by Sherry Jones
“Let me introduce you to my wife,” M. Derval said, gesturing toward a dark-haired woman sitting on his other side, “and to Bricktop, your competition, just returned from a tour in Barcelona.”
“Not your competition,” Bricktop said. “You wouldn’t catch me dancing naked in a million years.” Josephine took in her red hair, not shining and golden like Mistinguett’s but wiry and the color of bricks; her freckled face; her short, pudgy body. Who would want to see her naked?
Bricktop gave her a shrewd look. “You’ve got it, honey. I don’t have your . . . daring.”
Josephine crossed her eyes. “This is all it takes,” she said. Everyone laughed.
Across the table, an elegant, curly-haired man in a tux and top hat made love to her with his blue eyes, as did the wild-haired older woman in a green silk sheath beside him.
“Meet Marcel Ballot, the automaker and race-car driver.” M. Derval continued the introductions, “and Colette, France’s greatest woman writer and most notorious lover.” Josephine widened her eyes: the woman had to be fifty, at least, her amber cloud of hair streaked with silver, her lovely, long neck beginning to crease, tiny lines radiating from her mouth, bleeding her red lipstick. Colette read her thoughts, and leered.
“France’s most notorious lover? She’s my competition, M. Derval,” Josephine said, making everyone, including Colette, laugh again.
M. Derval placed his hand on her arm, drawing her attention. “I saw your performance again tonight. Fantastique! We must talk. May I come to your dressing room tomorrow?”
Josephine widened her eyes. Was he propositioning her in front of his wife? She glanced at Mme. Derval.
“This is business,” he said. “I want to do a show at the Folies-Bergère—with you as the star.”
“La Revue Nègre is headed to Berlin in a few weeks,” she said. “Then we’re off to Russia. When that’s over, I’m as free as a bird.” The letter she’d received from Billy last night made her pang—Hurry home, baby, my arms are aching for you, and I haven’t laughed since you left—but she brushed away that thought. She had to seize every chance that came her way while she was here, because there was nothing—nothing—for her in the States. Well, except for Billy. But if she made it big in Paris, he could join her here.
“My schedule is inflexible,” he said. “You will need to choose.”
“Berlin?” Colette shook her head. “I would not advise it.”
“I’ve heard it’s a lot of fun.”
“It used to be. But I was there a few months ago, and things are getting weird,” Bricktop said. “That Hitler fellow got out of prison last December, and his flunkies are going around like cops in their brown uniforms harassing people.”
“My friend M. Jacques-Charles has read Hitler’s book,” M. Derval said. “It is the rantings of a madman, he said, full of hatred against Jews and Negroes.” He gave Josephine a pointed look.
“Berlin is changing,” Colette said, motioning for another bottle of champagne. “The last time we were there, some of Hitler’s guys called my lover Maurice a Juden and shoved him off a moving streetcar. It may be worse for you and your friends.”
“We are American Negroes,” Josephine said. “There’s nothing they could do to us that we haven’t already suffered a thousand times.”
“And there is your reason to remain in Paris, non?” said M. Derval. “We do not discriminate against the races here. Why would you want to leave?”
“That’s easy.” Josephine rubbed her fingers together. “Money.”
“You of all people cannot argue with that, Paul,” Mme. Derval said, laughing.
M. Derval’s lips twitched as Josephine arose from her chair, but his eyes remained serious.
“We will talk tomorrow,” he said.
“Don’t forget your checkbook, M. Derval,” Bricktop said, winking at Josephine. “I think you will need it.”
“How is it that you and I have just met,” Josephine said to her, “and you know me so well?”
CHAPTER 11
1926, Berlin
If Paris was a woman, with her gilded bridges and ornate buildings like jewelry boxes, Berlin was most decidedly a man. Even the Berolina statue in the Alexanderplatz, buxom and beefy, exuded a masculine quality. The Nelson-Theater, too, came as a study in contrasts: rather than a pretty showplace like the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées or the Folies-Bergère, the corner brownstone on a tree-lined boulevard didn’t even look like a theater. The glass-topped atrium out front gave it the appearance of a restaurant or café, instead.
