by Alex George
Nine hundred francs will not help him. Nine hundred francs will still get him killed. Guillaume curses silently. Of course the American wanted to haggle. He should have asked for two thousand and then allowed himself to be beaten down. He shakes his head. “The price is twelve hundred,” he says, hoping she won’t hear the fear in his voice.
Gertrude Stein looks at him with interest. After a moment she says, “Well, in that case you might as well show us what else you have.”
Guillaume doesn’t know whether to feel despair or relief.
For the next half hour the two women pick over what remains of Guillaume’s inglorious career. They are unmoved by his landscapes. They do not like his still lifes. His brief dalliance with collage leaves them cold.
They move toward the final canvas. They stand in front of it, their heads almost touching. There is a final shake of the head from Gertrude Stein, and the game is up.
Guillaume makes a decision.
“One moment, please.”
Gertrude Stein turns to him. “Yes?”
“I accept your offer,” he says miserably.
“My offer?”
He points to the painting on the wall. “It’s yours for nine hundred.”
“No, thank you,” she says.
Guillaume stares at her. “Pardon?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says. “I don’t want it anymore.”
“But you said you liked it!”
“Did I?” Gertrude Stein puts the fedora back on her head. “Come along, Alice.”
Alice moves past Guillaume and into the corridor, not looking him in the eye. He watches them go, numb. Just before the door closes behind them, Gertrude Stein steps back into the room. There is a new, hard glint in her eye. She points to the painting on the wall.
“I’ll give you six hundred for it,” she says.
Guillaume stares at her. “But you just offered me nine hundred!”
“An offer you rejected. This is my new offer.”
“But that’s daylight robbery!”
She doesn’t blink. “Do you accept or not?”
Six hundred francs. Exactly half of what he needs. He is bleeding, on the floor.
Gertrude Stein stands in his studio and calmly waits for him to agree to her terms.
She watches him.
She does not look away.
11
An American in Paris
THE AMERICAN OPENS THE DOOR HERSELF.
She is wearing nothing but a nightgown. Her body—that dark, lithe thing, the talk of the city—is sheathed in pale pink silk. Jean-Paul does his best not to stare at those famous breasts that make men dream of forbidden delights as they lie next to their unsuspecting wives. She stands in the doorway, well aware of the spectacle she is creating.
“Yes?” she says.
Jean-Paul coughs. “Mademoiselle Baker?”
She inclines her head, although it is not really a question that requires a response. Everyone in Paris knows who Josephine Baker is. “And you are?”
“Jean-Paul Maillard. From the newspaper.” He hands over his card.
She doesn’t look at it. “Do you speak English?” she asks. “I want someone who speaks English. My français is not so bien.”
“I do.”
“All right, then. Come on inside, why don’t you?” With that she turns on her heel and sashays down the corridor, her hips swinging in silent, sultry rhythm. Jean-Paul limps along the hallway in pursuit. She leads him into a sitting room bigger than his entire apartment. She sits down on a green velvet couch and unleashes a dazzling smile. It is early in the morning, but her hair is already fixed in its famous shiny helmet of tight black waves, and her fingernails are flawlessly painted silver. She is twenty-one years old. “I am trying to learn French,” she says. “I’ve been reading books of fairy tales.” She rolls her eyes. “Those French stories are beaucoup more strange than the ones my mother told me when I was growing up.”
Jean-Paul sits down and looks around him. Abandoned clothes are draped over every piece of furniture, and there are piles of unopened letters everywhere. A large bust of Louis XIV sits on the marble mantelpiece. Next to it there is a cage containing two elaborately plumed parakeets. They shuffle up and down their perch, squawking crossly at each other.
“What are we supposed to be talking about today?” asks Josephine Baker.
Jean-Paul takes out his notebook. “I want to know about your life in France,” he says. “How you came here, why you decided to stay.”
“J’adore la France.” She smiles. “And France adores me, too.”
