by Megan Chance
"Johnny," said one of Eddie's friends. "Please--"
"Shut up," Johnny told him. He looked at the man squirming in his grasp. "Now maybe you want to give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."
The man's eyes bugged. He pried at Johnny's fingers.
I felt the chill of dread, and I understood why those men had left so quickly. Surely he did not mean to--
"I guess there ain't one," Johnny said.
He put his other hand around that man's throat, and no one stopped him; no one said a word as he tightened his fingers. Even I said nothing, but only watched in horror. I was certain he would quit at any moment.
Eddie struggled and went to his knees. He grabbed Johnny's fingers and sent a pleading look to the friend who had asked for his pardon. That man only looked away.
It seemed to take so little effort. Johnny's jaw stiffened, and his fingers grew white as the man's face grew blue, and no one did anything at all. He'll stop now, I thought. And then, Now. But he didn't. No one protested or said a word as the man gasped for breath and struggled, kicking his feet out, and then, finally, when it seemed it was nearly over, Johnny suddenly released him. Eddie fell to the floor with a heavy thud, clutching his throat, choking, wheezing. The others backed away as if afraid his touch might pollute them.
Johnny said, "Consider this my last warning, Eddie. Show your face in here again, and I won't leave you breathing." He glanced at the man's friends. "Get him the fuck out of here."
The two scrambled to grab Eddie, nearly carrying him in their haste to be gone, and I had to remind myself to breathe again.
Johnny strode back to the bar, and the silent, careful watching of the customers broke like a spell. The men moved, shifting to other tables, coming up to the bar. I watched Johnny pour the drinks and smile and talk to them all as if he hadn't nearly murdered someone just moments ago, or as if he'd done such things a hundred times before.
I had to leave this place, and now, but my feet felt anchored to the floor.
And then Johnny looked at me and said, "Why, miss, ain't you pale," and jerked his head at the half-breed. "See to her, Duncan, before she swoons."
There seemed to be a haze before my eyes. I felt someone's hand on my arm, and I jerked in reflex before I realized it was the boy, and I was leaning on him so heavily that I would have fallen had he released his hold. He had something in his hand; he pushed it at my lips and told me to drink it. Obediently I did--it burned its way down my throat and into my chest, and I choked, and the boy--Duncan--said, "You'll be all right, miss. Not many people mess with Johnny. Guess you can see why."
His words made their way through my haze; they seemed to burn along with the whiskey. Not many people mess with Johnny. Of course they didn't.
But you'd be safe with someone like him.
The thought lodged in my mind and wouldn't let go, and I thought of last night, of the men in the restaurant who'd meant to gang up on me, the man I'd gone to a room with, and I knew how many more men like that there would be if I didn't find a way to protect myself.
Duncan still had a firm hold on my arm. I pulled away, saying, "I'm fine. Really I am."
He released me reluctantly and just then Johnny looked at us, and through my apprehension, I did what years of practice had taught me. He was a handsome man; it was not so hard to go up to him, to smile, to cock my head and let interest shine in my eyes. He started, and I saw when his gaze sharpened, when he looked at me again as if I were something unexpected, as if he hadn't seen me well enough the first time.
"You say you don't need a waitress," I said to him. "But I see something you do need."
His smile was slow. "Oh yeah? What's that?"
"A scrubwoman."
He laughed--it was loud and barking. He said, "Maybe I do. Maybe. And maybe something else too."
I shrugged, but I did it prettily, practiced. "Maybe so."
"Where'd the scar come from?"
"An accident."
"Oh yeah?" His tone was frankly skeptical. "Anyone but you come out alive?"
When I said nothing, he asked, "You ever scrubbed a floor before?"
"Yes."
"What's your name?"
"Marguerite. Marguerite Olson."
"Well then, Marguerite," he said, reaching behind to grab a bucket and a broom and shoving them at me. "Why don't you show me how good you are?"
I took them and went to where the fight had started. The abandoned table, the spilled drinks, the broken glass scattered everywhere. Duncan came up beside me. He handed me a scrub brush. "He forgot to give you this."
I asked, "What's the stage for?"
He smiled. His teeth were very white and even in his dark-skinned face. "Johnny had a hankering to run theaters up here. Built this up and everything, but it's only wasted. Ain't no one around to play it."
Then he went off, and I righted the table and cleaned up the mess. In twenty minutes, it was as if nothing had happened.
I took the bucket and broom back to the bar, where Johnny was standing, watching me with his arms folded across his chest.
"Good as new," I said.
"Well, Margie," he said. "Looks like you got a job."
My relief was edged with trepidation. This might be one more bad decision. This man was dangerous--but at least he was up front about it, and that was a relief. I'd had my fill of hidden motives. There were no honey-coated words, no touches meant only to persuade and distract. I imagined one always knew where one stood with him.
I smiled, hoping he would not see the stiffness of it.
He said, "Hope you don't mind hard work."
"Not at all."
"My room's upstairs. You'll stay there with me tonight."
