She left the lounge, manuscript in hand. The author remained in the booth, gazing reflectively, then taking a subtle gulp from his flask.
“The Beautiful… and the Damned,” he whispered to himself.
***
Rhianyn had been hearing a lot about a game called “baseball” during her work singing at the Raven’s Nest. Mr. Symanski had picked up on the fact that she was asking questions about the game, so after a particularly profitable week in the Fall of 1922, he offered his headliner “Lady Godiva” a bonus: a pair of tickets to the World Series. The Yankees vs. the Giants!
“It’s still gonna be at the Polo Grounds,” her boss explained. “They’re building a stadium for the Yankees now, but it won’t be ready until next season. But these are good seats! You and your sister will get a great view of the action… unless, of course, you’ve got a fella now and want to take him with you instead.”
Symanski would tease her on occasion. He never meant anything crude by it. He was just surprised that a “good-looking fox” like Rhianyn, as he put it, was still single. He had tried to set her up a couple times with some young bachelors he knew, but of course Rhianyn had made it very clear that she wasn’t interested. Symanski accepted this and didn’t push any further. But he would still joke once in a while.
“If I weren’t already married, I’d have popped the question to you with a rock the size of Gibraltar,” he once said. “And you wouldn’t have to sing for a dime. Just be dressed in furs and on the town, living it up… a regular velvet vixen!”
Rhianyn couldn’t resist the chuckle on that one.
But she graciously accepted the tickets and presented the idea to Lorewyn, who was of course intrigued.
“I’ve read a little about the game,” she said. “I don’t know a lot, except that it’s certainly very American… and the Yankees are supposed to be top notch!”
“I’ve been hearing a lot of talk from the men at the club about one of their players,” Rhianyn added. “A guy named Ruth. Babe Ruth they call him. He’s been playing with them the past couple seasons. Came down from Boston before that. He’s supposed to be the greatest hitter the sport has ever seen!”
“Do they have teams for women?” Lorewyn asked with a grin. “I’ve seen how you handle a sword… I can only imagine how dangerous you’d be with a bat!”
“Funny,” Rhianyn retorted. “No women’s teams… yet. Typical, huh? The first game is next Wednesday, October 4th. Can you take the day off?”
“I’m sure Max won’t have any issues with me going with you to the World Series,” Lorewyn laughed. “I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he had tickets himself!”
And so, the following Wednesday, Lorewyn and Rhianyn went up past Harlem toward Washington Heights to the Polo Grounds to take in their first American baseball game. They were both amazed by the size of the crowds.
“I don’t think I’ve been around this many people gathered in one place for a single event since we fought in the Second Sylestian War!” Rhianyn commented.
“Well, be prepared for a battle in the ballpark!” Lorewyn added. “From what I understand, when the Yankees and Giants face off on the diamond, it’s like war!”
They had initially tried to go through a side entrance to avoid the crowds, but they were turned away by a gate attendant.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” he stated. “You can’t use this entrance. Main gate only.”
“We’re just trying to get in without having to push through the crowds, that’s all,” Lorewyn tried to explain. “It’s just the two of us.”
The attendant looked at both women with a somewhat astonished expression. “You two can both read, can’t you?” he said brashly. “And you have eyes, right?” He pointed to a sign above them, and then to a group of spectators in line.
Lorewyn and Rhianyn both glanced up at the sign. It read “Colored Entrance Only.” They then turned to look at where the attendant was pointing to the people nearby. They were all African-American.
Neither Lorewyn nor Rhianyn had been faced with segregation laws before, but they quickly realized what was going on. Rhianyn turned back to the attendant, about to say something defiant and controversial, but Lorewyn took her arm.
“Blackbird, come on,” she whispered. “Not here, not now.” She turned back to the attendant. “We apologize,” she stated. “We didn’t see the sign. We’ll use the correct entrance. Thank you.”
The attendant tipped his hat, but gave Rhianyn an icy look, and went back to checking tickets for the Black spectators who had come to see the game, and who would be sitting in a segregated section of the stands.
