by Rhys Bowen
“I'll tell you what he's going to be doing with himself,” the landlord exclaimed before Johnny could speak.‘Thinks he's going to try his hand at poetry.‘Nobody ever got rich writing poems, boy,’ I told him, but no, he still wants to try it.”
“I've seen some of his poems and they're quite good,” a male voice added. “Good luck to you, Johnny. You make old George here eat his words!” The speaker emerged from the darkness of the corner and draped an arm around the young man's shoulders. He was a large, pudgy young man, made even larger by the artist's smock he was wearing. “A toast to young Johnny,” he said.
Glasses were raised.
“Pray be upstanding, ladies and gentlemen, and let's give the boy a rousing send-off.”
Everyone in the saloon rose to their feet, so I did too. Arms were being linked as we were drawn into a circle. A hand came around my waist from one side, and then from the other. I returned the favor, cautiously, as voices started to sing, in several keys, “Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…”
“For Au'd Lang Syne, my dears,” we sang, swaying. How exciting and new it felt to be part of this intimate, uninhibited crowd. I was almost sorry when it was over. I was about to return to my seat when the person beside me spoke.
“You're not wearing a corset, I notice,” she said. “Does that mean you're one of us?”
It was die lady cigar smoker and I realized that hers had been one of the hands around my waist. “I'm not sure what one of you means,” I said, “but I've never worn a corset in my life and never intend to either.”
“Splendid,” she said, nodding encouragingly. “You are rebelling against the restrictions of society then.”
“I just don't think it's anybody's business but mine what I wear.”
She clapped her hands, laughing. “Then you are one of us. Come and join us at our table, unless of course you are awaiting an assignation.”
“No assignation, I assure you,” I said firmly.
“So you're a man-hater too—excellent.”
“I wouldn't say I'm a hater of all men,” I ventured cautiously. “It's just that the men I've met recently haven't given me cause to either like or trust them.”
“Words of wisdom. I can see we're going to get along famously. Do come and meet Gus.”
I let her slip her arm through mine and drag me across to the neighboring table.
“I've just snared us a delightful new companion, Gus, dear,” my captor said. “Do sit down and tell us your name.”
“Molly,” I said. “Molly Murphy.”
“Molly. How delightfiilly quaint,” the person named Gus said. I found myself staring again. Gus was a slight, pretty woman, with fine bones and her face framed with wild curls. She was wearing a severe black dress, but had topped it off with an exotic lace shawl flung carelessly over one shoulder.
“Am I so repulsive that you stare like that, Miss Murphy?” the woman asked, her voice severe but her eyes sparkling with merriment.
“I'm so sorry,” I stammered. “It's just that when she said Gus, I naturally expected—”
“I was baptized Augusta Mary Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts,” she said, still laughing. “It was Sid here who renamed me Gus.”
“Sid?” I looked at the dark, interesting young woman in the smoking jacket.
“Sid the Yid,” she said with an impish smile at my startled reaction. “Sid the Yid was a character in a racial cartoon a few years back. I decided to adopt the name as my own, thus preventing anyone else from being embarrassed by it. Being Jewish by birth, I was never baptized anything, but my given names are Elena Miriam Hepsibah, so you can see that Sid was a big improvement.” She spread her hands out wide. “So Sid and Gus we have become and are content.”
I looked from one face to the next. They were both smiling at me, pleasant open smiles, as take place between friends. For once in my life, I was tongue-tied. I had grown up, in our remote cottage on the west coast of Ireland, unused to the close companionship of women, or of men outside of the louts in my family, for that matter. I now found my social skills sadly lacking.
“You'll have to forgive me, I'm brand-new here,” I said. “I've just come from Ireland where—”
“Where the non-wearing of corsets is no doubt a sin,” Sid chuckled. “That's why we've all gravitated to this delightful place where there are no rules. So let me tell you about us. I write scathingly brilliant articles championing women's rights and Gus here is a painter.”
“Trying to be a painter,” Gus corrected.
“Don't be so modest. Your stuff is damned good and you know it.”
“You're biased,” Gus said and a quick smile passed between them.
“And what brings you to the Village?” Sid asked.
It was neither the time nor the place to tell them my true motive. “I'm—I'm thinking of becoming a writer.” This seemed the safest route to take. If I said I was a painter, I might be called upon to produce an example of my work. (
“What kind of writer?” They both leaned forward in their seats.
More rapid thinking. “Poetry, mainly,” I said. “But I think I'd like to try a play someday.” It couldn't hurt to create this possible link to Ryan O'Hare.
“Poetry. I just adore poetry,” Gus said. “You must read us some.”
“It's not really good enough for public performance yet,” I said hastily. “It still needs a lot of polishing.”
“Rubbish. Poetry needs to be fresh and unpolished. Raw words—that's what I like,” Sid said. She snapped her fingers as the bartender passed our table. “Another round please, George. What were you drinking, Molly?”
I didn't like to say ginger beer. “What were you having?”
“What else in O'Connor's but Guinness,” Sid retorted.
“When in Rome, drink Marsala. When in O'Connor's, drink Guinness.”
