To his relief, the intercom phone rang. The sound reverberated through the apartment. Val extracted himself and picked it up.
“Yes, Mr. Jackson, you have a visitor.”
Suddenly the doorman’s voice became distant.
“Miss! Excuse me, miss!”
When his voice returned the doorman sounded rushed and urgent.
“She’s on her way up right now! I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson, she wouldn’t wait.”
Val nodded. “Don’t worry about it, George. Thanks.”
He hung up the phone, turned to Louise, and motioned for her to get up.
“You gotta go now, baby. Someone’s coming up.”
“Another woman?”
Val grabbed their glasses and the half-empty bottle of vodka and hid them in the liquor cabinet.
“Yeah. One who wouldn’t exactly appreciate you being here.”
He was about to grab Louise’s pocketbook when Val caught himself and paused. What was he doing? He was Val Jackson, not some henpecked fool whose wife came home early. He couldn’t believe Elizabeth was making him forget himself. If he wasn’t careful she would have him on a leash parading him down Lenox Avenue. He stole a quick glance at Louise. She probably couldn’t wait to tell her friends what she saw. Val Jackson tamed—how would that look? No, Val decided. He had to maintain appearances, and make Elizabeth pay for her insistence.
“On second thought, I really don’t know how far her appreciation goes. Let’s find out. You wanna play?”
Louise nodded and rose from her seat, and Val’s doorbell rang. He put his fingers to his lips, positioned Louise where he wanted her to stand near his desk across the room, then went to open the door.
“Elizabeth!” He grabbed her arm quickly before she tried to embrace him and led her into the room. “I’ll be just a minute.”
The entrance hallway in Val’s apartment was long and the living room large. When Elizabeth finally reached the vast expanse full of light it took her a moment, Val thought, to notice the woman standing on the far side of the room.
Val continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye as he went over to the desk where he’d left Louise. He took out his wallet, put some money into an envelope, and handed it to Louise. A cloud descended quickly over Elizabeth’s face.
“There you are, Miss Louise. Thank you so much for coming by. I hope I’ll see you again soon.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Jackson!” Louise tossed her shoulders, perhaps a little too sassy for Val’s taste, but she was trying. He couldn’t expect bronze to turn gold at the snap of his fingers. “You are so generous, as always! I’ll catch you later.”
Louise, taking her time to sashay slowly past Elizabeth, walked out, but all too clearly Val heard her laughing as she closed the door behind her. When he finally embraced Elizabeth it tickled him to feel her stiffness. She drew back fast and hit him on the arm.
“Don’t touch me! How dare you!”
“Elizabeth!” He smiled and gamely deflected her halfhearted blows. “What’s wrong?”
“I know who that woman is! She’s a prostitute!”
“She is?”
“Liar! Liar! Don’t ever come near me again!” She managed to land a blow to his shoulder.
“Ow! Okay, okay, you’re right, she’s a prostitute but it’s not what you think.”
“I know exactly what to think!”
He loved the way her eyes flashed, indignant and resolute. She had the dark brown eyes of a fine Arabian thoroughbred. The transformation captivated him.
“Yes, and that’s what I was afraid of! How could I trust you would believe the truth?”
He moved away from her and, as casually as he could, went over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a whiskey. He tossed ice into the glass.
“Truth?” She looked confused. He was delighted.
“Yes, the truth,” he said as he poured the liquor. “Do you think women like Louise sell themselves because they want to? Louise, it just so happens, is trying to support a sick mother and go to secretarial school. I respect that kind of diligence. Some of our friends told me about her and, naturally, as a result of your good influence on me, I offered to help her out without her having to supply any favors in return.”
Val took a sip of his drink and shrugged as he sauntered back to her. “Sure, I give her a few bucks from time to time. If it keeps her off the street a few nights a week, she’ll be that much further along to going legit full time.”
“This is true?”
Val saw the struggle in her face. He knew she was working hard to justify him and watching her do so made him love her even more than he thought possible.