Lorewyn and Rhianyn made their way to the “white entrance,” with Rhianyn fuming. “Colored,” she grunted. “I hate that word! You and I both have color. All these other lighter-skinned Humans have color too! Why are darker-skinned people the only ones who get called Colored, huh? I wish I understood all this better. They’re all members of the same kindred. I know what you’re going to say, Yellowfeather, and you’re right… many of our people looked down on Dwarves and Humans. I know that I was one of them… and it was wrong. I just don’t ever recall different groups of Humans in Cordysia hating each other like what we see here in this realm.”
“Blackbird, you’re a diamond in the rough,” Lorewyn offered, taking her hand. “I wish everyone could see through your eyes, could come to terms with their own past like you have, could learn from experience. But you were in Europe with me all those centuries. You know there’s history. So many injustices. I guess America’s not immune to those injustices, whatever people might say about it being the land of the free and so forth. Perhaps if Humans had lifespans like us, they’d have the chance like we had to see a lot of things, learn a lot, go through so many experiences to teach us, to help us come to terms with ugly parts of our kindred’s past. They don’t have that same benefit. They have to do it through generation after generation. It must be a lot harder that way. There are still things about Humanity that I don’t understand, despite all the time I’ve spent among them.”
“I know,” Rhianyn sighed. “Me too.”
But they went through the entrance they were supposed to and found their seats in the stands… box seats! Symanski had spared no expense. The whole thing was an experience for sure. Standing for the national anthem, ballpark peanuts, the roar of the crowds when a player hit the ball, or when someone was struck out. It was quite a show to be sure!
“Last time we attended a spectacle like this was that bullfight in Spain we saw a couple centuries ago,” Lorewyn observed.
“Ugh, please don’t remind me of that,” Rhianyn grimaced. “That was so cruel and brutal! I really hope they don’t have events like that here.”
There were no points scored until the 6th inning… and that inning was something neither Lorewyn nor Rhianyn would ever forget! The Babe was up to bat and hit the first home run of the series. But this was no ordinary home run. The ball went flying toward right field, over the barrier and into the stands… straight for the box where Lorewyn and Rhianyn were sitting… or standing by this point!
The ball came down, right into the box… and into Lorewyn’s outstretched hand. She had caught Babe Ruth’s home run ball!
The crowd went wild, cheering and hollering. Lorewyn just looked down at her palm in amazement. Rhianyn was ecstatic.
“Yellowfeather, you just caught a home run… hit by Babe Ruth!” She embraced Lorewyn, laughing and jumping excitedly, touching the ball as if it were some priceless artifact from an ancient civilization that had been uncovered after millennia.
The rest of the game wasn’t near as exciting, and the Giants ended up winning 3-2. But their baseball experience wasn’t quite over yet. Lorewyn and Rhianyn actually caught the Sultan of Swat himself as he was exiting the stadium.
“Yellowfeather, that’s him!” Rhianyn exclaimed, pulling her wife over with her to speak to the legend. “Mr. Ruth, Mr. Ruth!” Rhianyn called out, getting his attention. T
he Babe paused for a moment, letting the two women approach him.
“Show him the ball!” Rhianyn urged. Lorewyn held out the caught homer to the Babe, as if offering a tribute of some sort.
“You played a great game,” Lorewyn stated, not really sure what to say.
“Not great enough,” the Babe replied. “The Giants got us in the 8th. But we still got a few more games in the series, right? I appreciate it, ladies. Thank you.”
“The ball!” Rhianyn whispered under her breath.
“Oh, I was hoping you could sign this for me,” Lorewyn continued, gesturing to the ball in her hand. “This was your home run in the 6th. I caught it!”
“So you’re the lucky lady who caught it!” the Babe exclaimed. “Some of the fellas were saying a gal in the box seats got it. Sure, happy to.” And he took a pen and signed his name on the ball, handing it back to Lorewyn.
He tipped his cap to both of them and went on his way. Lorewyn just gasped, holding the signed ball, a home run baseball hit and signed by the Great Bambino.
“I’m just glad we didn’t have this last year when that Siegel kid broke in,” Rhianyn considered as they walked away from the ballpark. “It would’ve been hot for sure!”
