Madam (38 page)

Go down, Moses

Way down in Egypt la-and . . .

He noticed a raft approaching and tipped his hat. The raft was nothing more than some flat boards that moved as listlessly as everything did around here, including the air that hung so heavy you could practically see it. Lobrano stood on the raft, slogging it along through the bulrush with a branch as a makeshift oar. His eyes darted from bank to bank, searching the weeping treetops.

“Any gum trees here?” he called out.

“Don’t know no gum trees,” the old man said.

“Forty gum trees is what I’m lookin’ for.”

The old man’s lips flapped together over a toothless jaw. “Can’t never look for much here. The swamp don’t like no one pokin’ round. All them gators and serpents. Guardians o’ Hell, if ya asks me.”

Lobrano knew what he was up against, and it seemed fitting that he embrace Hell. But what he hadn’t expected was that this test was breathing some life into him. The search was his reason to pull his decrepit body awake each morning.

“The awfullest is there ain’t no absinthe here,” Lobrano called back. He’d been clear of the green fairy for nearly a week now and was at last starting to see the fits and sweats diminish.

The man laughed. “Maybe a little hooch if ya knows the right folk. But ain’t no absinthe, that’s for sure. That’s one for the fancy places. Here you swig from the bottle.” He sang out a bluesy tune as Lobrano’s shoddy raft floated deeper into the bayou.

Skinny man,

Hunting gum trees,

Under a full moon . . .

It was New Year’s Eve day, and malaise hung like a veil of fog over Venus Alley. This would have been one of the busiest days in years past, but now just a smattering of johns came and went, getting in their last cheap tricks before they were forced to pay up in Storyville. Most johns stayed away, though, not wanting to get caught up on the wrong side of the law as the death knell of the Alley tolled.

When Mary arrived, Tater and Sheep-Eye were already there, preempting the police by going crib to crib, warning occupants they must be cleared out by sundown or they’d be sent to jail. The whores wearily nodded, and Mary wondered where they all planned to go; it wasn’t as if any of them—or their pimps for that matter—could afford to rent houses in Storyville. She knew some whores thought any shadowy corner in the District would do. But Mary had heard the streets would be patrolled and streetwalkers arrested—no chance they’d let the District turn into another Venus Alley.

A few Alley girls—only the youngest and best-looking ones—had been asked to join houses. Not fancy houses like the Countess’s, but small ones situated out of sight in the blocks behind Basin Street, where Mary thought Anderson would’ve placed her. As far as she’d heard, only one Alley girl had been recruited to a Basin Street house, and it was the raunchy one: Miss Emma Johnson’s French Studio, where word was that Emma would hold weekly sex shows that were not for the faint of stomach. Mary couldn’t even imagine what these might entail, and she hoped to God that Anderson wouldn’t request something atrocious like that from her someday.

Mary hadn’t asked any girls yet, although she knew she’d be bringing Beulah with her. With all the recent upheavals, she’d come to regard Beulah as, dare she say, a friend. Or as close to it as she had on the Alley. For years, Beulah had been little more than a nag, and Mary figured she’d probably been regarded as the same. But now, the two had found, if not exactly a fondness, then at least a need for each other. She realized she actually trusted Beulah. She could rely on seeing that face every day, on having someone who’d keep an eye out for her and someone who was wise to the ways of their world. Like Mary, Beulah had kept to her own, minding her business and no one else’s, and Mary respected that.

She couldn’t wait to see the look on Beulah’s face when she told her about The Arlington. But not just yet. She’d hold the secret a little longer, fearing that if she breathed so much as a word, news would travel fast and she’d be bombarded by desperate pleas. It worried her that she wouldn’t be able to say no to anyone. How could she? Who was she to say no when she’d shared the same lot day in, day out, year after year? When just a week ago, she was sure she’d be on a street corner begging?

As she surveyed the Alley, she couldn’t help but look upon the others with new eyes. After all, it was she, little Mary, who now held the power to change their lives. She caught herself eyeing different whores, wondering if any were refined enough to work in her house. It was strange and awful to stand there and judge the others as if she were better than them all. Silly girl, who would’ve thought
you
were refined enough?

But she was a madam now, and certainly no one else here could say that.

She looked to a gangly pipsqueak of a whore, hair still in braids, face smudged with dirt. Thumbelina, the Alley called her, and Mary had never bothered to ask her real name. If she were to clean up Thumbelina, send her to the boudoir to cut and style her hair and fit her with the latest fashions, could Thumbelina become a suitable Basin Street girl too? And what if Thumbelina transformed into an even better Basin Street girl than Mary? What if Thumbelina was more the stuff of madam material, whatever that “stuff” may be?

Mary’s head suddenly hurt with the burden of her new position. She turned to her crib—for the very last time. She packed her few belongings and set out her kip and little bedside table for anyone who wanted to take them. God willing, she’d never in her life need a kip again.

