Madam: A Novel of New Orleans

by Cari Lynn

  “Sorry, sir,” Ferd stammered. “I didn’t see you there.”

  A man drunkenly stirred. “Where ya goin’?”

  “Just getting on my way,” Ferd said, and he continued forward.

  Another voice rang out. “How dare you turn your back to my brother, Negro.” Stepping from the shadows was Alabama boy Acey LaRue. “You disrespectin’ my brother?”

  Ferd felt a chill come over him. “I mean no disrespect, sir,” he said.

  “Don’t sir me. You don’t even have the right to speak to me.”

  Pierce LaRue hoisted himself up from the ground. “Where we come from, we owned your kind.”

  They moved closer to Ferdinand and he could smell the alcohol on them.

  “This here’s a backward town, Negroes minglin’ with the superior race,” Acey said.

  Ferd’s heart pounded. His muscles began twitching.

  “I think you need a lesson ’bout how the world really works, boy.”

  Pierce drunkenly lunged, but Ferd took off running at full speed, his long legs bolting down the walk and across the street. One thing was for certain, the lanky kid could run, and the LaRue brothers, in their dinner suits and inebriated states, were after him like a pack of turtles—only, in Ferd’s mind this was hardly the case. To him, the burly men were on him like wolves. He didn’t look back the entire way.

  When he at last charged up to Grandmère’s house, he thrust himself through the back door and hurried to bolt it behind him. Gasping for breath, he collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

  As if it couldn’t get worse, he heard stirring in the house. Now he’d gone and woken Grandmère, and he’d have to explain his whereabouts. If the Devil was trying to scare him away from music- making, the attempt was a darn good one. But Ferd didn’t recognize the footsteps as Grandmère’s slippered shuffle. Instead, two tiny bare feet approached. A little girl, arms crossed, stood before him.

  “You going off to hear the blues on brass without me?” Améde demanded.

  Ferd hid his shaking hands behind his back. “Shhh.”

  “If Grandmère catches you,” Améde warned, “she’ll slap you to sleep, then slap you for sleeping.”

  “You go on back to bed, Améde.”

  “You ill or something? You don’t look right.”

  Slowly raising himself up, Ferd took off his sweat-soaked jacket—his gorgeous tailored jacket, hadn’t wanted it to see a single crease earlier in the night, and look at it now. With his legs exhausted, he hobbled toward his room.

  “Ferd,” Améde whispered after him. “Tomorrow . . . another cala?” She gave a devious but hopeful smile as if to remind her brother of their little secret.

  “No more calas,” Ferd said wearily. “We’re staying put.”

  “Are you getting dim? What I’m trying to say is—”

  “I know, Améde. The music’s dead and buried for now.”

  “You’re being scary, Ferd.”

  “Sometimes things are scary, little girl. Now leave me be.” He closed his bedroom door and crawled into bed, cradling himself.

  The morning sun shone brightly through the stained-glass windows of the Countess’s bordello. Empty Champagne bottles, party masks, wilted flowers, and articles of clothing were strewn about the parlor. House rules mandated that no john was allowed to spend the night, and while the girls had done a good job of shooing the males out, they’d lost the energy to get their own selves upstairs. Instead, sleeping girls still in their party dresses were draped over the sofas and nestled into the bear-claw chairs and curled up on the fur throws.

  The only sound in the house other than snoring was a rhythmic scrubbing, then a sloshing of water, then more scrubbing. On their hands and knees, Addie and Boo maneuvered the scrub brush around the sleeping whores, pushing aside a leg or lifting a dangling arm. The girls were out so cold, no one stirred.

  “They could make a preacher cuss,” Addie mumbled.

  No one even flinched when a loud knock sounded at the front door, except for Addie and Boo, who looked questioningly to each other. “Who in their right mind’s coming by now?” Addie moaned. She nodded to Boo, who wiped her damp hands on her apron before unbolting the door. As she peered out she nearly gasped at the sight of a large-headed, misshapen little man, his arms full of all sort of contraptions.

  “Yes, sir?” she said warily.

