by Sherry Jones
Aware that she was the star attraction—and seeing how little good it did him to complain—Pepi didn’t protest her new clothes anymore, even though he’d yelled plenty when he’d first taken over her accounts. She’d commissioned tonight’s outfit, of blue snakeskin and tulle, for an exorbitant sum, which would make Pepito holler but she didn’t care. Reflected like a glittering sapphire in all those mirrors, she could hardly take her eyes off herself, and neither could anyone else.
She swept into the club with her white servants, and no one batted an eyelash. She still couldn’t get over it. In the States they’d have strung her up, afraid of their own history, scared that colored folks might make slaves out of them. Her servants were hardly slaves, though: Josephine paid her maid Yvette more for a week’s work than her mama earned in a whole year. Tonight, the girl caught Josephine’s wrap as it dropped from her shoulders, then led Arnold, Josephine’s potbellied pig, into the kitchen. André walked in leading Miss Blanche, her Great Pyrenees, on a leather leash. On the stage, the orchestra dragged though “Dinah,” the Ethel Waters version: were they trying to send folks home? In a booth in the back, a man had nodded off to sleep. That would not do! Signaling to the orchestra to speed it up, Josephine went over and gave him a kiss on his bald head to awaken him, then moved him to a table in the front, next to hers, and ordered him a bottle of champagne on the house.
Pepito should have been looking after these guests, but he was nowhere to be found. And where was Sim? He was supposed to be her night manager, but she found him at the bar with a red-haired chorus dancer. Josephine strolled over and laid an arm across his shoulder like she owned him, saying “Bonsoir, chéri,” and took the dancer to sit with the bald man, who perked up instantly.
Pepito appeared, carrying tennis rackets and paper balls.
“Sim’s drunk again,” she said. “I need to have a talk with him.”
He scowled. Pepito didn’t like Sim, not only because Sim hung around with prostitutes and in opium dens, but also because he suspected something was up between him and Josephine. Pepito was a professional, though, and played his role before the club’s patrons, exclaiming loudly over her beauty and pointing out her new dress, getting her to turn around and show it off before she went on her way.
Sim was waiting in her office when she stepped in and locked the door behind her, and then they were on the desk, her fingers unbuttoning his trousers while he lifted her dress, the pleasure of him unbearably sweet like a candy toothache until she gasped and his hand covered her mouth and she cried out against it and he shuddered, and then there was a knock on the door and Josephine went to open it, her clothing rearranged and Sim sitting in a chair. In the doorway stood Pepito, his nostrils flaring.
“Why did you lock the door?” he said.
“I didn’t want to be disturbed. Sim and I have serious business to discuss.” Josephine went to her desk and took a seat as if the air didn’t reek of sex. “Sim, did you hire this band? They ought to be playing in an old folks’ home.”
Sim, sitting with his back to Pepito, looked like he might explode with the laughter he was holding in.
“Is this a boîte or a mortuary?” she said. “Go tell them to play something lively, Pepi.”
“The people are waiting for you. Tout le monde. Come.” The eye behind his monocle glared. Josephine went to him, took his arm, and let him lead her out into the crowd, winking at Sim behind her.
Seeing Josephine, the band launched into the fast version—her version—of “Dinah,” a song she’d recorded last October. As she stepped through her club, the bandleader gestured and the crowd burst into applause, clamoring for her performance—but first, there were heads to be rubbed, beards to be pulled, gowns to be admired, champagne to be ordered for this table or that. Josephine knew how to play to the men; in white couples, they were the ones with the money. Pepito handed her confetti packets and she tossed them about. Soon the room swirled with confetti, as if they were in a snow globe.
“C’est une fête,” he announced from the floor, spurring cheers. “C’est toujours une fête par Joséphine.”
She joined him as part of their nightly routine, him kissing her hand and then her cheek, calling out, “Bella, bella, what a beauty,” even as, tonight, his eyes winced with pain. She felt bad—but what was she supposed to do? Pepi didn’t satisfy her and he knew it, but he still got mad every time a man looked at her straight. It’s only sex, she’d say, but he insisted that if she loved him, she’d be faithful. Josephine had never heard anything so ridiculous, but she didn’t mind his jealousy: it made her feel special.