“You’re not paying for a child?” she finally asked.
Val put his chin down and spoke slowly because this was the point where most guys would get caught. Only liars spoke fast.
“Louise doesn’t have any children. Elizabeth! I knew you were coming up. The doorman said you were on your way. Wouldn’t I have gotten her the hell out of here if we were doing anything wrong?”
Of course this fact was his ace in the hole. A little bit of truth always made a lie palatable.
Elizabeth absorbed his words. She nodded and seemed embarrassed. Val found this even more endearing as her face softened.
“I’m so sorry, Val. I just didn’t know what to think.”
He put his drink down and embraced her. Elizabeth’s heart thumped hard in her chest as though it would leap out and join his own. The sensation weakened him and he realized how much he had risked and how stupid he’d been. She really was of his flesh, his other self. Why else would he treat her so callously? What had it gotten him? He had tried to hurt her and he was the one who had ended up feeling lousy. Because she was now grateful and loving, happy to be in his arms again. He couldn’t deny her. This little slip of a woman managed to be so much bigger than he was and deigned, with so much sacrifice, to show him what he had resisted for so long—that he was loved. He promised himself that her sacrifice would never be for nothing.
“No, it’s my fault.” He buried his face in her hair, wanting to hide himself. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Louise a long time ago. I’m just a dumb ass.”
THE NEXT MORNING the sun wakened him, as it always did, when it reached that certain sweet spot right outside his bedroom window. He rose from the bed and stepped into the golden light. The heat felt cleansing, satisfying. He heard Elizabeth turn over in the bed and knew she was watching him.
“What do you see out there?” Her voice sounded soft and sleepy.
“Possibility.” He turned around and looked at her. “I love this time of day. I love the way the light looks, how it makes everything look fresh and perfect and new. It seems like anything is possible. Maybe it makes me see the way I want the world to be. It’s a way I never thought the world could be, but you made me believe in it. You make me see it.”
“You look beautiful in the light,” she said. She smiled and leaned back into the pillows. “I love you so much.”
He sighed. He wanted to crystallize the moment—the light, how she looked, her words—and set it like a diamond in a ring to wear for the rest of his life. “That’s what makes anything possible, isn’t it?”
She nodded and held out her arms.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER 44
Mae
Paris, France, Late August 1947
Mae had no illusions she and Sam would walk moon-eyed, hand in hand along the Seine or sigh at each other over cups of coffee at a tiny table on a wrought iron balcony overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Such images were for fools who believed in romantic fairy tales. They invested so much in the belief that when life finally proved it a lie you could see the graying veil of disappointment fall over their faces. Mae also knew, because she had seen it, people like that could leave Paris and return with the belief once again intact. She supposed it had something to do with the white gravel walkways or the carefully tended greenery or the city’s
clean lines that made them feel Paris opened its arms to them each time and made them new. Whatever it was, she knew the city had an energy she respected. She would use it to bind Sam to her, and she had to do it before Cecily returned to Harlem.
Mae was certain this was the right strategy because she recognized Sam to be a sensualist—he was moved, deeply so, by riots of color, assaults of mind-bending scents, or simple, knee-weakening beauty. It was what made him sing the way he did, what made him bowl through the world gathering up life’s wondrous experiences. He reminded her of Alice in the way he saw the world as so completely his own. She and Alice had wanted to go to Paris together, to take hold of it as a confirmation of their beauty, youth, and power. She could never give that to Alice. Perhaps she could give it to Sam. And he would love her for it.