I did not say no. To protest was a hypocrisy even I could not manage. I would go with him in return for his protection, and perhaps I could be drunk enough that I didn't care--it seemed a small enough thing to hope for. Surely God could grant me that one thing.
But after everything I'd done, I knew better than to expect it. Most people only got what they deserved, and I was sure to be no different.
From the Journal of Sabine Conrad
NEW YORK CITY, DECEMBER 10, 1870--Gideon is back from the tour at last!!! I confess I'd been quite worried, for my sister's mood had been growing blacker and blacker, and though Mama insisted he would return, I think sometimes she wondered, even though he has been Barret's closest friend since they sang together in the church choir and is not likely to treat our family shabbily. Still, his letters had been coming less and less often, and I think Willa believed she had lost him. But now he is returned and everyone is glad--especially me, because Gideon has done the most wonderful, wonderful thing!! He has arranged for me to audition with the Manchetti Company for a new tour to start in April! He says I am long past ready for it, though I'm still only sixteen, and that my voice will impress them and that if the critics like me (which he believes they will), it will perhaps open the door for me to audition for Mr. Maretzek's company at the Academy of Music after we return.
Papa was reluctant until Barret told him that Adelina Patti toured when she was younger than me, and was singing Lucia at the Academy by the time she was sixteen, and Jenny Lind was only eighteen when she sang in Der Freischutz, and that by those standards I was already too old. He said, "Would you have her sing in the Volksstadt forever, Papa? Sabine belongs in better places than a family beer hall. She'll make good money, enough to buy the wagon you wish for, and much more besides." Mama only held little Gunther close and looked worried and frowned when I said I would never be happy without music and they couldn't mean to keep me from what I loved above all else. Gideon told them that he was to go on the tour as well, singing second tenor, and that Barret should go as my manager--"Who better to watch over her than her own brother?"--and Willa became so upset that she fled the room and Gideon had to go after her.
I feel sorry for her--I truly do. She cannot like him going off again so soon, though she must kn
ow he would never be content to stay forever in Kleindeutschland and work in a grocery. Not with his talent and his handsome face. Even if his voice is not as good as some others, he is more than good enough, and he is surely the best pianist I have ever heard; he truly has a gift. After two years of walking out with him, Willa should know him well enough to know the life he wants--even I know it, and I am seven years younger than him and not his confidante! But Willa says she is an old maid already (at nineteen!), though she is so pretty with her dark hair and blue eyes it's stupid for her to think she'll never marry, even if the worst and most unlikely happens and Gideon proves untrue. Willa has only ever wanted to be a wife and have babies, though I will never understand it. How can she walk these streets and not hate the buildings so crowded they block the sun; how can she ignore the broken cobbles and the sewage bubbling in the gutters and the younkers gang with their flash and their curls content to rut with their girls in the alleyways because they have nowhere else to go? To be nothing and nobody ... I think I would go mad. If not for my singing, I surely would. We are luckier than most, to have the Volks-stadt and to have our own apartment above, but what does she think Gideon could give her if he gave up touring? Not jewels or fine gowns. Not even privacy--they would no doubt have to live here, and it's crowded enough with the six of us. Though when I am gone, I suppose there will be a little extra room.
Now I am being called to sing for the families downstairs and must go.
DECEMBER 11, 1870--Papa is still deciding whether I should even audition for Manchetti. Part of his hesitation, I know, is Barret. Lately Papa and my brother have done nothing but fight over what Barret will do with his life. He has no interest in singing--he told me he only sang in the church choir to meet girls. He does not want to work in the Volksstadt. "Should I spend my life pouring beer, Bina, when I'd much rather drink it, like any good Deutschman?"
I understand, of course. Barret is golden and charming and like me. He is meant for so much more, and he is so clever I am sure he will make a success of himself in time, and perhaps managing my career will turn out to be his special talent. I hope so.
Tonight I hid behind the door and listened while they argued about the tour. Papa said that Barret was twenty-three years old, and no better than a younker, whoring and drinking all day, and asked if Barret was afraid of honest work? And Barret said he wasn't, that he would make a good chaperon and that is true; Barret has always been so protective of me. He beat poor William Vesey nearly senseless two years ago when he saw me kiss him behind the nave ... and that was hardly a kiss at all! Barret told Papa that between him and Gideon, who has now done two tours and who knows the dangers, I would be watched over well, and they would make sure I was not being cheated. "Sabine is ready for this, Papa. I promise you that I am ready too."
Papa said he would think on it some more and I snuck up to bed. Willa was lying awake, and when I crawled in beside her, she said, "Why do you worry? You'll get your way, just as you always do," and I said she had no cause to be so mean and she said, "You've never pulled a beer in your life. You don't smell like fried fish from serving it all day. Who always gets the new dresses but you?"
I told her I had to look good onstage, and it was my singing besides that made the Volksstadt so popular, and she said, "Gideon would not be going on this tour if not for you." I told her she was a fool to think it and she said he would stay here if she asked him to and I dared her to do so and she went quiet, so I know she is not so confident as she pretends. She rolled onto her side and said that she was tired of sacrificing for me, and I said what have you ever sacrificed? And she said, "Everything this family does is for you, Sabine." And then she told me that if I loved her, I would watch over Gideon and make sure he returned to her, and I promised I would.
