The Future of Another Timeline

by Annalee Newitz

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, too.” She gave me a hug that blotted out more pain than opium ever could.

  * * *

  Morehshin and I made it back to Chicago in December. It was almost 1894, the Expo was over, and Aseel had moved into Soph’s old rooms now that the Algerian Village was gone. She made beds for Morehshin and me on the floor as we told her about Soph’s sacrifice.

  “I suppose she loved that. Calling on the goddess was always her specialty.” Aseel looked down. “I miss her.”

  “She misses you, too. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

  “We did the right thing. Plus, Soph’s ‘death’ got people riled up about how terrible Anthony is. Have you seen the pictures of him doing the hoochie coochie?” She pulled out a copy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and spread it on the soft rug where we sat on cushions. Holding up a lamp so we could see clearly, Aseel pointed at a long article about Comstock’s fight against the dancers at the Expo. Apparently he had tried to get another theater shut down in New York, and granted a press conference about his efforts. To describe the horror of the dance, he stood up and did some wobbly gyrations, much to the amusement of the audience. A political cartoonist had quickly drawn a sketch of the portly Comstock, buttons bursting on his waistcoat, face flushed, shaking his ass. That picture was more of a blow than the twenty inches of arch commentary in the article. It turned Comstock from a moral authority into an out-of-touch loon.

  This was progress. But unfortunately, politicians didn’t care what the newspapers said about Comstock. He still had powerful people on his side, including wealthy New Yorkers who dumped cash into Congress.

  “We need to organize another anti-Comstock protest, but even bigger than the last one,” I said.

  Aseel made a face. “I don’t think a protest will work.”

  “But the last one was great! I have some ideas—”

  “We need to switch tactics. If we protest again, without the Expo, we look like crazy children. It’s easy to ignore us.”

  That stung a little, especially when Morehshin grunted assent.

  “All right then, Aseel—what’s your plan?”

  “I started thinking about this a few months ago, when the burlesque girls stole our moves and … our song.” Aseel dropped her eyes for a moment, and I remembered her helpless rage that night at the Persian Palace. “Now that Sol and I are selling the sheet music at the shop, it’s become incredibly popular. What if we had an event to celebrate the hoochie coochie? People really hate Comstock for going after hoochie coochie dancers. That’s the biggest stumble he’s made. We could do something in New York that was so spectacular that even those rich socialite Astors would come see it. Comstock would have to go after us, and it would make him terribly odious to everyone.”

  Morehshin nodded. “It would put him in a very bad position. He’d damage his reputation if he tried to stop it, and damage his reputation if he didn’t.”

  I imagined a hoochie coochie protest and was filled with so much glee that it almost chased my headache away. “Yes!” I yelped, pumping my fist in the air like I was at a show.

  * * *

  Sol and Aseel named their new business the Independent Music Company, shortened on the sheet music to Ind. Music Co. Far north of our old haunt on the Midway, it was nestled among tall brick buildings in the riverfront district along Wabash Street. Cable cars clanged outside, and the theater next door had a massive billboard advertising “The Original Midway Dancers Here.” In the mornings, when the street was redolent of bacon and fresh bread, the neighborhood had an air of respectability. But as the afternoon wore on, and the barkers hawked their ten-cent tickets, packs of young men with beer foam in their moustaches smoked cigars on the street. The stench of rotting meat drifted in from the water. That’s when it was obvious that the Midway had found a permanent home in Chicago. Still, it hadn’t been domesticated. Not yet.

  The Independent Music Company storefront was crammed with carefully alphabetized offerings in wooden racks labeled with signs advertising COMIC SONGS and HITS. A modern cash register with brass fittings occupied most of the marble-top counter, and a glass-front display case held a hodgepodge of impulse items: piano strings, guitar picks, wood polish, Smith Brothers cough drops for singers. Cozy and well lit, the place attracted a steady stream of musicians and promoters. But it wasn’t the heart of Aseel and Sol’s operation. That lay behind a door in the back, which opened into an airy warehouse. The previous owners used it for storing barrels of liquor, and a few busted casks still huddled in a corner, smelling faintly of sherry. Now half the room was taken up with a printing press and paper, and the other half was a woodworking shop where a former drummer from the Algerian Theater made fiddles. A spiral staircase led to the manager’s office, where Aseel worked from Sol’s favorite chair at a large conference table.

