Madam: A Novel of New Orleans

by Cari Lynn

  Evading the question, Ferdinand stepped up to the cala stand. “Miss Mouth will take one, please,” he said, handing over a nickel.

  The woman passed a piping-hot fritter to Améde. “Clementine says be careful, tou cho! Quite hot!”

  Ferd nudged Améde. “Act like you got some raising.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Améde said obediently. Clementine started up her song again as the siblings continued on, Améde’s face immediately decorated with powdered sugar.

  They turned onto Perdido Street, where the saloons and honkatonks were ramping up for the night. Ferdinand came to a stop in front of Union Sons Hall, built some twenty years ago by a group of free black men. During the week the hall held association meetings and charity programs, and on Sundays it was used for worship by the First Lincoln Baptist Church, but on Saturday nights it was where legends were born.

  “Here we are,” he said to Améde. Only, he hadn’t considered that he could hardly bring a little girl in there—at least not while it doubled as what the ragtime folks called “Butt Hall.” It wasn’t just the music that was rowdy, it was the dancing. Bodies rubbing against each other, steaming, sweating, to the point that “funky butt” became the call line for the time during the night—especially a sizzling, summer night— when one of the musicians would shout, “Open a window, the odor’s rising!”

  With no other choice, Ferdinand took Améde’s hand and led her around to the alley, where he was relieved to find a back door half-open. Music spilled out—the sound of ragtime mixed with blues and played rough and fast, unlike any other band music.

  Ferdinand peeked in to see, center stage, a handsome twenty-year-old dressed in a tailored mohair suit and looking as fitted out as a white society man—only, he held a tarnished cornet, a castoff from the Civil War that had landed in the hands of a poor black boy, as did many of the war band instruments. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief before bringing the horn to his lips.

  “There he is,” Ferdinand said, shaking his head in amazement.

  “Who?” Améde asked, but before her brother could answer, a horn rose above the din. Ferd broke into a wide grin.

  “Buddy Bolden . . . King Bolden. Man, can he play loud!” Ferd watched as he played the cornet with the force of his entire body.

  “He can’t read music, ya know,” Ferd told Améde.

  “Even I can read music!”

  “I know you can, and you keep at your violin, but that man isn’t like us. He was born to play that horn, he didn’t have to learn it.”

  As the piano joined in, Ferd’s gaze shifted to a wrinkled man at the keys. “And look there, it’s Tanglefoot Robichaux! Older than sin and still manipulatin’ those keys.”

  “Lemme see for myself,” Améde insisted, sidling up next to Ferd to peek in. Reluctantly, he moved aside to let her have a look.

  “Mistah Bolden can play the blues on brass,” Ferd instructed. “What he can’t say in words, it comes out in his music. Ya hear it, don’t you?”

  Améde listened hard. Then her face lit up. She nodded, smiling big. “I hear it, Ferd! I hear it.”

  “It’s the gnat’s ass, ain’t it?”

  “Isn’t,” Améde corrected.

  Ferd playfully swiped the air, then took his sister’s hand and twirled her around. They found some crates to sit on and watched as a crowd of black folks poured into the hall. Whenever Buddy stopped playing to wipe his mouth with his handkerchief, the crowd hollered, “Blow, Buddy, blow!”

  He responded with his horn, which he called Baby. Ferd noticed—but kept to himself—what a ladies’ man Buddy was. He always had a throng of women admirers and would pick two lucky ones to stand by the stage: one woman to hold his hat, and the other to hold his liquor. Of course, it was also part of the honor for the women to carry his belongings back to his bedroom after the show.

  As the night went on and the temperature began to rise, Buddy called out, “I can tell my children’s here, ’cause I can smell ’em!” And at this, the crowd went wild.

  Ferd decided it was time to get Améde home. The music trailed them down the block, and Ferd knew that the band would play and the whiskey would flow and the people would bawdily dance until the wee hours of the morning.