  E. J. Bellocq’s shrill voice was almost as disconcerting as his appearance. “Please inform Mistah Flabacher that the photographer has arrived. Thank you.”

  Wide-eyed, Boo nodded and shut the door.

  “Well, who’s there?” Addie asked.

  “The photographer? A buggy-lookin’ one, Ma.”

  They both turned to see Flabacher, fresh and dressed in a three-piece suit, entering the foyer, having come in from the guest quarters, a gold pocket watch in his hand. “Well, good morn—” his voice trailed off as he saw the slumber-filled parlor, “My oh my, this isn’t very sightly, is it?”

  “The photographer be on the porch,” Addie informed him.

  “Well, at least someone has an appreciation for time,” Flabacher muttered.

  He led Bellocq around to the back courtyard, where, amidst clotheslines of petticoats and stockings, Bellocq busily set up his tripod, wet plate, and camera. Flabacher shuffled about impatiently, checking his watch. “There was another big opening party last night,” he explained. “They’re throwing opening parties every Saturday night up until the official opening of Storyville on New Year’s Eve. Still, though, it’s half past noon, surely one of them should be up by now.” He called into the open kitchen window. “How’s that pot of coffee coming, Addie?”

  “Still brewin’,” she called back.

  “I need one of those gals,” he said.

  “Which one?” Addie asked.

  “Uhh . . . one who’s coherent?”

  Addie popped her head out the doorway to give him a look. “This coffee’s strong, but ain’t gonna float no iron wedge.”

  “I know, I know,” Flabacher said, “but can you just go wake one? The photographer’s on the clock.”

  A few moments later, Addie reappeared, propping up a girl dressed in nothing but her petticoat and garters. “This be Lucinda,” Addie announced.

  “Lucinda, great!” Flabacher boomed. They helped her into a wicker chair and she promptly nodded off, wilting like a dead, makeup-smeared flower.

  Bellocq looked through the ground glass of his camera, then stepped back helplessly.

  “Hello? Lucinda?” Flabacher said.

  Her head rolled around, and she cracked open an eye . . . but then her neck lolled again.

  “Lu-cin-da! We need you to wake up!” Flabacher called in her face. This time, she curled her legs up onto the chair, but to no avail; she was just getting more comfortable. Flabacher threw his arms into the air. “Well, this just dills my pickle,” he exclaimed. “Mister Bellocq, can you make the photograph in an artistic way so we can’t tell she’s . . . out cold?”

  Bellocq stared blankly at Flabacher.

  “Splendid!” Flabacher said. “Fetch me when you’re done.” He stomped off into the house, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  Bellocq wasn’t keen on being left alone with the sleeping whore. After all, his last photographic job had been doing class pictures for the Catholic primary school. He inched toward her. Keeping distance as if she might suddenly snap to and bite him, he awkwardly stretched out his hand to touch her shoulder. Delicately, he lowered her petticoat strap. It drooped to reveal her breast. Bellocq stared for a moment, then, satisfied, he quietly stepped back, ducking behind his camera.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When Tom Anderson had suggested, strongly, that Mary take a new name, she wasn’t sure what to pick, or even how she should feel about it. “This is your chance to reinvent yourself,” he’d told her. “You can change your identity completely. Leave behind Mary Deubler. Become
the woman you always wanted to be, or never thought you could be, or didn’t even dare dream of being. Your fate is in your own hands now.”

  His words were intoxicating. They were everything Mary could have wanted to hear, and yet, she didn’t feel anything near what she would have imagined. Here she had the opportunity to shed her former self and to create a new one from thin air. She could instantly become a Russian princess, or a circus acrobat, heir to an aristocrat, or even an African priestess. She could create any lineage and a jaw-dropping story of how she’d come to be a madam.

  But something was tugging at her. Peter had been the only male Deubler, and she suddenly felt a twinge of nostalgia for a self she was only beginning to know.

  Anderson, however, was thrilled with the notion of remaking Mary. His eyes grew twinkly as he talked to her of what she could be. It was everything, and more, than even her most secret dreams, and yet she heard very clearly all that he wasn’t saying: he never spoke of what she was.

