Night and Day

by Rowan Speedwell

  “Hell, no,” you assure him. “But I can’t stay here. It’s not right.” You go to stand up, but you lose your balance and sit down hard.

  “Easy, baby,” Rick says. He drops the legs of the chair onto the floor and comes over to sit down beside you. “You’re pretty messed up, Coco says. Been too long without food.”

  You put your face in your hands. Your elbows feel like blades on your knees: sharp and mean. “It was either eat or pay rent,” you say wearily, “and so rent it was, until there wasn’t anything left. I tried to find work, but there’s nothing. I didn’t know what to do. One of the guys where I applied for work saw that I had voice training and gave me Harry’s address.” You look up then, and you know your expression is fierce, and so is your voice. “I can’t stay here,” you say. “I don’t take charity.”

  Rick isn’t offended. He snorts in amusement. “This ain’t charity, baby. This is an investment.”

  It’s your turn to snort. “Investment in what? Yeah, I have a voice, and I’ll work hard to entertain your guests. But unless you do professional management on the side and have an in with some record company, that’s all I’ll do for you. It’s not like you seem to even want to bring in more business, what with your ‘nobody but members and vetted guests of members’ baloney.”

  “And if we did want to manage your career?”

  “What career? Harry’s a manager, and he sent me to you. So I guess he doesn’t think I have much to offer him, anyway.”

  Rick drapes an arm over your shoulder. He means it comradely; he can’t know what it means for you to be touched like that, like a human being. It’s weight and warmth and comfort all at once. Something you’ve been missing far too long. “He knows you need experience, Nate. You could be the next what’s-his-name, the Crosby kid, but Detroit Conservatory or not, you don’t have the background in performance you need to get anywhere in this business. You’ll get that experience here. And it’ll be experience like anywhere else—just ’cause we’re a private club doesn’t mean we don’t have problems with drunks and hecklers and asses. We get the occasional fight here, even. And melodrama—God, do we get melodrama. You’ll see.”

  He gives a gentle squeeze to your shoulders and stands up. “In the meantime, Coco wants you to come down and see what you’re up against. You won’t perform tonight. Tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it. Tonight, though, you come down for dinner, you schmooze with the clientele, you get introduced around. If you feel like it—and only if you feel like it—you can sing a song or two with the band, just to get the sense of it.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear….” You’re starting to feel panicked. Too much, too soon.

  “God, you sound like a woman.” Rick is laughing. “There’s a monkey suit in the closet. It’s mine, so it’ll be a bit big on you, but if you come downstairs early enough, we’ll have one of the girls stitch up the pants hems. I’m a giraffe.” He points at a door you didn’t notice before. “That’s the bathroom. There’re towels and that sort of thing in there for you to use. I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut you’ll feel better after a shower.”

  “Oh, my God,” you say with feeling. “A shower…!”

  He laughs again, then bends down and gives you a quick kiss. His lips are warm and firm on yours, but gone too quickly; he’s halfway across the room before you even realize what’s happened. “Come down in an hour or so,” he calls as he leaves. “For dinner.”

  And he’s gone, and you’re left in the empty room, your mouth tingling from the kiss and the shower waiting. A shower. You feel the grin spreading on your face and get up, slowly this time, so you don’t go all dizzy again, and find your way into the bathroom. It’s beautiful: white and clean and equipped with fluffy white towels and soap and a razor. The water is hot and, despite the heat of the day, feels wonderful. You stand under the stream, scrubbing, until the water that sluices down your body isn’t brown anymore, and then you do it again, just for the luxury of it. You wash your hair twice for the same reason, and when you step out to shave, you’re wrapped in a towel so thick you’re dry almost before you get your face soaped up. The razor is sharp and cleans your whiskers so well you can’t even feel the stubble, and when you’re done, the face that stares back at you from the mirror is ten years younger. It’s thin, with cheekbones like knife blades, and the eyes are too large and too deep set, but it’s your face again. You run your hand over your smooth cheek and smile.