In front of the building, people crowded the patio, autograph seekers and journalists as well as men in brown uniforms handing out fliers and glaring at the La Revue Nègre cast members as they emerged from their bus. Some of the men began to shout as Caroline ushered the group to the stage door around the corner from the main entrance. When Josephine asked what the men were saying, Caroline replied that she didn’t know, but it wasn’t good.
“I only hope they do not plan to disrupt tonight’s performance.”
Josephine worried about this possibility for just a moment, then brightened. If the men did come tonight, she’d give them her special attention, winning them over the way Miss Clara had done the men in her audiences, by going down into the seats to sing especially to them. She’d make funny faces, and they’d soften up: you couldn’t dislike someone who made you laugh. Mrs. Caroline would be grateful to her for making La Revue Nègre a success in Berlin—and maybe she wouldn’t be so mad when she found out what Josephine had decided to do.
Dancing that night in the intimate hall, dazzled by the uncommonly bright footlights, she couldn’t see the auditorium or the audience. Were the men in brown uniforms there? Just in case, she gave her all and then some, opening her arms and crying out, Ich liebe dich, “I love you,” at the end. Then, to her horror, a crowd rushed onto the stage. She cried out, but they snatched her up before she could run and lifted her onto their shoulders, hooting and hollering. She looked down and saw their smooth cheeks, their dancing eyes, their smiling faces full of joy: strapping blond boys, none wearing brown. As they carried her through the auditorium she heard cheers, and she arranged herself like royalty to wave and blow kisses and elude the hands grasping, always grasping, everyone wanting a piece of her—but without clothing, there was nothing for them to grab.
Afterward, she headed to her dressing room, where a reporter waited with questions about the protests she had encountered today. Had she felt afraid? Offended?
“I didn’t understand a word,” she said.
“They said you are untermenschen. Subhuman.” Josephine flinched. “And immoral.”
He was trying to rile her up, she could see it in the way he jabbed pen to notepad while she spoke, as though prodding a wound.
“Immoral? Me?” She gave a little laugh. “I rescued a puppy from a cardboard box today. Is there something wrong with that here?”
“They were talking about your nudity. They said you have no shame.”
Josephine’s hackles rose. Why should she be ashamed? Sure, she’d felt awful at first to have to stand before a crowd in barely a scrap of clothing, on display like her great-grandmother on the auction block. Josephine had heard the story many times, how Grandmama Elvira’s mother had stood naked and chained while white people judged her flesh. One had pinched her nipple as he passed, and the auction master had told the man that if he bruised the merchandise, he’d have to buy it.
Josephine was “merchandise,” too, she admitted that, but she was no slave, she had no chains binding her. She was a dancer, doing what she was meant to do with the body God gave her.
But she couldn’t say all that, this man would quote only a few words and so she had to speak carefully. Her fans loved her nudity: she made them think of their childhoods, when nudity was innocent, natural, like Adam and Eve before the fall. They desired her because they imagined she was primitive, that her dance came from some African jungle or even from New Orlea
ns instead of from Saint Louis, Missouri.
“I’m not immoral,” she said. “I’m natural.”
Inside her room, she opened the cage on her dressing table and pulled out her snake, which she had named Claude. It flicked its little tongue and she lifted its head to her cheek, letting it kiss her before she draped it about her throat. The serpent rested its head on her chest, calmed by the heat rising like steam from her body, and calming her, as well. It was a wonder that she didn’t burst into flames; she never broke a sweat, no matter how hard she danced, just burned like a furnace until the fire went out, all night long until the dawn. That was why she kept herself apart from people, why she’d demanded her own dressing room. Folks thought she was unfriendly, but she was only reserving her energy for what she needed to do, for what she had to do. She couldn’t trust people, anyway. They were two-faced, most of them, acting like they wanted to be her friend while they tried to figure how they could get something from her. Even in her mama’s eyes, she was never worth more than the money she brought home. Josephine had sent her a check from Paris—what did Mama think of her now?