They bounced around on the clouds on a late-night Air France flight. The turbulence fascinated Sam, and Mae was impressed that though it was his first airplane ride, he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t seem to have time to be afraid. He was determined, she thought, to feel the magic of the city. When they arrived she was certain he’d be disappointed. She saw right away Paris was still struggling to right itself after slouching through years of war. Women wore shabby summer dresses and careless thin sandals and walked barelegged down the Rue de Montaigne because stockings were hard to come by. Many of the buildings, dirty and hulking over their heads, were in need of repair and painting. Grass grew between the cobblestones of Le Marais. Something in Mae wanted to mourn the drab state but she didn’t, perhaps because it all still looked like a storybook to Sam. He craned his neck out the car window to breathe the morning air. He stared at the people, the heavy arms around waists, the public displays of kissing. When he saw the Eiffel Tower, Mae thought he would cry out. But instead he sat back and just nodded. He reached for her hand and squeezed it.
Rationing was still in effect so she was glad she had the foresight to book them in a hotel, the Gerard, whose managers had the right connections in the black market so their guests would have coffee, milk, eggs, bread, butter, and cheese. Once in their room, Mae and Sam undressed and submerged themselves in the soft white sheets of an enormous bed. They made love and slept all day, an electric fan blowing a cool breeze over their naked skin. Then they ordered supper, roasted chicken and green beans, and ate it atop the bed.
“I know we’re not going to leave here without hearing some music,” she said.
“Mmm,” he replied. He licked his fingers and wiped them on one of the linen napkins. “Let me find the place, Mae! I’ll find us the hottest jazz in the whole damn town.”
“All right.” She leaned back into the pillows and smiled. “You go ahead and do that.”
He took his time. In the meanwhile she indulged him with the tourist haunts. They rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and watched the barges slowly float down the Seine. When they listened to the bells of Notre Dame, Mae glanced at Sam and saw him wipe away a tear. They steered clear of the Folies Bergère and all of the 9th arrondissement. She didn’t want to compete with the spectacle of nudity.
Over the next few days Sam managed, in both English and broken French, to communicate with bellhops, food cart vendors, strangers sitting in plazas, and elevator operators. He was able to glean that Montparnasse, once the heart of the city’s music scene, was considered passé. All the hot spots held court in the Saint Germain area and Tabou, on the Rue Dauphine, reigned supreme. Of course Mae could have learned this with one telephone call to the concierge, but she allowed Sam the joy of his hunt. It would make Paris feel more like his own.
TWO SETS OF letters marked the name of the club. The first towered over the top of the door, the word “TABOU,” garishly lit by lights shining underneath it. The second, a vertical column of singing yellow neon, glowed bright enough so one could locate Tabou the moment he turned onto the Rue Dauphine. The façade was dark and windowless. Tall men in loose-fitting jackets, their hair cut short at the sides but left longer on top, leaned against the walls and smoked. One of them stood up and held the door open when Mae and Sam approached.
“Thanks, man,” Sam said. He slipped an arm around Mae’s slim waist and guided her in.
Once inside, Mae paused. The place looked like a tomb. The stone walls rose from the floor and arched all the way across the ceiling to form a chilly dark cavern. Round tables hugged the sides of the tunnel and couples dancing filled in the floor space at the center. Mae peered through the smoky haze. She saw gray-faced men who looked like they were far along the road to being drunk, and women with stick-straight hair that they pushed behind their ears when men lit their cigarettes. How did people breathe in this hole? She turned to Sam to suggest they try another club, but he was already snapping his fingers to the groove pulsing from the other end of the room. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the sound. She felt the buzz beneath her feet and thought the music scuttled across the floor like beasts crawling on their bellies.
They sidestepped a couple spinning in tight circles and made their way to a table near the front, within shouting distance of the band. Mae figured the table was ignored or abandoned because the pool of light from the small stage spilled onto it. The people in Tabou tucked themselves into the dark corners like bats. Sam didn’t seem to care. He sat in the light, ordered drinks, and pulled out cigarettes. He handed one to her and lit them both. He blew out a stream of smoke and began rapping on the table as though it were a set of drums. He was happy so Mae decided to be satisfied. She sipped her gin and tonic and listened to the saxophone player, a dark-skinned musician with a pencil-thin mustache, slide artfully through an improvisation as easily as a snake shedding its skin.