  The “monkey suit” is a tuxedo, with a black cummerbund and a pleated shirt. The shirt’s too big, but the cummerbund’s adjustable, so you fix it so they both lie neatly before shrugging into the jacket. Not much you can do about the fit of that. There are black silk socks and garters folded on top of a pair of black dress shoes, so you put those on too, and then the tuxedo trousers. The pants are long, so you turn up the cuffs until you meet the girl who’s supposed to fix them and slide your feet into the shoes. They fit. When you look at the man in the mirror over the dresser, you almost don’t recognize him. Then you run your hand through your hair in your habitual gesture, and the locks fall into place, and it’s you again. You need a haircut.

  DOWNSTAIRS THE place is no longer empty and cavernous. Instead, a half a dozen waiters in black and white scurry around, setting tables; another half-dozen waitresses are folding napkins that the waiters snatch up as soon as they are finished. Three bartenders are sorting through the bottles and glasses, and a trio is setting up on the dais, drums and a bass joining the piano. You had wondered if Rick ever stood straight; now you see he does. He’s tall and elegant as he gives directions to a pair of cigarette girls. He’s wearing white tie and tails; his dark hair is brushed back from his forehead and brilliantined, making him look like a film star, but a stray curl dips over his brow, giving him a rakish look. He’s beautiful as he laughs at something one of the girls says, and you know you’re in trouble. You know from bitter experience that just because a man kisses you, it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re queer. Some men are just ebullient. But Rick doesn’t strike you that way; he’s too laconic and deliberate.

  Corinna comes in, and she’s beautiful too, but where Rick is earth and fire, she’s all air and ice. Her gown is white and glitters faintly in the light; she’s so pale the white should wash her out, but it doesn’t; it only makes her look like a snow princess. The hair is up again, but more softly, and a spray of more of those diamonds is clipped to the side of her head. The men in the room all look at her as she enters; you can almost hear their sighs.

  She’s beautiful, but not your kind of beauty. Your eyes go again to Rick, in his black cutaway and white waistcoat, sleek and elegant and powerful, so different from when you first saw him this afternoon. Only to find that he is looking back at you, his dark eyes unreadable.

  Then he smiles, and the moment’s gone, and he’s walking across the club to the stairs you’ve just come down, holding out his hand for you to shake. “You look great,” he says. “The jacket’s a bit big, but only if you know to look.”

  “The pants need hemming,” you say. He doesn’t release your hand right away but stands smiling at you just a moment too long. Then he’s taking your elbow and steering you toward a table. He pushes you gently into a chair and gestures; a young woman in a waitress uniform comes over with a sewing kit in her hand. “This is Billie,” Rick says, “our costumer.”

  She snorts inelegantly and pulls out another chair, setting it between the two of you. “Here,” she says, patting the seat, “put your tootsies up here, and I’ll fix those hems.”

  You obey, and while she’s tacking up the hem, she’s talking a blue streak to Rick about her boyfriend, the weather, the state of the Union, her landlord, her landlord’s Pomeranian, and an argument overheard on the streetcar. After a while you tune her out; her voice is just background music to the hum and clatter of the club getting ready to open.

  “… think he’s asleep,” she says, and you open your eyes and look at her.

  “Who, me
?” you ask, and she and Rick laugh. You hadn’t even registered when she’d had you switch legs, but now you do remember it, vaguely, and she picks up her sewing kit and trots off toward what Rick informs you is the employee lounge.

  “Ready for introductions?” Then he pauses and asks, “You crazy about your name?”

  “Nathan?” you ask in puzzlement.

  “No. The Pederowski part.”

  “You want to change it to something like ‘Peters’?” That would be okay; you went by “Peters” for a while when you were trying to make it in New York.

  “Nah, nothing so banal. I’m thinking something like ‘Petroff,’ something a little more exotic. You got cheekbones sharp enough to slice, and those dark eyes. You look Russian.”

  “I probably am, somewhere back a ways,” you admit. “Polish, Lithuanian, Scottish… a regular Heinz 57, me.”

  “So Petroff or Pedrov or something? Coco?”