“I don’t deserve you, Pepi,” she said, this also a part of their routine, their little joke, but he didn’t smile that night. Josephine touched his cheek and told him with her eyes that she was sorry. She would change.
He eyed her dress, wondering how much she’d paid, knowing he wouldn’t like the answer. Pepito had become a tyrant with money, parsing an allowance so puny that she often ran out of cash and had to use credit. He had control of her finances now, and of everything she owned. His jaw ticced with suspicion as he appraised her diamond-and-sapphire necklace and long, glittering earrings, her huge diamond ring, her gown. He would have to learn to live with it; designers didn’t give away their best stuff, and Josephine wanted nothing less for her audiences. In her new Folies-Bergère show, she didn’t get to wear much except that damned banana skirt and some patched overalls left over from her last show. She’d grown as bored with it all as her audiences were coming to be. One critic had written of this revue, Un Vent de Folie (“A Wind of Madness”), that “it would take a hurricane to make Mademoiselle Baker stop wiggling in the same old way.”
Had she worn out her welcome in Paris? She had become ubiquitous, appearing daily in newspapers and magazines; at tea houses where she danced in the afternoons; at charity events; in paintings and sculptures by Picasso, Alexander Calder, Paul Colin; in fashion shows; at ribbon cuttings, at parties, in boîtes every night, making the rounds, advertising her club, before heading to Chez Joséphine. People would lose interest unless she gave them a spectacle. They wanted glamour from their stars, not the same face and hair and clothes day after day.
She flounced onto the stage, swishing her blue-skirted rear in the blue light, and sang, forgetting about Pepito and his clenching jaw and fishy looks that told her he knew exactly what she’d been doing with Sim behind that locked door. She sang “Dinah” and forgot about him, forgot everything but the music and the crowd come to see her. She pulled the no-longer-nodding-off man onto the floor and they danced, and soon the whole hot club was running out to join them, laughing and shaking and singing, confetti swirling in the blue light and legs and arms flying.
When she’d finished the number and rejoined her table, Pepito brought over Colette, whose tux and tails only made her look more feminine. With her was a tall, puckish man who, with his looping bow tie and goatee, reminded Josephine of the snake-oil salesman from her Saint Louis days who’d awarded her the dollar prize in a dance contest. This guy was no huckster but Luigi Pirandello, “the most famous writer in Italy.” He bowed and kissed her hand and said, “Enchanté, bellisima,” in a way that made her forget his age.
“I have brought you my new book,” Colette said, pressing it into Josephine’s hands, her fingertips stroking Josephine’s, her brown eyes glinting promise.
“My French is awful bad. Maybe you could read it to me sometime soon,” Josephine said, glinting back. A shriek sounded from the floor; a woman stood laughing as a man used his racket to whack her full champagne glass, soaking her and everyone around them. It was just two o’clock, and things were already getting messy.
Sim interrupted their pas de deux, slipping an arm around Josephine’s shoulders. “Take care, Jo,” he said. “Madame Colette is a notorious seductress.”
“Qui se ressemble s’assemble,” the woman said. Sim translated for Josephine: “It takes one to know one.” Madame, looking pleased with her r
epartee, placed a cigarette in an ivory holder and waited for Sim to light it.
“And Mademoiselle Baker is easily seduced.” Sim, flipping shut his lighter, grinned at Josephine. “She would make love with all the world if she had the time.”
“Qui se ressemble s’assemble,” Josephine said. Everyone laughed except, she noticed, Pepito.
“Chérie,” Colette said, taking Josephine’s hand and leading her away, “why do you waste your time? Sim bores you, I can tell. If that Italian count of yours isn’t keeping you satisfied, I can do much better. Let me show you the delights of a mature woman.”
A hand grasped her arm: Pepito.
“We must speak,” he said, and turned a stiff bow to Colette, asking for her pardon.
“What the hell? Pepi, what is the matter?”
Pepito clenched his jaw as he steered her to her office, where he shoved her inside.
“Hey,” she said, stumbling. “What the f—” And then the door slammed shut and his hand came down across her face in a stinging slap.
“Putain,” he was saying, his hands on her shoulders now and shaking her. Josephine cried out, but no one could hear, the music jaunty and jangling and people laughing and drinking champagne by the bucketsful while she wrested herself out of his grip and cradled the hurt place with her cupped hand.
