Madam: A Novel of New Orleans

by Cari Lynn

  “You’re studying so hard,” Pete said, “you’re gonna be a professor of the piano one day soon.”

  Ferdinand looked up from his jambalaya. “I like that,” he mused. “Professor of the piano.”

  But in return he got Pete’s finger wagging in his face. “I said one day. Don’t go getting big-headed now.”

  As Ferd scraped the last of the jambalaya, he began to feel his nerves kick up again. If he couldn’t get back to his music to calm him, he could at least talk about it. He nodded to Pete. “You ever heard any of the greats play some rag? Now, those’re the real professors of the piano.”

  “Don’t believe I have,” said Pete.

  “I snuck into Frenchman’s but once,” Ferd said. “It’s the late-night saloon at the corner of Bienville and Villere. You’d never know anything was happening there because by ‘late-night,’ they mean things don’t get started until near four a.m.!” At this, Hattie gave a disapproving smirk from where she sat with a bucket of fresh shrimp, peeling then tossing them on a block of ice.

  “So I went there to see Tony Jackson,” Ferd continued. “Now, when Mistah Jackson walks through the door, anyone should get up from the piano stool, don’t matter if you’re Alfred Wilson or Albert Cahill or Kid Ross. Get up from that piano, you’re hurting its feelings! Let Tony play. I should tell you, Tony is not a bit good-looking, but he is the single-handed greatest entertainer in the world.”

  “You’ll be right smart too, Ferd,” Hattie said dutifully.

  Ferdinand smiled softly; he wished his own relations had offered up just an ounce of the Lalas’ applause. Ferd’s father had known Pete Lala since they were in short pants, and Pete had been at Ferdinand’s christening. Pete was there, too, when Ferd’s father was kicked out of the house after liquor ruined him.

  But throughout the hard times, there was always music in the LaMenthe house, with instruments everywhere. Horns, harmonicas, a piano of course, drums, a steel guitar, a Jew’s harp, even a zither, all having been collected by his mama, his grandmère, his godmother, and even Mimi, his great-grandmother. However, the patriarchs of the family held far less musical appreciation. More so, Ferd’s stepdaddy didn’t take kindly to him playing what he deemed “a lady’s instrument” and threatened to throw Ferd out on his ear if he caught him at the piano. Ferd confided to Pete that he could no more stop playing than stop eating, and he did both to the extreme and with aplomb. And then Ferd’s dear mama passed on to heaven.

  It had been Ferd’s hope when he and his little sister went to live with Grandmère that things would change, for Grandmère had been classically trained on the piano. But she was disinterested in Ferd’s musical aspirations, unless they were classical or church related. He knew Grandmère meant no harm, but she feared if she encouraged his music, he’d wind up without an honest job, a carousing tramp like his father.

  When Ferd, longing for an audience not seated in pews, had asked Pete if he could play that old piano, he happened not to mention that Grandmère wouldn’t approve. Bricklayer, that was Grandmère’s plan for him. But when patrons began to talk up Ferd, he finally confessed to Pete that he was there without Grandmère’s knowledge. Reluctantly, the Lalas agreed not to say anything if they ran into her. Ferd was still surprised that word hadn’t made it back to Grandmère through one Creole circle or another, although he was certain he’d know the moment she found out.

  Pete, however, was hopeful that Ferd’s grandmère would come around, and he couldn’t help but ask if she knew of Ferd’s honor that night.

  Ferdinand sighed. “I’m still carryin’ on as if I were employed to wash your dishes every night. She thinks any person showing off a talent in public is common.”

  “Oh, she’ll get on over it,” Pete reassured. “Your mama and papa, they’d have been mighty proud, that’s for certain.”

  “Mama,” said Ferd, “she was proud of me just for opening my eyeballs every morning.”

  The setting sun momentarily leveled with the front windows and hit Ferd in a way that made him tear up—or maybe it was just that he missed his mother. She was famous for her colorful stories and was undoubtedly the source of Ferd’s inherited gift of yat. He blinked away any tears before they could spill over, and resumed his talk as distraction.