  She’d be the first to admit that an Alley whore wasn’t something to be proud of, but there must be more to her than just Alley whore, she felt sure of that. But Anderson wanted her made up like a fairy tale.

  So she chose the first name Josie to keep Peter’s nickname for her close. His words would remind her that no matter what invention she went on to become, it was she who was the conductor of this train.

  Arlington would be her surname, after the hotel in the picture postcard. Her mama had been there once. When, or with whom, Mary wasn’t sure, but the postcard was one of the only remaining items that had meant enough to Mama that she’d kept it in the top bureau drawer. One day, Mary believed, she’d go to the Arlington too. She’d go with someone special, someone who knew her as Mary, not as a concoction of a person.

  After she’d chosen her new name, Tom Anderson arranged for her to meet with what he called a beautician.

  As Mary approached Paulina’s Boudoir on Canal Street—the likes of which she would never have dared step foot in, given that she couldn’t afford a hairpin, let alone an outfit there—she felt as uneasy as she had when approaching Miss Eulalie’s that first time. This was just as much another world to her.

  She was met at the door by a perfectly coiffed woman with a flawless alabaster complexion. “You must be Josie,” the woman practically sang out. Mary was taken aback. She opened her mouth to say, No, I’m Mary, but then it sank in that, yes, she must be Josie.

  “I’m Paulina, come in, we have such beauties waiting for you! Mistah Anderson wants you to be adored and pampered. You won’t walk out of here until you’re a new person!”

  There it was again. Mary gulped.

  For the next several hours, Mary was indeed transformed. Her hair was washed, cut, and styled with curling tongs that had been heated in the fireplace, and then swept back and high in a jeweled hair clip to “show off her gorgeous décolleté,” or so said Paulina. Mary hadn’t been aware she possessed a décolleté. She smiled politely, not sure if it was her ears, chin, or what part exactly that she was supposed to be showing off.

  Paulina then moved Mary to a dressing table decorated with a silver vanity set and all sorts of fancy bottles and tins and jeweled boxes.

  “First, you’ll want to start with blotting powder,” Paulina instructed, dipping a puff into a silver tin of rice powder and dabbing it on Mary’s forehead, chin, and nose. Mary fluttered, trying to hold back a sneeze. “As for your eyes,” Paulina continued, “some high-society ladies use belladonna drops to create a misty look that men supposedly love. You can try it, but if you ask me, I think belladonna brings on a delirium. Personally, I prefer just a little Vaseline on the eyelids. That will give some luster to your gray eyes.”

  Paulina reached for a matchbox and slid it open. “You’re lucky, you already have dark lashes, but you can still add a bit of drama.” She struck a match, then held it to a cork wine stopper. When the edge blackened, she waved out the match and blew on the cork to cool it. Mary’s lids flitted as Paulina brushed the cork over her lashes. “You’ll get used to it,” Paulina said. Mary blinked her eyes open.

  “Now, this is my favorite!” Paulina held up a little ceramic pot decorated with a pink flower. “Liprose. I travel all the way to Paris, to the House of Guerlain, and I buy dozens to give only to my most prized clients. To think, I used to slice beets to color my lips.” She dipped a small brush in the pot then carefully painted Mary’s mouth. “Now you must take care to apply this very lightly. You don’t want to end up looking like a . . .” Paulina quickly caught herself. “You just don’t want to look tawdry is all.”

  Paulina leaned back to admire her work. With a satisfied grin, she picked up the hand mirror and turned it for Mary to see. Mary had felt a girl walking into the boudoir, but what peered back at her in the mirror was a woman. While Mary studied herself, Paulina yammered on, her voice growing more and more distant as Mary’s image of herself as a madam grew more and more certain. For the first time, Mary understood what Tom Anderson saw in her, and she believed she could, indeed, play the role. She wouldn’t be a madam like the Countess, who wore her face like a mask. Instead, with the grime gone and the weariness hidden, Mary looked like a shiny penny.