She hadn’t responded to a single one of Josephine’s letters. Willie Mae had written whole books, practically, telling her they were proud of her and asking when she was coming home. Never, Josephine would think, but then she’d read some news—Richard had gotten married and his wife was expecting a baby; Elvira had nearly died of dehydration and had to be hospitalized; automatic washing machines with wringers had put Aunt Jo’s laundry out of business, and Mama had taken work as a housecleaner on Westmoreland Avenue—and she’d feel empty inside, like her heart had a hole that only her family could fill. Daddy has lost his mind, maybe for good, I don’t know, Willie Mae wrote. He screamed so much that somebody called the police, and now he’s in the asylum. I see him every few days, but he doesn’t know me. Their lives were the same chaotic mess as always.
A part of Josephine wished she could go back and fix everything, but she knew that was impossible. She’d be no good to anybody in Saint Louis. When she tried to imagine herself there, it felt like a bad dream. Her life in Europe, though, seemed just as unreal: the adoring crowds, the bowing servants, the eager faces of people begging for her autograph, wanting their picture taken with her, Josephine Baker famous when, just a few months ago, she’d been invisible. Those people on the ship ignoring her while she sang, humiliating her—what did they think, now, when they saw her picture in the newspapers?
Josephine could hardly believe it, herself. She felt like Cinderella, as if at any moment the clock would chime and her time would be up, the dream would end and she’d be back in New York or, worse, Saint Louis, a nobody with nothing.
She closed her eyes, banishing the thought. Success had not just happened. She’d worked hard for it. Tonight, the crowd had carried her like a hero: she’d conquered Berlin with a single performance. This was no dream.
She took a seat at her dressing table to touch up her makeup and gasped. In the mirror she saw a man behind her—wavy black hair, dark suit bearing the cut and weight of money—leaning against the wall. She leaped up, and whirled around to face him.
“Are you looking for someone?” She wondered if he could hear her banging heart. How had he gotten in?
A knock sounded on her door, and she yanked it open. A blushing youth thrust an armful of packages and flowers at her.
“Someone is in my dressing room!” she cried. She pointed to the man, and the boy’s face brightened in a smile.
“Herr Reinhardt,” he said, and bowed. Turning to Josephine, he blushed again, then rushed off with the tips of his ears as red as flames.
“Well, at least someone knows who you are,” she said, closing the door.
“I do not know whether to pity the lad, or envy him,” the man said. “Imagine coming to Josephine Baker’s dressing room and having her answer in the nude! I thought he might faint, all his blood having rushed from one head to the other.”
Josephine studied him, hair combed back in luxuriant waves, that beautiful mouth, deep-cleft chin, eyes like cobalt fire. She took a step toward him. The snake lifted its head.
“I am Max Reinhardt,” the man said, exuding power. Mrs. Caroline had been all a-tither before the show, whispering, Max Reinhardt is in the third row! A famous director, she’d said, fanning herself with her hands, and Josephine could see why.
“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my room.”
“I am here to make you a star,” he said.
Josephine laughed, giddy with choices already, La Revue Nègre, the Folies-Bergère, and now, Max Reinhardt.
“But I’m already a star.” Would he kiss her with his luscious mouth? He shook her hand, and her spirits sank a little. She did not want to sleep alone again tonight. She slipped the snake back into its cage. “Did you see my ovation? Did you see how they carried me around?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “I saw a group of young men eager to set their hands upon your naked flesh.”
“There’s more to me than that, Mr. Reinhardt. In case you ain’t noticed.”
