Southern Ruby (28 page)

Before returning home that afternoon, I had some errands to run for Maman. When I passed Jackson Square I found a crowd had gathered there, and stopped to see what was happening. The faces of the people in the crowd were grim and I could feel their anger simmering in the atmosphere like heat. A man with a bald head and trimmed beard was standing on a wooden stage, surrounded by reporters and an audience of men and women holding placards urging citizens to
Say No to the Desegregation of Schools
.

‘Do you want your daughters associating with niggers?' the speaker asked the crowd. ‘Do you want mongrels for grandchildren?'

The murmurs from his audience made it clear that they didn't.

‘The purity of the white race is threatened by desegregation,' the speaker continued, beads of sweat popping up on his hairless pate. ‘We must protect white womanhood against the predatory instincts of the coloured man, who has only recently emerged from the darkness of Africa.'

The man in front of me turned to his companion and sneered, ‘Some of those darkies are hung like thoroughbreds. They should be sent to the knackery like finished up racehorses before they can cause any trouble, or be castrated at birth!'

His companion sniggered, then looked around him with fierce eyes. ‘If a daughter of mine associated with any nigger, I'd lynch both of them myself.'

My heart beat hard in my chest and my hands turned clammy. I remembered what had happened to Mae's father and wanted to be sick. For the first time in a long while, I thought of Clifford Lalande and his family. This was the kind of hatred they were up against in trying to improve society. These people in the square looked ordinary, the sort of people you'd see in a department store or holding their children on their shoulders at the Mardi Gras parades. But something evil lurked in their minds and it made them volatile and dangerous.

I pushed through the crowd and headed home. Something was happening in New Orleans. Something terrible. I could feel it.

M
y first impression of Sam Coppola had been right: everything he did was ritzy and lavish, and the Vieux Carré Club was no different. When I went to sign my contract, I gaped in awe at the white marble floors, the gold damask-papered walls and the recessed lights. Builders were working on the revolving glass podium I was to perform on.

My contract had a strict code of rules including:
No bumps and grinds, no flashing and no hanging on the curtains
. None of those things were my style, but when I read that Sam Coppola also had the final say in what I wore off stage, I protested. Until the lawyer showed me a rack of Balenciaga and Dior dresses.

‘Any objections to these?' he asked.

I shook my head.

My stage costumes were to be made by an Australian designer named Orry-Kelly, who had dressed Hollywood stars like Bette Davis and Marilyn Monroe. I was nervous when I went to see him at his suite at the Roosevelt Hotel, but when the maid
showed me into the room I was surprised to find an unassuming man with grey streaks in his hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on his droopy nose. He looked more like a bank manager than a haughty clothes designer.

‘Well,' he said, ‘you're younger than I was expecting. As I'm getting older, I enjoy being around young people more.'

He opened a desk drawer and took out a measuring tape. I noticed an antique figurine of a white cat sitting on a notebook on the desk. Pansies and vines were painted on her coat, as if she was peering out of a garden.

Orry saw me looking at it. ‘Do you like it? I collect cat figurines, and I picked up this beauty in a pawn shop down on Royal Street would you believe?'

I could believe it. It was one of the family heirlooms I'd pawned months ago and hadn't had a chance to buy back. It seemed strange for it to have ended up in Orry's hands. Was it a good omen?

I handed my clothes to his maid, and Orry took measurements where I'd never had measurements taken before: from my navel to my crotch, and my crotch to my ankle.

‘Burlesque costuming is still high couture but it's also an engineering feat,' he explained. ‘The zippers have to be durable, and the snaps placed in exactly the right positions. The costumes must stand up to the rigours of performance.'

The creation of my costumes was a performance in itself, with numerous sketches and fittings.

‘Normally I prefer simple, unadorned elegance on a petite woman like you,' he said, pinning me into a beautiful gown with a gold satin base, pale gold for the chiffon overlay, and bronze flower motifs running from shoulder to hip. ‘But on the stage you need a bit of glitz to catch the light.'

As well as the gold dress, he designed a pink and silver silk-jersey ensemble consisting of a corset, jacket, skirt and headdress. The outfit was embellished with bugle beads, pearls
and rhinestones sewn on in feathered lines. The skirt wrapped around to produce a draped effect and was secured with a large hook and eye.