I had tried Guinness once or twice in my youth and didn't like it, but I wasn't stupid enough to refuse. “A Guinness for me too, please.”
“So where are you living, Molly? Are you settled in yet?” Gus asked.
“I'm actually sharing a top-floor flat way over on East Fourth Street,” I said, “but it's not working out too well. The noisiest, nosiest Irish family in the world is gradually taking over my life. I found two of them in my bed this afternoon.”
“How interesting—male or female?” Gus crossed her legs and I saw she was wearing men's trousers.
“One of each,” I said, laughing with embarrassment. “A married couple, actually, and they weren't doing anything except sleeping. It was the use of my bed that I objected to.”
“I should think so,” Sid said, turning to Gus. “How are you expected to write if you can't have privacy?”
I saw another look pass between them that I couldn't interpret.
“Look, Molly,” Gus said. “Why don't you come round to visit us tomorrow? We've a dinky little house on Patchin Place, close to the Jefferson Market—do you know it?”
“I know the market,” I said.
“Then you can't miss it. It's the alleyway, right behind the market buildings,” Gus said. “Come round anytime you like. We're always home in the mornings. Sid isn't the earliest riser in the world.”
“I was born a night owl, what can I say. I was almost sent down from Vassar because I could never make any nine-o'clock classes.”
“Until she met me and I made it my life's quest to drag her out of bed,” Gus chimed in. “Thus she is deeply in debted to me for getting out of Vassar with a good degree.”
I hadn't heard of Vassar, but was not about to betray my ignorance. “So you met while you were students at Vassar,” I said.
They nodded. “Do you know Vassar well?” Sid asked. “We had a wonderful time. Truly a heaven on earth, apart from lectures at ungodly hours. Imagine living among women who actually expect to use their God-given intellect, with female professors who expect them to do more than learn how to sew and have the vapors.”
“And instead, she fell among rogues like me,” Sid chuckled, “and never went home again.”
“And never found the suitable husband, either,” Gus said.
“But surely there's still time for that,” I said and didn't quite understand the look that passed between them.
“So where did you get your education, Molly?” Gus asked.
“My education was unfortunately cut short by the death of my mother,” I said.
“Then you must make up for lost time.” Gus looked at Sid for approval. “But you've come to the right place. Loaf around here and you'll meet every intellectual in the land, not to mention the best painters and writers. They all pass through the Village at some time or another.”
“I'd really love to meet Ryan O'Hare,” I ventured. “I understand he comes in here quite often. Do you know him?”
“Everyone knows Ryan,” Sid said, “and conversely, Ryan knows everyone.”
“What's he like?”
Another amused glance between them that was hard to interpret. “Ryan is the most entertaining man in the world, and the most infuriating,” Sid said. “Great fun but completely untrustworthy.”
“He's like an overgrown child,” Gus added. “Playing with one toy, then dropping it because he's found a better one. But as Sid says, very entertaining. Nobody can make you laugh like Ryan can.”
“I understand he comes in here a lot,” I went on. “Is he likely to be here tonight?”
“Who knows, with Ryan,” Sid said. “He is the last person in the world to have any kind of schedule.”
“Does he live in the Village?”
“He has a room at the Hotel Lafayette, over on University Place,” Gus began but Sid cut in, “For the few times he sleeps in his own bed.”
I wasn't sure how to progress with this topic, not being used to discussing subjects so obviously taboo. I wished I could develop the worldly ease of Sid and Gus. They seemed to be comfortable talking about absolutely anything and nothing made them blush. But if I was to be an investigator, I had to throw off these stupid fetters of modesty and learn the ways of the world.
“Does he have a particular attachment at the moment?”
They both laughed. “Who can tell with Ryan? They never last long,” Gus said. “As I told you—a little boy constantly in search of new toys.”
“But I heard he is actually getting down to serious work on his new play. He told Lenny and Hodder that he was not to be disturbed yesterday.” Sid got out a new cigar and clipped the end professionally.
“Well, the play is scheduled to open in a month.” Gus chuckled. “And it can hardly open without a last act.”
“Ryan claims he does his best work under pressure, but I'll wager that he can't stay disciplined for more than a day or so. By Wednesday at the latest he'll be back in here, cadging drinks and cigarettes.”
“That reminds me—where are my manners,” Gus said, bringing out a slim silver case. “Do you smoke, Molly? Try one of these. They are Turkish and absolutely divine.”
I took the thin brown cigarette from her and put it in my mouth as she lit a match for me. Then I sucked in, felt the hot, acrid taste of smoke and fought against coughing. “Marvelous,” I said. “Absolutely topping.”
They beamed, like proud parents who have selected the perfect present for their adored child.
By the end of the evening I had smoked two cigarettes, drank a whole pint of Guinness and met several of Sid and Gus's friends, including the large chubby man in the smock who was a painter called Lennie, a Russian with a thick accent called Vlad and an earnest writer whose name I never learned. As I walked home I felt very wicked, and very excited. It was as if someone had opened a door to a new world I had not known even existed. The world with no rules, as Sid had said. And yet, as I went through the events of the evening, they had all seemed so harmless and benign. It was hard to believe that it was at this same O'Connor's Saloon that Paddy had heard something that alarmed him and possibly led him to his death.
