by Cari Lynn
“To Storyville!” Lulu shouted.
“To Storyville!” The crowd answered.
More corks popped, and soon a bevy of whores were chasing Mayor Flower through the parlor, drenching him with Champagne. He squealed and giggled uncontrollably.
“Attention, mes amis!” Lulu called, and directed all eyes to the balustrade. Heads turned to look up to the second-floor landing, which was to serve as a makeshift stage. A line of Lulu’s girls costumed in Victorian dress and powdered white faces solemnly marched out.
“We, the respectable women of New Orleans, transcend our sexuality,” one of the Victorians announced in a high, very proper trill. “Look how we achieve a state of pure passionlessness and frigidity.” They all froze like corpses, with expressions of smelling something foul.
“Oh, look, it’s President McKinley,” another shouted, “coming to bestow his personal gratitude for our pious devotion to the crusade against vice in all forms, be it liquid or naked.”
A girl dressed as President McKinley, with fake bushy eyebrows, her hair greased into a side part, and a cleft drawn with kohl on her chin, took the stage and ran through the line of Victorian women, rubbing “his” nose in their breasts. One by one, the women fainted, and the crowd, including Mary, burst into laughter.
“But I didn’t even get my wick dipped yet!” protested President McKinley, surveying the passed-out women.
On cue, Tom Anderson, dressed as Alderman Story in wire spectacles, slicked-back hair, and a conservative bow tie, rode in on a costumed horse. From the piano came a “William Tell Overture” gallop. “I’m Alderman Sidney Story, here to save the day!” he announced.
“Thank God!” moaned President McKinley. “I’m turnin’ blue!” McKinley sidled up to the horse as if to have intercourse.
Anderson/Story cleared his throat. “Ahem! AHEM!”
“Oh, oh. Pardon me,” McKinley said, turning to Anderson so the two of them could go at it doggie fashion. The audience roared.
Suddenly, there was a loud crashing sound from offstage, and Anderson/Story clutched his chest as he slid to the ground. “It’s true!” he moaned. “The almighty has struck me down for this gruesome fornication!” He died an exaggerated death. After a dramatically still moment, he popped up and took a bow to thunderous applause.
President McKinley stepped forward and handed Anderson a golden medallion. “I’d like to take this opportunity, as president, to officially bestow Mistah Tom Anderson with the honorary title, Mayor of Storyville.”
Anderson accepted the medal, wiping fake tears.
From the audience, Mayor Flower perked up. “Somebody call for the mayor?” he asked, confusedly drunk. “I’s the mayor!”
As the party resumed, Mary looked around aimlessly, then, locating the servants’ back staircase, she furtively wandered to the second floor. She knew she needed to work up the courage to approach the Countess, and that if she left tonight without doing so, she’d never forgive herself. But for now, she felt awkward remaining in the parlor with no one to talk to and thought she’d have a look around, if nothing else, to at least dream about what life could be like.
She marveled at the statues, the sconces, and the ornate furnishings that seemed to have been assembled from all over the world. She stopped to touch her fingertips to the velvet wallpaper. She’d never seen a wall this fancy. And she couldn’t help but grin as she stumbled upon an indoor flush toilet—of course the Countess had such luxuries! She closed herself in the water closet just for the experience of it. But when she moved to the faucet her eyes lit up as, lo and behold, there was hot water that gurgled from the spigot.
As she emerged, she heard women’s voices and laughter from down the hall and followed the sounds to a cracked-open door. She tried to hold herself very still as she peered in.
There were the girls from the skit, changing back into their party dresses. Mary also recognized many of them from the marketplace, especially the pouffy-haired Poodle, who seemed to be holding court.
“He just put his head in my lap and started crying like a baby,” Poodle said, then she took a long, dramatic drag from an opium pipe and passed it on.
“What did you do then?” another girl asked.
“Well, Fannie, I took him to my breast and rocked him like a baby.”
“That’s beautiful,” Fannie sighed.