As he worked, Orry liked to gossip about the stars he'd dressed for Hollywood. ‘Marilyn might act sweet, but she's a devil to please. I enjoyed dressing Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis as women far more for
Some Like It Hot
.'

The day before he flew back to Los Angeles, he invited me to his office and handed me a silver box tied with a bow. Inside I found the white ceramic cat.

‘I don't know why, but every time I looked at it, something told me you should have it,' he said.

I thanked him, and he kissed my cheek and said, ‘Work hard and persist, persist, persist. That's the only route to stardom. I know: I've been watching starlets come and go for years.'

Guilt stabbed my conscience and I clenched my hands. Although Orry meant well, his remark drove home that many of the other performers at the Havana Club had dreamed of stardom all their lives. I was only performing for the money, but it seemed I was getting what they'd wanted without having sought it. I knew I'd have to put everything into my act now — or else be exposed as a fraud.

I met my choreographer, Miss Hanley, the following week in the club's rehearsal studio on Dumaine Street. The Quarter was deluged in light, and as I made my way there I squinted at the brightness. It was unusual for me to be out at this time of day; I had become a creature of the night.

Miss Hanley was a slight woman of a certain age, wearing a black blouse, piped pants and black dance shoes that gave her an unbroken line. I was in a grey skirt and off-the-shoulder fire-orange blouse that flattered my assets in a ladylike way.

She looked me up and down and smiled. ‘I see Sam has been dressing you. Very elegant. Now show me some arabesques and entrechats so I can get an idea of your style.'

I stared at her blankly. My ‘style' was a conglomeration of what I had seen other strippers do and some moves I'd worked out in my room in Chartres Street.

‘I'm sorry, Miss Hanley, but I haven't done ballet since I was a child. You see . . . I'm a stripper, not a dancer.'

Her hand flew up to stop me. ‘No, you're a dancer,' she replied firmly. ‘Sam told me so. An exotic dancer is a dancer nonetheless.'

I understood: I wasn't to call myself a stripper in Miss Hanley's presence.

‘Why don't you show me one of your routines,' she said, folding her arms. ‘We'll start from there.'

We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Miss Hanley went to open it. She looked over her shoulder and asked me, ‘Did you bring your sheet music?'

I shook my head, feeling out of my depth.

‘Never mind. Your accompanist, Leroy, can play anything. If you hum a few bars, he'll recognise it.'

She opened the door and beckoned in a young coloured man a couple of years older than me. Despite the heat he was sharply dressed in a blazer, tie, flannel trousers and a crisp white shirt.

‘This is Jewel,' she said to him. ‘She's the star dancer at the club.'

‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Jewel,' he said, taking my hand in his cool one and squeezing it gently.

A jolt ran through me and I pulled away. Coloured men did not touch white women's hands. Nor did they look directly into their eyes or call them Jewel instead of Miss Jewel. Then I remembered myself and was ashamed of my reaction. Of course he could shake my hand the same as any white man would do. He'd merely caught me unawares, that's all. I liked the fact that
there was nothing of the shuffling, obsequious stereotype of a coloured musician about him.

I reached for his hand and clasped it. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you too, Mr . . . ?'

If Leroy was offended by my initial reaction he didn't show it. He smiled wider and revealed a row of straight white teeth. ‘My last name is Thezan, but you can call me Leroy. Everybody does.'

He was handsome, that was for sure, with chiselled cheekbones and a nose like an Indian chief. I was mesmerised by the amber shade of his skin, smooth and glowing like the complexion of a healthy child. He contemplated me with a spark of amusement dancing in his honey-gold eyes and I realised it was because I was still staring at him.

‘Jewel is going to tell us what music she'd like to dance to,' Miss Hanley explained.

The routines I'd been performing at the Havana Club were too quirky for the Vieux Carré. My ‘Mooche' routine was the most sophisticated, but I was sick of it. ‘I've been developing a routine to a piece of music I bought at the record store on Chartres Street,' I told them.

‘What's the name of the song?' asked Leroy, opening the lid of the piano and taking a seat. He rubbed his hands vigorously, then played a blues riff to warm up.

His manner was so relaxed it should have put me at ease, but for some reason my heart started pounding in my chest like a bongo drum.

He looked at me again, waiting patiently. A rush of warmth heated my skin.

‘Jewel?' said Miss Hanley.

The name of the song had gone out of my head. I couldn't even recall the melody.

