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the floor under the window. He could trust no one—not even
his own flesh and blood.
He looked at the pair of Ferragamo shoes Belle bought
yesterday and remembered how she insisted that he let her
purchase a pair of Gucci boots for him. He had refused. He
did not need Belle’s money; he had money, for now. He did
not need or want her sympathy. She had more to lose if her
ancestry was revealed than he did. What he wanted from Bel e
was to know how she made her way to this grand life. He would
leverage both of their lies to achieve the same results or better.
When Lance returned to the bedroom, Belle was just
waking up.
“Come back to bed, hold me. Let’s talk, we need to talk,”
she said. Lance climbed back into the still warm bed and took
her his arms, her back to his chest, his head resting atop her
soft mussed hair.
“I thought all night about what you told me yesterday,” he
said after several minutes of silence.
“I told you things that I tell no one, but you and me, we
are two of a kind, you needed to know.” Belle’s voice sounded
small, almost a whisper. She turned to face him, “You must
never tell anyone that I am passing. People wonder, but let
them. I tell everyone that my ancestry is Portuguese; if you
are anything other than colored you are acceptable.” A tear
formed in the corner of Belle’s eye and she turned away from
him before it fell.
“How long have you been—Portuguese?”
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“Since I was sixteen.”
“What about your family? Did they pass for white as wel ?”
“I had to leave my family,” Belle said after a few moments,
“if I wanted to be free.” Being free was something Lance never
had to think about, as long as he stayed white he never would.
“I’ve always been white,” he said. “At least I thought I was,
until my father told my mother and me, along with the rest of
Richmond, that he had been passing for twenty years. Then
he died and left us to deal with the news. That’s why we left
Richmond.”
“I know,” Bel e said. “Charlotte told me everything. No one
will ever suspect that you are a Negro. Your mother is white,
and so is your grandmother, they will be your insurance, no
one will doubt you. Unless of course—”
“I’ve already been warned, several times. I could father a
child that might reveal my ancestry.”
“You’re young,” Belle said, facing him again. “You have
physical needs. Satisfy yourself with women who have as much
to lose from a pregnancy as you do. Women who already have
children or marriages and lives they want to preserve. Femmes
d’une certaine age, like me, women who have no interest in
children. We know what to do to ensure there will not be
conception and we know what to do if there is. So you know,
London is the place to go to get things like that taken care of.”
Belle turned away from him to face the window and was quiet
for several minutes, then she turned to stroke his face. “When
there is chemistry, as there is between us, that is always the
best of all worlds.” Lance kissed her.
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“You must not tell Charlotte that you know about the
bargain. If she finds out you know, I’m afraid she will try to
destroy me. I already have too many people eager to do that.”
“She won’t know from me,” Lance said.
“That woman frightens me,” Belle said.
“Me too.” And they both laughed.
They lay quiet in each other’s arms for a while then Belle
said, “You’ll need someone to confide in—a friend like Gertrude
is to me. Someone who knows your truth and will keep it safe
for life. I can be that person for a time but you will eventually
have to share this secret with someone else,” she said, for the
first time acknowledging the difference in their ages. “People
like you and me? We belong to no tribe—so we must be our
own best friends. We have no family, no history, unlike art,
we have no provenance.”
Lance remembered telling his mother the same thing on
their way to Europe.
“Passing does not make us white,” Belle continued. “If we
are ever discovered we lose everything. Whites will hate us for
the deception and the advantages that we were never supposed
to have. Colored people hate us for the very same reasons. That
is how it is for me, and that is how it will be for you.”
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• 14 •
Paris to New York 1933 - 1938
(I)
“It feels good to have the sun on my face,” Maggie
said, tilting her head back to catch the last rays of the
late fall afternoon as the family dined at the Café de
la Paix. “When you’re away, travelling, we take most of our meals in. It is wonderful to be out of the apartment.”
“Not too much, Margaret,” Charlotte said as she reached
over and tapped the back of her daughter’s head encouraging
Maggie to shade her face under her wide brimmed hat. “You
don’t want to darken your skin,” she cautioned.
“I’m the one with the problem, Charlotte,” Lance said. “My
mother is a white woman. Being colored isn’t contagious, is it?”
“Don’t be crass,” Charlotte snapped, looking around. “You
never know who is listening.”