“Girls,” Poodle instructed, “if it’s love they want, then it’s love you give. If they want to get a switching, go find the sturdiest branch—” Poodle’s eyes happened upon Mary. “Oh! Seems we have a peeper.”
The others turned to follow her gaze. Caught, Mary cowered behind the door.
“You can’t run off without telling us who you are,” Poodle called.
“Got a name, peeper?” Fannie said.
Mary wanted to run, but instead she forced herself to take a baby step into the room. She squeaked out her first name.
Another girl piped up, “Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow?”
“Who are you, anyway?” Poodle asked.
The question hung in the air. What was Mary supposed to say? Oh, just an Alley whore didn’t seem like it would go over too well.
“Hmm, if you don’t know who you are, maybe this’ll help you find out,” Fannie said, offering the opium pipe to Mary.
Mary stared at it, confused. She’d never smoked anything, let alone opium.
“I can think of some other things you can do with it, but for now, why don’t you just smoke it,” Poodle said.
Hesitantly, Mary brought the tip to her mouth and sucked in her breath. The smoke burned the back of her throat, and she began to cough. But then a tingly warmth started in her fingertips and quickly washed over her. “Y’all the Countess’s girls?” she asked.
“You silly goat,” one of the girls said. “Of course we—”
But Poodle interrupted. “Are we the Countess’s girls?” she said haughtily. “See this fleshpot?” She rose and sensuously ran her hands along her body. “This is the most refined, cultured, educated cunny you can get anywhere in Dixieland. The Countess takes only the best.”
Mary could now feel effects from the opium, and her body grew relaxed and heavy. “What’s she like, the Countess?” Mary asked. The girls burst into laughter, and Mary flushed as she giggled along with them.
“What’s all this ya-ya about the Countess?” Poodle asked.
“What she said tonight about women earning their own way,” Mary began, her inhibitions waning. “Well, do y’all think she’d ever take me as one of her girls?”
Poodle looked down her nose, scrutinizing Mary. Just who did this wayward girl think she was, and how’d she even get invited to the Countess’s party? “Gypsy, what do you think?” Poodle asked. The girls gathered in a circle around Mary.
“Well, the attire aside,” said the dark-haired Gypsy, “she does have a decent complexion.”
“She’s got tits,” Fannie added, and reached over to cup Mary’s chest with both hands. “And firm ones.”
Poodle trounced in the middle of the circle, pouty that she was no longer the focus of attention. “Well, Mary, there is ‘the test.’ You remember, girls, the test.” The others quickly caught on and gave exaggerated nods. “Come.”
Smoothing her shimmery silk purple dress, Poodle led the group out of the room. Mary followed, trailing the back of the line like the runt of the litter.
They traveled back downstairs and over to the piano, where the player was pumping out standard-fare ragtime tunes. The girls joined right in, kicking up their heels and flouncing their skirts. Mary awkwardly tried to join in, too, but not since she’d been a little girl playing “Ring Around the Rosie” had she danced in public.
“Mistah Piano Player, can you play faster?” Poodle said, and the tempo picked up. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, you get on up there for a ride!”
Fannie joined in. “Ride!”
Mary wasn’t sure what they meant, but it certainly didn�
�t sound good. All she could do was give a befuddled shake of her head.
“Oh, but it’s part of the test,” Gypsy said.
“Get on up! Ride!” the entire gang taunted.
A look of terror flashed on Mary’s face as she found herself being hoisted onto the piano. Poodle barked an order: “Kick up your legs!”
Helplessly, Mary obeyed and did a leg kick.
“Shimmy!”
Mary twisted her hips.
“Show your bloomers!”
Reddening now, Mary bit her lip.
“Ain’t like a whore to blush,” Poodle admonished.
Her heart racing, Mary saw no other option but to play along. She lifted her skirts, flashing her bloomers to the room of fancy folks. And then something unexpected happened—the crowd applauded. She couldn’t believe it. Were people clapping for her?
“That’s it, honey!” a man called out.
“Give us more sugar!” another shouted.
Reveling in the newfound attention, Mary turned around to flash her bloomers to the other side of the room. With a flirty smile, she shook her rear. The crowd ate it up.