  This room became our informal planning headquarters. We met for the first time on an icy Tuesday, as Aseel was going over sheet music mockups for a new dance hall hit. The cover would be in two colors, and she used a red fountain pen to sketch out where she wanted the title to swirl upward, spewing flowers and curly lines. At last she looked up at Morehshin and me, gathered earnestly at the table. Here, at the center of a thriving music business, it was more obvious than ever that Aseel was one of the few turn-of-the-century women who had managed to unbind herself from the strictures of her time. Partly that was thanks to her strength and talent, but also to the lucky edit that brought her a male boss who recognized both and rewarded her for them.

  I was certain she would bend history to make room for more women like her.

  She motioned for us to sit down at the table, and we talked for a while about her idea for a New York event. “But how will we organize it?” I asked. “Comstock has eyes on the post. Given what happened to Soph, we have to assume he’s still watching our correspondence. We can’t mail anyone if he’s spying on us.”

  There was a banging on the stairs, and one of the printers knocked on the door. “Miss Aseel? Do you know how many copies of ‘Chicago Dancers Polka’ we’re going to need?”

  “Make two dozen.” She waved him off.

  That gave me an idea. “What if we sent something through the mail that looked completely innocent? You could issue a special edition of the hoochie coochie song, but with a new name, something innocuous like … ‘Country Lad.’ We could include the description of our event in the sheet music booklet.”

  Aseel’s eyes gleamed. “What if we made it a dance contest? Twenty-five bucks to the best interpretation of … ‘Country Lad.’” She giggled. “I bet we could get some of the Four Hundred to shell out for prizes and a ballroom.” She was referring to a fabled group of New York socialites, whose number supposedly never topped four hundred. Rumors swirled in the gossip pages that some of their secret parties included private dances from a Lady Asenath imitator.

  “How are we going to do that?” Morehshin was zapping tiny holes in the table with her multi-tool, then repairing them. When Aseel glared, she made a protesting noise. “What? I’m practicing!”

  I twirled a pencil around my thumb, lost in thought. “There must be some dumb, rich dudes in New York who want a bunch of hoochie coochie girls to perform for them.”

  “You know who is really dumb, and in thick with the Four Hundred? Archibald Fraser, the son of that guy who does animal shows.” Aseel put the sheet music aside excitedly. “His dad owns performing seals and elephants and sells a million tickets. Sol knows Archy, and I bet he would introduce us. If we pull this off, it’s good for the business.”

  Aseel and I debated where we could hold the event. The problem was that I hadn’t been in New York since hanging out with Emma Goldman’s crew over a decade ago. Aseel only knew about venues through Sol and the gossip pages.

  Oddly, Morehshin turned out to have in-depth knowledge of Gilded Age New York. “Do you know Sherry’s Ballroom?” she asked. “That’s where the Four Hundred like to throw their partie
s.” Then she told us about Louis Sherry, whose catering was so sought-after among the city’s elite that he’d had to move his venue twice to accommodate bigger and bigger shindigs.

  “Let’s aim for that, or something like it,” I said. Then, perplexed, I turned to Morehshin. “Why do you know so much about New York society in this period?”

  “I learned Atomic Age English from historical romances. Nobody asks questions when a woman watches ancient love stories about heterosexuality.”

  * * *

  Over the next two weeks, a flurry of letters passed between Aseel, Sol, Archy, and the booker at Sherry’s. Archy was, as promised, a socialite playboy with way too much money to spend. When Aseel told him he could invite his bachelor friends to be “judges” at the contest, he was sold. She figured out the logistics around money, food, seating, and staging, while he sent telegrams with useless advice about ribbons and trophies. It was just like old times at the Algerian Theater.

