by Talbot Mundy
Jacqueline did “sabe.” Consuelo had been working for a Chinaman! She blushed up to her ears, and was more glad than ever that she had insisted on relieving her. She would finish the job now to the bitter end!
“Bring that pail back here!” she commanded.
The Chinaman did not even move — did not frown — did not smile — just looked at her.
“No can do,” he answered her in his own good time. “You young nice girlee. This old woman job. Consuelo can do — dollar — dollar-fifty — catchee little, not much. Consuelo getting no bime-by. All finish up. Dead soon. You plenty bime-by. You plitee girlee-catchee lich man. Catchee Consuelo — make sclub. You sabe?”
He was impregnable, entrenched in a philosophy totally foreign to Jacqueline’s comprehension. She did not know how to answer him. But there were elements of kindness in his creed. He was willing to teach; to advise.
“You catchee lich man,” he insisted. “Lamon no good. Lamon no good Portugee, catchee little money one time — bime-by all gone. You sabe? All same Consuelo then, you sclubee floor — one dollar — dollar-fifty. Lamon catchee ‘nother damfool girlee. This house cheap place. You no belong cheap place. You belong big hotel. Plenty lich men come. Lich man like plitee girlee. Soft for you. You sabe?”
Jacqueline’s frown was going sixteen to the dozen, and her blue eyes were rounded with astonishment. Dimly she did understand what he meant, but only dimly. Yet his manner was not impudent; and she realized it would not be the slightest use to be angry with him. It was like being talked to by an automaton.
“You no walkee stleet,” he went on. “Catchee bum — catchee cop — catchee Clistian Sociation. No good. Catchee lich man, big hotel. Can do. Me fix it. Mollow — nex’ day — me makee ‘langement. You lun away from here dam-quick. Catchee plenty lich man, big hotel. You sabe?”
Jacqueline understood enough — enough, at all events to know she wanted no more of his advice. She turned away from him and hurried through the green baize door, glancing back over her shoulder only once as the door swung shut. He was mopping the floor dry, thrusting the pole back and forth mechanically in the gaslight, with exactly the same expression on his face that was there when she first looked up at him.
If he was thinking of her, or of anything in the world except to get that floor dry, he gave no sign of it. Down at the far end of that long passage, he looked like the automatic demon of the underworld, sure of the ultimate victory of evil, and indifferent as to how long any process took. Yet not unkind. He was the voice of the subcellar and the gas-jet.
CHAPTER 25.
“Who’s that girl?”
“Papa” Pantopoulos was one hundred percent American. He could prove it. He had papers. He was no impractical theorist, but did in San Francisco as the San Franciscan does — bought protection regularly at the going rate, and supplied the best brands of bootleg to patrons who knew the ropes. With the aid of dinginess, Levantine waiters, tomato ketchup and spaghetti he had slowly built up a reputation for Bohemian excellence, and now with fresh paint, new tablecloths and a Czechoslovakian orchestra of five pieces he was bidding for a more expensive clientele.
Bidding high, too. He had his advertising matter written by a Hebrew who had failed at Hollywood, and he was all ready to rush into print when Ramon informed him on a Sunday afternoon that La Conchita would be his partner instead of Cervanez and they would begin dancing for him the next evening, instead of a week later as expected.
He had a gorgeous poster made in three colors — painted by hand by the same gentleman who drew the duchesses in underwear for the department-store advertisements; and he himself personally nailed it up, under the new glass portico that he had bought at a bargain from an up-town failed competitor.
“El Toro,” that had been a dive — a joint — a café by courtesy — was now a restaurant. And Papa Pantopoulos, even with his bank-account down somewhere near the zero mark in consequence of advertising space rates, was no small sport. Every newspaper editor in San Francisco, all the sporting writers, the dramatic and musical critics, and some of the managers of leading hotels received two free tickets for dinners on the opening night, in a pink envelope marked “Personal — Important — Rush!” The tickets had the menu printed on the back, and on the face was a portrait of “La Conchita” done in black and gold and green in memory, by an artist who had heard a good description of her from Papa himself. The black mask was the most nearly accurate part of the picture; the rest of it was mainly twirling legs and suggestiveness.