  “Papa? You knew the man better than that, Mistah Pete Lala! He played a mighty fine trombone, but blowin’ on a brass horn’s one thing. He was hardly different from my stepdaddy. Any man making piano music was a sissy cream puff to him. Surely I was meant to do more important things. . . .” Ferd trailed off as he suddenly realized the details of his father’s face had grown blurry in his mind’s eye.

  Lala shifted uncomfortably, not having meant to stir up painful reminiscences. “Best get on,” he said quickly. “On up to higher ground, where it’s gonna be white as if it were snowin’ in New Orleans.”

  Ferdinand wiped his mouth and rose from his seat, smoothing out his shirtsleeves. Hattie scurried over and, careful not to touch him with her shrimp-peel hands, gave an awkward but motherly hug. “I wrapped you a roll with jelly.” She motioned to a sack waiting by Ferd’s suit jacket.

  Ferdinand was suddenly desperate to leave. He cascaded his jacket over his arm, plucked up the sack, and shuffled out the door. They waved after him, and he felt a bitter swell of emotion. He bit his bottom lip to suppress anything from bubbling to the surface. He wanted to feel nothing but the gentle breeze on his face. He crossed over Customhouse Street and headed in a direction he didn’t normally go: uptown.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As the setting sun peeked through the canopy of giant Southern live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, a pink sheen fell upon the regal columns and immaculate white brick of the Saint Charles Avenue mansion belonging to Judge J. Alfred Beares.

  Ferdinand climbed the steps, then stood at the imposing front door, attempting to work up the nerve to knock. He breathed in the aroma of sticky sap and the lemon perfume of magnolias just starting to bloom—a welcome change from his part of town, where the only good smells came from someone’s cooking.

  His eyes fell upon a statue perched near the entrance: a female figure in a flowing Grecian robe holding a sword in one hand and dangling the scales of justice in the other. Ferd surmised that the judge must be a very serious fellow.

  Reaching for his crimson silk handkerchief, he dabbed the sweat beads on his upper lip and forehead. The jambalaya began to churn in his stomach, and he chided himself for having eaten so ravenously before a big night like this. With a deep breath, he rapped the brass knocker.

  As the door opened, Ferdinand snapped to attention. But he was surprised—and relieved—to see the pretty face of a young black maid.

  “I’m playing the piano,” Ferdinand blurted out.

  The maid raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean, I’m not playing the piano presently. I’m standing at the door. But tonight, at the party.”

  “Oh,” she said, then dropped her voice. “You’re s’posed to go ’round back, ya know.”

  ’Round back was where the help entered, that much he did know. Apparently she didn’t view him as the artist he thought he was.

  Coyly, she glanced over her shoulders, and, seeing no one, she quickly beckoned him inside. He scooted in. Stepping foot in the foyer, he couldn’t help but give an immediate awe-filled look around, his gaze moving from the lofty, scalloped ceilings, to the crystal chandeliers, to a wall-sized tapestry depicting a regal fox hunt.

  “There’s the piano,” the maid said, pointing across the parlor.

  Mouth agape, Ferdinand caught himself, realizing he’d forgotten the manners Grandmère spent years hammering into him. He refocused on the pretty maid. “Miss, sorry for my impoliteness. My name’s Ferdinand LaMenthe.”

  She gave him a shy smile and a requisite nod but didn’t return the introduction.

  He took the opportunity to lean in closer, as if letting her in on a secret. “This is the fanciest gig I ever played,” he said. “But
don’t tell no one, now.”

  Again she smiled, a coquettishness toying at the corners of her mouth. Unable to help it, Ferd rambled on, letting her know that he was a classically trained pianist. “Efficient on the violin and guitar, too,” he added. “Not meaning to brag, but before I was even in short pants, I’d mastered playing the tin pan.” He’d now made her giggle.

  “Aw, don’t worry none, Mistah LaMenthe,” she said. “Them all be stupid drunk by half past. Won’t care if ya’s playing the piano or a kazoo.”

  Ferdinand was struck dumb. This was not quite the sentiment he was after. She offered a small curtsy, then scurried back to the kitchen. How piteous, Ferd thought. He mumbled to himself, Even a blind hog can find an acorn. No matter; he was here to play a piano, not a girl.

