The Book of Harlan

by Bernice L. McFadden

  “Yes, I do. Where you say you from again?”

  Lizard set two dollars on the bar. “St. Louis.”

  “St. Louis? I ain’t never been, but I heard it ain’t sweet. You should know better.”

  Lizard nodded. “I guess you’re right.” He stuffed the money back into his pocket. “And you’re right about another thing too: St. Louis ain’t sweet—that’s why I’ve got this.” He stretched out his right leg and tugged up the pant leg. Strapped to his ankle was a .22 snub-nosed revolver.

  “Nice,” Harlan said admiringly. “Good to know you’re not a punk.” He patted his stomach. “You hungry? I’m hungry.”

  Lizard said, “I could eat.”

  * * *

  They ended up at Jimmy’s Chicken Shack, a Harlem eatery known for its food, but celebrated for its late-night jam sessions.

  “Who’s your friend?” the curvy, brown-skinned waitress asked Harlan as her eyes crawled all over Lizard.

  “Lizard, Davette. Davette, Lizard,” Harlan stated distractedly.

  Davette batted her false eyelashes. “Lizard, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her eyes dropped casually to his crotch. “Why they call you that?” she purred.

  Lizard didn’t miss a beat: “If we get to know one another, I might show you.”

  A sultry smile curled Davette’s lips.

  “Over there.” Harlan pointed anxiously to an empty table near the band. “We want to sit there.”

  * * *

  They spent the latter part of that Tuesday night reveling in the music, munching on whiting sandwiches, and slurping down Schlitz beer.

  One musician after the next was invited to the stage to jam with the band. Some were good, most were mediocre, two were booed off.

  Near one a.m., Lizard licked grease from his fingers, opened the red case, and retrieved his instrument.

  Harlan eyed him. “You gonna try?”

  “Sure. I came to Harlem to play with the best.”

  He mounted the small stage and told the musicians what he was going to play; his selection provoked dubious glances.

  Lizard pulled a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and clutched it firmly in his hand. The white handkerchief was Louis Armstrong’s signature. The audience shook their heads in sad amusement.

  “Aww, man, please!” someone yelled.

  “Don’t tell me this white-as-rice-looking Negro think he’s as good as Satchmo.”

  Harlan dropped his head into his hands.

  Lizard raised the horn to his mouth and pressed a smoldering kiss onto its brass lip. The move raised a squall of laughter from the band.

  Lizard blew a few magical notes, dropped the horn to his hip, and began to sing. “Got no shoes on my feet, ain’t got nothing to eat, but I’ve got a heart full of rhythm . . .”

  He didn’t completely possess Armstrong’s gravelly timbre, but his imitation was strong enough to bring the audience to their feet, clapping, hooting, and fanning the air with napkins.

  Harlan lifted his face from his hands, bona fide surprise radiating on his face.

  When Lizard stepped off the stage, Harlan scrambled to him, slapped him heartily on the back, proclaiming, “Lizard, you a baaaad man!”

  * * *

  Hours and many beers later, the new friends stepped from the eatery onto the sidewalk and headed down the street toward the sunrise.

  “That was some kind of night,” Lizard beamed.

  Turning up the collar of his shirt, Harlan yawned his response: “Every night in Harlem is some kind of night.”

  * * *

  To say they became fast friends would be an understatement—attached at the hip paints a better picture. Within a short span of time, they became as close as brothers, and that’s how Harlan introduced him around Harlem. “This is my brother from another mother.”

  Emma took a liking to Lizard immediately. “My goodness,” she gasped the first time Harlan brought him home, “if you don’t look like my brother Seth!”

  The only similarities Lizard shared with Seth were their complexions, silky-to-the-touch hair, and the labels used to describe black people shod in white skin: half-caste, mulatto, light-bright.

  Lizard soon became a fixture in the Elliott household.