Eighteen
The next morning I presented myself, at what I hoped was a suitable hour, at 9 Patchin Place. Having had it described as an alleyway, I was unprepared for the charming backwater, removed from the bustle of the city. It was a gracious little street, quiet and empty at this hour. There were even trees, growing behind railings and casting delightful pools of shade, outside each brick house. Some of the houses had shutters at their windows, giving an exotic and European effect. Number 9 had sculptured bay trees in pots on either side of the front door and a window box spilling over with petunias. I rang the doorbell and it was opened by Sid, wearing a Chinese silk robe and slippers.
“I'm so sorry,” I exclaimed. “I hope I haven't woken you.”
“Not at all. I've been awake almost since sunup—or at least since nine o'clock.”
“Oh, I see. I thought, when I saw the robe …”
At which Sid laughed. “This is my usual form of attire around the house. I find clothes a perfect nuisance, if you want to know. I wish we could all run around naked like the animals do. It would solve so many problems.”
“Only in the summer,” I suggested.
“I grant you New York in winter would not be so pleasant. But all one would need would be a giant fur coat and boots. That's all the Indians used and they were very healthy.”
I smiled. “It would certainly solve my problem, having a very meager wardrobe with no clothes suitable for the city.”
“You must let Gus give you some of hers,” Sid said over her shoulder as she led me down a bright hallway and pushed open a door at the end. The room was intended to be the kitchen, I suppose, as there was a cooker and sink against one wall, but the outside wall had been knocked out and a glass conservatory now extended the house into a pretty back garden full of flowers and ferns. Gus was lounging out there on a wicker chaise, reading The New York Times. She, too, was attired in a robe, only hers was bright purple satin.
“Here she is, as promised.” Sid motioned me to a wicker chair. “I'll go and make some more coffee. The poor child was just lamenting that she has no clothes, so I told her you'd have to give her some of yours.”
I felt myself blushing furiously. “Oh, but I couldn't possibly,” I said.
Gus laughed. “My dear Molly. I have upstairs a whole closetfull of clothes that I never wear. My parents outfitted me for life in society. When I came here I realized I didn't have to conform to their vision of the sweet and innocent young girl, so I started dressing to please myself. But the dreaded garments still lurk in an upstairs closet. You are welcome to help yourself, as I swear I won't be seen dead in them again. Although some of them may be even too adorable and civilized for you.”
Again I wasn't quite sure what to say. I lowered myself to the wicker chair. “What a lovely spot you have here,” I said. “I had no idea that gardens existed in the middle of the city.”
“One of the reasons we fell in love with the house,” Gus said. “I had grown up with a large backyard.”
“And she simply couldn't exist without her flowers and shrubs,” Sid added, coming back out with a coffee tray. “So I absolutely insisted she buy the house instantly.”
“You own this house?” I was horrified at my own rudeness but it just slipped out.
Gus didn't seem to be in the least offended. “Fortunately for me, I had a wonderful godmother,” she said. “When my parents cut me off without a penny, she came up trumps and left me a large settlement in her will.”
“Why did your parents cut you off?”
She looked amused. “They didn't approve of my lifestyle, of course.”
“I don't see what is so wrong with wanting to be a painter, and independent,” I said.
“Nor I, but there is on
ly one path open to young women in their kind of society—you make a good match and link the family fortune to that of another family.”
“And disapproving of me probably had something to do with it,” Sid added as she poured thick black coffee into tiny cups. “I hope you like Turkish coffee. Gus and I went through a Turkish fad last year. We were even wearing baggy pants and smoking a hookah for a while, but we've become positively addicted to the coffee and cigarettes.”
I took the tiny cup she gave me. The coffee was almost as thick as milk pudding, and so very strong. I didn't think that Fd ever become addicted to it as they were, but I managed a brave smile as I sipped.
“Have you had breakfast?” Gus asked and indicated the basket on the table. “Luckily the most divine baker in the world delivers to us each morning.”
I took a crispy roll and spread it liberally with butter and apricot jam. The first bite took away the lingering bitterness of the coffee.
“And now we must give you the tour of the house,” Sid said. She grabbed at Gus's arm. “To your feet, lazybones. As mistress of the establishment it is your duty to lead the expedition.”
“Co-owner of the establishment,” Gus said as she got to her feet. “When will you get it through your thick skull that this is your house as much as mine?”
“It was your money that bought it. Get on with the tour.”
Gus shook her head, smiling. “So damned stubborn,” she muttered as she went ahead of us back into the house.
During my time in New York I had been exposed to the worst of tenements, a refined home of the middle class, a palatial home of the very rich, even a gentleman's bachelor apartment, but I had seen nothing like this. All of these had been furnished in conventional style. There was nothing conventional about 9 Patchin Place. The living room was furnished with Turkish rugs, a lot of huge velvet pillows and low tables. There was a sofa at one end, but it looked rather forlorn and out of place.
“This room is a remnant of our Turkish phase,” Gus said, “but we got into the habit of lounging around on the floor and decided to keep it as it was.”
