They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  The curtain came down in absolute silence, the audience so stunned and moved they made not a sound. I was wrung out, physically and emotionally depleted, but there was a wild elation as well. I took Corey’s hand, and she gave me a triumphant smile. The rest of the cast hurried out and we lined up for curtain calls, and when the curtain rose there was raging, thunderous applause, the sophisticated, cultivated audience berserk in their approval. The applause grew even louder as each of us took our bows. The building seemed to shake when Corey stepped to the footlights, and when I moved out to take my bow, there was such a roar I felt the floor tremble. I moved back. The curtain came up, went down, came up again, eight curtain calls in all, and then they were shouting, “Dana! Dana! Dana!” and the others left the stage and I was standing alone in front of the footlights and they were cheering still.

  I smiled, deeply moved by this adulation, and there were tears in my eyes as I nodded to them, and then everything seemed to blur together and shift strangely and I was no longer in the theater, I was back in the swamps in a room with herbs hanging from the beams and savage African masks on the walls and an enormous marmalade cat curling at the feet of a wizened, ugly old Negro woman. The applause was still defeaning, but it became muted, a mere background to the raspy drawl of her voice. “I sees you an’—an’ you is behind a half circle of lights an’ you is wearin’ a lovely gown, it seems like silk, yes, gold and white striped silk an’ you is wearin’ sparklers, too, at your throat a necklace of sparklers … The lights are flickerin’ an’ people-people, lots of ’em, they is watchin’ you, makin’ a big commotion … but you ain’t frightened at all. You is smilin’.” Mama Lou, I whispered silently, you were right, and I saw her wise old eyes then, saw her nodding, and then everything blurred and shifted again and the vision was gone.

  Men came marching down the aisles carrying huge white wicker baskets of roses, creamy white and sumptuous yellow-gold roses, and I knew who had ordered them at once. The baskets were brought onstage and one of the men handed me a large bouquet of white roses and I held them and smiled and listened to the cheers and, finally, after what seemed an eternity, stepped back as the curtain came down. I turned then, applause still thundering behind the curtain, and I saw him standing in the wings, tall and lean with the trim, muscular build of an athlete. He wore elegant beige breeches and frock coat and a rust satin waistcoat and a cream silk neckcloth, and his coppery brown hair was neatly brushed. His lean and ruggedly handsome face had the weathered, lived-in look I remembered so well. He nodded, looking at me with smoke-gray eyes filled with the same recognition, the same emotion that had filled them that morning in Natchez when he stood on the dock and I stood at the railing and that strange, strong force seemed to bind us together.

  Chapter Twenty

  I KNEW FULL WELL that Robert Courtland was in love with me, and I couldn’t deny that I felt a strange, compelling attraction for him, but nothing had happened, and, I assured myself, nothing would. Robert had been a perfect gentleman each time I had seen him—warm, considerate, gallant—and he had made no advances, had said or done nothing the least bit forward or untoward, but nevertheless, I knew. A woman always does. He had visited Atlanta several times during those seven months of our run there, had come to Washington, D.C., when we had opened in that city, and now he was in New Orleans for our opening here. He had taken me out to dinner a number of times with Jason’s complete approval—it was only natural for our producer to want to dine with the leading lady—and each time I had felt that unusual bond between us, as though we had known each other in a different lifetime. It was a curious feeling, something I couldn’t even begin to explain, but it was undeniably there. Although we had never discussed it, I knew Robert felt it, too.

  I dressed carefully for our afternoon together in a white silk with narrow gold, red and turquoise stripes. It had short puffed sleeves, a demure scooped neckline and a very full skirt that belled out over half a dozen white silk petticoats. I slipped on a pair of long, elegant white gloves, then gave myself a final check in the mirror. Honey-blond hair tumbled to my shoulders in luxuriant waves, and the faint suggestion of lip rouge and eye shadow I had used earlier merely emphasized my natural coloring. I might not be the glamorous femme fatale the newspaper articles claimed I was, but at least I would pass. Fetching my white velvet reticule, I left my hotel suite, thankful that, for propriety’s sake, Jason had his own suite on a different floor. I wasn’t attempting to hide anything from him, but I saw no reason why he should know I was spending the afternoon with Robert. After all, Jason didn’t own me.

