Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  Kristof, however, had walked the seven blocks south and four blocks east to get here from his apartment. Immune to the bustle around him, he paused on the sidewalk and peered at the tower topping the Auditorium Building’s hotel. The immense granite building on the corner of Congress and Michigan Avenue had been home to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra since its founding two years ago. Squinting, he could make out tiny figures on the tower roof. Every day, more than a thousand visitors paid a quarter to ride the elevator up seventeen stories to the top for a view that reached to the lake and well beyond the city.

  At a break in traffic, Kristof darted to the other side of the street and strode beneath the Coliseum-type arches that marked the building’s theatre entrance.

  He’d missed this place.

  The saloon in the south lobby was empty this time of day. Kristof checked his pocket watch, confirming he had a full two hours before his lunch meeting, then crossed the saloon, passed the brass-barred box office windows, and strolled through the main lobby. Even without all the electric lights turned on, the mosaic tile floor shone in shades of white, black, and terra-cotta.

  With one more push through a set of double doors, he stood at the rear of the stunning four-thousand-seat auditorium. A series of huge arches spanned the ceiling at intervals, each one studded with electric lights. Smaller arches flanked the stage like gilded rainbows. Sunshine fell through the skylight above.

  Kristof marched down the crimson-carpeted aisle, passed the orchestra pit, and took the stage, which currently held an opera set for Carmen, complete with a faux stone fountain, pedestrian bridge, and painted backdrop of old Seville. There were practice rooms aplenty, but there was nothing like playing here, with perfect acoustics. The sound was heavenly when he played well, and painfully clear when he was in error. He welcomed the accountability. Just because the new season wouldn’t open for three months was no excuse for getting sloppy.

  A philosophy Gregor didn’t share.

  Kristof opened his case and rosined his bow. Despite what he’d said to Gregor about trading their father’s timepiece for information about Rose, he couldn’t deny that he felt its loss. It wouldn’t have happened if Gregor hadn’t gambled in the first place.

  But then again, they’d know less about Rose, too.

  Setting his jaw, Kristof lifted his instrument to his shoulder, tuned the A string, then intervals of perfect fifths between all four strings. He needed to concentrate on Mozart’s “Rondo alla Turca,” not the sins of his brother, or the mystery of Rose’s whereabouts, or the way Sylvie’s hand fit so perfectly into his own.

  Right. That was exactly what he needed to stop thinking about.

  Kristof sharpened his focus, and his fingers danced over the strings, each sixteenth note and grace note ringing out over the auditorium. Every slur was smooth, every staccato sharp. In his ears, he could hear the rest of the orchestra playing with him, elevating the music to new heights.

  After the third repeat, the melody changed to a steady rhythm of running sixteenth notes for nine solid lines, repeats included. He stumbled. Backed up a few measures and tried again. Drilled the line over and over, slowly at first, then with increasing speed until he played it a tempo, allegretto. Sweat dampening his forehead, he nailed the intonation. But with the smallest lapse in focus, he fumbled the fingering and lost the perfect rhythm when correcting it.

  A child’s error.

  What was wrong with him? What kind of first violinist was he?

  The distracted kind, obviously. The kind that needed more practice.

  Shame whispered in his ear: You’re an imposter.

  It wasn’t true. But his father had insisted upon it for years. It had taken Kristof too long to realize his father secretly felt the same way about himself. His compositions amounted to nothing. He lived a lifestyle he couldn’t afford, just to keep up the appearance of success. Any musical accomplishments in the Bartok family would have to be realized by the sons. Kristof and Gregor were both slaves to their father’s failure, always being driven to compensate.

  That was why Kristof worked as hard as he did. And why Gregor rebelled against it.

  Between Mozart’s rondo and drilling Beethoven’s violin concerto, two hours of practice flew by. He could have doubled the time, easily. But he would not keep his maestro waiting.

  Laying his instrument in its velvet-lined case, Kristof opened his watch once again and thought of the one so recently lost. The heirloom that skipped over the eldest son to show favor for the youngest, even beyond the grave. Honestly, he didn’t know why he was sad to see it go.