  Stepping into the parlor, he ran his hand along a smooth marble chess table that sat between two imposing bear-claw chairs fit for monarchs. Above the fireplace, watching him with deep, unmoving eyes, was a gold-framed daguerreotype of the judge, dressed in his black robe, arms folded over his chest, a gavel in his hand. Ferdinand wondered if someday he might be affluent enough to have a likeness of himself presiding over his own house.

  He arrived at a shiny, mahogany grand piano that took his breath away. Intricately carved fleur-de-lis decorated the piano’s empire-style legs, while delicate Baroque paintings of scenes from operas graced the side panels and bench. He was almost too afraid to touch the piano. Inching forward, he brushed his long fingers across the fallboard before gingerly sliding onto the bench. He lifted the cover and hovered his hands above the keys and just under the gold nameplate that said it all: STEINWAY & SONS.

  Oh, when the trumpet sounds its call

  Oh, when the trumpet sounds its call

  Lord, how I want to be in that number

  When the trumpet sounds its call.

  Ferdinand hummed the words to himself as he pounded out a lively “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the impeccable Steinway. It seemed strange to him to be playing “The Saints” when no one had died, but it was requested by an older white lady who seemed to be enjoying it heartily. Then again, it may have been the bottomless glass of Champagne in her hand that was raising her spirits. Either way, she’d made herself a fixture against the piano and was now leaning over Ferdinand to the point that the ribbons on her hat were dipping into her drink, while the tip of Ferd’s nose was practically in her cleavage. It was hardly as if Ferd needed to look at the keys while he played, but that’s exactly where he made sure to keep his gaze focused. “Oh, when the saints go marching in!”

  The house was swollen with anyone who was anyone in New Orleans politics, business, and high-class white society. And at the center of it all was Judge Beares—hardly the austere man of his portrait. He waved a glass of bourbon as he gleefully held court.

  “It’s the Frogs, I tell ya!” he shouted, casting a shower of saliva on every poor soul within a few-foot radius. “They started this whole thing when they shipped us their heathens.”

  Fashionable men and women mechanically nodded as they shielded their Champagne glasses from the judge’s spittle.

  But one man was truly listening, and intently so: Alderman Sidney Story, who unabashedly plucked off his spectacles and wiped the saliva with his handkerchief. He vehemently shook his head. “While I agree, Judge, that was the origination of the problem, this plague of vice in our city is more complex than—”

  Judge Beares interrupted him with a loud hiccup. Then he turned to address the others. “It’s their offspring of lewd and abandoned women. Always comes back to the Frogs!”

  Story was intent on having the judge’s ear—and it was the reason he’d shown up tonight, uninvited—but he was becoming deeply concerned that his message was being corrupted by the steady clip at which Beares was ingesting his liquor.

  “Indeed, Judge, their offspring are vermin,” Story reinforced. “And just like any plague, we must confine the contaminated—”

  “You can take the whore outta France,” Beares said, mocking a French accent, “but you can’t take the French”—he lewdly lifted and lowered his eyebrows—“outta the whore!” He cracked himself up, and his throng of admirers dutifully laughed along.

  Alderman Story found none of this funny, and it would never occur to him to feign it. “Judge,” he pushed, “may I count on you to join me in proposing containment of these vile Jezebels who entice men to immorality?”

  Beares fidgeted as he reluctantly turned to address Story. He leaned in close enough that he could smell the alderman’s hair tonic, spread thick across remaining strands that clung to his high, shiny forehead. “Alderman, this is not the time nor place to discuss your proclivity for a district of vice. You sound like an obsessed schoolgirl. Besides, hounding me at my own party isn’t the way to change my mind.” Beares hovered for a moment, wanting his words to sink in. “Now,” he said, stepping back, “another one of these”—he held up his near empty glass—“that may do the trick!”

  “But, Your Honor,” Story persisted, “I have a duty to fulfill. The people of this city are looking to me to contain the wanton, the degenerate, and the diseased.”

  The judge turned askance—was it possible the alderman was still talking?

  Story continued, “When Mayor Flower appointed me head of the Public Order Committee, I was given a mandate to lead this lost Southern flock. And that is my sole mission.”