Across the parlor, even Tom Anderson was watching, clinking the ice cubes in his glass of gin and tonic.
Lulu glided up next to him.
“Who’s your new Sarah Bernhardt?” he asked, pointing toward the piano.
“If you’re referring to the little tart on my Steinway, I haven’t a clue,” Lulu clipped.
“She’s quite stunning,” Anderson replied.
Lulu was taken aback. “You can’t be serious. How can you compare that to all I have to offer?”
“Countess, I thought you to be above envy.”
“Tom, you, of all people, deserve the highest caliber. That is not one of my girls. Her clothes are rags, for God’s sake.”
“My dear,” said Anderson, “it’s not her clothes I’m interested in.”
Not more than a quarter hour later, Poodle led Mary up the regal front staircase.
“Don’t dawdle,” she ordered. “I, personally, wouldn’t have thought you were quite ready.”
“Ready?” Mary asked.
“Well, I’m assuming . . . I mean, we are one gal short, for several months at least,” Poodle shook her head. “She didn’t listen when I warned her to always use the French Preventative.”
Mary stopped cold—was she about to become one of the Countess’s girls? Her stomach flip-flopped.
“I suppose I should tell you the rules,” Poodle said begrudgingly. “No swearing, no drinking more than a sip or two, and no talking to a man if another girl is talking to him. It’s a dollar fine for each cuss word and five dollars for getting tipsy. And try to use proper diction. Now come on, why are you just standing there?”
Poodle opened a heavy mahogany door and scooted Mary inside, then disappeared as the door clicked shut. Mary suddenly felt lost without Poodle ordering her about, and as she stood by herself her knees grew weak and the room seemed to engulf her. It was the most glorious room she had ever seen, with plush carpet, peach striped wallpaper, crystal chandeliers, and a massive four-poster bed, draped with sheer curtains and piled high with fringed pillows. She scanned to a dressing area at the far end of the room, where, at a full-length mirror, stood the Countess. Lady’s maids buzzed around her, cinching her corset and billowing the skirts of her latest gown change, this one a deep violet.
Mary waited, her heart pounding in her ears. But after a few moments she began to wonder if anyone had noticed her enter. As it occurred to her that no one seemed aware she’d been standing there, she decided to speak up. She squeaked, “Um, ma’am—”
Without turning to acknowledge her, Lulu sharply corrected, “I am Countess, not ma’am.”
Mary nodded dutifully, although no one so much as looked in her direction.
A maid delicately took Lulu’s hand and powdered it with white talc. Another maid began to powder Lulu’s cleavage. “See what I must endure?” Lulu announced. “One can never be shy of perfection when one is the premiere madam of the Delta. This toilette powder is from Paris, the finest money can buy. Amazing how it coats my skin in flawless alabaster, n’est-ce pas?”
Mary remained silent.
A maid carefully slid a glimmering diamond ring onto Lulu’s finger. “Ah, isn’t this too dear? It was given to me by a Belgian duke, or was he a prince? No matter, he was quite impressed by my mastery of Dutch. I’m a master of many tongues . . . and I also speak five languages.” Lulu laughed at her own joke, but Mary wasn’t sure if she should laugh too. She wasn’t even sure that the Countess was speaking to her. Lulu continued, “Too bad German isn’t one of them. When in Vienna, I couldn’t negotiate with ease for this.” She motioned to a gold-leaf Klimt painting. “Isn’t it sublime? I’m sure I overpaid, but I just had to have it.”
The maids finished and Lulu shooed them away. At last, she turned to face Mary. She lifted her monocle to her eye and discerningly scanned her from her hair down to her shoes. Mary didn’t know where to rest her eyes and tried not to fidget as the Countess looked her over. At last, Lulu removed her monocle, but her pallid face gave nothing away.
“My dear,” the Countess instructed, “a woman doesn’t just lift her skirt and expect to be regaled with such riches.”
Mary eagerly nodded. “I understand, Countess, and I’ll work so very hard for you.”