JANUARY 16, 1871--Today was the very best day! Gideon and Barret took me to the Manchetti Theater on the Bowery to audition. I was wearing my best dress--the navy blue wool that Mama let down FINALLY!! She put a border of braid about the worn hemline to disguise it, and I wore one of Willa's hats and Mama's gloves, though they were too big. I looked quite the lady! Barret was nervous, as was I, and when I saw the theater I must confess that I was alarmed at how mean it was--just a small building that looked as if it had been shoved between a concert saloon and a rag shop, and so ramshackle I thought it might fall down without the other buildings to support it. There was a big placard in the window that read:
When we went inside, the walls were covered with posters of past shows, including the Manchetti Minstrels, which Gideon said would be going along on the tour, because the shows draw bigger crowds if they're more than just opera, and the Manchetti Company won't be doing any one opera, either, but favorite scenes from several. There's to be a violinist too. I hear he is famous enough, though I've never heard of him. Owen Arriete is his name.
The theater is very small, but the prima donna is Mrs. Follett, who I had heard of though I think she must be quite old, probably at least forty, and she is widowed and nearly at the end of her career. She was there, along with the tour manager, Mr. Cone (who looks like the villain in a melodrama--he has that thin mustache and the blackest hair that's shiny with macassar). There was also a Mr. Robert Wilson, who is the maestro, and I liked him right away, though he is as flashy as a younker and he had on a bright red vest and blond hair that shone in the gaslight.
I held Barret's hand tightly, but then they all greeted Gideon with such warmth and said, "So this is the girl you've spoken so much about!" so Gideon was not lying when he said he'd talked of me to them often, and I felt less nervous because of it. Then Barret handed Mr. Wilson my music, and he frowned when he looked at it. I thought I had made the wrong choices, a tune from the Maid of Artois and Zerlina's aria from Don Giovanni: "Vedrai carino," which I thought were good enough and which Herr Wirt had recommended I sing because he had practiced me with them enough, but I told Mr. Wilson that if he didn't like those I could also sing Donizetti or Bellini, and his eyebrows went up and he said, "You must be a very accomplished young lady, Miss Conrad." Then Barret told him I had as my teacher Herr Wirt from the Lutheran Church, and Mr. Wilson seemed impressed by that--well, why shouldn't he be? Herr Wirt is one of the best singing teachers in the city, even if he's in Kleindeutschland.
Mr. Wilson accompanied me instead of Gideon, but his playing was fine enough, if not inspired. It was the very first time I'd sung on a real stage, and the sound seemed so rich and strong. When I sing at the church I always feel as if I am not myself, but something apart from the world, but today it was as if my voice had wings and was flying, and I knew this was what I must do--this is what I am meant for.
When I finished, Mr. Wilson rose from the piano shouting Brava! and Mr. Cone said to Gideon, "Well, Price, it does seem as if you've found our seconda donna after all." I was flushed and excited, but Mrs. Follett said I was very young and what if I was to do something absurd like fall in love on the tour and that I would have an obligation to the company and did I know what that meant. And Gideon told her he would watch out for me, and she said, "Isn't that a little like giving the fox the run of the henhouse?" which made no sense at all, because Gideon is in love with Willa and not me, but I didn't care anyway, I was so happy.
I am truly to go on tour!!!
They say I will be paid $75/month and we are to leave the beginning of April and be gone through July. We are to play in Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, and Portsmouth and some places in between.
After the audition, Gideon said I would need a new dress, one to make the old debauched critics in the audience fall in love with me, and Barret said I was a good girl, not eine Dirne, and Mama would never agree to make a dress like that. But then Gideon talked of what it would be like when I was a prima donna as famous as Adelina Patti, and it was so exciting that Barret agreed I must have the dress. I was content to do whatever the two of them decided, but I do think I am certainly old enough to wear an off-the-shoulder gown, though Barret is right and Mama would no dou
bt suffer apoplexy if she knew I meant to do so.
Gideon took us up Broadway, and it was like another world. I had never been up so far, but it seemed to me beautiful and big and I thought how I would love to hold it in my hand--all of it: the snarled traffic and the carriage drivers swearing at one another and the sound of wheels and hooves and carriage whips and the dogs in the streets and the placards and posters and notices that the wind tore from the walls and scattered about our feet as if they were flower petals thrown upon a stage. Even men were wearing signs there! They all said the most enticing things, about shawls just arriving from Paris and the best perfumes and such and I wondered how it would feel to see those things every day--how would one decide which shops to visit when they were all so tempting? The grocers extended their bins so far out into the sidewalks that we had to walk on the garbage mounded in the street to get around them, but I saw ladies in silks and lace doing so too, lifting their skirts and tiptoeing so as not to get their beautiful shoes dirty, though I suppose they could have afforded more than one pair, and I said to Barret, "When I'm rich, I shan't care about soiling my shoes, as I shall have a different pair for every day." Oh! to think of it!