  During the week, he joined them for dinner. On Saturday nights, white hankie in hand, Lizard showcased his gift—blowing high notes that scraped the ceiling, notes so low people half-expected to see clefts and trebles scuttling across the floor. Happy notes, sad notes, sexy notes, deep-in-the-bone-weary notes. Notes that recounted stories so primal, Lizard couldn’t have had any earthly acquaintance with them—but there they were, streaming from his trumpet like ribbons.

  Chapter 46

  It made all the sense in the world to marry their magic, bottle it, and put it out for profit. All they needed was a piano player, a drummer, and a nice-looking girl with a decent voice, pretty legs, and straight teeth. None would be difficult to find in Harlem. One could throw a penny out a window and it would ricochet off one and hit another.

  “A band?” Lizard said and burped. “You and me?”

  They were in the parlor, sprawled on the sofa, nursing their bloated Sunday-dinner bellies.

  “Yeah, man. We out here playing with all of these other cats, making them look good. We should have our own group.”

  Lizard scratched the bridge of his nose. “You think?”

  “You goddamn right I do. You and me would blow the lid off this town!” Harlan slapped his chest.

  Lizard silently pondered his friend’s words.

  “So you wanna do this thing or what?”

  “I dunno.” Lizard looked down at his hands.

  Harlan waited for more, but Lizard offered nothing.

  Taking his friend’s silence as rejection, Harlan huffed cavalierly, “Whatever, man, I ain’t gonna beg you. I don’t even beg for pussy.” Dejected, he rose from the couch and went to sulk at the window.

  Lizard laughed. “You’re such a baby. Waaaa-waaaa!” he teased, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, man,” he announced after a pause with a clap of his hands, “of course we should start our own band.”

  “You serious man? For real?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. Let’s blow the lid off Harlem!”

  * * *

  Harlan went on to recruit Lincoln Watson, who had been making a name for himself playing piano in musical battles known as Cutting Contests, held at rent parties and boutique nightclubs. The color of strong coffee and round, Lincoln wore black thick-framed bifocal glasses which painted him with a comical facade that often excluded him from romantic considerations. That was until he opened his mouth and slayed them with his silky baritone, reducing women to crimson cheeks and giggles.

  Harlan enlisted Bruno Franklin on drums. Bruno was a towering, serious-looking, chain-smoking fellow who was not only a skilled barber but claimed to have also mastered six instruments, including the mbira.

  “What the hell is a mbira?” Lizard asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Harlan shrugged. “I’m just selling it the way I bought it.”

  When Ivy Reid strolled into Harlan’s favorite watering hole, he hadn’t seen her in years. Ivy had been Harlan’s eighth-grade crush. His heart had been broken when she went to live with an aunt in the Bronx.

  Harlan had heard that she’d married at eighteen. By then, of course, whatever it was about the thirteen-year-old Ivy that had stolen his heart was now buried beneath layers of time and the dozens of women who’d cycled in and out of his life. He hadn’t thought of Ivy Reid in years, so it had to be kismet that steered her into the Powder Room and to the stool next to Harlan.

  Completely engrossed in his conversation with Lizard, Harlan didn’t notice her, although he was vaguely aware of the sweet perfume clouding the air. Lizard, however, couldn’t keep his eyes off the woman.

  Harlan smirked. “You listening to me?”

  “Uh-huh,” Lizard said pensively.

  Harl
an snatched a glance. He thought she was cute, but not to the point of distraction. Turning back to Lizard, he picked up where he’d left off: “So, like I was saying, if we—” He was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Harlan twisted around to face the woman. “Yeah?”

  “Harlan Elliott?”

  “Yeah?”

  The woman offered a wide, sparkling smile. “C’mon now, Harlan, you don’t remember me?”

  He stared at her. Suddenly, his face brightened. “I-Ivy?”

  “Yep!”

  It hit him then why it was he’d been so taken with her. It was a school performance, he couldn’t remember exactly what, but Ivy had sung the lead and her voice had caused his heartstrings to quiver.

  “Ivy Reid,” Harlan breathed, “you still married?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, get to the point, why don’t you? Yeah, according to the law we still man and wife.”

  “But?”