  And then, when the last die-hards were shooed away at sunrise, the windows and doors would be thrown open to air the place out, the spills would be sopped up, and carbolic soap and scrub brushes would be taken to the floor. The empty bottles would be carted away and the cigar smoke beaten out of the rugs. All just in time for the preacher and parishioners to arrive ready to pray at 9:30 A.M., none the wiser to the clouds of sin that still lingered. Except, of course, for those folks who silently nodded to each other, having had just enough time to catch a few hours of sleep, bathe off the stink, and put on their church clothes.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mary trudged home from Basin Street, face smeared, hair fallen. She felt like a penned-up racehorse who’d been so raging to get loose that she ended up washing out in the stall before the race had even begun.

  To add to her troubles, as she approached home, she could see Lobrano pacing out front. No doubt he’d found out about the crib by now—and Lord knows he was drunk as a skunk, too. Her first instinct was to turn and run the other way, but she was too exhausted to go wait him out somewhere else. She just wanted to go home, to be in the same room with the only people on earth she cared about and who cared about her. One of these days she was going to have to confront Lobrano anyway. Might as well be tonight, when she was already so beaten there wasn’t much more he could do to her that would hurt.

  She walked up to the house, and Lobrano locked his stare on her, taking in her fancy dress.

  “You got some sweet daddy you’re fuckin’?” She tried to walk past him, but he blocked her way. “I heard some talk of what you done, but can’t be more than just ya-ya . . . ?” He paused expectantly, waiting for her to explain, but she said nothing. Cocking his head, he continued to wait, his beady eyes attempting to bore into her. Normally, she broke out in a sweat when Lobrano sized her up like that. But now she felt nothing.

  And then from inside the house came a pained moan. Mary instantly snapped from her numbness. “Charlotte?” she cried out.

  “Oh, she’s been havin’ it tough,” Lobrano said flatly. “Best for all of us that no baby see the light of day.”

  Mary had no time for repulsion. She drew up all her strength and shoved past Lobrano, bursting into the house.

  Peter jumped up. “Thank God, Mary,” he said, looking pale and drained. “She’s been laborin’ some hours now.”

  With a reassuring nod to Peter, Mary rushed behind the drawn curtain. A black mammy, who was the closest they could afford to a midwife, mopped Charlotte’s flushed, sweaty face.

  “Oh, Mary!” Charlotte cried, “I’ve been so scared.”

  “Baby’s takin’ its sweet time is all,” the mammy said reas-

  suringly.

  An intense contraction hit Charlotte, and she arched her back.

  Mary grabbed her hand. “Lottie, you’re doin’ real well. You’re gonna be just fine.”

  “How can you say that?” Charlotte wailed. “Your own mama—”

  But Mary quickly commanded, “Charlotte, now, you listen to me. Your baby’s gonna show us her face soon enough.”

  Tears filled Charlotte’s eyes, threatening to overflow. Mary stroked her arm, trying to calm her. “There, now, the baby’s gonna be beautiful. I wonder who she’ll look like?”

  From the other side of the curtain, they heard the front door open. “Get your soaked ass outta here, Lobrano,” Peter warned.

  Charlotte looked to Mary, panicked.

  “I promise,” Mary whispered, “he ain’t comin’ nowhere near you or this baby.”

  “Mary!” Lobrano shouted. “How could you betray me, your own kin? You fuckin’ some dandy? You ridin’ some pete man?”

  Mary looked apologetically to the mammy.

&n
bsp; Another contraction washed over Charlotte. “Oh dear God!”

  Back on the other side of the curtain, Peter clenched his fists with each wail from his wife. “Ain’t gonna tell you again, Lobrano,” he said staunchly.

  “I’s a right to know why that cow betrayed me,” Lobrano demanded.

  “My sister ain’t your property.”

  “We’s all blood, but she took my crib and left me to starve! How’d you think I was gonna get by? The only reason you’re both alive is ’cause of me—”

  “She’s the one been keepin’ you alive,” Peter stormed back.

  “You ingrates,” hissed Lobrano. “I took pity on you pissants. That whore who was my sister couldn’t keep herself from gettin’ indisposed. Thank the Lord the next little brat didn’t make it, but curse the Lord for taking my sister at the same time. And curse Him for leaving me to deal with the both of yous! I should’ve let you rot. I could’ve, ya know. You owe me your life, and this is what ya do to me?”