But Jacqueline knew nothing about any of that. She had been told that important people would be present; Papa Pantopoulos bragged to her about it after she and Ramon rehearsed that Sunday afternoon. But Ramon told her afterward the important people would all send substitutes, if they did anything at all, and that Papa was a fool for his pains.
“It is our dancing, Senorita, that will produce the results, not his vile cooking. We will dance until all San Francisco clamors at his door! And then we will accept a real engagement elsewhere and the crowd will follow us!”
Jacqueline thought that an ungrateful — almost an immoral proposition; but she was too excited to dare to argue, knowing very well she would get nervous if she did. It had occurred to her that Ramon, Cervanez, Pepita, Consuelo, and even the adorable monkey were all dependent on her success; and Cervanez rubbed that in unfeelingly on the way back to the boarding-house.
Consuelo was already so nervous that there was no comfort to be had from her. Jacqueline went upstairs and spent the rest of the afternoon with Pepita and the monkey, playing games she had almost forgotten and singing the old nursery songs that used to irritate Donna Isabella “because they are foolish, and the niggers sing them, Jacqueline.” She could imitate a darky perfectly, and Pepita so enjoyed the fun that Jacqueline forgot all about her own troubles.
But they were all heaped on her once more at the evening meal. The fat man, who seemed to be a fixture in the upstairs hall-room and to know everybody’s business, lectured her on stage fright — warned her not to eat too much — advised her to drink brandy and champagne before going on — and above all, not to say her prayers.
“The stage an’ the angels ain’t on speaking terms,” he assured her. “I’ve known young girls who prayed for hours before their first appearance — went to mass an’ all that — flopped, every darn one of ’em. The most successful young one I recall was a girl named Juanita — that was her stage name anyway. I tried to kiss her, and she got so mad-angry you couldn’t hold her. Sore? Believe me! She was boiling! When her turn came she went on like a whirlwind — sang an’ danced ’em out o’ their seats, and they called her back a dozen times. Made her! It sure did. She was a headliner from that minute — until she tripped on an untied lace one night an’ went to hospital. Bu’sted her hip, or something — complications — doctors did the rest — died under chloroform, without ever thinking o’ thanking me for having tried to kiss her. Would it make you angry if I kissed you — honey?” he asked, imitating Consuelo’s accent and wiping cabbage from his lips with a paper napkin.
He would have made the attempt, but for Ramon’s suggestive action with a table-knife. Cervanez, on the horns of anxiety, tried to turn the conversation into safer channels, but the fat man had started the ball rolling and nearly everybody at the table followed suit with tales of stage-fright and disaster. Then some one with his mouth full blurted out that Papa Pantopoulos was running El Toro on a shoestring.
“Give him one week. If your turn don’t crowd the place he’s done for. Those Greeks all cut each other’s throats for a living. There’s three Greeks he owes bills to for beef an’ supplies, an’ they’ll take the joint over if he’s a day late with the money. Has he paid you in advance Ramon? Oh, you poor boob! You’ve a fat chance!”
That sent Cervanez into hysterics. The meal broke up to the shrilling of her fear, all hurled at Jacqueline.
“We find her — we be good to her — Ramon squander money on her — an’
now we starve! You all hear what he say — now we starve!”
They carried her upstairs kicking; but she recovered soon enough to invade Jacqueline’s room while she was dressing and to chase out Pepita.
“That child is jinx, I tell you! We bring her all the way from Brazil, an’ all she do is cost us money! Eat — she eat all the time! Work? Never! When it is not one excuse it is the other — truant officers — police — the doctors! She is only good for play with monkey — I get rid of her! Scat — you little nuisance!”
That helped decide the night’s fate for Jacqueline. She had one more to defend and protect. Consuelo first, and now little Pepita. She would do or die, for the sake of Pepita! She would make a reputation as a dancer, and earn money, in order to be able to take that child away from such surroundings. The thought aroused all her courage. She grew angry — even as the fat man recommended — and ordered Cervanez out of the room — was obeyed too. Cervanez gasped at her, and went. Consuelo knelt before the washed-out image of the Virgin Mary in the corner by the end of the bed, and snuffled as she prayed; but Jacqueline dressed herself as if she were putting on armor — tied on the mask like a visor behind which she would do battle with the world — and announced herself ready.
