I stared at my reflection in the mirror. ‘Jewel, if you are going to be a stripper, then be a good one!’
I knew the order in which Melody put on her clothes for a performance, but in my excitable state I overdid it. As well as the net panties with a satin modesty patch at the crotch, the nipple pasties, the see-through net bra and the full bra, I added a corset, fishnet stockings, panel skirt, fascinator and feather boa.
The stage manager called my name and I made my way to the wings. The band played my introduction and the Master of Ceremonies announced me as ‘The glittering, sparkling, dazzling Jewel of New Orleans’. Grimaldi’s men clapped and cat-called. I waited in the wings a moment, then sucked in a gulp of air before gliding onto the stage. I froze as soon as I found myself in the spotlight. Every table was filled with men. It was as if the entire Louisiana mob had come to the club that night.
I caught a glimpse of Rolando at the bar. He gestured for me to do something. Although I felt like a human coat stand with all the clothes I had on, I sashayed across the stage as I’d seen the other girls do.
You’re Jewel now, I said to myself. Not Ruby.
My legs quivered and I’d developed a nervous twitch around my mouth.
‘Take something off,’ the stage manager whispered from behind the curtain.
I moved towards the dark corner of the stage, but the spotlight followed me. I undid the pin of my fascinator, flung it to the side and let down my hair. A shift occurred in the atmosphere of the room. I felt the ripple of excitement that ran through the audience.
I slipped the bolero jacket from my shoulders and rubbed the feather boa across my chest. The men whistled and cheered. The more they egged me on, the more I began to enjoy myself. Their adoration electrified me.
I moved my hands over the shape of every item of clothing, as if to suggest the loveliness that lay underneath it, before removing it. Rolando nodded his approval at my teasing, but also pointed to his watch as a signal to speed things up. I’d put on so many items of clothing, it was taking much longer than the usual ten minutes to get them all off. The band had to play the same piece of music over twice, but the audience didn’t seem to mind that my act was spinning out to a full show.
My nervousness returned once I’d taken my corset off and it came time for me to remove my outer bra. My breasts would be revealed then, except for the net bra and pasties. I almost fled the stage at that point, but somehow I summoned the courage. Here goes! I thought.
My heart pounded as I fumbled with the front clasp of the bra. I flung it aside, not realising that I’d undone the net bra as well and all I had on were my pasties with no support. I shimmied awkwardly and one of the pasties flew off and landed in someone’s drink. The men roared with laughter and cheered. Well, that was as good a finale as I could hope for!
I demurely placed my fingers over my bare nipple and waved to the audience with my other hand. I expected the spotlight to go off then so I could exit the stage without having to show my near-naked bottom, but it remained on. All I could do was keep waving.
But it was all right: I’d earned three hundred dollars and a standing ovation for doing nothing but wiggling about a bit and taking off my clothes. I couldn’t understand why it had taken me so long to finally become a stripper. I was hooked.
THIRTEEN
Amanda
My head was spinning. Whatever I’d expected my elegant New Orleans grandmother to tell me, it wasn’t that she’d been a stripper.
‘Are you shocked?’ she asked, studying my face.
I recovered my composure and shook my head. I could imagine Aunt Louise being upset by her mother’s past, but I thought it was fabulous. It made me feel less of a misfit. I had taken burlesque classes when Dita Von Teese came on the scene and what Grandma Ruby had described was tame compared to what went on in Kings Cross these days. Yet a very important question remained.
‘I’m surprised but not shocked,’ I told her. ‘I am curious to know what you being a stripper has to do with me and the back porch?’
She looked horrified at my question and shook her finger at me. ‘Amandine, you are impatient!’ she scolded. ‘In New Orleans patience is a way of life. That dish Louise made the other night wasn’t something whipped up in a microwave. Gumbo is a blend of traditions from Africa, France and the Native Americans. It’s got the taste of centuries in it. Louise has added her own present-day spirit to it by making it with chickpeas and kidney beans. When you make Creole food, you’ve got to add each of the ingredients with feeling and a sense of order. You don’t slap anything together. Then it would merely be a stew. Likewise, you don’t rush a storyteller with her story. You’ve got to trust that things are leading somewhere. So be patient, Amandine. I’ll get to that part when I’m ready.’ With that she blew out the candles which had burned low and turned on the light. ‘Now to bed.’