  After smoothing a hand over his hair, Kristof spotted Maestro Thomas already seated in the Grand Dining Room restaurant on the Auditorium’s tenth floor. They might have saved money by simply meeting in the maestro’s office downstairs, but from what Kristof could tell, Thomas was in no mood to be crossed. After pausing to allow a waiter to pass with a loaded tray, he wove between the tables and joined him.

  “I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Thomas said.

  Odd. Kristof was five minutes early. “How efficient.” He chuckled, sliding his violin case beneath the chair. “What am I having? I sincerely hope it isn’t humble pie.”

  The maestro’s ample mustache bent up with a grin. “Humble pie is an acquired taste. As it turns out, one I’ve never managed to acquire.” He patted his belly. “I’m sick with it.”

  That didn’t sound good. “Care to elaborate?” Kristof sipped the ice water in front of him and placed the goblet back on the ring it had already left on the tablecloth. Conversations among other diners were crystal clear, as well, thanks to the acoustics of the soaring arched ceiling.

  “It’s why you’re here, Kristof. The lawyers have concluded the negotiations over the Exposition Orchestra’s broken contract. The good news is that the Exposition Company has agreed to let the orchestra start twice-daily concerts again, at your original salary. The bad news is that it will only last two weeks. Then it’s over, for good.”

  Kristof nodded slowly. Two weeks’ more salary meant three hundred more dollars for Kristof, and another three hundred for Gregor. They’d be able to pay their rent without issue.

  “You’ll also be paid on concession. When folks purchase tickets at the gate, the Exposition Company keeps fifteen percent, and the musicians get the rest.” He winced. “Those numbers won’t add up to much, based on the audiences we’ve been drawing.”

  Pennies. They could literally be making pennies per performance. But at least they’d still be salaried.

  “We could change the program,” Kristof suggested. “If we play the more popular selections rather than the longer, wouldn’t that drive up sales?”

  “It might.” Thomas grabbed a slice of steaming bread from a linen-draped basket and slathered it with honeyed butter. “But would the masses pay to hear those songs when they can hear marching bands for free throughout the day?” He took a bite and chewed. “You’re set up for failure all over again. Bread?”

  Kristof declined. Absently, he pushed the salt and pepper shakers toward the center of the table where they belonged. “You mean we. You mean we’re set up . . . don’t you?”

  The maestro made a show of wiping his hands in front of him, allowing crumbs to drop from his fingers. “I’ve washed my hands of the entire affair, Kristof. They invited me to lead again, but I already resigned, and I won’t go back on that. I’m a man of my word, even when they don’t like it. That means you’re in charge. You’re conducting the Exposition Orchestra in my stead, for as long as the performances last.”

  Surprise snatched Kristof’s speech.

  The maestro leaned toward him. “I thought I was getting a stowaway in you when your brother convinced me to take you on in New York. He was the prized musician, I thought. Turns out you’re the Bartok I rely on.”

  Cutlery clinked on china throughout the dining room while Kristof waited for the words to make sense. “Did you say Gregor convinced you to hire me o
n to the New York Philharmonic?”

  Thomas sat back. “I thought you knew. His audition was spectacular. Yours was routine. But he refused to join unless I hired you, too. It was the best hire I made.”

  At the next table, a woman laughed in a cascading glissando. A ray of light shattered on the cut-glass pitcher of water, casting quivering rainbows all over the table. Kristof did not trust himself to frame a reply.

  “Do you hear what I’m saying, Kristof? You discipline yourself more than I ever could. Your growth as a musician has outpaced Gregor’s. He’s no more sensational now than when I first met the both of you ten years ago. You demand perfection from yourself. Now is your chance to demand it from everyone else, too.”

  An hour ago, Kristof could barely manage his own playing. And now, suddenly, he was to manage one hundred fifty others besides. He took another drink of water. “When do we resume?”

  “Day after next.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 22, 1893

  Beth was a force to be reckoned with. And just now, Sylvie was grateful to have her by her side.

