Lizard turned to look at the wisecracker. He recognized him as a popular clarinet player who hustled reefer on the side.
“You could say that,” he laughed. “I’m from St. Louis.”
The man eyed him. “I’ve seen you before.”
Lizard cleared his throat. “Could be. I been here a few months, working at the Peacock and gigging at the clubs.”
The man extended his hand. “Mezz Mezzrow.”
“Lizard.”
“I knew a Lizard once; he got shot dead in Chicago over a piece of ass.”
Lizard didn’t know what to say to that, and for a while they stood quiet, entranced by the wizard Louis and his magical horn.
“So what do you play?” Mezz ventured when the applause died.
“Trumpet.”
“Ah, well, you’ve just witnessed the best trumpet player in the world.”
“I believe that,” Lizard said, his eyes dancing with wonderment. “I’ve never heard anything like it. I wish I could play like that one day.”
Mezz doubled over with laughter. “Keep wishing, white boy. You need soul to play like Armstrong—or any other black musician, for that matter.”
Lizard looked Mezz up and down. “I’ve heard you play. Sounds to me like you got plenty of soul.”
Mezz’s eyes bulged. “Wait . . . you . . . you think I’m white?”
To Lizard, Mezz looked as white as he did. “You saying you’re not?”
Grinning, Mezz slid a joint from behind his ear and slipped it between his lips. After two tokes he held it out to Lizard.
“No thanks.”
“Lemme tell you something, young blood.” Mezz coughed from behind a cloud of expelled smoke. “As a man thinks, so he is.”
Lizard’s face clouded with bewilderment. He started to question Mezz but was interrupted when a reed-thin black man plowed between them and caught Mezz by the shoulder.
“Man, where you been? I been looking all over fer your black ass!”
“Been around, you know,” Mezz chuckled, “here and there.” He looked at Lizard. “I’ll see you, okay?”
Lizard nodded.
Mezz shot him a sly wink and trotted off with his friend.
As a man thinks, so he is.
As a man thinks, so he is.
As a man thinks, so he is.
The words echoed in Lizard’s mind. It couldn’t possibly be that simple, could it?
Chapter 66
Lizard had been in Kansas City for six years when Moise fell ill.
On the train to St. Louis, Lizard took a seat in the segregated car. He was approached by a young black porter who skillfully avoided looking directly at his face. Eyes fixed on the buttons of Lizard’s shirt, the porter said, “’Scuse me, sir, but this here car is for colored folk. White folks section is two cars up.”
“Yes, I’m in the right place,” Lizard replied.
“Oh.” The porter’s shoulders relaxed, his brown eyes met Lizard’s gray-green ones. When he spoke again, the formality in his voice was tempered. “Well, you have a pleasant trip.”
“Thank you.”
Yes, it was as easy as that.
* * *
His father died, and Lizard returned to Kansas City, swapped out his surname for the less-Jewish-sounding Robbins, pawned his violin, and used the money to buy a secondhand gramophone along with any record he could find that had Louis Armstrong’s name on the label.
Over the years, Lizard continued to grow into the persona he’d created—passing himself off as Negro, playing in their bands, steadily mastering their music, living in their communities, absorbing their culture, their nuanced language (verbal and otherwise), adopting the way they talked, walked, and danced. He made love to their women on Friday and Saturday nights and attended their churches on Sunday mornings.
For a long time, Lizard thought he and Mezz Mezzrow were the only ones living their white lives as black men. But as he burrowed deeper into his lie, he became increasingly aware that he and Mezz were far from lone wolves. Indeed, they were part of an expansive clan that had willingly migrated to the dark side of the color line.
* * *
Lizard would have stayed in Kansas City for the rest of his life had he not lost his cool after a less-than-ethical nightclub owner named Brady refused to pay him for a gig. He had tried reasoning with the man, and when he still refused to cough up the money, Lizard felt he was left with no choice. He pulled out his pistol and whipped Brady until he was unrecognizable, even to his own mama.
Not only were the police looking for Lizard, but a host of Brady’s friends and family were too. Kansas City was no longer safe, so he fled home to St. Louis.
* * *
His family never pretended to understand the life he’d chosen for himself.
“A jazz and blues musician? Really, Leo?”
And if that wasn’t confounding enough, they couldn’t make sense of the hep clothing, lingo, and swaggering gait he’d adopted.
“Yellow? That color is kind of . . . well, loud for a suit, don’t you think?”
“Beat up the chops? What does that mean? Well, why can’t you just say she talks a lot? Geez.”
“Son, did you hurt your foot? No? Then why are you limping around like that?”
It was all so embarrassing for them.
That said, Lizard wasn’t the most shameful member of his family—there was a cousin rumored to be wearing women’s underclothes beneath his tailored suits, and another who had conceived a child out of wedlock.
Of course, his mother and sisters had no idea Lizard was living his life as a black man. That news would certainly have trumped any humiliation that came along with having a cross-dressing businessman and a bastard offspring in the family.
Chapter 67
Legendary. Mythical.