I watched her walk up the stairs with the same disbelief the sultan of Arabian Nights must have felt when Scheherazade left him hanging on for the rest of her tale each night.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of Flambeau crowing so loudly that I thought he must be under my bed. When I realised he wasn’t, I tugged on a skirt and tank top and crept downstairs.
I’d assumed that Grandma Ruby kept Flambeau in the potting shed at night so I was surprised to see him standing in a dog bed near the back door. He clucked when he saw me and strutted as if he wanted to go outside. I opened the door, and the first thing he did on greeting the morning air was an enormous poop on the lawn. He appeared to be toilet-trained. Was that even possible?
I followed him outside and re-examined the woodwork on the porch. What had seemed only yesterday to be deterioration now took on a mysterious meaning. The maidenhair ferns that sprouted around the lattice hid a secret. But what was it? What did this porch have to do with me?
‘Good morning!’ The deep voice made me snap to attention. I turned to see a man wearing khaki overalls and a wide-brimmed hat standing behind me.
‘You must be Amandine. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright,’ he said, extending a friendly hand. ‘I’m Oliver. I do the garden here.’
He looked to be a few years older than me, but with his strong bone structure and ebony skin it was hard to tell. He could have been forty and only looked young.
My heart slowed to its normal rhythm again. ‘The garden is beautiful,’ I said.
‘Thank you. I’m following a family tradition working here. My great-uncle Ned was the gardener when your grandmother first moved here, and I took over from my father ten years ago.’
I glanced back at the rotten lattice. Ten years? Maybe he knew something about the porch?
Oliver noticed where I was looking. ‘I’ve been telling Ruby for years that we need to replace that wood. Fortunately there’s no evidence of termites, but the damp is causing it to rot. I want to remove the floorboards and dig a perimeter trench to deal with the moisture, but every time I mention it, she avoids the topic.’
I had to tread carefully now. The porch needed to be fixed but I wanted to find out what the secret was first. ‘I think this place has a sad memory for her,’ I said. ‘When the time is right, I’d like to convince her to fix the porch too.’
‘A sad memory? There may be something to that,’ said Oliver, with a curious look in his eye. ‘But my father and great-uncle came from a tradition where employees never talked about their employer’s business, so I don’t know. My father tried to instil the same values in me: “You see nothing, and you say nothing.” That’s the way the old folks did things.’
He nodded towards the garden path. ‘Have you had a chance to look around the garden? Lorena said you studied restoration architecture.’
‘I know a lot about buildings and furniture from my studies, but I did learn something about plants from my nan who loved to garden.’
‘Well, the first thing to know about Victorian gardens,’ he said as we walked side by side on the path, ‘is that they�
��re romantic.’ He pointed to a lattice arch that perfectly framed a flowerbed brimming with petunias and pansies. ‘This garden was landscaped according to a Victorian ideal of elegance, but the plants and trees had to be suitable for the climate and soil of New Orleans.’
‘The Victorians had a taste for the exotic oriental too,’ I said, noticing the red geraniums and azaleas.
Next to the gardener’s cottage was a cutting garden blooming with white and pink roses, formosa lilies, zinnias and watsonias. Oliver pulled a pair of secateurs from his pocket and cut some white tuberoses. Their scent was rich and sultry.
‘Give those to Lorena for your grandmother’s breakfast tray,’ he said. ‘They’re her favourite cut flowers. It was nice to meet you, Amandine. If you’ve got any questions about the garden, I’d be happy to answer them.’