Lulu paused, putting together the girl’s misconception. She gave Mary a condescending tilt of her head. “Just because you have pretty in your favor doesn’t mean it hides what you really are. I am a businesswoman. And you, my dear, are bad for my business.”
Mary was taken aback. “But I thought—”
“You have no place here,” Lulu said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Please,” Mary begged. “There were men downstairs eyeing me. Let me show you what I’ve got. Please, don’t I deserve a chance?”
“Deserve?” Lulu said with a biting laugh. “I chose my path very carefully. You choose to debauch yourself to anyone who’ll throw a picayune your way.”
Mary cast her eyes down. In a tiny voice she said, “It was never my choice.”
For a second, this resonated with Lulu. After all, what little girl dreamed of growing up to be a whore? But when your mother was a slave and the man who fathered you a wealthy plantation owner, you take the money to keep your vow of silence and you use it to recreate yourself. Lulu felt an unexpected surge of emotion, old wounds that, since Beares’s death, had been threatening her like a crack in a levee. Lulu shook the thoughts from her mind—they all were dead and buried, and damn this nobody of a girl for unearthing even a speck of memory.
“Leave!” Lulu ordered spitefully. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t step foot on Basin Street again.”
Trembling, Mary knew she must obey, but something fierce was burning in her. Maybe it was the opium, maybe it was the fire in her belly Eulalie spoke of, but whatever it was, it made her not want to take her eyes from the Countess. She would leave, would back her way out of this room and would be gone from this house, but not without Lulu knowing that no matter how ratty, how skint, how unlearned, Mary Deubler wasn’t going to look away in shame.
Lulu’s face was full of acid. The brazenness of this Alley whore was shocking. How dare she try to stare down the Countess? And yet here were these penetrating eyes, gray eyes, Lulu had noticed—who in the world had ever heard of gray eyes? She was usually quite adept at overshadowing people, yet this gray stare smothered her. Lulu flinched.
And Mary saw it. A crack in the Countess’s flawless veneer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Buddy Bolden (standing, second from left) and his band
Ferdinand had heard of the fancy-dress party on Basin Street and was disheartened that he’d not been asked to play—especially since he’d learned that it had been through a servant of Countess Lulu White’s that he’d been recommended to play at the judge’s party. He knew of the Countess
, herself an octoroon—her skin as passable as his own. But he was coming to realize that sometimes folks hated in others what they most hated in themselves.
In an effort to take his mind off all he was missing, he decided to go hear some of the real masters. Only, he was stuck watching his little sister while Grandmère was with relatives for the night. After restlessly sulking about the house, he decided he couldn’t be held back by a seven-year-old. He needed to hear the music and wouldn’t be sated any other way. “Get your coat, Améde,” he declared. “We’re going out.”
“Where are you taking me?” Améde demanded as they ventured down Rampart Street into the all-black part of town.
“You ought to be thanking me,” Ferd said. “Where I’m taking you is a treat.”
“Grandmère’s gonna tan your backside for taking me ’round here,” she scolded.
“Oh hush, Améde. If you were old enough to tell me what to do you’d be old enough to mind yourself.”
Améde’s eyes widened as she noticed a pair of women with low-cut bodices lounging about the street corner. “You’re taking me ’round the ratty people?”
“Ratty? Little girl, this here’s flavor. There’s a whole big world you haven’t seen.”
She made a prissy face. “Ain’t my world.”
“Isn’t,” Ferdinand corrected. He shook his finger at her. “Hard head bird don’t make good soup.”
Améde pouted until she spotted Clementine, a colorful tignon wrapped atop her head, singing, “Belles calas!” in her operatic voice.
Améde and Ferd inhaled the aroma of hot fried dough.
“Please, Ferd, can I have one? Please?” Améde begged.
“Now, listen, Améde, we’re gonna make a deal. This evening’s gonna be our little secret. Grandmère doesn’t need to be wise to no calas and no nothin’ else about tonight.”
Améde eyed him suspiciously. “Only the Devil Man make a body lie.”
“I’m not asking you to lie. This is business.”
“Isn’t your business washing dishes?”