  She comes across the room, gliding.

  “What do you think about Nathan Petroff?”

  Oddly enough, she seems to know what he’s talking about. You get the feeling he’s like this all the time, and she’s just used to translating. “I like it,” she says decisively. “It suits him, and it’s more marketable than plain Nathan Pederowski. It won’t bother your family?”

  “Ma’am,” you say bitterly, “I haven’t got any family to be bothered.”

  “You do now,” she says matter-of-factly and glides away.

  You’re breathless with shock, staring after her. Her casual words are a blow, but not painful; it’s like a blast of cool air from a fan on a hot day. Then there’s a hand on your back and Rick’s voice in your ear. “It’ll be okay, Nate. Now, let’s get you some supper.”

  Over her shoulder, Corinna calls, “I had them set your meal in the office. Go over the details and have him sign the contract, Richard. We’re too busy out here.”

  “Oh, right,” Rick says, and he moves his hand down to the small of your back, not quite pushing, but guiding you back to the stairs and up to the first landing. There’s a door there marked Office, and he edges you in. It’s like Corinna, all white and polished and elegant, with silvery metal and white leather. The desk is silver metal and glass. Even the phone is white.

  But the food that sits on the glass table in the corner is steak and red boiled potatoes with parsley and fresh green beans, and the smell is overwhelming. You close your eyes a moment, just inhaling.

  Rick says, “God, will you stop that?”

  You blink. “I’m sorry,” you say, confused. “Stop what?”

  “Stop lusting like that. You look like you’re about to come.”

  You flush, embarrassed. “Oh, Jesus,” you swear. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean….”

  “It’s okay. No, well, it’s not okay, but it’s not your fault. Sorry.” For the first time since you’ve met him, Rick seems at a loss. He shakes his head and then says, “Siddown. Eat. I’ll talk, then when we’re done eating, we’ll sign the papers.”

  “What papers?”

  “The contract. It’s standard boilerplate for performers.” Rick gestures for you to sit down, and you do. The meals are already plated, with sprigs of parsley for decoration, a far cry from the unidentifiable gray mass you’d tried to eat at the soup kitchen. And it’s delicious—the steak rare, the beans crisp, and the potatoes buttery and just soft enough. “With the exception of a privacy clause. You have to agree not to talk about the club to anyone. All interviews, questions, inquiries, anything like that comes directly to me or Coco. For convenience, we also ask that you don’t take any job outside the club without clearing it with me or Coco.” He gives a quick grin as he takes a bite of steak. “We’d prefer that you don’t take any job outside the club, but some people have extra expenses.”

  “I’d thought to get a day job,” you admit, “for security, you know. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know that these gigs don’t always work out, and I want to find someplace, I mean, someplace nice to live, and two hours a night, even with tips, won’t cover that, and….”

  He reaches out with his fork and touches the tines gently to the back of your hand. You stop talking. “If what we’re paying you doesn’t pay for a nice apartment,” he says levelly, “then your standards of ‘nice’ are a helluva lot higher than mine. And as for the security—this is a contract, Nate. We’re asking you to commit to us for three years. At the end of that time, we expect you to move up in life, not down. You’ll leave here with a recording contract, a nice nest egg, or not at all.”

  “Why?” Your cry is heartfelt and confused. This can’t be right. This can’t be happening, not after everything you’ve been through. You’re too used to being on the bottom for this to even make sense. “What do you get out of this?”

  “Are you kidding? Baby, when you sing, you make magic.” He takes the fork from your hand and drags you to your feet. “Leave this a minute. We’ll come back when we’re done. Come on.” And he drags you out the door by the hand, down the stairs, and up onto the dais.

  The musicians look up curiously. “Remmy, Jake, Rob, this is Nate. He’s the singer. He’s gonna sing right now.” He looks into your eyes. “Nate, I need you to sing for these guys. For us. Before the customers come in, just us, right now. Can you do this?”

  You blink, dazed, and nod.

  “What do you want to sing?”

  The words come out of your mouth without you thinking them. “But Not for Me,” you say.