“Why do you think that is?”
A shrug. “Because I’m different. Exotique.”
Jean-Paul nods. “Paris’s very own African princess.”
She looks at him. “You know I’ve never been to Africa, right?”
“But the city loves you all the same. Un Vent de Folie is sold out every night of the week. The Folies-Bergère has never been more popular. And it’s all because of you.”
“The show is fine, don’t you think? I like the costumes.”
“The costumes are spectacular,” agrees Jean-Paul politely, although he does not in fact believe this. You’ve seen one skirt made out of bananas, he thinks, and you’ve seen them all. “Where did you first learn to dance?”
“In St. Louis, Missouri. There were large riverboats that took passengers up and down the Mississippi—you know, day trips, just for fun—and every boat had a band. A lot of musicians came up the river from New Orleans, looking for work on those boats. I heard Johnny Dodds play, and Pops Foster.” She smiles. “There was so much dancing going on back then! New steps were being invented all the time, and I learned them all.” In another room, a telephone jangles. She jumps up and leaves the room in the softest rustle of silk. Jean-Paul looks at the parakeets and wonders what stories they could tell. Then he wonders if they speak English or French.
“Hello? Hello?” Her voice carries through from the other room. “What? I can’t—what? I don’t understand. I don’t—parlez-vous anglais? Hello?” There is a small pause, then the rattle of the telephone receiver being slammed back into its cradle. Then the owner of the most recognizable face in Paris returns, all smiles.
“Silly man didn’t speak a word of English,” she says. “I hate the telephone, don’t you? It’s a pain to hear a person’s voice and not see him! Although you probably use the telephone all the time, don’t you? Isn’t that what you journalists do?” Before Jean-Paul can answer, she continues, “I know a journalist. An American. He writes for a newspaper in Canada. He writes stories, too. His name is Ernest Hemingway. Perhaps you know him.”
“Of course. That is, I know of him. The Sun Also Rises is a very good book.”
“Ernest thinks so, too. I haven’t read it, though.” She winks. “It drives him crazy.”
“I’ve written a book,” says Jean-Paul, to his own surprise. He has never told anyone this before.
“How magnifique! What’s it about?”
He pauses. “It’s the story of a girl named Elodie.”
“That’s a pretty name,” says Josephine Baker.
“Yes,” agrees Jean-Paul sadly.
“What’s the title? I’ll go out and buy it this afternoon.”
“Oh, it’s not for sale.” He looks at his shoes. “I just wrote it for myself.”
“Well, if you ever want to get it published, perhaps Ernest can help. I’m sure he knows everyone in the book world. He’s terribly important these days, or so he tells me.” She grins. “A word or two in the right ear might make all the difference, don’t you think?”
“Didn’t he just get married again?” says Jean-Paul, who is eager to change the subject.
“Ah, yes, to the lovely Pauline.” Josephine Baker leans forward. “She doesn’t approve of me,” she whispers.
“Oh? Why not?”
“Ernest still likes to dance with me when he can. But he holds me a little too tight for Pa
uline’s taste.”
“I see.”
“It’s not so bad.” Her eyes twinkle. “He’s a very handsome man.” She sits back and considers him languidly. “How did you learn to speak such good English?”
“I met some American soldiers at the end of the war. I gave them cigarettes in exchange for English lessons. And I love American music.”
“You do?”
“Of course. I especially like George Gershwin. And Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong. I learned a lot of English, listening to those two.” He sings in a full-throated Satchmo rasp:
Mama I’m so sad and lonely
Just for you only
I’m blue
Josephine Baker howls in delight. “Well, that sure beats reading fairy tales! And learning the blues will help you more than handsome princes and evil stepmothers will ever help me.”
“But you never know when a handsome prince might come along. And it would be a shame not to know what to say, if he did.”
She smiles at him. “You sure know how to make a girl feel better.”
