by Megan Chance
"Because it is me," I said wryly.
"The scar is different, of course, and the hair, but did no one ever suspect?"
"In the first months, yes," I told him, remembering. Too-watchful Pinkerton agents hired by private interests who'd chased me from Boston to Philadelphia before I lost them. A re porter in Columbus, Ohio, who followed me from my hotel room. Overzealous, anxious, clever. He'd cornered me and threatened and I'd sold a ruby ring and fled on the next train. Then, in Texas, some little town, and a storekeep with a picture of me on his wall who'd begged an autograph and a hundred dollars to keep quiet, but only if I would sing. The way they all looked at me, with admiration and with something else too, knowing smiles that said, We know what you are. A whore who can sing. Nothing more. My pedestal had crumbled. I was still afraid to face that.
But I tried not to think of it. "I didn't want to be found. I wanted to disappear."
Johnny leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "God knows this is the place to do it."
Prosch took out his notebook and pencil. "You've been in Seattle all this time?"
"Four years," I said softly, and then, resolutely, "but now I'm out of hiding, Mr. Prosch. No more Marguerite Olson. And I'll be singing at the Palace next Monday."
Johnny nearly fell off his chair.
I smiled with satisfaction. "A command performance. We'll be selling tickets at five dollars each."
"Ten dollars," Johnny said quickly.
"Ten dollars," I agreed. "Please write that down, Mr. Prosch."
He did. "Well, there's the quality act you wished for, Langford. The return of Sabine Conrad--and to a Seattle stage, no less. You'll be the envy of theaters across the country."
Johnny smiled warmly at me. "It looks like Miss Conrad knows something about loyalty after all, don't she?"
Prosch said, "I have a hundred questions. What happened that night at the Fifth Avenue Hotel? How did you get that scar?"
I struggled to remember what Gideon had said. "Tell him how difficult your life has been...." "We want you performing, not in prison...." "If you would embrace the scandal, no one could use it against you." Dear God, I wished he were here. I needed his expertise. More than that, I wanted him beside me.
Johnny said, "I confess I'm dying to hear the story myself."
I saw Duncan lift his head from where he stood at the bar; I knew he was listening. I saw the light in Mr. Prosch's eyes. I felt Johnny's still and avaricious quiet. Their attention was so focused I thought nothing short of an earthquake could distract them.
And I remembered who I was, the things I'd sacrificed to get here, and the last of Marguerite Olson fell away. I was Sabine Conrad again.
I looked calmly at Thomas Prosch. "We were to meet M. DeRosier at seven...."
WHEN THE INTERVIEW was over, and Mr. Prosch was gone, I knew I had only a few hours at the most. Gideon had said the notoriety would bring them in droves, and if the past were any indication, I knew already the crowds I could expect.
I said to Johnny, "I have to find Gideon."
He gave me a thoughtful look, but he jerked his head at Duncan. "Go on down to the New Brunswick. Fetch back Price. I don't give a damn if he's sleeping or not."
"No," I said. "I'll go myself."
Johnny poured two drinks and handed one to me. "I wouldn't advise it. Crowds'll be all over this place within the hour."
"I have to take the risk."
"Yeah." He laughed a little. "That don't surprise me, honey. But to go down there now is just plain stupid."
"I've done a lot of stupid things."
"No doubt. So what did happen that night, anyway?"
"It was a mistake."
"Most things like that are." He downed his drink. "You know, when you first came through that door four years ago, I suspected something, but never that. Either I'm the biggest fool in Seattle, or you got a rare talent for deceit."
There was a bitterness in his voice that I knew I'd put there. I didn't know what to say.
He poured another drink. "So did you know Price would come for you? All this time ... were you waiting for him?"
"Johnny, please--"
"Why the hell didn't the two of you take the first steamer out of here?"
"He wanted to," I said. "I didn't."
"You wanted to stay in this hellhole."
"I ... it's complicated."
"Too hard for me to grasp, hmmm?" Johnny took up the drink he'd poured me and came around the bar, pushing it into my hand. "Tell me: did any of ... this"--a broad gesture, himself, the Palace--"mean shit to you? No, don't answer that."
"I wanted it to mean something," I said quietly. "I meant to stay."
My words fell into silence. I couldn't look at him.
Johnny laughed. "Now you're lying to yourself, honey. You don't belong here, and we both know it. Go on, drink up. You'll feel better."
"Nothing can make me feel better. After the things I said ..."
"We all get nasty when we're cornered. It don't matter. By the end of tomorrow you'll have the whole world at your feet."
"I don't want the whole world anymore," I said, drinking the whiskey.
Johnny looked at me. "No one believes that, honey."