But she didn’t head home just yet. Instead, she turned toward Pete Lala’s Café. Please let him be there, she said to herself. Sure enough, as she rounded the corner she could hear the piano from down the block, a somber tune today. She wasn’t sure what her new life would bring, but she wanted some happiness where she could get it.

Her gait quickened, and before she could talk herself out of entering, she walked through the door and straight back to the piano.

Ferdinand looked up, and a little smile broke through the tenseness of his face.

Mary said, “I’ve come to ask an important question.”

He stopped playing and swiveled around to face her.

“I’ve heard your music, and it stays with me,” Mary continued. “If I have the choice, and I believe I do, I’d like to hear your music all the time. Will you be the man who plays the piano at my establishment?”

She didn’t breathe until the last word had left her mouth.

There, she’d said it—even though she’d felt absurdly pompous blurting out “my establishment.” She knew she better get used to it—there was no such thing as a modest madam.

Ferdinand certainly hadn’t expected anything of this sort. “A flattering offer,” he said. “Where is your establishment?”

At this, Mary paused. She’d assumed he knew what she was. But then again, why would he? Couldn’t she have been a girl who walked by sometimes on her way to her parents’ home, where she lived a chaste life like most girls her age?

She straightened herself up. “Storyville,” she said. “Basin Street.” She studied his face for any hint of his thoughts, but he quickly turned away.

He reached for a sliced roll on a plate atop the piano, then dolloped on some jelly. He offered up the plate. “Please, have some, miss . . . sorry, I don’t recall your given name.”

“Mar—” She caught herself. “It’s Josie Arlington.”

“I’m Ferdinand LaMenthe. Please . . .” He offered the plate again. “Miss Hattie makes the best marmalade.”

Mary graciously took a small piece of the roll and dipped it in the jam. “That
is
good,” she said with a shy smile.

Ferd took in the sight of this young woman, hardly more than a girl, marching in here, speaking to him directly, unabashedly staring him in the face. He knew he’d seen her before, knew they’d made eyes at each other, but at this moment even her prettiness was surpassed by her gumption, and he liked that. In that way, she felt familiar to him.

“Just might be fitting that I become a professor of the piano in the Underworld,” he said. “But I’m wondering, would you let me play my own compositions?”

Mary didn’t know the difference between his own compositions or anyone else’s; all she knew was she liked everything she’d heard him play. “Of course,” she said.

A crease of concern shot across Ferdinand’s forehead. “I should tell you up front, some folks who frequent those establishments have a problem with the color of my skin.”

“Oh, not at my place.” Mary vigorously shook her head. “There’ll be—” She stopped, remembering that it was her little secret with Tom Anderson. “Let’s just say I’ve been sharing space with a Negra for many years now. No one at my place will mind, I promise you.”

Ferd took another bite of his roll, chewing as he mulled it over—not that there was anything to mull except for Grandmère. Oh, Grandmère. Playing at Lala’s was bad enough, but if she ever found out he had a gig in the Tenderloin she’d kick him out of the house, that was for certain. But playing on Basin Street meant he’d soon have enough money to leave Grandmère’s house anyway, and maybe it was time for him to become a man. At this, Ferdinand thrust his hand forward.

For a moment, Mary wasn’t sure what to do, then it occurred to her: I am doing business. She reached out and gave him the heartiest handshake she could muster.

“Mistah LaMenthe, I mean no disrespect, but, if you’d like . . . well, I was asked to take a name of my choosing, and I want to offer that to you. But you don’t have to, only if you want.”

Giving her a whimsical look, Ferd considered this. “Don’t rightly know what I’d choose, never thought about it before. But I agree. I should have a . . . a stage name.” He slathered on more marmalade and took another bite. “Now, what suits me?”

“Aw, it’ll come to you, Mistah Jelly Roll,” Mary said.

He cocked an eyebrow and gave her a knowing smirk.

“What?” Mary asked. Then it hit her. “Oh! I didn’t mean
that
!”

They both broke into bashful giggles. “Sure you didn’t,” Ferd teased. “But, you know, it is my favorite. I’m speaking of the marmalade.” He winked.

Ferd played the name over in his head, mouthing it. “Yes, ma’am, I think Mistah Jelly Roll sounds like a right smart ragtime name. Gotta work on the surname, though.”

Mary wanted to linger, but she couldn’t, not today. “Thank you,” she said. “We’ll talk again soon.”

Ferd watched as she walked out, noticing the way she held herself and the measure of her gait, from the small of her back to her narrow hips. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he had the sudden urge to take this young woman to the French Opera House. He decided he would, indeed, do that someday.

C
HAPTER THIRTY

The French Market

S
idney Story sent the housemaid to the market with several dollars and instructions to get fine cuts of steak with all the fixings and a fresh-baked pecan pie. At six o’clock sharp, the candles on the dining table were lit and Story and his mother sat down to their New Year’s Eve dinner.