“Perhaps I should throw away my Louis Armstrong records and pick up the Brothers Grimm instead. Are there many evil stepmothers in America?”
“Oh baby, you have no idea!” She slaps her knees in pleasure. “You’ve never been to the States?”
“Never. But I’d love to go.”
“The women will go wild for your accent.”
He changes the subject again. “Do you miss America?”
She shakes her head. “They call my country the land of the free, but I was born poor and black, and there wasn’t much that was free about that.”
“Tell me,” says Jean-Paul.
“When I was six, we woke up before dawn every day and walked two miles to the Soulard Market. That was where farmers would go to sell their crops each morning. The stalls were overflowing with fruit and vegetables, but we couldn’t afford any of it. Instead I crawled beneath the tables and picked up food that had been dropped in the dirt. The stallholders saw me do it, but they paid me no mind. Sometimes they felt sorry for me and gave me a fresh apple or apricot. Other days, my brother and I went to the railway freight yards near where we lived. We picked up lumps of coal and sold them for a penny.” She breaks into that famous smile. “In France, though! I got sparkling rings as big as eggs, one-hundred-fifty-year-old earrings that once belonged to a duchess, six chairs from China, and a pair of shoes made out of gold.” She laughs. “Somebody gave me a car with seats that were upholstered in snakeskin. I don’t know how to drive, though, so now I’ve got a chauffeur with big gold buttons on his uniform.”
“France has been good to you,” says Jean-Paul.
“Far better than where I came from, that’s for sure.” She sits forward. “I came here on a ship called the Berengaria. I was part of the original company that put on La Revue nègre, you know. We had actors, musicians, dancers, all sorts. We were kind of a big deal, but the ship was American, and that meant we had to travel in steerage. They didn’t want black folks mingling with the first-class passengers. It was only when we got to Paris that we were treated just the same as everyone else.” She watches as Jean-Paul scribbles in his notebook. “Have you ever heard of Lloyd Waters?”
“No.”
“Lloyd is a friend of mine. When the war began, even before America got involved, he wanted to fight, so he joined the French Foreign Legion. He got wounded, and then he trained to become a fighter pilot. He was very brave. The French called him the Black Swallow of Death. But when America joined the war, he was transferred to a US military unit, and never flew again.”
“Why not?”
“Because America doesn’t trust its Negroes to be pilots. After the war was over the French awarded him fifteen medals. Fifteen! It’s no wonder he never went back to America.”
“He’s still here?”
“Of course! Why would he ever go back? In France he is treated with love and respect. These days he runs a club in Montmartre. Le Chat Blanc. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“I like to go there after the show at Les Folies. It’s a fine place to relax. They have good music.”
“Jazz?” guesses Jean-Paul.
She nods. “Sidney Bechet is playing there this week.”
“Bechet? Really?”
“Sure. He just got back into town. He’s been playing all over Europe. We’re good friends, me and Sidney. He writes to me from every city he visits.” She stands up and walks across the room to a small bureau. “Look.” She hands Jean-Paul a bundle of postcards. He flicks through them. Greece, Turkey, Sweden. “We performed together when I first arrived in France.”
Jean-Paul nods. “I saw that show. He played a peanut vendor. He pushed a cart on stage and then played the blues while a couple danced.”
She smiles, radiant at the memory. “You should come to Le Chat Blanc tonight. As my guest. I’ll introduce you to Lloyd Waters, and Sidney, too. I’ll invite Ernest as well. He likes to go to the boîtes to drink and watch the dancers. There’ll be lots of Americans for you to interview.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“You’ll all get along famously, I know. You could ask Ernest about your book, if you want. And you’ll hear Sidney play, of course.” She pauses. “He’s another one who would rather live in France. It’s funny, isn’t it? Look at us—me, Sidney, Lloyd, Ernest. All of us escaped America. But here you are, wanting to go the other way.”
“Everyone is running toward somewhere,” says Jean-Paul lightly.