"But I'll do what I can to help you make this place what you want. I owe you that."
"You sure as hell do," he said. "You make sure Price knows it too." To Duncan, he said, "Take her with you down to the New Brunswick. And get her back in one piece."
I was grateful, and anxious. When Duncan handed me my cloak, I drew the hood up close about my face and hurried out with him into the mistlike rain. I'd always liked Duncan's ability to be quiet when he had nothing to say; just now I needed the silence to rehearse what I would tell Gideon. When we finally got to the New Brunswick, I was rigid with nerves and desperation. I nearly ran up the stairs, Duncan close behind, and crossed the lobby.
"He's gone, miss."
The desk clerk's words reached me before I'd turned the corner. I looked back at him--of course he'd recognized me; he'd seen me come here nearly every day for weeks. "What?" I asked.
"Mr. Price, miss. He's checked out. About an hour ago."
"But ... he can't have!"
"Paid his bill and left," the man said.
I was too stunned to speak. Duncan stepped up beside me. "Where's he gone?" he asked the desk clerk.
"He didn't tell me," the man said.
Duncan said to me in a low voice, "Maybe's he's off to catch a steamer."
He didn't have to say anything else. I was down those stairs and running Commercial Street to the wharf, Duncan following as I pushed through the people on the boardwalk in my haste. My only hope was to find Gideon before he boarded. There were too many steamers; the Mosquito Fleet was made up of hundreds of boats. Who knew which one he would have taken?
But he was not at the ticket office of the Eliza Jane, nor at that of the Arrow or the General Lee, and no one remembered seeing him, and after an hour of checking every ticket office I knew, I had no choice but to admit the truth: Gideon was gone.
CHAPTER 25
I should not have been surprised. I'd told him I didn't trust him. I'd known when he had gone up those stairs in the church without turning back that he was leaving. I'd known I'd lost him.
Hadn't that been what I wanted?
With him gone, I had no reason to be afraid. The concert planned for Monday night, the return to my old life ... Those things were mine again without the fear that Gideon would manipulate me. He could not use my love for him against me when he wasn't here. I could go on that stage and sing as I loved and welcome the world I'd left behind, the world that still wanted me; it looked increasingly as if every soul within it might crowd onto my doorstep. After all, I'd never meant to leave the singing behind. All those years ago, I'd intended only to leave Gideon, not my career.
Now it was done.
I sent Duncan to the boardinghouse for my things. I could no longer stay there; I did not
even try to leave the Palace--the crowds were too large--and Johnny told me I could remain un til things were settled. So I stood on his balcony and watched them gather. It seemed each held a copy of the newspaper, which had hit the streets that morning with its lurid headline:
* * *
NOTORIOUS PRIMA DONNA COMES
OUT OF HIDING!
* * *
Seattle Saloon Owner Discovers Scandalous Soprano
* * *
The TRUE Story of the SORDID MURDER that Shocked America
"Four telegrams already," Johnny informed me as he brought up my possessions later that afternoon. Everything I owned was contained in a single crate. "I told you Portland would be first. The reporter will be here tonight."
"And the others?"
"Newspapers from San Francisco, New York City, and Chicago."
None from Gideon.
"It's a crush downstairs. Stay up here for a while, until I send for you."
I looked again out the window. "All right."
"How the hell did you get about before? You couldn't've gone anywhere without a mob on your heels."
"Gideon took care of all that," I said softly. "He was always there."
"Well, I don't got time to be your bulldog. I got a boxhouse to run." Johnny reached into the crate and drew out my journal, throwing it to me where I sat on the bed. "Here's a book. Why don't you read?"
I caught the book and clutched it. "Have you seen Charlotte?"
Johnny shook his head. "If I do, I'll send her up."
After he left, I sat on the bed, cradling the journal, listening to the chanting from the street outside. "SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA ..."
The attention I had always loved. That I had craved. I should be glad of it now. I glanced down at the journal. I heard Gideon's voice in my head. "Have you read your journal yet?" What had he meant me to find here?
I sat there, dreading it, caressing the cover with my thumb.
"SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA ..."
Carefully, I opened it, turning to the first page, the first words: Gideon is back from the tour at last!!!
I took a deep breath and began to read.
WHEN I FINALLY emerged from my memories, the day was far advanced. I'd been reading for hours in the near dark, too involved with my life to think of stopping to light a lamp, and now there was a steady pulsing behind my eyes, though I didn't know if it was from the strain or tears.
I stretched and got to my feet, going to the window. There was still the crowd outside, and someone caught sight of my movement, and began to shout, and the chanting that had quieted started up again. "SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA." Downstairs the music was loud and someone was singing.