  Ivy curled a delicate hand around the glass of soda water she’d ordered. “He done run off with some tackhead.” She brought the glass to her lips and sipped.

  Harlan’s eyes rolled over her. “His loss.”

  “That’s what I said,” Ivy clucked.

  Lizard stretched his arm over Harlan’s shoulder, presenting his hand. “This dude ain’t got much in the manners department,” he said. “I’m Leo, but you can call me Lizard.”

  Ivy grabbed hold of his index and middle fingers. “Ivy,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”

  Shrugging Lizard off, Harlan rested his chin on the heel of his hand and gazed intently into Ivy’s eyes.

  “Why you looking at me like that?”

  “You still sing?”

  Ivy squared her shoulders and beamed. “Like a lark.”

  Chapter 47

  They called themselves the Harlem World Band, played small venues—house parties and dinner clubs located in and around the city.

  Emma appointed herself as booking agent; after all, she knew everyone Lucille knew—which was anyone who was anyone in the music business. Within a few months, the Harlem World Band was playing coveted venues in the Hamptons and Martha’s Vineyard.

  The money was garbage, but they were having too much fun to notice. Eventually, Emma managed to secure a twelve-week spot at the Bamboo Inn.

  Upon hearing the news, Harlan swept Emma into his arms and twirled her through the air. “That’s great, Mama! What night?”

  “Tuesdays.”

  “Tuesday night?” Disappointed, Harlan set her down and stepped away. “It’s deader than dead on Tuesdays.”

  “Well, you gotta start somewhere,” Emma said.

  Wednesdays through Saturdays, the Bamboo Inn on Seventh Avenue catered to the High Harlem crowd of professional black men, their stylish female companions, wealthy white college kids, Park Avenue snobs, and curious Europeans on holiday.

  On Tuesday evenings, the Bamboo Inn was frequented by porters, janitors, and doormen, accompanied by their wives who made their living as maids, washerwomen, and hairdressers. And while the High Harlem crowd threw paper money at the band, the Tuesday-night crowd could only afford to toss coins.

  The only night of the week that bread was placed on the tables was Tuesday. This because the Chinese waiters knew that the common colored folk were partial to sopping up the tangy brown sauces that accompanied the egg foo yong that was so popular with that crowd.

  Every evening, excluding Tuesdays, the blue-black behemoth of a bouncer wore a monkey suit, top hat, and tails. On Tuesdays, however, he was attired in simple black slacks and a gray or navy-blue dress coat.

  The only dazzle on Tuesday nights came from the colored spotlights bouncing off the rotating mirrored ball that hung from the ceiling. That and the occasional well-known musician who stopped in for a Singapore sling before heading someplace livelier.

  Lucille Hegamin and her husband were occasional Tuesday-night patrons.

  * * *

  The thing between Harlan and Lucille had left Emma salty toward her childhood friend. For months, Emma had refused to take Lucille’s phone calls and would stealthily ignore her if they happened upon each other at a house party or nightclub. Eventually, though, Emma’s ruffled feathers smoothed, and she and Lucille mended their relationship. Albeit, at the beginning the stitching was loose and sloppy. So for a time, the friends badgered each other with insults camouflaged as compliments.

  “Girl, that gray hair suits you!”

  “Don’t you worry about those few extra pounds; you carry them well!”

  * * *

  When Lucille looked up from her plate of egg foo yong and spotted Emma and Sam coming through the door, she waved them over to her table.

  Emma nodded at the bottle in the center of the table. “Champagne?”

  “We celebrating!” Lucille chirped.

  Emma’s eyebrows arched. “Oh?”

  Bill wrapped his arm around Lucille’s shoulders and proudly announced that Lucille had finished her first full year of nursing school.

  “Well, that is cause for celebration,” Sam said. “Congrats, Lucille!”

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  Emma picked up a pair of chopsticks from the table and twirled them between her fingers like batons. “Has it been a year already?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where does the time go?” Emma wondered aloud.

  “I ask that question every goddamn day,” Lucille laughed.

  The friends looked at each other and smiled.

