dare dream of being. Your fate is in your own hands now.”

His words were intoxicating. They were everything Mary could have wanted to hear, and yet, she didn’t feel anything near what she would have imagined. Here she had the opportunity to shed her former self and to create a new one from thin air. She could instantly become a Russian princess, or a circus acrobat, heir to an aristocrat, or even an African priestess. She could create any lineage and a jaw-dropping story of how she’d come to be a madam.