Pepito was saying something—“Look at me,” it might’ve been—but Josephine closed her eyes and made herself smaller and waited for the ringing in her ears to subside. The burning of her cheek, the shame: she felt seven years old again. He touched the top of her head, but she ran to a corner where she curled up in a ball with her arms over her face. A long time later, she heard the door open and close. He’d walked back into the club, and she should, too, folks had come to see her and she mustn’t keep them waiting for too long. But she didn’t move.
She heard a knock on the door, a woman’s voice speaking her name. The door opened, and Colette came over to kneel beside her. She touched a hand to Josephine’s still-stung cheek.
“Italians,” she said. “Such violent people.”
“Take me home with you, Colette, please,” Josephine said. “Now.”
CHAPTER 17
Josephine waved her left hand, shooting facets of light. Sixteen carats. “Ain’t it the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen?” Flashbulbs popped, making Pepito blink so hard he nearly dropped his monocle.
They were in her and Pepito’s apartment, telling a gaggle of reporters and photographers about their “marriage.” For the press conference, they wore wedding-type clothes: Josephine, a demure dress of black velvet with a white lace skirt; Pepito, a tux. He’d also brought one of the new Josephine Baker dolls to include in their pictures together, no occasion too sacred to make a buck.
Pepito never stopped scheming for money. He’d be showing off the merchandise—including Josephine—even if they really had tied the knot, which he wished were the case but never would be, not if Josephine had any say. Maybe this announcement would satisfy him at last, and he’d stop bugging her to really get married; hopefully, it would distract the press and keep them from digging into her past and discovering Billy Baker.
A reporter asked for details of the wedding. Josephine, beaming, recited the story she and Pepito had concocted: They’d had a private ceremony on her birthday a few weeks ago. Where? At the US consulate. The ambassador, yes, had officiated: Mr. Herrick, a friend of hers. Had he been heartbroken to marry her to someone else? Gee, what a funny question, but you know, she has had thousands of proposals. Mr. Herrick would just have to get in line, ha ha!
Pepito twisted his mustache, their secret signal that she was going too far. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to call the ambassador, whom she’d spoken with once at a party for about two minutes. To change the subject, she clutched Pepito’s arm and said no man was his equal as far as she was concerned, just look at the beautiful ring he’d given her, too heavy even to wear.
“That ain’t all he gave me, either. I got all the jewels and heirlooms that have been in the Abatino family for generations.” There went Pepito blinking again, what was his problem? He was the heir to the Abatino family fortune, wasn’t he? He hadn’t given her any heirlooms yet, but he didn’t carry them around with him. Locked in a vault somewhere, she imagined. She’d get them when they went to Italy to meet his family.
One reporter asked about Pepito’s title. He had not been able to find any record or genealogy of an Abatino noble family. Was her husband truly a count?
“There ain’t no fake about that title,” she said, remembering to breathe, to smile, to flirt. “I had it looked up and verified by a private detective in Rome before I signed on the dotted line. The count has a big family there and lots of coats of arms and everything. I understand they live in a big swell château, and as soon as my contract with the Folies-Bergère is finished, I’m going to visit them.”
She squeezed Pepito’s hand, wondering how much he’d understood. “His English is worse than mine, and mine is pretty bad,” she told the journalists, all American reporters for newspapers, magazines, radio programs, and newsreels. Pepito, meanwhile, had stopped paying attention. What was on his mind? More ways to make money from this charade, most likely. Josephine-and-Pepito bride-and-groom dolls for wedding cakes was one of his crazy ideas. They wouldn’t like that in the States, though. She’d tried to explain this to Pepito, saying that, with the American press, maybe he should keep his distance from her, but he wouldn’t listen.
“I will have my arm on you. Ton mari!” Her husband. Thumping his chest.
“It’s a good thing we’re just pretending,” she said.
He shushed her. “If the press learns the truth, our fish is fried.”
For a moment, she slipped into regret: she shouldn’t have shot her mouth off with that magazine writer yesterday. The interview had gone well and, when it was over, Josephine had asked about the diamond the writer was wearing. It was an engagement ring, the young woman said, her dark eyes misting over; she and her fiancée planned a spring wedding.