Lizard knew Harlem would be a revelation even before he arrived. Majestic brownstones, elegant brick buildings filled with apartments as spacious as country homes. And there was music everywhere—cascading out of open windows, sailing from cars, being performed on corners, hummed by children skipping to school.
Lizard couldn’t imagine Harlem being anything other than what it was when he arrived in the spring of ’37. He rented a room at the Woodside Hotel on 147th Street and Lenox—the place almost all the colored musicians called home when visiting Harlem.
He wasn’t in town a full week before Harlan Elliott walked into that bar and changed the course of his life. Lizard might have avoided the mess he was currently in in Germany had he taken up an offer to stay with a friend in Greenwich Village, walked into some other Harlem dive, or simply blown Harlan off when he struck up a conversation.
Lizard could blame his circumstances on one of those things or all of them. In the end, though, his fate was sealed by the only other possession he cherished more than his trumpet.
* * *
Just before Lizard walked into the blistering shower, a soldier pressed the end of his baton into his chest; his eyes dropped down to the damning, dangling, circumcised thing between Lizard’s legs.
When the soldier’s eyes once again met Lizard’s, he was grinning. “Jew, eh?”
* * *
Later that same night, Lizard rose from the bed, went to the window, and looked out at the paling night sky.
What a life I’ve lived, he thought to himself. Born twice. Once as a Jew and then as a black man. How many people can make that claim? And haven’t I played alongside my idol, my muse? My life has been magical. Really, what more could any man ever hope for?
Floating an imaginary trumpet to his lips, Lizard filled his cheeks with air and blew.
Chapter 68
Across the Atlantic, in Brooklyn, Gwen was in the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, eyes closed, fingers gripping the elastic band of her underwear.
“Please, please, please,” she chanted before pushing the underwear down to her knees, bowing her head, peeking at the seat. Not a drop, smear, smudge, or hint of blood. The p
ristinely clean, cotton-panel seat mocked her.
When her menstrual cycle had arrived at age eleven, Gwen hadn’t known what it was, so for two days she walked around with her underwear packed with toilet paper, convinced she was dying.
It was her sister Irene who spotted the rust-colored blotch on Gwen’s skirt, took her aside, and explained things. Later, she brought Gwen to their mother. At the news, Ethel became annoyed, as if Gwen’s entry into womanhood was a burden she alone would have to bear. Ethel wagged her finger in her daughter’s face, spouting threats and spinning metaphors. “You better keep that purse latched until you’re married!”
Now, Gwen wished she had heeded her mother’s warning. She pulled her underwear to her waist, flushed the toilet, and ran her clean hands under a spray of hot water.
Pregnant.
The word made her dizzy.
As hard-handed as her sister could be with her, Gwen knew that Irene was the only one she could confide in. But Irene was sick, having spent the better part of the spring cycling in and out Kings County Hospital’s female ward.
Irene was being treated for endometriosis, which the attending physician assured her was a condition entirely nonfatal and curable. Even so, Gwen felt it would be highly inappropriate and selfish to burden Irene with her problems as she was grappling with her own.
* * *
Uptown, at 17 East 133rd Street, sandwiched between the oval oak frame and the looking glass on the wall above Emma’s dresser were two postcards, two telegrams, and a single black-and-white photo.
The first telegram had arrived the day after Harlan reached Montmartre: Mom, Dad. Here safe. Love, your son.
The first postcard, a watercolor painting of the Eiffel Tower, arrived two weeks later: Hi! I’m having so much fun. I want to stay here forever. Harlan.
A week after that, an envelope arrived, containing a photo of the entire group poised in front of the L’Escadrille. Harlan, showing all of his teeth, was leaning on Lizard like a crutch. Lizard looked solemn, his eyes focused on something beyond the photographer’s shoulder. Ivy and the other guys were grinning, bodies slightly tilted, arms splayed as if they’d just finished an elaborate dance routine. Eugene Bullard stood at the edge of the frame, hands on his hips, looking very pleased with himself.
The front of the second postcard was an incredibly detailed montage of a train crossing over a bridge, the Arc de Triomphe, a country house, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, and a pigtailed little girl holding a bouquet of flowers. Emma remembered wondering just how in the world the artist managed to put all of that in one place and not have it look tacky? Dear Mom and Dad, still having fun. Wish you were here. Harlan.
When Germany took the coast of France, Emma panicked, sent a telegram begging Harlan to come home. Now. When she didn’t receive an immediate response, she placed a call to Eugene Bullard, not giving a damn about the time difference—it was four o’clock on Sunday morning in France when Bullard’s wife yawned hello into the receiver.
She explained to Emma that Eugene never came home before seven and that she would have him call her as soon as he arrived. And Emma wasn’t to worry, the American newspapers always made things sound worse than they were.
As promised, Eugene phoned back, but the connection was choppy. Emma spent most of the call yelling, “What? What?” until the line went dead.
Sam asked, “Well, what did he say?”
“I think he said he was trying to get Harlan and the others on the next ship out.”
Days later, the second telegram from Harlan arrived: Sailing on the 14th. Will arrive on the 28th of June. Harlan
* * *
That was the last she’d heard from her son.