  He thinks he does, I told myself as I started down the hall. He thinks he invented me, that I owe everything to him, that if it weren’t for him, I would be selling gloves behind a notions counter. He thinks I should jump at his command, do exactly what he wants, and he can’t understand why I am not willing to sign another contract and spend the entire summer working on his new play. I’m tired, tired to the bone. I want a little time off, time to rest, and he wants to push, push, push. He will simply have to wait. He is not going to bully me into giving up my time off. As soon as we finish our run here, I fully intend to forget the theater for three full months. When September comes … we’ll see.

  Poor Jason, I thought as I turned the corner and started toward the staircase. Although he would never admit it, he was afraid that if he didn’t get me signed and sealed for next season I might well leave the company and accept one of the many offers I had received since The Quadroon opened. Every theatrical manager in the country had come to Atlanta to see our play, it seemed, and they all longed to take over the career of its star. Mr. Conrad Drummond, producer extraordinaire, had offered me a fortune if I would sign with him and appear in his next production in New York. Under his management, he assured me, I would become the toast of two continents, I was wasting my time “here in the sticks.” I had managed to smile charmingly before Jason bodily ejected him from my dressing room. Drummond’s offer made him extremely nervous, as did all the others I had received. I was content to let the scoundrel suffer. I had shared his bed and his life for almost a year now, and if he doubted my loyalty and love—well, deep affection, anyway—he could just worry.

  The Fontaine was New Orleans’ newest, grandest hotel, all gleaming mahogany and plush red velvet. The vast lobby was. a tropical jungle of potted palms, huge green ferns and lushly blooming plants. It was aswarm with fashionably attired people, and most of them turned to stare as I came down the graceful marble staircase. I was quite accustomed to that by now. After the opening in Atlanta, I had become the darling of the journalists. Dana, star of The Quadroon, the most notorious play of the decade. Dana, the seductive beauty whose every move was of vital interest to a sensation-starved public. I’d learned to live with the publicity, but I still cringed on occasion when I read the outlandish, preposterous stories the gentlemen of the press concocted. I had yet to serve champagne to a foreign prince from my satin slipper, turn down a fortune in rubies from an Eastern potentate or weep when a New York millionaire shot himself after I turned down his proposal. It was sheer hokum, but, as Jason repeatedly pointed out, the public loved to read that kind of crap and it was terrific for the box office.

  “Here you are,” Robert Courtland said in that deep, rich baritone of his. “Looking splendid, too, I might add.”

  He stepped forward, taking my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. I looked into his smoke-gray eyes, eyes full of warmth and masculine appreciation, and the familiar feeling of kinship filled me once again. How secure I felt with him, how comfortable and at ease. The physical attraction was undeniably there, but there was no sense of threat, none of the complex undercurrents usually present in male-female relationships. Laura claimed that Robert was merely biding his time, that when he finally made his move, it would be a dilly. That might well be true, but in the meantime I thoroughly enjoyed his company.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You—you’re looking rather well yourself.”

&nb
sp; His wide lips curled and lifted at one corner in a genial half smile. Forty-four years old, he had thick, neatly brushed auburn hair that gleamed with a rich coppery sheen and hadn’t a hint of gray, belying his age, but his ruggedly handsome face had the worn, weathered look that added character and made him even more attractive. Wearing leaf-brown breeches and frock coat, a bronze and beige patterned satin waistcoat and beige silk neckcloth, he had the polish and poise that come with great wealth, the assurance as well. Robert was said to be one of the richest men in the South, one of the most powerful, too. Charming, pleasant, polite, he nevertheless exuded great strength and authority, and I suspected he could be utterly ruthless if he needed to be. Robert Courtland was a self-made man without a drop of blue blood, and one didn’t attain his position and power without the killer instinct.

  “I have a carriage waiting outside,” he said. “Where would you like to lunch? I can think of any number of wonderful restaurants.”

  “I—do you know where I’d really like to go?”

  “Where’s that?”