“I did notice—tonight and also when I saw Shuffle Along in New York. Anyone can take off her clothes and wiggle. It is a cheap entertainment.” He raised his eyebrows. “But you are more than that, and, although you suspect it, you have not fully realized it yet. You have something special to give. And it is neither here”—he pointed to her breasts—“nor here”—to her crotch.
“I’m a dancer.” She pulled on a robe. “I use my whole body.”
“You do, and it is spectacular. The expressive control, the spontaneity of motion, the rhythm, the bright emotional color—these are your treasures. No, not yours only, these are American treasures, uniquely American, vulgar and powerful and true. In you, they come from here”—he pointed to her head—“and here”—to her heart. “With such control of the body, such pantomime, I believe I could portray emotion as it has never been portrayed.”
What was he talking about? He wanted dance lessons? Charleston parties were all the rage in Paris—Bricktop had started giving them with her friend Cole Porter, and Josephine had done a few, too, teaching the steps to rich white folks with big bellies and trying not to laugh at them. Josephine couldn’t picture this elegant man knocking his knees around and flapping his hands.
“Give me three years of your life,” he said. “Enroll in my acting school at the Deutsches Theater, and when you are finished you will be the greatest comic actress ever known. I will make you a film star, with the entire world at your feet.”
Her face larger than life on the screen, her name in marquee lights on Broadway, Hollywood producers begging her to be in their movies: the possibilities for this future rolled out like a red carpet. She could be a great actress, the best ever known, wasn’t that what he had said? There was no such thing as a Negro movie star—but before Josephine, no colored women had danced naked on the stages of Europe, either. She would be the first. She’d be famous in America, too, and they’d love her so much they’d forget about her skin color. They’d love her for herself, because she made them laugh and cry, because she made them feel, like Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow. Josephine, an actress!
The only thing was, she wanted to sing.
He leveled those fiery eyes on her. “It will be a great opportunity for us.”
She’d like an “opportunity” with him, all right. Look at him standing there like a mouthwatering treat, his expensive suit shimmering even in the thin gas light, his hair waving and curling like a dollop of meringue. She licked her lips and swayed toward him.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. She was already thinking, about her contract with Mrs. Caroline, to tour Russia next with La Revue Nègre. Then she thought of her contract with M. Paul Derval, to begin rehearsing for a new show at the Folies-Bergère in just a few weeks. Herr Reinhardt might be right: this might be a great opportunity, but he was wrong about the “us” part. Whatever Josephine did, she did for herself.
While she pondered his offer, she let him take her around the raucous, rambunctious city, even more exciting than Paris in some ways. Sure, men in brown tried to spoil the fun, even going into the clubs and drinking too much and interrupting the performances, but more pervasive were the all-night orgies, men with women, men with men, women with women, and people of indeterminate sex cramming all together like sardines. One night they’d gone to a “costume contest” that made Josephine giggle because nobody was wearing a stitch.
Everywhere they went, Herr Reinhardt introduced her as “my new star at the Deutsches Theater,” even though Josephine hadn’t said yes to him. When she’d gone into the Nelson to perform her second show, she’d heard Mrs. Caroline giving hell to the theater manager. “Those boys carted her around naked, touching her body while your security stood by with their heads up their asses. She is my star. You must protect her! If anything happens to Josephine, we are kaput.” Josephine’s conscience had panged like a plucked string.
Max was trying hard, though, she had to give him credit for that. After her final show one night, a friend of his, Ruth Landshoff, a beautiful dark-haired woman in a tux and top hat, took her to a dinner party to discuss a pantomime that her boyfriend wanted to write for Josephine. Max loved pantomimes, he considered it a “pure” art form, “stripping performance to its basic essence,” whatever that meant. For the occasion, Josephine had changed into a vivid green gown cut low in the back and an emerald-and-diamond necklace Max had given to her. “I want my stars to look like stars,” he’d said. My star. The words thrilled her—but she reminded him that she hadn’t decided, that if she broke her contract with La Revue Nègre the show would fold, putting everyone out of work.