  Peter palmed the worn watch he’d been nervously fidgeting with. He knew in his gut that as soon as he’d come of age he should have stepped in to protect Mary, to protect his own family. He stared Lobrano square in the face. Solemnly, he said, “We’re both sorry excuses for men.”

  Mary had risen to watch them from the curtain, her gray eyes unflinching. Her stance as rigid as a barricade. “You’re not the man of this house,” she said. “Peter is. And he told you to git.”

  Looking from one to the other, Lobrano only just realized how much Peter towered over him. Even Mary seemed to loom larger. Or maybe it was just the absinthe. Woozy, he inched toward the door.

  “Could’ve left both you sissies for dead. Maybe I should have.” He ambled helplessly, and, at last, the door slammed behind him.

  Peter’s eyes landed on the rosewood knife resting on the bureau. Snatching it, he defiantly headed to the door.

  “Let him go, Peter,” Mary said.

  “Need to make sure he stays away from my family.” Peter spoke with an authority Mary had never heard from him before, like a growling dog marking his territory.

  She wearily shook her head as she watched Peter disappear. Before heading back to the other side of the curtain, she squeezed her eyes shut. “Dear Saint Anne,” she whispered, “please don’t let Charlotte bring another cock into this world.”

  Nestling back aside the bed, Mary cradled Charlotte’s hand. They could hear the men carrying on outside, and Mary began chatting, trying to drown them out. The louder the men got, the more Mary jabbered on—what can they knit for the baby? Maybe she’ll get these gray eyes. Will she have Peter’s nose or Charlotte’s? At some point, Mary noticed that the men’s voices had stopped. The night was suddenly quiet but for Charlotte’s labored breath. Mary waited for the creak of the door, for Peter to come back in. But there was nothing, just silence.

  Unnerved, she rose. “Let me get you some more water,” she said, taking Charlotte’s tin cup. She stepped to the other side of the curtain and pointedly looked out the front window. Time seemed to slow as she saw Lobrano hovering over some sacks of potatoes. Why would Peter have hauled out potatoes? And then, there was a snap in her mind, and the sight came into sharp focus.

  She raced outside. “Oh God!” she cried. There, on the ground, was Peter, his shirt turning blood-soaked.

  The knife tumbled from Lobrano’s hand. He dropped to his knees, trembling. It was Eulalie’s voice that rang out in Mary’s head, One day, you’ll be on your knees to this girl, asking for forgiveness. Mary saw, crystal clear, the vision from when she was six years old: there was Eulalie pointing the knife at Lobrano.

  “Mary . . . Mary, I didn’t mean . . . you gotta believe . . .” Lobrano sputtered, but he was already invisible to her as she knelt at Peter’s side.

  “You’re gonna be all right, Peter, you hear me?” she cried.

  Lobrano held out his arms helplessly, then made a crawling, stumbling run for it.

  Mary raced back into the house. “Charlotte, Peter and me gotta take care of something,” she called out. “You be strong and bring this baby into the world.”

  “What happened, Mary? What’s wrong?”

  Mary popped her head behind the curtain, giving Charlotte the warmest smile she could muster. “Everything’s all right. We’ll all be in tall cotton soon enough, don’t you worry.” She let the curtain fall closed and moved quickly to the bureau, hoisting it aside and grabbing the cigar box. There was her week’s earnings in full, plus the profit from Beulah. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something. Spotting her kip against the wall, she hurried outside with it.

  “Peter, you stay with me,” she said as she pulled him onto the kip. With strength she never knew she had, she dragged the kip down the road.

  Mary had no sense of how much time it took to arrive at Hotel Dieu Hospital. It could have been minutes, it could have been an hour. She’d talked to Peter the whole way, telling him the story of Josie the Conductor. She hadn’t realized he’d lost consciousness.

  “Help! Somebody help me!” she called as she hauled the blood-soaked kip into the hospital.

  Nurses turned and gasped, as the sight smacked of a whore and her unfortunate trick.

  “You can’t bring that in here,” a nurse snapped. “This is a sanitary—”

  “He’s been stabbed. My brother!” Mary pleaded.

  “Oh, your brother,” another nurse said with a grimace.

  “He is my brother. Here, I got money to pay!” Mary opened the cigar box, and bills and coins, along with the hotel postcard, cascaded to the floor.