  “I want you to treat your face with lemon juice twice a day,” Paulina chattered. “You want your complexion to be fair and delicate, my dear. And I suggest you always use a parasol when you’re outdoors, even just for an errand or brief stroll. Oh, and you must use Pears soap to wash! You’ll smell like the English countryside.” Mary’s head spun as she half listened to all the things she must and mustn’t do.

  The mirror was plucked from Mary’s hand as an array of clothing was paraded in. “Bonnets have fallen out of fashion,” Paulina explained, “but wide-brimmed hats are all the desire!” Mary didn’t own a single hat, but no worry, Tom Anderson was set to change that.

  “See, here’s how I keep up on the very latest.” Paulina handed Mary a magazine. The cover showed a drawing of a sailboat, and at the top was a banner with a lounging, barefoot woman on one side peering into a looking glass, and a lounging, barefoot woman on the other side reading a newspaper; a scroll unfurled between them that said in capital letters, VOGUE.

  “We’ll have you looking like a Gibson girl in no time,” Paulina clucked.

  Mary was presented with heeled, fine kid boots, the tops decorated with tassels, and then a full-length cloak and a little sable jacket lined with velvet. The only thought keeping Mary smiling was imagining the look on Charlotte’s face when she brought home all the riches.

  But then it occurred to her: how would she get all of this home? She had no carriage, and if Paulina suggested to help, well, Mary would be too ashamed to have her—or anyone of this ilk—by the house. Amidst the coiffing and dolling, little beads of sweat began forming on Mary’s forehead and the back of her neck. She took a moment to excuse herself to get some air.

  Outside, as she breathed deeply, she noticed how the passersby looked at her. The society women greeted her with friendly smiles, and the men gave her lingering but respectful nods. Never before had she experienced such reactions from strangers—she was used to these women looking down their noses, and these men grimacing or, at best, giving her a sleazy leer. So this was the life of Josie Arlington.

  She returned inside to continue with her transformation.

  To Mary’s great relief, it was Paulina’s idea to arrange for the clothing to be left at the shop until Mary, that is, Josie, was ready for it to be delivered to the bordello. Anderson hadn’t yet informed Mary where her bordello might be. She imagined it would be a tidy little framehouse, maybe two bedrooms, three if she was lucky. It didn’t even occur to her that it may have a bathroom indoors.

  When Mary entered her tiny, dirt-floor house that eve, Charlotte was in the rocker, nursing Anna.

  “Mercy me!” Charlotte gasped. “How did you come to be all dolled up so fancy?”

  Mary hadn’t yet breathed a word of Anderson’s offer to Charlott
e. She’d kept waiting for him to rescind, for someone to come and tell her it was all a cruel joke. But with each day that passed, it began to sink in. And now, as she stood in front of her own little mirror, it became real. She was to be a madam. She was Madam Josie Arlington.

  Mary waited until the baby was asleep in her cradle before she explained it all to Charlotte. Hanging on every word, Charlotte barely blinked. “Mary, no!” she kept exclaiming. “You’re lyin’ like a no-legged dog!”

  “Charlotte, I daresay, it’s all true.”

  “It’s the stuff of fairy tales and tall tales and things that don’t just happen, especially not to people like us.”

  “We’re not ‘people like us’ anymore, Lottie.”

  Still, there were some details Mary had to figure out. No matter that she’d be a madam, there was no place for baby Anna in a whorehouse. Mary knew she needed to save up money to put Charlotte and Anna somewhere nearby, but not in the District. She believed that Anna should be kept from any knowledge of how Mary earned a living—and even knowledge of the Underworld in general. Anna would not see this life as a default, the way Mary had and Mama had. No, this way of life would not get passed on to yet another generation. Anna would have an education and opportunities, Mary would make certain of it.

  But in the meantime Mary was going to need to provide for them once the Alley closed, and she dreaded the necessary conversation with Anderson regarding her cut of the monies. It would be then that Josie the conductor would make her debut, and Mary decided that her new persona would be an expert in ways of business. Savvy, that’s what Josie would be. She’d heard that word used to describe Anderson, although she’d never before heard it used to describe a woman. But as Anderson said, Josie was her creation. So Josie could be the first savvy woman.