A jazz band in this setting was so different from the Swan. The musicians could have been in their own living room—that’s how relaxed they looked, with glasses of whiskey within reach and burning cigarettes set carefully on ashtrays on the piano or on the floor. The drummer took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The trumpeter, who wore his hair in a stiff black crew cut, had large ovals of sweat blossoming under his arms. The bassist, tall and thin like a straw, rocked back and forth with his instrument, plucking the thick strings with skinny fingers. Sam cheered them on and provided a running commentary: “All right now! Don’t get too hot! You’ll burn this place down.” They laughed with him and tossed back his teasing. “Aw, man, you didn’t come all this way to be cool!”
By one a.m. the band grew playful, improvising along the lines of Cab Calloway’s “Boo-Wah Boo-Wah.” The trumpets wailed bright like the noonday sun. Sam howled.
“That’s old jive!”
The bassist stretched his giraffe neck down toward Sam. “Yeah, but it’s still nice and hot!”
Now the saxophone perched on the edge of the stage and crooned at them like a great gold bird. To Mae’s surprise, Sam jumped up and answered it. He didn’t use words, just the notes, the music. He scatted out a long line of nonsense and it sounded gorgeous. His honey-toned voice rippled through the room like a fast bubbling river. The saxophone player smiled so wide Mae thought he would break his mouth. Then he put his mouth back to the instrument and blew a syncopated rhythm that delighted Sam. Soon a call-and-response flourished between them. The pianist waved Sam up to the stage and he gladly made the small leap onto the platform. He continued scatting to the frenetic rhythm and the saxophone responded. The audience ate it up.
The music took hold of Mae too. The liquor must have made it easier, made her stickier so this could happen. She didn’t realize her shoulders popped up and down like pistons and her feet tapped underneath the table. But someone noticed. She didn’t know where the voice came from, whether the stage or the audience. She only knew the command was meant for her.
“Danse! Allez! Vas-y! Danse!”
Mae stood and pulled the navy blue skirt higher on her legs. She kicked off her shoes and gyrated her hips. The sensation of the movement felt so good that she put her foot on the chair and stepped onto the table. When she knew
it would hold her weight securely, she wrapped her arms around herself in a delicious embrace and tossed her head back in defiance. Then she danced. The drums rose thickly in her ears and the rhythm spoke to her and told her what to do. A wave of cheering washed over her but she didn’t hear it. Only the drums got through, only the drums played for her. Her motions felt familiar and she realized she was doing an imitation of a Josephine Baker dance, from the jungle scene in En Super Folies.
Whistling rang in her ears. “Bravo! Bravo!”
She was shocked by how well she remembered the moves. She danced for the memory of Alice. She danced for the triumph of being once more in Paris, only this time with a man who could love and would love her if he didn’t already. She danced because she was free. Mae threw her arms open and thrust her chest forward. She lifted her skirt and kicked out her bare thighs in mad ecstasy.
The strange hand crept up her inner thigh. She felt it clutch her skin and it dragged her back to herself. Her instinct was to turn and kick—kick the face of the offender until it was soft mush like grapes beneath her bare feet. She was about to do it. Then a flash of light—shining brass—swept through the air in a golden arc and found the man’s face in its path. His cheek exploded. Blood spurted from his mouth and stained Mae’s dress. She whirled and there was Sam, the trumpet held fast in his hands. He breathed hard like a bull and stood over his victim and poured epithets upon him.
“Mutha fucker, you’re gonna keep your damn hands to yourself now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
The man groaned, covered his bloodied head with his arms and balled himself up on the floor. He was white with a shock of blond hair and a light gray suit now soaking up his blood. Mae jumped off the table and found her shoes. She pried the trumpet from Sam’s fingers and threw it down.
“Sam!” she said and tried to take hold of his arm.
The rage reddened his face like a ripening bruise. The words, all nonsense now, still spilled from his mouth. The crowd pressed in on them.
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