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Maggie put her hand on her son’s before he could respond,
“Please, don’t start you two. Can’t we just enjoy our time
together? We’re all safe now, aren’t we?” she said, looking to
her mother and her son for confirmation.
As Maggie and Charlotte continued their meal, Lance
ordered another glass of wine from the white aproned waiter
and returned to watching the pedestrians stroll and the motor
traffic jockey for position along the grand Place de l’Opéra.
“Paris, the city that gave me purpose,” Lance said, breaking
the silence at the table.
“Some purpose,” Charlotte said, resentful of Lance’s absence
while refusing to accept that her bargain with Belle Greene
precipitated the changes in her grandson.
“Lance is just doing what young people do,” Maggie said.
“And the not so young,” Charlotte added.
“You don’t have any more travel planned, do you? Why
don’t you entertain your friends at home? Do you remember the
parties we had in Richmond? It would be nice to entertain like
that again,” Maggie said. “I know the apartment will never be
like our home in Richmond but it will have to do until we can
go home. I’m beginning to get out more, explore, look for ways
to make Paris home for now. Oh! Did I tell you, I looked for a
church near the apartment? I went to a couple of services but
I could not understand a word they were saying—the service
was not like back home. It was in French—I had hoped they
spoke English.
Everything here is so foreign.”
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Lance laughed, “We, the Americans, are foreign, Maman
et Bonne-Maman,” he said as he kissed the back of his mother’s hand and acknowledged Charlotte with a nod.
“What did you say? What does that mean?” Maggie asked,
delighted by Lance’s fluency.
“Maman means Mother and Bonne-Maman means
Grandmother.”
“Just call me, Charlotte; I don’t want to be anyone’s bonne
anything,” Charlotte said.
“Oh Momma, can’t you just be gracious?” Maggie asked.
“I’m always gracious, Margaret. Even when everyone is
trying to avoid talking about a young man’s less than flattering
behavior.”
Lance knew it was time to escape. “Ladies, I will walk you
back to the apartment,” he said as he called the waiter over to
settle the bill, “then I’m meeting some friends.”
“Where to tonight?” Maggie asked. “I thought now that
Miss da Costa Greene had returned to New York, you’d be
spending more time with us.”
“Belle has gone back to New York but Walter Chrysler is
here for a time. He has invited me to join him, a friend from
New York and some people they know in Paris to talk about
putting our money together to buy distressed and foreclosed
property in New York.”
With New York real estate at a quarter of its pre-Depression
value, Lance’s friends assured him that a small investment
would yield significant returns. Because of his fluency in French,
Charlotte had empowered Lance to negotiate the lease on their
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apartment and the experience had piqued his interest in real
estate. He was also keenly aware of what their lifestyle was
costing them and that their money would only last a couple
more years, at the most. He knew how much he could risk and
what was at risk.
“Our money? You want to invest our money?”
Charlotte asked.
“My money,” Lance responded. “Half of my father’s
estate is mine.”
“I won’t let you squander—” Charlotte began.
“I’ve reached the age of majority, Charlotte. I don’t need
your permission.”
“Twenty-one? You think you know enough to manage
your own money?”
“Both you and my mother were married and running house-
holds in your teens. Surely, I can manage a small investment
in our future. After all, the family is now my responsibility.
I give you all the credit for knowing that staying away from
banks was the wise move in this financial climate,” Lance said
and raised his glass of wine to Charlotte. With cash, they were
protected, for now, but the Depression in Europe had finally
reached Paris. Groups of homeless young men now gathered
at entrances to the Metro to beg; every day their numbers
seemed to grow. Families sold their belongings on the streets,
children that had once been in school now begged alongside
their mothers. Crime increased and the politicians used every
opportunity to ensure their rivals were considered the cause
while they offered salvation from the pain that had already
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spread across the city and out to the suburban and rural areas.
The tensions resulted in sporadic and sometimes deadly riots
and demonstrations. Unlike his friend Walter, whose fam-
ily continue to make money, Lance knew his resources were
dwindling—he was reminded of that every time he deposited
a few francs into the extended palms of the less fortunate he
encountered on the streets of Paris.
“How much are you planning to invest in this venture?”
Charlotte asked.
“I have what I need,” Lance said.
“What do you mean you have what you need? Where did
you get it?”
“I took my share of my father’s estate. Your inheritance and
Mother’s is still in the safe at the apartment.”
“You will return everything you took—”
“Or what?” Lance challenged.