  After Sylvie had led the Readers Club at Hull House last night, she’d paid her friend a visit. “I keep thinking back to what we learned from the Hungarians who work at the Orpheum on the Midway,” she’d said. “If they wanted their serving girls to speak Hungarian, especially after two Chicago girls had already been fired, Varga might have had a different purpose in mind for Rose from the beginning. Maybe he was working with someone else. . . .”

  “The brothels.” Beth had named Sylvie’s worst fear.

  Five days had passed since she’d argued with Kristof about visiting them, but now she could think of nothing else.

  “Rose wrote that she’s fine now,” Sylvie had mentioned, “but she could have been coerced into writing that to throw us off the hunt.”

  “Absolutely she could have been forced. We should see for ourselves. I’ll go with you.”

  With her entire being, Sylvie wanted to believe that Rose was simply a successfully launched young woman, as Jozefa had said. If that were the case, Sylvie would find a way to adjust. But neither could she let go too easily. It would cost her nothing to knock on doors on South Clark, Custom House, and Dearborn Streets.

  So this evening, after she and Tessa had closed the bookshop, Sylvie and Beth took to the most notorious streets in the city, armed with determination, caution, and an extra dose of courage. It was hard to believe the Levee district’s northern border of Harrison Street was a mere eight blocks due south of Corner Books & More.

  Broad sidewalks accommodated the busy, albeit disreputable, neighborhood. Long rows of buildings lined the street with so few spaces between them that any that existed drew notice, like dark gaps where missing teeth had been. Cable cars trundled north on South Clark Street, from the direction of the stockyards toward downtown.

  The street cleaners performed their duties well enough, she supposed, but the very air here was unclean. The trains entering and leaving the station a block away pumped out sooty clouds. Sylvie’s skin filmed with humidity mingled with the odor of cheap perfumes and cheap whiskey from nearby saloons.

  “Apples! Oranges!” a woman cried. “Get your apples here! Two for a penny!” They smelled as though they might better be used for making cider.

  Heading north on South Clark, Sylvie paused in front of the Pacific Garden Mission. Inside, a sea of chairs filled the great hall—five hundred, she guessed, perhaps more. She had heard the mission took in upwards of six hundred homeless every evening, and that after they listened to a sermon, they were permitted to sleep in the chairs overnight. Hand-painted Bible verses scrolled over the walls above a potbellied stove. Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

  Turning to Beth, Sylvie asked, “Have you been here before?” Telegraph poles bristled overhead, their cables sagging against the sky.

  Beth shook her head with a jerking motion. “But I read about it in one of those guidebooks you sell, Chicago by Day and Night. Surely you know what it says.”

  She did. There was an entire chapter on Cheyenne, which began with, “This is an excellent neighborhood to let alone, however curious you may be.” It ended by calling it the Whitechapel of Chicago, a sensational reference to the area of London where Jack the Ripper killed his prey. The comparison was totally uncalled for, she was sure. Still, Sylvie shuddered at the sight of a shadowed alley, where unsavory characters were said to lie in wait, ready to steal, or kill, or worse.

  A band of policemen, billy clubs in hand, pushed between pedestrians, street vendors, and hacks.

  “Don’t worry, I’m armed. With an umbrella.” Beth lowered it from her shoulder and closed it, transforming it into a weapon as she stabbed an invisible foe. Beneath her hat, her russet hair curled even tighter in the damp air, springing about her face.

  “And what do I have?” Sylvie asked with a chuckle.

  “Me.” The word burst from Beth with enough force to pull the cords of her neck tight.

  Dear Beth. She was fierce because she was afraid. When they were girls together, Beth used to sing to herself when she was anxious, and whistle against the dark. Once they had hidden themselves in a closet, planning to jump out and surprise Beth’s older brother. Instead, he had locked them inside for what felt like hours to teach them a lesson. Sylvie had told stories to fight the fear, all of them with happy endings. Lost children found. Maidens who married. An ugly duckling that became a swan. Beth just hugged her knees and rocked, a faltering tune on her lips.

  She didn’t sing anymore. She shouted and marched and, apparently, wielded umbrellas. Beth shielded herself with a demeanor that tended toward the hard and unyielding. But Sylvie still saw the woman behind it, and the little girl still fighting the dark.