  Bill caught the cuff of a passing waiter. “Two more champagne glasses here, please.”

  “It went quick,” Emma muttered, shaking her head.

  “Maybe for you, but it was an eternity for me.”

  “All them books and reading. I couldn’t have done it,” Emma conceded. “You were always smart.”

  Lucille gushed at the compliment.

  Emma raised her champagne flute. “To Lucille!”

  “To Lucille!” the men cheered.

  “To time!” Emma added jubilantly.

  “The bitch!” Lucille chuckled.

  * * *

  When the Harlem World Band took the stage, Lucille leaned over the table and whispered, “Harlan looks good.”

  “Sound good too,” Sam said.

  The band serenaded the audience with “Strange Fruit,” “Moonlight Serenade,” “If I Didn’t Care,” and “Body and Soul.”

  Lucille was so impressed with their renditions, with Harlan’s professionalism and showmanship, that she braved the shower of nickels and dimes so that she could lay a crisp ten-dollar bill at his feet.

  Chapter 48

  WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

  FEB 9/1940

  MRS. SAM ELLIOTT

  MR. HARLAN ELLIOTT

  17 E. 133RD STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  Word has reached me here in Paris that the Harlem World Band is a treasure that should be shared with the French. I would like to extend an invitation for your band to come to Paris, specifically to my establishment L’Escadrille in Montmartre. I am proposing a two-month engagement beginning in late March. In exchange, I will provide passage to Paris, hotel accommodations, and a salary that will not make you rich, but will keep you in food and libations for the entirety of your engagement. Of course, there are ample opportunities here to make money, and I would certainly encourage you to take advantage of those prospects. I look forward to your favorable response.

  Eugene James Bullard

  rue Fontaine, 5

  Paris, France

  Harlan was out and Sam was at work, so the only other person who could appreciate Emma’s excitement was Lucille.

  “Hello—” Lucille barely got her greeting out before Emma was off and running, chattering excitedly about Paris and Harlan and the band.

  “Whoa, whoa, Emma,” Lucille laughed, as she lifted the black phone into the crook of her arm and carried it over to the sofa. “I heard Paris,” she said, reaching for her silver cigarette case.
r />   Emma began again, slower this time.

  Lucille lit her cigarette and inhaled, her eyes moving from the window to the snaking telephone cord.

  Emma ended her ramblings with a shuddering sigh.

  Lucille said, “Well, it took him long enough.”

  “W-what?” Emma stammered.

  “Eugene . . . Gene, well, he asked if I would bring the band to Paris, to his club for a month-long run, but I told him I was all done with that.” Lucille knocked a long ash into the ashtray.

  “Oh?” Emma responded from East Harlem.

  “So I suggested Harlan and his band.”

  “You did?”

  “Anyway,” Lucille continued, “I told him that the Harlem World Band would be just as good as having me and mine.”

  Emma giggled, “So you lied? The musicians are one thing, but the girl—”

  “Oh please, she can’t touch me with a ten-foot pole—”

  “Though she tries—”

  “Every. Single. Time!”

  They laughed.

  “So what does Harlan have to say about all this?”

  “He ain’t home, so he don’t know yet.”

  In Lucille’s kitchen, the kettle on the stove began to screech.

  “Well, I thought I was calling to give you good news, but I guess I need to thank you.”

  Lucille stubbed out her cigarette and stood. “No need for that.”

  “I-I just want you to know that Harlan has grown,” Emma babbled nervously. “He’s matured a lot. That Lizard, well, he’s been a real good influence on him and—”

  “Emma, Harlan has the job. You don’t have to sell him. I was sold when I saw him at the Bamboo, and besides, the talk in the streets is all positive. That’s why I recommended him to Gene.”

  “Well, thank you anyway.”

  “Like I said, Harlan earned it.”

  Chapter 49

  On February 20, 1940, 17 East 133rd Street exploded in jubilant celebration—a bon voyage party that started at eight o’clock Saturday night and stretched to Sunday noon. Catered food, champagne, balloons, and party streamers.