I passed the rear porch on my way back to the house. A shiver ran down my spine and I stopped in my tracks. The image of Grandma Ruby dancing for Joe Grimaldi and his mobsters flashed into my mind. Aunt Louise had said that the New Orleans mafia used to hide bodies under the houses of respectable citizens. Then I thought of Uncle Jonathan’s family finding skeletons buried in their garden and recalled Grandma Ruby’s ghost tour story about a man who was supposed to have been murdered by his wife and buried under the porch. A sick feeling pinched my stomach. Could there be more to that story than Grandma Ruby was letting on? I pushed the thought from my mind. The last thing I needed now I had reunited with my New Orleans family was to discover something gruesome in their past.
When I entered the house, Lorena had arrived and was busy making breakfast. It was going to be difficult to talk to Grandma Ruby about family secrets with her in the house. An hour later, Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Louise turned up carrying their laptops and a box full of binder folders.
‘We decided to take you up on your offer to look after Momma, Amandine, and go on the trip to Arizona,’ Aunt Louise said, plonking her laptop on the kitchen table. ‘We hoped to work today to get everything up to speed before we go away but we forgot that the maintenance management had arranged to fumigate our office building this weekend. I had some drycleaning of Momma’s to bring over so we thought we may as well work from here today.’
Uncle Jonathan patted me on the shoulder. ‘Louise told me about your offer to look after Ruby so we can go on our trip. That’s very kind of you, Amandine. It’s something we’ve been looking forward to for a long time.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Your trip sounds exciting!’
I was tempted to ask Aunt Louise if I could use the internet on her laptop for a moment. I hadn’t brought mine with me, and apart from the console television in the sitting room, the portable one in the kitchen and the CD player in my room, the house seemed devoid of electronic devices. I was curious to see if I could find any mention of a burlesque dancer named Jewel who had performed in New Orleans in the 1950s. That way I could be sure Grandma Ruby hadn’t made the whole thing up to stir me the way she used to stir the tourists she took on ghost tours. But I decided against it. I didn’t want to raise Aunt Louise’s suspicion about anything to do with Grandma Ruby’s past. I’d find the public library instead and use the internet there.
I went upstairs and grabbed my mini backpack, and tossed my digital camera into it along with a map of New Orleans. Then I filled my stainless-steel flask from the water cooler in the kitchen before attaching it to the strap of my bag.
‘What are you planning to do today?’ Uncle Jonathan asked. He was sorting papers into piles on the table.
‘I was thinking of walking around the French Quarter, and maybe taking an architectural tour.’
‘You’ll love it!’ said Aunt Louise. ‘But come home by seven. I’ll cook dinner for us tonight.’
I glanced up the staircase, hoping Grandma Ruby might make an appearance before I set off.
‘Oh, don’t expect to see her downstairs anytime soon,’ said Aunt Louise, giving me a peck on the cheek. ‘Ever since Daddy passed away Momma’s been a late riser.’
I caught the streetcar to Poydras Street. On the map it didn’t look too far to walk to Loyola Avenue from there. But after ten minutes I began to wonder if I should fork out the money for a taxi. The humidity was making my clothes stick to me — and the business district was the least charming of all the places I’d seen in New Orleans. The wide blocks and the square buildings with tiny windows were too stark for my taste, although fans of modernist architecture would have loved them. I hated buildings that were eyesores but considered brilliant simply because they broke with convention. They would be torn down eventually to be replaced by buildings with better aesthetics. It was wasteful.
The area didn’t seem all that safe either. I passed a bus stop, but the people squatted around it weren’t waiting for a bus, they were smoking crack.
With grim determination, sweat and a blister on my heel, I made it to the post office but couldn’t see the library. A postal truck driver told me it was located at City Hall on Perdido Street a few blocks down. ‘Be careful crossing the streets here,’ he warned me. ‘People drive like maniacs.’
As if to illustrate his point, I nearly got wiped out on a pedestrian crossing by a mother with three children driving a Chevrolet Suburban. Gone were the genteel manners of the Garden District.
There wasn’t a taxi in sight, so I gritted my teeth, finished my water and headed in the direction the postal driver had indicated. I found City Hall — a cement block with blue windows that wouldn’t have been out of place in the former Soviet Union — but there was no sign of the library.
‘Could you tell me where the public library is?’ I asked a woman waiting on the steps outside City Hall.