‘It's about a man searching for his lover,' I said.

Leroy chuckled. ‘Well, that's a little thin to go on, Jewel. Every man is looking for his lover.'

‘She's lost.' My face twitched in that foolish way it always did when I was nervous. I had to remind myself that I was sophisticated Jewel now, and Jewel did not lose her composure.

‘Hmm.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘What colour is it?'

‘Excuse me? Colour?'

‘Yes. What colour does the song make you feel?'

Describing a song by its colour was an unusual way of doing things. How was he ever going to pick a song from knowing only that? I let out a breath and thought about it. The music was rich and expressive, but it wasn't red. It was tragic, but not black.

‘Blue,' I said, recalling the song's haunting atmosphere. ‘Dark blue.'

‘Like night?' he asked, grinning.

A sense of playfulness bubbled up in me and I loosened up. It was as though Leroy was leading me on an adventure.

‘Like night,' I agreed.

He tried out a few notes on the piano before turning back to me. ‘Night in the city, or out in the bayou where it's dark and quiet except for the creatures of the night?'

‘Dark as in the swampland,' I said, enjoying the game. ‘But with flashes of gold.'

‘What's the gold? When I imagine gold in the dark it always makes me think of hope.'

I'd been picturing torches, but hope sounded more romantic. I nodded.

He turned back to the keyboard. ‘Is this it?' He played the first few bars of the song ‘Chloe'.

‘How did you pick out a song by its colour?' I cried. ‘Are you a mind reader?'

His lips formed into a wry smile and he swung his legs over the stool so he faced me. ‘Earlier this afternoon, I was having a soda at the drugstore on Esplanade Avenue when a fashionably dressed lady walked past. I didn't know who you were then, but I distinctly heard you humming “Chloe”.'

Miss Hanley laughed, and after a moment's surprise I did too.

‘He's a sneaky one,' Miss Hanley said. ‘You watch out for him.' Then she clapped her hands. ‘All right, we've got the song now. Show us what you've been working on, Jewel.'

Leroy began to play. I wasn't in costume, so I mimed the parts where I took off items of clothing. Several times I caught Leroy watching me. The band leader at the Havana Club had done that too, to see where I was up to in the routine, but something in Leroy's scrutiny was different. I'd been taking my clothes off in front of men for some months now and yet I'd never felt so shy as I did in front of him. A man was a man as far as I was concerned, but white strippers never undressed in front of coloured men. Not in the South at least.

I finished my dance, expecting Miss Hanley to be contemptuous, but she was tactful.

‘You never stop moving, Jewel, but I want you to think of yourself as a sculpture. You have to stop at certain points and let the audience drink you in.' She held herself in a pose with her chin up and a haughty expression in her eyes. It was a convincing transformation from choreographer to stripper. She turned back to me and was herself again. ‘With Orry-Kelly designing your costumes for one thousand dollars apiece, you'd better make sure the audience has time to appreciate them or Sam will have a fit.'

She turned to Leroy. ‘What do you think?'

‘Yes, Jewel should stop still so people can admire her,' he agreed, tugging at his collar as if he was too warm.

Miss Hanley indicated for Leroy to play the piece again and we spent nearly an hour on my walk alone. ‘Regal, but leading ever so slightly with the pelvis,' she instructed me.

She had me stand in poses for minutes at a time. ‘Everything you do must convey flirtation that eventually becomes seduction: the way you breathe, the blinking of your eyes, the slightest movement of your fingers . . .'

I did everything that Miss Hanley asked me to, but my pulse was racing. It was as though I was directing every gesture and movement at Leroy instead of an imaginary audience. ‘What a pity you didn't continue with ballet,' Miss Hanley said when we'd finished for the day. ‘You could have been great. You have the quality a good dancer needs: the ability to convey energy even when you are still. We'll meet again the same time tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow?' I asked, surprised. ‘We're going to do all this again tomorrow?'

Miss Hanley huffed. ‘Why, yes, my dear. Sam has requested a new routine a week. We had better get cracking! And don't forget you'll have to do the final rehearsals with Leroy and his band.'

Leroy led the way down the stairs. I kept my eyes fixed on his square shoulders and tried to think of ways to start a conversation. ‘There is no way I could have been a ballet dancer,' I finally managed to say when we were out on the street. ‘I don't have the discipline and I don't like pain. My calves are aching enough just from the past few hours.'