  We set the date for the contest in late April, five months from now, when the weather would be warming and the Four Hundred would be ready for debauchery after the staid “Lenten season” that followed their winter balls. That would also give us plenty of time to blanket the East Coast with Ind. Music Co.’s “special commemorative edition of the Midway Hit known as ‘Country Lad.’” On the last page, we included a full-page ad for the dance contest to be held at Sherry’s Ballroom, hosted by Archibald Fraser. All contestants were to line up at the servants’ entrance and, if admitted, would be allowed one chaperone and one musician to accompany them.

  We made no mention of the hoochie coochie or danse du ventre, so it would slide past Comstock’s front line of censors. But any dancer familiar with the song would know exactly what we were talking about. If all went according to plan, Comstock wouldn’t figure it out until we were already in New York, where he would be forced into a humiliating face-to-face showdown with us at Sherry’s.

  My headaches were getting worse, and I measured the days in willow bark and opium dabs. Morehshin and I worked in the music shop, and rented a bigger room above Soph’s old parlors. There were bad nights and not-so-bad ones, but I never felt like myself except on days when I received a letter from Anita. She’d gotten a few nineteenth-century students interested in the idea of collective action, despite the fact that Great Men currently ruled geoscience departments. I wished we were back at UCLA together, and then I wished I were back at the Temple of al-Lat with Soph. Anywhere but here, where the mornings froze me in ice and memories polluted my brain like soot.

  * * *

  We started our heaviest promotion for the show in late March, sending out freshly printed releases and posters, and I fell upon the project with the shaky, starving energy of a bear out of hibernation. The press was calling it “Lady Asenath’s Musical Revue,” and the Four Hundred dubbed it “Archy’s big bash.” We kept selling out of “Country Lad” at the store. By the time we decamped for a suite of rooms in New York City, the sheet music had gone into its tenth printing. Which was why Sol was footing the bill for our trip, and puffing delightedly on a cigar when we arrived at the venue.

  Sherry’s looked like something the peasants would have trashed during the French Revolution. In the ballroom, copper laced the edges of a high arched ceiling encrusted with molded plaster protrusions that dribbled chandeliers. The floor was a polished dark wood spread with thick carpets beneath upholstered chairs. Dinner would be spread across this vast room and spill into the more formal dining room beyond.

  The Carpenters Union sent out an apple-cheeked rep barely out of apprenticeship to explain excitedly how they would build the stage on Saturday and have it ready in time for staff to decorate. Sherry’s chef created a special twelve-course menu, including dozens of pheasants, hundreds of oysters, Jerusalem artichokes, carrot soup, and a bewildering array of after-dinner cakes and dessert cheeses. Of course, Archy had ordered two dozen barrels of liquor. Every time a new delicacy was added to our tab, the Sherry’s event manager jotted it down with a polite nod. His nonchalance made me realize this was an ordinary party for him. Everyone who rented Sherry’s expected cartloads of fancy meats and crates of imported champagne. Our show was an exotic dessert for the children of robber barons, and for a second I was revolted by what we were doing. Teaming up with these Gilded Age sleazeballs might not be collective action after all—maybe it was simply pandering.

  Too late for second thoughts now. I needed to focus on why we were here. I was doing this for the women of the Midway, their daughters and mothers. Maybe some of them would be here this Saturday, showing off their hoochie coochie moves. I hoped so. I wanted to see all of them one more time before leaving this moment forever.

  * * *

  On Saturday, we dodged last-minute preparation disasters at Sherry’s and puddles of freezing water in the filthy gutters along Broadway. Cocktails began after sunset at 7 P.M., and that slid into dinner. People kept arriving and arriving; it seemed the entire Four Hundred had come with at least one or two friends, all wearing glittery ball gowns and plumes in their hair, or tuxes with rakish waistcoats.

  Morehshin stood outside the servants’ entrance to check in the dancers and their escorts, while I played liaison with the staff. I saw the dinner from the sidelines, catching snatches of conversation and vague impressions of white skin gone florid with conspicuous consumption. My trepidation from yesterday returned. These people were here to consume us, not to join our struggle against reproductive moralism.