  The judge glared back, serious now. “Get yourself a drink, Mistah Story. You are in dire need of one.”

  But for a sip of altar wine, Story didn’t drink, and he was about to inform the judge of this, only he was interrupted by one Mr. Smithson, the cousin of a wealthy New Orleans plantation owner, who’d traveled from Georgia just for this party.

  “Pardon me, Judge, may I take a moment?” Smithson asked.

  “Please,” Beares pleaded. “Where were you twenty minutes ago?”

  “Without meaning to be rude . . .” Smithson began. The judge burped. Already, Beares wasn’t liking the sound of this conversation either—why must his guests be so darn uptight? It was a party, after all.

  Smithson continued, “There is a person present who is inappropriately making eyes at my wife. Under other circumstances, this may serve to flatter me, but . . . this man is a Negro.”

  Beares confusedly scanned the room, looking out over the sea of powdery white faces.

  Leaning in, Smithson said in an enunciated whisper, “The pianist.”

  Beares slowly turned his round body toward the music. There, at the piano, was Mrs. Smithson, marching bawdily to “The Saints” and spilling herself and her drink all over the piano player.

  “Ferd-i-nand,” Mrs. Smithson slurred loudly, “I like that name.” Other nearby guests cast withering, sideways glances at the spectacle.

  Beads of sweat covered Ferdinand’s upper lip, and he ached to reach for his handkerchief, but he didn’t dare take his fingers or eyes from the piano keys. “Thank you, ma’am,” Ferdinand politely responded. “Was chosen by my godmother. Christened me after the king of Spain. But the king was worthless. Everyone knew the power was with the queen.”

  Mrs. Smithson cooed and fanned herself, dribbling some drink on the piano. Ferdinand flinched—not the Steinway!

  Across the room, Beares reluctantly turned back to Mr. Smithson. “Ah yes,” Beares said with a deep breath, “I see.”

  “Judge, you must instruct your Negroes on proper decorum. I don’t proclaim to know what’s acceptable or not in New Orleans, but where I come from, such behavior can put your entire reputation at stake.”

  “Yes, yes,” Beares sighed wearily. “I’ll go handle her . . . him.”

  With a grunt, Beares made his way over to the piano. “Mrs. Smithson,” he gushed, taking her hand and kissing it, “so glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Isn’t it a divine evenin’, Judge?” she chittered.

  “Yes, well, my dear, your husband’s been looking all over for you.�
�� He nudged her away from the piano.

  “Toodle-loo,” she said with a silly wave to Ferdinand.

  Ferd looked to the judge, embarrassed for the woman. Beares inflated his cheeks and then slowly blew out the air. “You know, kid, you got real talent on that piano. I mean it, real talent.”

  “Thank you, sir. I never dreamed I’d play on a Steinway. It takes my breath away.”

  Beares started to answer, then decided against it and instead pulled a wad of cash from his vest. “Such stellar playing, I think we’re all done for the night.”

  Ferdinand’s fingers halted. Perplexed, he looked to the judge.

  Beares leaned in. “I’m gonna be honest with ya, kid. Some of our guests—the stuffy, pigheaded ones with no ear for music—well, they got a problem with a Negro man talking to their wife.”

  “Sir,” Ferdinand said, confused, “I’m a Creole—”

  “Yes, but they don’t know that in Georgia.”

  He shoved the cash into Ferdinand’s jacket and waved over the young black maid. “Show this good man out. And give him a pint for the road.”

  She dutifully curtsied, her eyes darting to Ferdinand with a touch of sympathy. She watched as he stiffly pushed himself back from the piano, a mere shadow of the eager young man she’d met at the door just hours earlier.

  Judge Beares quickly removed himself from the unjust scene. What a shame, he thought, that others saw color so markedly. He, personally, found no harm in colored Creoles mixing with whites—Creoles had European heritage, after all, just the same as he. Just the same as Smithson. Still, there was no point in making issue; in Smithson’s world, as in the rest of the South, a man was either white or he wasn’t. It was New Orleans that had blurry vision.

  The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed ten, just as Beares felt a hand on his back. What now? It was his butler, his head bowed.

  “Judge, a guest be waitin’ in the foyer.”