I went away from the window and paused for a moment at the mirror Johnny used to shave with. My hair was loose and falling, and I shoved it back into place and fastened it with pins and then I went to the door and out, into the hallway, which was seething with girls and men and the heavy smell of smoke. I hesitated, but the men were bent on sex, and the two or three that noticed me backed against the wall reverently and politely to let me pass, blushing furiously when I favored them with a smile.
The words I'd read left me shaken. I wanted to be around people, I didn't care if they adored me or left me alone. Just to hear their voices, just to shut off the ones chiming in my own head, was all I wanted. So I went down the stairs slowly, hanging in the shadows, and the place was so full that I was hardly noticed, at least not at first. But by the time I reached the bar, I heard the murmur slithering through the crowd--"She's here. She's here"--and I was being touched, grabbed. "Miss Conrad, sing for us." "How'd you get that scar?" "Sabine, were you fucking that Frenchie? Is that how he got killed?"
"Run away," Gideon had said. "Keep running."
But I was tired of hiding, and I no longer wanted to run away.
A man grabbed my arm, and I said, "Please, let me pass," and smiled back at him with my practiced prima donna smile, and he stammered and released me, and then I pushed through the others until I was behind the bar. Duncan looked up from a keg and frowned at me. "Johnny bring you down?"
I shook my head. "I don't need a keeper."
He didn't look convinced, but the place was too busy for him to do much more than shove a beer to the customer who'd ordered it and tell Sarah, who was just leaving with a new tray, to fetch Johnny.
"You needn't have done that," I told him.
"Someone's gotta protect you from this mob."
"I was used to this," I said--even I heard the wistfulness in my voice.
Then Charlotte pushed her way up to the bar.
I heard her voice first. "Let me through! Let me through, you bastard," and then I saw her slender arm, oddly disembodied, clad in cheap bronze satin, the edge of her scar showing beneath a dirty ruffle of lace, and she followed. She came up against the bar breathlessly and then looked up to call out her order. When she saw me, she froze.
"There you are," I said, trying to smile, failing. "I was looking for you."
She glanced away. "I need four whiskeys and three beers."
I got out the glasses. "Johnny said he would send you up to see me."
"He told me," she said stiffly. "I been too busy."
I turned to pour the whiskey, one after another, and then the beers. I felt ill when I remembered what I'd done to her, what she no doubt would never forgive--just one more thing to add to my tally, another reason for guilt, another regret I could never atone for.
"Sa-bi-na, sing me a song!"
"SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA--"
I turned to put the glasses on Charlotte's tray.
"They sure love you," she said.
I nodded.
"They can't know you very well."
That hurt; I didn't pretend it didn't. "I'm sorry, Charlotte. I shouldn't have said those things, but ... but I was angry--"
"Why the hell should you be angry?" she demanded. She leaned over the bar, bent low over her drinks so I could hear her voice through the noise. "I ain't the one who kept secrets. And they weren't small ones either, Marg--whoever the hell you are."
"What would you have said?" I snapped at her. "What would you have done if I'd told you--" I stopped short, looking around at the curious eyes, the men huddled about the bar, listening avidly, not even pretending otherwise. "I can't talk to you about it here. Will you at least hear me out? Can I explain?"
"It don't matter," she said. She picked up her tray and turned away, shoving back through the crowd, disappearing within it.
"SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA, SA-BI-NA!" The chorus was growing louder. I could no longer hear Sally singing onstage.
"Get out of my way, you sons of bitches!" Johnny's voice carried forward; like Charlotte, he burst through the crowd as if it had birthed him, one minute not there, the next before me. He was annoyed, more than that, angry. "What the fuck are you doing down here? You got 'em all riled up. That reporter hasn't shown yet either."
"I couldn't stay in that room another minute."
"I swear you don't got the sense God gave a rock," he said. "No wonder Price left."
"We were a matched pair," I said acidly. "He gave as good as he got, I promise you."
Johnny gave me an odd look, one I couldn't interpret, and opened his mouth as if he meant to say something before he snapped it shut again. Behind him, the crowd's chanting grew even louder. I glanced up to see Sally had quit trying. She was just standing on the stage, staring at the crowd as if she couldn't understand what was going on. The saloon was growing dangerous; I could feel the discontent. I knew it was focused on me.
Johnny put his hands to his ears. "Christ! Has it always been like this?"
"Since I sang Marguerite at the Academy," I said.
"How'd you live with it?"
"Gideon knew how to appease them." It was getting hard to hear and be heard; I shouted the last words.
"How'd he do that?"
"He let them see me, but he kept me apart."
&nbs
p; The crowd surged; Johnny was shoved hard against the bar.
"Sing for us, Miss Conrad!"