“Except you’re not, are you? You’re still here.”
Jean-Paul inclines his head. “That’s true.”
“What’s stopping you? Why don’t you get on the next boat and leave for the States?”
“I have to stay here.”
“Why? What’s keeping you in Paris?”
“It’s a long story.”
Josephine Baker crosses her arms. “So tell me a story.”
And, to his own astonishment, he does.
12
Auxillac, 1913: Country Girl
CAMILLE GINESTE GREW UP in a tiny village in the Lozère. Her family’s large, low-ceilinged mill in the center of Auxillac was her whole world. Not many people came to the village, and not many people left, so when a visitor arrived, people paid attention.
A man came to stay at her cousins’ house. His name was Olivier Clermont. He lived in Paris, and was ten years older than her. She liked his open, honest face. He had a thick mustache which she thought gave him an air of raffish sophistication.
She asked about him.
Here is what she learned: he had grown up in La Canorgue, a village five miles away down a winding country road. When his mother died, he and his brothers moved to Paris to live with their elder sister. He owned a car, an elegant beast called a Unic, and he worked as a chauffeur in Paris, and Normandy, and Monaco, depending on the season. He was staying in the Lozère for the summer, while his clients were away from the capital on vacation.
There were some large family dinners, a festive picnic or two. Olivier Clermont had a fine tenor voice, and could sometimes be persuaded to sing. Camille liked the way he carried himself when he performed, the amused twinkle in his eye. She liked that he did not take himself too seriously. She wore her prettiest dress and hoped that he would introduce himself. Sometimes she felt his eyes resting on her, but he kept his distance. Then one afternoon he appeared at the door of the mill, his cap rolled up in his hand.
They went for long walks through the nearby meadows, and told each other stories about themselves. She liked to listen to his tales about life in Paris, and wished she had something more interesting to tell him in return. Auxillac was all that she knew.
Sometimes he arrived in his car, and they would drive to nowhere in particular. The air rushed past her so quickly as they sped down the narrow roads that she could hardly catch her breath.
At the end of the summer Olivier returned to Pa
ris. They wrote to each other. She enjoyed reading his news from the city, but didn’t give him much thought in the weeks between his letters. She held out no particular hope. She knew that in Paris the women were beautiful, and she was a simple country girl. She would never catch the eye of a man like him.
The next summer, Olivier Clermont returned to Auxillac. Most days he would appear at her parents’ front door.
At the end of July, one of Camille’s cousins married a cattle farmer from Mende. That evening a grand feast took place in the center of the village. Long tables were pushed together under the stars and were piled high with plates of food and jugs of wine. After dinner a band began to play, and the whole village danced late into the night.
Olivier found her sitting alone, watching the crowd. She smiled at him as he approached.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “You haven’t danced once!”
“It’s more fun to watch other people.” She pointed into the middle of the melee, where her father was spinning her mother under his arm. She was laughing, her head thrown back in delight.
“How do you know if you never try it yourself?” he asked.
She looked up at him, amused. “Monsieur Clermont,” she said, “are you asking me to dance?”
He shook his head. “No, Camille,” he said. His voice was thick. “I’m asking you to marry me.”
She was so surprised that she could not speak.
“Camille?” said Olivier. “Did you hear me?”
She nodded.
“And? What do you say?”
She had never traveled farther than twenty miles from the spot where she’d been born. Her life was here, with her parents. She had never imagined that a different future might be hers for the taking.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He took her hand and led her into the middle of the throng of dancing wedding guests.
Camille was twenty years old. As they twirled across the village square in time to the band, Olivier’s strong hands at her back, she wondered what on earth she had done.
* * *
In the spring of 1913, they were married in the small church in the center of the village. Her mother and father tried to hide their dismay, but Camille saw their red eyes and heard their whispers. They were sure that she would never return to Auxillac. No amount of her ardent promises could convince them otherwise.