Consuelo bade her kneel and say her prayers. “You’ll need all the help you can get tonight, honey darling!”
“No!”
“Conchita!”
“I’ve done no wrong. I’m going to do my best. If Heaven won’t help me tonight without my asking, I’ll never pray again, Consuelo?”
She was adamant. The blue eyes blazed through the holes in the mask, and her lips were set hard beneath it. “Go and tell Ramon I am ready.”
Ramon came dressed as a toreador in white and tinsel, looking handsomer than Satan, fresh from a curtain-lecture by Cervanez and carrying off his irritation under a veneer of swagger. He stumbled over a big teddy-bear that Pepita had left on the floor, and kicked it under the bed with a brimstone oath in Portuguese before he offered his arm to Jacqueline. He could not have done better. That act brought the very lees of her anger to the surface. Jacqueline refused his arm.
“Bring that back here, Ramon!”
“Senorita!”
“Do you hear me?”
“The senorita jests!”
“Oh, very well. Dance alone, then! Consuelo, don’t you dare to do it for him!”
Ramon studied her a moment; but Jacqueline stood stock-still waiting for him to obey or take the consequences.
“Temperament!” he muttered. “Oh, well!”
Placing a towel on the floor he knelt on it and reached under the bed, recovering the toy and bringing it to her with an attempt at half-humorous chivalry, expecting at least a smile in return. But instead she flashed him a look of indignation, took the teddy-bear, and ran upstairs to return it to Pepita, lingering so long up there to exchange good nights that Ramon bit his fingernails and swore. Consuelo had to go at last and bring her down.
Then, on the way to the back entrance of El Toro, Cervanez indulged herself anew in the luxury of high-pitched railing against providence.
“We walk! My God, we walk like street-women! Not even a cab! We must drag ourselves through dirt like the tramps to the back door of a bum show — and all because you throw our money away, Ramon! Does that Greek not know enough to send a taxi for us?”
“But three blocks — three or four blocks — what is that?” asked Ramon.
“My dignity — is that nothing?” she retorted. “In Rio de Janeiro we would have a voiture if we crossed the street! You bring us to the devil, Ramon! Down — down — down you bring us. Three hundred dollars for that dress that Conchita is wearing! And me — I walk!”
Jacqueline had no pity to waste on Cervanez that night. She had only scorn for ill-breeding and selfishness.
“Be still,” she commanded. “You shall have your money back, and the walk will do you good.”
“Money back? I like to see it! I kiss myself good-by to it when Ramon buy you that dress!” Cervanez retorted.
So between the boarding-house and the stage-door Jacqueline was given no chance to recover her temper. She was angrier than she had ever been in all her life. When Ramon suggested she should remove her gold chain and locket before dancing, because it did not go with the dress, she could hardly keep herself from slapping him. Desmio’s last present to her was the only thing she was wearing that was her very own.
“You are impertinent!” She answered. “Why are we waiting? Why don’t we begin?”
The place had been a theater at one time, and the stage extended all across one end of what was now the restaurant. Papa Pantopoulos had given his last hostage to bankruptcy by ordering in potted palms and a gorgeous back-drop recommended by the electrician — a youth with the world before him, and an eye for Jacqueline, intent on making miracles to satisfy her.
There was a clatter of knives and forks from beyond the curtain, but not much laughter, and much less noise of conversation than there should have been. Papa Pantopoulos came hurrying behind the scenes, hot, napkin under arm, and almost frantic with anxiety.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “It drags. It goes like a funeral!”
“Goin’ to look like one, too, without another spotlight! Don’t say I didn’t tell you!” warned the electrician.
“I spent too much!” Pantopoulos answered. “I close this place tomorrow! Oh, my God! Miss—” (He hurried over to where Jacqueline stood, and began to paw her hands in his anxiety.) “ — do me the little favor, please! Begin! My place is full — there is not a seat left — but the black murderer in the kitchen put too much tomato in the soup, and unless you make them all forget it I am ruined! Don’t wait until nine o’clock. Begin now!”