  Rick snorts and then says, “Okay. Guys, you know that one?”

  “Gershwin, right?” The guy at the piano plunks out a few notes. You nod. He starts playing the intro, and you start.

  The song is harsh and cynical, and it’s what you’ve thought and felt over and over again throughout the last years, as your life spiraled further and further south. This, this dream of a job, this beautiful man, this… hope. It hurts.

  You’re angry now, at Rick’s high-handedness, at this lovely dream of a possibility that can’t possibly be real, at this vision of what life could be like, and the venom comes out in your voice. When you sing about love songs and lucky stars and how they aren’t yours, you’re not just singing lyrics. You’re singing your life.

  Your gaze is basilisk-like, locked on Rick’s startled dark eyes, holding him paralyzed with your anger, your voice, your music.

  You’re vaguely aware that the others in the room have stopped moving too, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the beautiful man standing in front of you that you know you can’t have, no matter how kind he is; he’s so far out of your orbit he might as well be that film star he looks like. Or a real star, somewhere up in the night sky, scintillating and lovely and untouchable. Even if there were a chance he might want you, you know he’d grow bored and move on—you have nothing to offer such a bright being. And having once had him, to lose him would be unbearable.

  Anger diminished by realized loss, you try to make him understand the ending words of the song, make him understand you.

  When you finish, there’s silence in the room, and you’re as drained and exhausted as if you’d never had the lunch or the nap or the half-eaten steak dinner upstairs. The applause and whistles come as a surprise, and you look up, confused.

  Only Rick is still, unmoving, his expression shattered. You stare at him until your eyes get blurry, then you step off the dais, push past him, heading for the stairs and your suitcase, desperate to get out of your borrowed finery, your borrowed life, into your own filthy clothes, away from here, away from him.

  He catches you up halfway to the stairs, his fingers hard on your upper arm. He jerks you around, and his other hand grabs your other arm so that he’s holding you still. “Where are you going?” he snaps.

  You can’t answer. You don’t know. His face is dark with rage, flushed and angry and hurt. You didn’t mean to hurt him; you only wanted to push him away, to save yourself the grief you knew was coming.

  The tears spill over then, and you
curse yourself, and you curse him, and you curse God for making you like this, and for taking everything away from you so that you have nothing to offer this man, nothing. But the only thing that comes out of your mouth is his name.

  “Rick….”

  And then his mouth is on yours, and it’s not the friendly peck he’d given you earlier. No, this is a kiss, hot and hard and hungry, and hands dragging you into an embrace that’s less about affection or comfort and more about need. This is lust. This is heat. This is desire.

  And God save you, you reach for him with both hands, digging into his brilliantined hair, yanking him down and kissing him back just as hard as he kissed you.

  In front of a room full of witnesses. In front of his sister.

  Who, when you come up for breath, dazed and lost and aching, says, “Now that you’ve gotten that out of your systems, will you sign the damn contract so I can put you on the payroll?”

  And Rick throws his head back and bellows with laughter. “It’s not just me,” he tells you. “It’s her. And she gets what she wants.” He turns you around so that you’re facing the room, the waitstaff and the cigarette girls and the bartenders and the band. His body is solid and warm behind you. “Look at them,” he whispers in your ear.

  White flutters all around the room as people wipe their eyes or blow their noses. A waitress sobs into the breast of one of the waiters. Two other waitresses are weeping on each other’s shoulders. “One little song,” Rick murmurs. “One little song—not even a long one—and they’re yours. You made them cry. You made them feel. I haven’t seen magic like that since, since Orpheus.”

  You know who Orpheus is, but the classical reference confuses you. “I thought he played the lute,” you say.

  “The lyre.”

  “Right. He wasn’t a singer, was he?”

  He snorts. “Yeah, he was, but what’s the difference? He made magic. So do you. Zeus fuck, baby, why the hell hasn’t anyone seen that before?” His hands are on your shoulders, squeezing. “Now do you see why we want you? Why all it took was one song for us to know you belonged here?”