“Magical concealment on it?” Lorewyn recommended.
“Magical concealment indeed!” Rhianyn agreed, laughing.
CHAPTER 4
Symanski got to hear the whole story about the caught ball, of course. He was impressed. “So, the tickets were well spent! And since your sister has an autographed Babe Ruth home run ball, I’ll even say that tops bringing a date with those tickets.”
But Rhianyn still got plenty of “date” offers, even without Symanski teasing her about it. By 1923, she had become the Nest’s star attraction, singing five nights a week, with only Sundays and Mondays off, and drawing in considerable revenue for the club. She finally approached her boss about her stage name.
“There’s got to be a compromise,” she explained. “I mean, the name itself isn’t so bad, Lady Godiva. I like horses fine, and I can ride with the best of them. But the routine with the fake equestrian model on stage, and me wearing those skimpy outfits that leave very little to imagination? We need to rethink a few things.”
“But that’s the act, Rachel!” Symanski was adamant. “I mean, joking aside and not intending to sound chauvinistic, you’re the best looking dame on stage south of 42nd Street. You got the face, the figure, all that sex appeal that men are paying for when they pack the club every weekend, and besides that you can actually sing. You got the voice, the talent, the charisma, the whole package. Your stage persona amplifies that, and if Lady Godiva is gonna keep making waves in Manhattan, she’s gotta include the fake horse routine and outfits that keep ‘em coming back for more. This is show business… and there ain’t no business like it.”
“You said it yourself,” Rhianyn tried to argue. “I have the voice, the talent. Shouldn’t that be enough? If people are coming to see me, to listen to me sing, shouldn’t it be my voice and talent that are emphasized? Not how much skin I show on stage or what kind of sensual acrobatic position I can make work on that, horse… thing, we use to introduce my act?”
Symanski chuckled, taking another puff on his cigar. “This is part of why I like you so much. You’re a genuine entertainer, the real deal. You’re smart, and a smart woman isn’t something to be feared, despite what a lot of guys out there think. I’m with you… I agree. In a perfect world, that’s the way it should be. But this is the world of New York Club Business in the Prohibition Era. It’s a slice with a jagged edge in the big pie we call the American Dream.”
Rhianyn understood, though not approvingly, and as it turned out she had the opportunity not long after to put that notion of the American Dream to the test. It was April of 1923, and Mr. Symanski had encouraged her to try something out, an “experiment” he had called it.
“I wouldn’t do this for anyone else,” he said, “but if you’re really interested in marketing your talent based on how well you can sing and not all the other stuff, try cutting a record. That’s getting to be big business too nowadays. Lots of performers are making records. It’s all about the sound, the singer, the music. Do a demo, see if it takes. If you hit it big in the record business, it makes me look good… my club was the home stage of the famous Lady Godiva! Just don’t forget me, okay? I know a guy at Columbia Records. I’ll put in a word for you.”
Rhianyn appreciated the gesture and took him up on it. And so, she found herself one afternoon at Columbia’s recording studio. The company had gone into receivership just a few months earlier, and they were looking for new talent, artists who could get on their A-series label and boost sales. It was an ideal time. Rhianyn was encouraged to record a demo using her stage name, the name Rachel Selinger sounding too “Jewish” they said and not very marketable, but she couldn’t bring herself to use Lady Godiva. She took a chance, and went with Lady Raven.
She was given a choice of covers, but Rhianyn found the selection rather distasteful. She had become familiar with jazz music the past couple years singing at the Raven’s Nest and knew a few things about lyrics and songwriters. She was offered to make a cover of Al Jolson’s Avalon, but turned it down. She didn’t give a reason, other than she didn’t feel it was a good fit for her style, but in fact Rhianyn was uncomfortable singing a song that was made popular by one of the most well-known “Blackface” white entertainers of the vaudeville era. There were a few other options, however. Rhianyn finally went for Con Conrad’s Lena from Palesteena, which was probably the least racist and misogynistic song on the list. It had been made clear to her that as a white singer, it would be “inappropriate” for her to make a cover of a song written or recorded by a Negro artist.