Jacqueline caught Ramon’s eye. Not a word passed. She commanded him with a gesture. Pantopoulos hurried out to instruct the orchestra. Consuelo sat down on a wobbly chair in the flies and began fanning herself with a handkerchief. Cervanez struck a gong and hauled up the curtain hand-over-hand. The clatter of plates and forks increased. The stage became a sudden stunning sea of light. “Ready?” asked Ramon. She hardly waited for him.
For a moment the hum of conversation rose — then dwindled, gradually. Some one said “Bravo!” and two or three people clapped. Jacqueline grew conscious of scores of eyes all focused on her — dimly saw the heads of the orchestra below the stage, and beyond them a wilderness of faces and white tables — hated every detail of it all — and danced. — Danced like the devil — stamped her heel into the stage and outdanced Ramon — made him sweat and change and improvise to keep up with her — tossed him scornful glances over-shoulder through the mask, laughed as she thought of sudden new expedients to bewilder him — closed with him to dance the tango steps that were his special pride, and outdanced him again until he was nothing more than an accompaniment to her pas seul. She hated him, the audience, and all the world — cared for nothing but to pay her debt, and give the brutes their money’s worth! And the audience — for whom she cared nothing — nothing! — rose in their seats to get a better view, clapping so thunderously when she finished to the last drumming chords of the cymbalum that Cervanez had to raise the curtain five times, while Jacqueline stood stock-still in mid-stage, head erect, not even nodding thanks for the applause — still furious.
“Conchita, we are famous!”
Ramon took her hand to lead her to the wings. Cervanez came running to put an arm around her. She snatched away her hand — ignored them both. Papa Pantopoulos came hurrying behind, perspiring and excited, to beam with gratitude; she turned her back on him. Consuelo threw a wrap over her shoulders, and she found a few words at last.
“We will get out of debt now, Consuelo! and you won’t scrub any more!”
Ramon sulked. Cervanez sang to a new tune, setting a chair for her, standing by to flatter and rearrange stray wisps of hair that had gone adrift in the violence of dancing.
“You are marvelous, Conchita, marvelous! We
make a fortune! How you dance like that? What make you inspiration?”
Inspiration came that instant. Jacqueline looked over her shoulder, her hand in Consuelo’s lap. “Pepita!” she answered. “I’m dancing for her! If you’re ever cruel to that child again, that will be the last time I will dance for you!”
“Oh, Pepita! The little one, eh? Hah! So she pay dividend at last!”
More inspiration! That remark disgusted Jacqueline more than if she had seen Pepita being slapped. She snatched her hand away from Consuelo, unable to endure even a true friend’s petting, she was so furious. If she must dance — and she would dance, to pay the debt, and free herself, and Consuelo, and Pepita — she would give her whole attention to that. There was nothing to talk about — nothing! If she must make of herself a public spectacle, it should be no poor one — nothing to regret! Only something to hate, and hate, and hate — and triumph over!
How glad she was that Sherry did not even know her right name, and that Desmio had not lived to see her earn her living on a tawdry stage! This was that man Wahl’s doing. In imagination she could see Wahl’s face grinning at her — the very devil’s own, delighting in her downfall! She wished he were there to see her now, and yet she knew she would run from him if he were there! She would like to prove to him that he could not destroy her with his lies; and yet she knew he could! She knew that if Wahl discovered her, and told who she was, and wrote more lies about her in the papers, she would run — run — run — perhaps even kill herself.
And in a corner of the restaurant, at a table under the balcony, Clinton Wahl sat devouring free guinea-chicken and asparagus vis-à-vis to a woman who was on much better than nodding terms with most of the men around her. Mansfield senior had received the two free tickets in pink envelopes, and had dispensed them as patronage in the usual way, to whoever had the day off and cared to ask. It amused Wahl to take a woman to a dinner that cost him nothing. He had not the remotest intention of “writing up” the El Toro restaurant or its proprietor, but Papa Pantopoulos fussed over him, and supplied him with surreptitious cocktails in coffee cups, expecting in return at least a quarter of a column on an inside page.