  “Come on.” Sylvie locked elbows with her oldest friend, and together they left the safe haven of the Pacific Garden Mission. Across the street were four brothels in adjoining row houses. Lace curtains framed empty windows. “We’ll begin with Cora Clark’s.” She read the name from the sign out front.

  “Cora Clark, here we come!” Beth said a little too loudly, then snorted with nervous laughter.

  They crossed the road and climbed the steps. Sylvie knocked.

  A few moments later, a shapely woman in a Japanese dressing gown answered. She surveyed Sylvie’s straw boater hat, pleated shirtwaist, and navy skirt. “If you’re selling religion, I’m not buying,” she said.

  “What? Oh,” Sylvie stammered. “We’re not from the Mission, if that’s what you mean. I’m trying to find a young woman named Rozalia Dabrowski. I wondered if she might be in your employ.” She showed the photograph that now went everywhere with her.

  “Why? What’s it to you?”

  Beth pulled herself up tall. “Would you mind answering the question, ma’am? We just want to know if she works here.”

  The woman leaned a hip against the doorframe. “You two dames seem fun. I’d kind of like to pull your chain, but I haven’t got the time. So I’ll play nice and tell you she probably doesn’t.”

  “Don’t you know the names of the girls you work with?” Sylvie asked.

  “Sure I do. Angel. Darling. Sweetheart. Dollface. They forsake their given names as soon as they arrive. So no, I don’t know any Rozalia. But we haven’t hired on any new help in the last two weeks, so . . . does that answer your question?”

  Sylvie exhaled. “It does. Thank you for your time.” She nodded at Beth and turned to go.

  The next establishment was Miss Lulu’s, who also confirmed that Rose wasn’t there.

  And so it went, down the block, at Daisy Plant’s, Kitty Plant’s, and Candy Mollie Jones’s. When they reached the famous Carrie Watson’s brownstone house, Sylvie tried a different approach.

  “She has blond hair, blue eyes, and she’s a little shorter than me. And thinner,” she added, holding up the sepia-toned image once again
. “She’s Polish but has no accent. She speaks English as well as I do.”

  “Lady,” said a buxom woman who called herself Ida, “the girls we hire don’t much resemble their old birthday photos, if you get my meaning. But we have several girls that fit your description.”

  “This one would have arrived in the last week or so. She would have arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back, and maybe her violin. But by Thursday morning, she would have had all her clothes again. Possibly, also, her cat.”

  The woman’s red lips tipped with amusement. “Our girls don’t keep pets.”

  “What about their own clothes?” Beth asked.

  Long earrings sparkled against rouged cheeks. “I’m going to level with you two. Save you a little time and sweat. If this girl you’re looking for has all her own clothes with her, I guarantee you she isn’t here. She isn’t in any house like ours in Cheyenne, nor anywhere else in the city, nor outside of it neither. Guaranteed.”

  A wave of relief rolled over Sylvie. “But how can you be sure? That she’s not in this line of work at all?”

  “You see what I’m wearing?” Ida opened her robe, revealing a low-cut, bright silk gown that left little to the imagination. She laughed at their shock and tied her robe closed again. Then her expression grew serious. “Listen. The way of the business is this. When a girl comes here, she loses everything she had before. Her name, her family, her friends, and her clothes. No madam would ever let her keep them. All she has is ‘work attire,’ so to speak. Do you know why? It’s so that if she changes her mind about her life choice, decides to leave . . . well, she won’t. She’s not likely to run out into the street dressed like this, now, is she? Wardrobes like ours have a way of marking us for who we are. Girls who repent of this lifestyle are too humiliated to escape it, dressed like this. Who would give us a helping hand, knowing we’ve already been ruined?”

  The Scarlet Letter flashed through Sylvie’s mind, the character Hester Prynne forever marked and judged for previous sins. She swallowed a growing knot in her throat. She was overwhelmingly grateful to put fears of Rose’s involvement in this to rest. But the thought of other girls trapped here opened an ache inside her.