  ‘I’d like to go to the market,” I told him. “There’s an area with little tables and chairs sitting out under umbrellas. You can buy all sorts of wonderful food at the surrounding stalls and eat out in the open. It’s not very fancy, but—I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “Do it you shall,” he promised.

  He smiled again and took my arm and we moved through the palms and plants, passing the long, elegant front desk and heading toward the door. Two journalists happened to be in the lobby and, spotting me, hurried toward us, much like hunters pouncing upon prey. Although I got along well with them, silently enduring their rudeness and uncouth manners, I found journalists as a breed thoroughly unsavory. They were, to a man, loud, aggressive, unscrupulous and amazingly self-important. Getting a story, truthful or not, was only slightly less urgent than the Second Coming to all of them. The pair who besieged us now was typical, one a husky black-haired chap in a checked suit, the other an untidily dressed youth with tousled brown hair and eager eyes.

  “Miss O’Malley!” the man in the checked suit cried. “I’m Joe Clancy from The New Orleans Picayune and I’ve been hoping you’d come down—”

  “Stevens!” the youth barked. “The New Orleans Crescent! Is it true you plan to perform in a nigger theater?”

  “We are giving two special matinees at the Jewel Theater, yes,” I replied in a cool voice. “Corey Washington, who plays my mother, has a huge following there, and we wanted to give them the opportunity to see their favorite actress in—”

  “The Jewel is in niggertown. How do you feel about going down there, performing for an audience made up entirely of—”

  “I feel quite honored to play in a very fine theater with a marvelous actress who has helped make it such a strong cultural force for the Free People of Color.”

  “What about the prince?” Clancy demanded. “Is he gonna be here tonight when you open at the Majestic?”

  “I’m afraid there is no—”

  “Miss O’Malley is on her way to lunch,” Robert said, and there was a hard edge to his voice. “She does not care to answer any more questions now.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Stevens cried.

  “I’m Robert Courtland,” he replied, “and if you value your job, I strongly suggest you desist. At once.”

  Stevens blanched. So did Clancy. Both men hastily departed, disappearing among the plants. Robert escorted me on outside where an open carriage waited in front of the hotel. It was of richly polished brown wood, with padded beige velvet upholstery. A driver in brown velvet livery perched up front, while two magnificent chestnuts stamped impatiently in harness, eager to prance. Robert gave instructions to the driver, assisted me up into the carriage and then took his place beside me.

  “I suppose you know we’ll both be in the evening editions,” I said as we started down the street. “You will have given me a diamond ring once belonging to Empress Josephine and I will have promised to go meet your family in Natchez as soon as we close here.”

  “I have no family,” he informed me, “and my name is never in the newspapers—unless I want it to be. Neither the Picayune nor the Crescent will mention our being together this afternoon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Rest assured,” he replied.

  “Speaking of diamonds,” I said, “after our week here in New Orleans, the season will be over, and I must give the diamond necklace back to you. You refused to take it back, I refused to keep it, we argued, and I finally agreed to wear it onstage during the run of the play, vowing to give it back just as soon as we closed.”

  “I seem to recall something like that.”

  “You’ll take it back?”

  “On the contrary, I intend to give you a bracelet and earrings to match as a token of my appreciation. As producer of the play, I get a hefty percentage of the box office. Because of you, the play has been tremendously successful. Consequently, you’ve made me an awful lot of money.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t intend to argue about it,” he informed me.

  I started to protest more, and then I smiled. Then I burst into laughter. Robert arched one brow, giving me an inquisitive look. I shook my head and, finally controlling my laughter, told him Laura’s reaction when she first saw the necklace.

  “Both of us were convinced you had dishonorable intentions,” I explained, “and Laura suggested that I string you along—at least until I got a bracelet and earrings to match. She’ll die when I tell her about this.”

  “I plan to give Miss Devon a gift, too.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Sapphire earrings to match her pendant.”

  “She’ll be thrilled. You—you really are wealthy, aren’t you?”

  “Shockingly wealthy. Aren’t you glad you strung me along?”