‘I have no idea,’ she replied.
Exhausted and thirsty, I sat down under a tree in the park across the road. Then I noticed a young man sitting on the park’s low wall and holding a hardcover book with a plastic cover. A library book!
‘Hey!’ I called, rushing towards him. He grabbed his bag and held it to his body, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘Sorry to scare you,’ I said. ‘I only want to know where to find the public library.’
My accent seemed to reassure him that I wasn’t deranged. He pointed to a building at the edge of the park.
‘Thanks,’ I told him with a smile, but he didn’t return to his reading until I was a safe distance away.
The public library had been built in the same era as City Hall judging by the bronze-anodised sunscreen around the top two floors. As I’d gone to so much trouble to find it, I thought I may as well take a picture. I pulled my camera out of my bag, but spotted a security guard glaring at me. A security guard outside a library nobody could locate? What was that about? Then I noticed the airport-style metal detectors as I walked into the building and the sign that read: No weapons. This was insane!
I’d once been scolded by a student inside Sydney University’s library because she thought my new Doc Martens squeaked too loudly. What would she have said if I’d pulled out a Glock pistol and started a shoot-out right there between Architectural Materials and Buildings for Religious Purposes?
I bought myself a time card at the front desk, and sat down in front of a computer to search for a New Orleans burlesque dancer named Jewel. I found plenty of information about Evangeline the Oyster Girl who emerged from a giant shell on stage, and who became so jealous of a rival act, Divena, who stripped underwater, that on stage one night she attacked Divena’s water tank with a sledgehammer. There was also Lilly Christine, the Cat Girl, famous for a stalking dance that the chief inspector for the district attorney described as ‘the most filthy, most lewd and indecent performance I had ever witnessed in my life’. Then there was Wild Cherry who danced to Afro-Cuban jazz, and Linda Brigette who had an act that featured a baboon, a python and fire-eating.
I looked up the famous New Orleans clubs of the day — the Hotsy Totsy, the Flamingo, Poodle’s Patio and the 500 Club — and used up all the keywords I could think of, but could
n’t find one mention of a stripper named Jewel. Perhaps Grandma Ruby had made the whole thing up after all. I sat back and chewed on my nail. That was the confusing thing: for somebody who supposedly kept so many secrets, Grandma Ruby came across as authentic.
I decided to give the old-fashioned way a try and switched over to the library’s catalogue. Perhaps I’d find what I was looking for on the shelf. I located a book in the New Orleans entertainment section titled Bourbon Street Babes: A history of burlesque dancers in New Orleans, and sat down in a vinyl armchair to read it.
In the introduction I discovered that Christian evangelist Billy Graham described the French Quarter as the ‘middle of hell’ on a visit to the city in 1954, but as I studied the pictures of the Bourbon Street nightclubs and their patrons, I thought it seemed much classier than it did now. The men were wearing suits, and the women were dressed to the nines with tiaras and silk gloves. The dancers who’d performed there in the 1950s — Tempest Storm, Tiger Lily, Fatima, Reddi Flame — looked like goddesses in their feathers and sequins.
I scanned the pages, still searching for Jewel but not holding out much hope, until I came across a black and white picture of a dancer on stage, taken from the side view. It was captioned: The dancer Jewel, one of the most popular acts in New Orleans, who disappeared mysteriously in 1955. I read the copy, but there was no further mention of her.
I stared at the picture. It showed a woman wearing a figure-hugging, black lace fishtail dress. Her soft curls hid most of her face, but the audience’s expressions ranged from adoration to rapture. I tried to see Grandma Ruby in the woman, but the angle of the photograph made it impossible to discern her facial features. All I could deduce was that Jewel had been beautiful.
I put the book back and accepted I’d reached a dead end — for now anyway.
On my way to the French Quarter I stopped at a Walgreens to buy a couple of bottles of water. As I waited in line for the cashier I eyed a dumpbin full of baby alligator heads. The sign above it read: On Special: $7.99. Were they real or plastic?
Southern Ruby Page 19