But, remembering what Lorewyn had said, Rhianyn sucked it up and entered the studio, preparing to do the demo. She couldn’t resist making a crack to the white piano player, however, as she passed him.
“Careful,” she warned sarcastically. “Don’t break out in a sudden rift from anything composed by Scott Joplin… it’s inappropriate.”
The pianist seemed confused for a moment, then played the opening bars of Maple Leaf Rag for a few seconds, just for emphasis, before shrugging innocently.
Rhianyn grinned in satisfaction and proceeded to record the demo. She didn’t feel like she did her absolute best, but felt validated when after the recording was made several of the studio staff began applauding.
“We’ll make sure the production executives get a listen at it,” the sound engineer explained to her. “Then someone will give you a call. You might be invited to do a second demo, or if you’re lucky offered a chance to cut a record on the label, or in many cases given the brush-off. But from what I just heard, I think you have a solid chance.”
Rhianyn thanked him and was exiting the studio when she was approached by a young Black woman, close to 30 years of age. She had her hair in the short style common to many Black female entertainers of the time and was full-figured. Rhianyn couldn’t be sure, but she thought this attractive woman looked familiar… had she seen a photo of her recently?
“I heard your demo,” the woman said to Rhianyn, pulling her aside. “Not only that, I heard what you said to the pianist before you went in. You have a beautiful voice… and a spirit that ain’t too common, and that be said for white and colored folk both! I’m here in New York promoting my first single. You might’ve heard it? Downhearted Blues. Columbia released it last month.”
Now Rhianyn made the connection. Of course! “You’re Bessie Smith!” she exclaimed. “Oh yes, I have heard it, most definitely! You’re quite an amazing singer yourself.” She offered her hand. “Rachel Selinger.”
“I thought you was the Lady Raven,” Bessie laughed, taking her hand in return. “And I notice you just said amazing singer and not amazing Negro singer… see what I mean about that uncommon spirit?”
“Oh, that’s just my stage name,” Rhianyn chuckled in reply. “
Well, at least the one I made up on the spot. My actual persona when I’m singing in the club… anyway, that’s not important. But you’re a celebrity! You’re making it big in the record business, from what I hear. I wish I had talent like yours.”
“Aw, honey,” Bessie exclaimed, walking with Rhianyn toward the street corner. “You got talent coming out of every strand of that gorgeous raven-dark hair of yours! That’s why I wanted to talk with you. There’s a new club that’s opened up in Harlem… the Cotton Club. Very posh! Well, since I’m town for the record promotion, I got invited to sing there this coming weekend. I want you to sing with me.”
Rhianyn’s eyes widened a bit. “You want me to… like, be on stage with you? Perform with you?” She would never have imagined something like this!
“Unless you want to try out the acoustic in the alley behind the club,” Bessie answered with a clever smile. “Of course on stage. I’m slated to do Downhearted Blues for a packed house. I want to really spice things up with a Downhearted Duet!”
Rhianyn laughed, delighted. She was about to offer something clever back, but suddenly realized one very reality-driven aspect of this situation. “Wait, but… Ugh, I hate the way things are sometimes! I’m white, and you’re… They’ll never let it happen, will they? Both of us performing together?”
Bessie drew in a bit closer. “Where’s that uncommon spirit now, hmm, Lady Raven? You don’t gotta worry about a thing. The Cotton Club is for white patrons only, but they feature plenty of colored talent. They have white performers too. I think we can pull it off. I’m a guest entertainer, after all, ain’t I?”
And so, it was agreed. Rhianyn had to pull some strings with Symanski to get a weekend night off from the Raven’s Nest, but he was accommodating. Lorewyn was on Cloud Nine and planned to make a night of it!
“Blackbird, this is huge!” She exclaimed. “You and Bessie Smith? I don’t think you’ve had an opportunity like this since that time you got to sing with Madame de Pompadour in King Louis XV’s court in France!”
Two Birds, One Feather: The Lives and Times of Lorewyn & Rhianyn in America Page 5