  “I’m glad you’ve become my friend,” I said. “It’s nice to have an older man to go out with on occasion, someone I can talk to, someone I—I don’t feel threatened by. I enjoy being with you very much, Robert.”

  We were riding past the elegant, exclusive shops now, their windows abloom with lavish displays, and I caught my breath as I saw Corinne’s, a gorgeous apricot velvet gown and a wide-brimmed apricot chapeau with curling white ostrich plumes displayed in the front window. Dear Corinne. I really should pay her a visit, I thought. Would she remember the awed and nervous girl fresh from the swamps who first visited her salon, speaking in an atrocious squawk? Would she associate her with the notorious actress who, at this particular point in time, was one of the most famous women in the country? Traffic was heavy this afternoon in late May, and we were forced to slow down. I turned, gazing pensively as we passed the dress salon.

  “You seem to know New Orleans quite well,” Robert said. “Have you ever lived here?”

  “I—I spent almost a year here,” I said quietly.

  “It wasn’t a happy time?”

  “It was—in some ways it was very happy. It was very sad, too. I left New Orleans a brokenhearted girl and—now I’m an entirely different person.”

  “Happier?”

  “Much happier,” I said firmly.

  Robert didn’t press, didn’t ask me any more questions, and I was extremely grateful for that. Not quite two years had passed since I had left New Orleans on the steamboat bound for St. Louis, but it seemed like an eternity ago. Julian, Delia, Charles, the months I had spent at the Etienne mansion—all that might have happened in another lifetime, I thought, and I assured myself that I was completely over that painful first love. Still, I found myself tensing up as we neared Etienne’s. We turned the corner now, and there it was. The last time I had seen it, it had been a charred and smoking ruin. Now in the early afternoon sunlight it stood as grand and impressive as ever with a new pink brick front, new plate glass windows, a new striped awning. I recognized a couple of the pieces displayed in the windows. They had once been in the east wing.

  Though com
pletely restored, the store seemed deserted, and, yes, the items displayed looked vaguely dusty. Business couldn’t be very good, I thought, and I forced back the flood of memories. The fortune of the Etienne family was no concern of mine, I reminded myself. I was glad to see that the store was still in business, but it … it really didn’t matter one way or another. I was in the city to perform for the paying customers, not to relive the past, and I had no intentions of contacting any of the family. They were naturally aware that I was in the city. After the barrage of advance publicity, everyone not closed up in a convent knew that I was in New Orleans and that our scandalous play was opening tonight at the Majestic Theater.

  “The market is just ahead,” Robert said. “Hungry?”

  “Ravenous,” I confessed. “I didn’t have any breakfast, only a cup of coffee, and, I may as well confess it, I’m dying to try some pork rinds.”

  “Pork rinds?”

  “I passed the stall a dozen times, but we never stopped—Jezebel told me that was ‘po’ folks food,’ not fit for a fine lady like myself. They fry the pork rinds until they’re crispy and golden and light as a feather, and they look delicious.”

  “Pork rinds you shall have,” he told me.

  “And one of those small bread loaves stuffed with oysters in butter sauce. I’ve had one of them before. They’re really tasty.”

  “I’m sure,” he said.

  “And a cup of gumbo, of course.”

  “Of course,” Robert agreed.

  The market was every bit as colorful and intriguing as I remembered. Dozens of exotic smells filled the air, and some quite earthy, all blending together to make a heady perfume that hung over the area. It was a sultry afternoon, lazy rays of sunlight bathing the cobbles. Negro women with huge baskets moved lethargically through the labyrinth of stalls, sniffing at barrels of black eel and mounds of plump pink shrimp, examining racks of meat, arguing with the vendors over the price of oranges and vivid yellow lemons and juicy scarlet plums. Prostitutes idled about, eating slices of melon and eyeing the men, and respectable women strolled together, exchanging gossip, occasionally pausing to buy a bunch of dried herbs or a string of mauve onions. Dogs barked, scurrying about among the litter of wilted cabbage leaves and carrots. Robert held my elbow as we sauntered past cages of squawking chickens and carts of apples and a wonderland of vegetable stalls. He wore the patient expression of an adult indulging a favored child.