It was now the middle of July and Eugene, his wife, and the rest of Harlan’s band were huddled on her stoop, bearing gifts from France, as if presents could replace her missing child.
She led them into the parlor.
Eugene said he’d filed reports with the French authorities. “But now that the Germans are in charge, who knows—”
His wife stabbed the top of his hand with her fingernail.
Eugene groaned. “Um, I mean to say, I’m sure they’ll turn up.”
Emma smirked.
Bruno leaned forward. “Mrs. Elliott, do you know where Lizard’s people are?”
Emma pressed her palms against her cheeks. “St. Louis, I think, but I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
She was so tired. Sick of crying, of waiting for news that never came, tired of thinking the worst.
Eugene folded his hands. “You been in touch with the State Department?”
“Every day,” Sam said.
“Three times a day,” Emma added.
“And what they say?”
“They don’t know any more than the day before.”
“And what’s that?”
“Nothing. They don’t know shit.”
Emma chewed the inside of her cheek, fought the tears that were threatening to come. “Lucille reached out to some friends in Paris. They say they’ll ask around, see what they can find out.”
Sam squeezed her hand.
“Oh, that’s good,” Eugene breathed. “How long that been?”
“What? Since Lucille reached out?”
“Uh-huh.”
“A few weeks.”
“And no word yet?”
“Nah.”
The truth was, Lucille had heard back from her friends, but their responses had been less than uplifting.
They too had friends and family who’d gone missing.
Poof! Vanished without a trace.
There were rumors about people being abducted from their homes, snatched right off the streets. Not just Jews, but anyone who didn’t fit into Hitler’s master race.
That’s all they would say. In fact, they’d probably said too much. The Gestapo had eyes and ears everywhere.
Chapter 69
As if Emma and Sam weren’t going through enough, the New York City Department of Buildings came along and made things worse.
The letter was hand-delivered by a young, terrified-looking, pimply faced white man. After Sam signed for it, he carried it into the house and handed it to Emma.
“What’s this?”
“I dunno.”
Emma tore open the envelope and read the letter. Her lips moved silently with the words. When she was done, she crushed it into a ball and threw it angrily across the room. Sam followed the flight of the paper ball.
“What’s it say?”
Emma fell back into the sofa. “These motherfuckers wanna take our house for $13,000!”
Sam wasn’t a scholar, but he knew there was a difference between take and buy.
“What, why?”
“It don’t say why, all it say is that they have a legal right to do so.”
“Force us to sell? I don’t understand.”
Emma sighed. “Gimme the damn paper.”
Sam got up and retrieved the crumpled notice. He smoothed the paper as best he could and handed it to Emma.
After looking it over she said, “They call it eminent domain.”
“What’s that?”
“It means that white folk can do whatever they want, whenever they want, to colored folk!”
* * *
The next day, letter in hand, Emma went to the Department of Buildings and sat for three hours in a room crammed with angry Harlemites who had also received notices.
This is some bullshit!
Fair market value my ass! My house is worth more than what they’re offering.
Where are we supposed to go?
Emma was shown to a small office that stank of cigarettes and aftershave. The walls were lined with metal file cabinets. On the windowsill, next to a mountain of manila folders, was a ficus, dying a slow death.
Emma sat across the desk from an old, balding man with soupy green eyes and teeth so crooked and brown, she could barely stand to look him in the face.
“As the homeowner,” he said in his raspy voice, “you have the right to refuse the offer. But lemme tell you, the city wants what the city wants, and they will get it.” He fell into a coughing fit, opened his desk drawer, and removed a wilted pack of cigarettes. “If I were you,” he continued, lighting a smoke and inhaling deeply, “I would take the money while the offer is still on the table.”
“Still on the table?”
He nodded, “Yeah, the city can take your house without giving you one single dime.”
Emma stiffened. “How is that possible?”
“Not only is it possible, it’s also legal,” he coughed.
Emma glanced anxiously around the room. “You say the city’s going to build tenement housing, right? Well, why can’t they just build someplace else?”
“I can’t answer that, ma’am,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s a question for someone above my pay grade.”
Emma perked up. “Well, I’d like to speak to him, then.”
The man released a long, weary sigh. “You and the hundreds of other people who’ve received this letter. But I’ll tell you right now, it’s never gonna happen.”
Emma chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “Then I’ll get a lawyer,” she announced triumphantly.
“Again, Mrs. Elliott, that is your prerogative, but keep in mind that the city has a team of lawyers that are hell-bent on making sure you don’t win. And believe me, you won’t.”
* * *
On the train ride home, Emma was despondent and grim-faced. Her world was falling apart, piece by jagged, painful piece.
Emma sat lost in her misery for most of the journey, only vaguely aware of the other commuters around her. That is, until the train pulled out of the 23rd Street station when she suddenly realized that she was being watched. She turned her head toward the offending eyes of the white man seated next her.
“What? What is it?” she snapped.
The man’s face burned red. He aimed his rolled newspaper at her lap.
Emma looked down to see a roach scuttling across the green fabric of her dress.
He raised the newspaper to swat it, but Emma snagged it with her hand.
The Book of Harlan Page 17