  Upstairs, the dancers were oblivious to the stakes—they were here for the fabulously lucrative $25 prizes, or maybe for fame. They crowded into a dining hall repurposed as a dressing room. Costume racks jostled against a wall of full-length mirrors. Musicians waited in the hall outside, smoking and drinking from a crate of champagne I’d asked the staff to bring upstairs.

  Gradually the composition of the party underwent a metamorphosis. Elderly men filtered out, along with a few dozen ladies. The women who stayed for the show were younger and dressed in French fashions. They ate rosewater ices while the men stood up to mingle, drinking cognac and smoking. It was starting to feel like the hipster gin bar.

  Staff cleared tables from the ballroom. As promised, the Carpenters Union had built a low, sturdy stage piled with rugs, drums, and some wooden camel tchotchkes. Sherry’s also supplied us with a handy backdrop from storage with an “exotic orient” theme, including an oasis surrounded by veiled women and some pyramids looming in the distance. Apparently it was left over from a costume revue staged by a secret men’s society. It set the tone for our evening, where the entertainment would wobble between appropriation and authenticity.

  Six ornate thrones for the judges dominated the front row. I looked at them, full of dread. Would there be an execution or a revolution?

  Upstairs, the dressing room was perfumed insanity. Women crushed against each other at the mirrors, coins and beads on their outfits jingling, applying makeup or veils or sparkles or elaborate headdresses. Some were like the white dancers from the Persian Palace, adding a few fake Bedouin touches to their burlesque flounces. Others had costumes that were very close to indigenous North African styles. Dancers practiced their moves, undulating and humming bars of Aseel’s song. It was impossible to say who was inhabiting an identity they’d lived, and who was simulating a culture they’d never known. The many shades of brown skin revealed beneath bodices suggested these women might be from the Maghreb. Or India. Or Mexico. Or the Bronx. Maybe all of those places.

  We handed out a number to each woman, noting their stage names so that Archy could introduce them. Many used monikers that were variations on Lady Asenath, which made sense given her international renown. I counted two Lady Asenaths, two Mademoiselle Asenaths, a Dusky Asenath, and one particularly saucy Asenath the Temptress. After witnessing Aseel’s rage at the Persian Palace, it worried me. Were these acts ripping her off, or paying homage? Only she could decide.

  I found Aseel across the room, helping a w
oman with her signup sheet. “A lot of these women are using your name. Do you want me to make a rule that they have to pick an original stage name?”

  Aseel rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m not surprised. I’ve heard through the grapevine that lots of people have been performing as Lady Asenath.”

  “Are you okay with it?”

  “On another night, I’d likely say no. But tonight, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You will always be the best Lady Asenath.”

  She winked. “I know.” Then she turned back to the line. “Okay, ladies, let’s get started! Where is number one?”

  Aseel deputized me as an escort, which meant my job was to bring acts downstairs and guide them to the stage. At first, I watched the crowd nervously. Archy sat on the biggest throne, with five other tuxedoed and mustachioed young men flanking him. They scored each dancer by holding up cards with carefully handwritten numbers on them. When I arrived with act number three in tow, none of the dancers had gotten higher than a 7. But that was about to change.

  Act three gamboled around the stage, veils revealing nothing but blue eyes in a white face. Then she began to toss aside gossamer layers of fabric and a roar of appreciation hovered over the room like cigar smoke. When she dipped into a particularly vigorous shake, one of her breasts popped out of her top. I barely caught the sleight-of-hand move she’d made to release it; this was part of her act, and she was good at it. As she made a big show of fluttering her scarves and blushing, the judges held up their votes: 8, 8, 9, 10, 7, 8. And thus it became clear what was required to get a high score. This was what we’d wanted; this would draw out the Comstockers. But it didn’t feel righteous like our protest at the Expo, where we’d linked arms and shouted the truth. What we were doing here might be more powerful, but it was more ambiguous, too.