“With a cake and a white dress and everything? You are so lucky,” Josephine said. “I wanted a real wedding, but we eloped.” The reporter stared at her.
“You are married?”
Josephine’s heart seemed to fly right up into her mouth as she tried to think of an answer that didn’t involve Billy.
“I guess I just gave you a scoop.” She pressed her fingers to her lips, oops! Thinking fast, she added, “Me and Pepito got married on my birthday.” Conjuring the scene in her mind: herself in a white gown studded with pearls and diamonds; him in a top hat and tails.
Why had they kept it a secret? Out of respect for Pepito’s mother: Josephine wanted the Countess Abatino’s blessing before telling the world that she’d married her son.
“I thought we would wait to get married until our Italy trip, but Pepito wanted me as soon as I turned twenty-one.”
This was partly true: He’d proposed to Josephine months ago, on his knee, the gaudy ring winking when she’d opened the box. Bought with her money, no doubt. So far, she had avoided giving him an answer, saying, what if she couldn’t have children? Counts needed heirs. As he’d held her in bed that night so tightly she could hardly breathe, she’d wondered: should she tell him about Billy?
The very word divorce struck her heart like a fist on a drum. At least Pepito wanted her, though, while Billy, ultimately, had not. Pepito didn’t mind her success but wanted to increase it. Instead of pouting in the corner as Billy had done, he’d stepped into the ring, fighting alongside her and for her. But he also fought on her, another reason why she hesitated.
A week went by. Pepito started to grumble, pressing for an answer. After two weeks, smelling Sim on her breath one afternoon, he’d surprised her with a punch in the gut. “Now you know how I am feeling, not very good,” he’d said as she’d doubled over trying to catch her breath.
Josephine knew why he was upset—because she hadn’
t accepted his proposal. But what could she do? Tell him the truth? Pepito was old-fashioned, “traditional,” he called it, and she didn’t think he’d cotton to her having a husband back in the States. In Europe, a man could have a wife and a mistress and no one minded, but women were supposed to be “pure.” Josephine had laughed the first time he’d said this—you’re pulling my leg—but he’d meant every word.
If he knew she was married, what would happen? She’d have to divorce Billy, and the papers would find out. Her fans would learn the truth about her, which nobody wanted. People preferred the fairy tale, the rags-to-riches story, Cinderella but with a loving family, a grandmother with a warm lap, a mother who worked hard to support her, and a stepfather who tried to help but was too sick. That was the tale her new book would tell. Marrying an Italian count would be the perfect ending, “happily ever after”—and she could have it, she could have everything, she’d realized. Pretending to be married would satisfy Pepito for now, and also give them the chance to talk about her memoir and her movie, both coming out soon.
After her slip and hasty cover-up with the magazine writer, she’d wrung her hands, at first, then decided not to worry: the story wouldn’t appear for several months, giving her and Pepito time to cook something up. But she’d started hearing from reporters that very night. The magazine writer, sabotaging her own “scoop,” had blabbed the news of Josephine Baker’s marriage all over Paris.
Marcel Sauvage, the writer of her Memoires, was in her apartment at the time, going over the manuscript and translating passages she couldn’t read, which was most of it. He had gotten quite a few things wrong, which worried her, but he was a storyteller, as Sim had said. When she’d protested, Marcel had seemed offended, saying, “Surely you trust me, after all the hours we have spent together.” Did she?
She hadn’t told Marcel about her marriage fib, but when reporters came to her door with questions, he acted like he knew all about her and Pepito’s “secret” wedding. Thank goodness, because Josephine was at a loss for words. She’d been so flustered after almost spilling the beans about Billy that she barely remembered, now, what she’d said afterward. Yes, she told the journalists, they had married on her birthday, but she didn’t want to say more until Pepito could be with her. Then she’d gotten busy setting the scene for breaking the news to him, making spaghetti and giving him a Bugatti watch, and making love to him in his favorite way. Then, in the languid warmth of after-sex, she told how she’d accidentally announced some very surprising news, ha ha ha! It was a joke at first, but the writer had become so excited and Josephine got caught up in the story and the next thing you knew, she and Pepito were hitched!