  The nurses remained frozen. “We don’t want your money. You and your john need to be on your way, girl.”

  Mary began to cry, angry, frustrated tears that burned her cheeks. “Please . . . my little brother.”

  Another nurse gingerly stepped forward. With a touch of sympathy, she knelt beside Peter to take his pulse. “Sorry, miss. The only thing I can oblige you with is a death certificate.”

  Everything went silent to Mary. The figures before her blurred together. Her legs buckled, and she sank to the ground.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jackson Square; the Cabildo is left of the Saint Louis Cathedral

  Up and down the signs bounced: THE TRAVELERS AID SOCIETY PROTESTS STORYVILLE! Buttoned-up Jean Gordon and her equally buttoned-up crew weaved through the crowd in Jackson Square, picketing and chanting, “Jesus knows your wretched soul!”

  But as the Cabildo doors opened, a hush fell over them. All eyes turned to watch as out sauntered squat Mayor Flower, mousy Alderman Story, and the men of the Public Order Committee.

  The mayor waved a scroll. “Signed and sealed!” he called out. Cheers erupted while Jean Gordon rallied her brood with hisses and boos.

  A soapbox was set down in the middle of the square, and Flower hoisted himself onto it. “The way I feel about this ordinance for Storyville—” he began, but was quickly interrupted by Alderman Story nearly tripping over himself.

  “That is not the name of the district!” Story shouted, his voice even higher-pitched than usual. He nervously flailed his arms. “It’s called . . . the District!”

  “Ain’t our good Alderman modest?” Flower said with a chuckle. “Yes, so, as I was saying, the way I feel about this ordinance for the District is the way I felt about the prohibition debate in our fine city. People from the countryside were for prohibition at home, but when they came to New Orleans they were wet and wanted New Orleans to be saturated. We recognize that New Orleans represents a destination for people who need balance in their disciplined lives. And now people will have the right to pay a trip to the new district, if it’s within their code of ethics. My friends, our sincerest hope is that this ordinance will produce a self-contained, upstanding business district of its own right.”

  The Travelers Aid Society was drowned out by the cheering.

  But one major Storyville proponent—and arguably the individual with the most to gain from
the turn of events—was clearly absent: Tom Anderson.

  At that very moment, in the back of town, Anderson was overseeing workers as they strung Nobels Extradynamit around the dilapidated houses of Basin Street. After a series of thumbs-ups from on down the line, a lever was pushed and, with a great boom, smoke billowed up as the houses crumbled down. Anderson surveyed his street—what would look like ruins to anyone else was a million-dollar avenue to him. His saloon would be on the corner, and as Storyville business expanded, he’d build one bordello after another.

  But for now, he was to start with the two houses left standing on Basin: Countess Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall, which Anderson had a hefty stake in and, two doors down, a vacant but exquisite Victorian with a towering cupola. There was something that had attracted him to the Victorian, even though he’d considered tearing it down because of its state of disrepair. But unlike the other houses now in rubble, this one had an attention to detail, an artistry, a personality, with detailed iron lace, decorative masonry, and copper finishings that had aged to a glowing blue-green patina. But his favorite feature was presiding over the front door: an intricate plaster relief of a cherubic woman with flowing hair, her face framed by seashells and flowers and a cornucopia overflowing with fruit. It was as if the house already had a symbolic madam. And now it needed a real one.

  Not far from Basin, rats scurried over crumbling tombstones and random bones that had surfaced in the paupers’ cemetery. Next to Mary stood Charlotte, gently swaying as she held a tiny swathed bundle. Solemnly, they watched as two gravediggers lowered an unadorned pine box into the ground.

  “If anythin’ of value’s buried with him, best take it back,” one of the diggers said. “This swampland don’t keep much down.”

  Mary shook her head.

  Trudging by, another gravedigger dragged a coffin on a rope, the body inside shifting loudly from side to side. There was no such thing as respect for the dead here. A haggard woman trailed the coffin, cursing it. “You son of a bitch, gamblin’ and drinkin’ away everythin’. From your own daughter! Here’s where you spend the rest o’ your days. The pauper’s lot. You happy now?” The teenaged daughter, in a tattered black dress, was stone-faced behind her.