The tension between Charlotte and Lance had been build-
ing into a power struggle over control of the family assets. The
revelation Belle shared made Lance even more resentful. He
would not live on an allowance from his own money, doled out
by Charlotte, after a thorough inquisition.
In addition to his long trip out of the country with Belle,
Charlotte resented the relationships Lance developed outside of
her influence. So you’re in charge of our affairs now? She thought as she looked at Lance across the table. Her first instinct was
to fight him but he had shown himself resourceful in the past
and, he was right, it was up to him to provide for the family.
Neither she nor Margaret had any prospects, no one they’d
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met in Paris had lived up to Charlotte’s standards as a provider.
Perhaps it was better to give him some latitude sooner rather
than later. Let us see what he’s capable of.
“As you said, it is your money. However, you will be at my
mercy when it is exhausted.”
“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Charlotte,” Lance
said of the response he expected.
Maggie had been holding her breath through the entire
exchange. She hated the frequent flare-ups between the only
two people she had on this earth; she tried to steer the con-
versation in a more amicable direction.
“Perhaps we can go with you and your friends tonight,”
she volunteered. “I’d love to meet them, see what it is you do
when you’re out. Perhaps Momma and I could even invest in
your venture.”
“We’re meeting at a club in Montmartre. I’m not sure you’d
be comfortable there,” Lance said as he paid the restaurant bil .
“Is it one of those colored jazz clubs?” Charlotte asked. “Do
you think it wise? You know, given your situation?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” she asked, looking around to ensure no one was
listening, “Most of them can tell their own.”
Lance was as impatient with her constant warnings about
his racial origins as he was her strangle hold on their finances.
He leaned into the table and lowered his voice.
“Based on my Father’s experience in Richmond I don’t
think that’s the case. I may be the whitest colored person on
earth, Charlotte. For most of my life I didn’t even know I was
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colored. How is anyone else going to know, unless of course,
I decide to end this farce and tell everyone?” He hoped to
provoke a reaction. Charlotte did not disappoint, she nearly
choked on her food.
Maggie patted Charlotte’s back and handed her mother
a glass of water.
“Lance, please. Stop antagonizing the situation,” she said.
After Charlotte stopped coughing, Lance said, “My father’s
heritage does not ooze from my po
res in the presence of other
colored people so don’t worry about my person or my purse.”
He stood up, then helped his mother to her feet, slipping
his arm in hers. Maggie, the peacekeeper, reached over and
took her mother’s hand as she stood. Then the three of them
started their stroll down the boulevard toward home.
“So glad you could join me for dinner,” Lance said. “We’ll
have to do this again very soon.”
(II)
At the club, Le Grand Duc, that evening, Lance watched as
nearly every celebrity or dignitary that came through the door
jostled with the other patrons for the attention of a dark-skinned
American at a table near the bandstand.
“That’s Eugene Bullard,” Walter Chrysler’s friend, Nelson
Rockefeller, said. “He was a pilot in the war; flew missions in
the Lafayette Escadril e. Couldn’t fly for America,” he said taking a drag from his cigarette. “He’s a national hero over here, won
every military medal France had to give. He’s a true celebrity.”
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“So it seems,” Lance said as he sipped his drink.
“Would you like to meet him?” Nelson asked.
“Not real y,” Lance said, he’d rebuked Charlotte, but he did
worry that something would give him away if he associated with
Negroes, that somehow they might suspect he was one of them.
“What?” one of the Frenchmen at the table asked. “Surely
you are not un virage serré - cul américaine. Nelson, what do you call it in English?”
“A tight-ass American.”
“Oui, a tight-ass American that does not understand that
la crème is always better with le cafe. Even in France, there are those who do not understand, but not here,” he said, waving his
arm to indicate the club and in a smaller gesture, their table.
“The French are curious and indulgent of people different
from themselves. Africans, the Roma, American Negroes,
Jews, the Chinese—all give Paris our exotic flavor, c’est merveil-leux, non?”
“So all races are equal here in France?” Lance asked, already
knowing that was not the case.
“Equal? Peut-être pas complètement, not completely. However, the French, especially Parisians, appreciate everyone’s gifts.
Have you seen La Baker at the Folies Bergere?” he seemed to swoon when he said her name. “Americans were too blind to
see her so she came to us—we adore her. Now she is une sau-
vage all French men, and some women, would love to tame.”