Georges-Guillaume looked out over the flowering trees on his immense estate and thought about his boyhood and the circumstances of his birth. His mother, Annette “Annie” East, was obviously a young woman fascinated by life and people. She grew up in Charlottesville, Virginia with liberal parents who were educators; they had encouraged their daughter’s interest in photography and travel. When she left them to go to Europe, they had no idea that she would never return. She had met Phillippe Friedrich after the Second Great War in France and followed him back to Gabon to document his life’s work in photography.
Georges-Guillaume had always read with interest books about Africa and his native country of Gabon. And all three encouraged him to do so. William Daniel Knowlton loved him like he was his son. He had patiently taught him to paint and draw, holding on to every scrap of paper, every canvas with pride. To honor him, he took his middle name as his own. He now knew that his name, Georges, was his maternal grandfather’s name.
The photograph his mother took that day in June 1965 was one of the happiest summers of his teenagehood. Somehow it had all been turned into fodder for a political scandal and an incriminating book of poetry. Somehow his daughter, his Sophie, by a French woman he had loved dearly once in his life, was now on trial for the most reprehensible acts. And she had also used his wealth and influence to carry the deeds out.
The instability of his oldest child began the moment he decided he needed Africa. He had begun to feel alone in a world surrounded by people who did not look like him, except for his child. He supposed his loneliness, that gnawing alienation, began in his adolescent years, but he was cared for so he buried these feelings.
And Africa needed him. He had read and watched from Paris the various black liberation and independence movements in America and Africa. Favors were owed and he had been welcomed back as a long-lost son returned home by his father’s family though he had not known that they were his real kin. He had plans to return with his young French wife and child. But Janine could not leave her ailing mother in France. At first, he traveled to see them often. He had missed them both. The mother-in-law languished on for years until they began to grow apart. He had tried to honor Janine by taking care of her and Sophie despite her request for a divorce.
They ended their marriage amicably rather than rancorously. However, Sophie, a good-natured but strong-willed child, evolved into a belligerent teenager. She then devolved into a spoilt and rash adult who never forgave him for abandoning them no matter what he or Janine had tried to explain to her. She refused to visit Gabon even when Janine did. Africa had ruined her life. And she wanted nothing to do with it, including a name that recalled its claim on her person. She took her mother’s maiden name when she entered the École du Louvre. Georges-Guillaume knew that this last act had more to do with his name marking her as “French but not quite,” despite her fairer complexion. His money could not fully protect her from the vagaries of French racism.
She had knifed her mother’s heart and wounded his fatherly pride. But she was his first born. The Gabonese papers were running pictures of her with the headline, “The Prime Minister’s French Daughter.” President Ambourouet had signaled his willingness to drum the journalist out a job. But Prime Minister Damas saw no need. The journalist had brought both his white mother and his almost white daughter back to him with that photograph. Shackled in irons with her tear-stained face, he had seen his mother in her face, for he had not seen Sophie’s face in a good while or his mother’s since he was a young man on the verge of adulthood.
His driver called for him. He rang the butler to take his suitcases to the chauffered car. He boarded the private plane for Paris. Sophie’s last acts of defiance had been for him, her father. She did not hate him as she said she had year after year when he pleaded to see her in America, in France, anywhere she wanted. Georges-Guillaume would stand with her now.
THE END
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BEYOND NEGRITUDE: Paulette Nardal and Essays from La Femme dans la Cité
PIMPS UP, HO’S DOWN: Young Black Women, Hip Hop and the New Gender Politic
NEGRITUDE WOMEN
THE BLACK FEMINIST READER
BLACK VENUS: Sexualized Savages, Primal Fears, and Primitive Narratives in French
FRANTZ FANON: Conflicts & Feminisms
SPOILS OF WAR: Women of Color, Cultures & Revolutions
FANON: A Critical Reader
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Louisiana Hotshot
Chapter 1
Nerd wanted. Nerdette wouldn’t be too bad. Young hotshot, under thirty, 5 yrs. computer, 10 yrs. investigative exp. Harvard ed., no visible piercings. Must play the computer like Horowitz played piano. Slave wages.
“Huh. This one see you comin’— he as picky as you.”
“Let me see that.” Unbelieving, Talba Wallis grabbed for the classifieds. She was having breakfast with her mother at the old black-painted table, trying to ignore Miz Clara’s morning meddling.
Talba had nothing against getting a job, indeed fully intended to. She merely preferred to peruse the Times-Picayune ads at her own pace, if at all. The best jobs in her field would be on the Internet, so why bother?
However, she had to admit her mother had
happened on a rare gem— an honest ad. The kind you usually saw only in the personals: “Fat toad, sixty-five, stinks, seeks hard-bodied blue-eyed blonde for hideous perversions. Must be 18 and star of own TV series.”
“Must be some kind of joke,” Miz Clara said. “Nobody under thirty with all that experience.”
Hardly hearing, Talba took the paper and wandered toward her room. Who the hell would place an ad like that? It was easy enough to find out, and she couldn’t resist— it was a slow Sunday morning. Darryl had his kid for the weekend.
Actually, she met quite a few of the criteria. She was under thirty, had no visible piercings, did have investigative experience, and was, in fact, the Horowitz of the computer. She’d probably be employed if she weren’t so damn good. In fact, she certainly would be— she’d just quit a cushy gig at United Oil out of pure boredom. Elsewhere, there were plenty of jobs for an African-American nerd of her distinction, but Talba was a New Orleanian through and through. Her mama was here, and her boyfriend was here but that was only part of it.
Her heart was here.
The last line of the ad said “Fax resumé,” and gave a number. That was all she needed. A few strokes of the keyboard and she had a name: Edward Valentino.
A few more and she had another: E. V. Anthony Investigations. A detective agency on Carondelet. No website.
“Well, well, well, well, well. What can we deduce from this?” she mumbled to herself, thoroughly delighted. Her mentor, Gene Allred, had told her he got a good percentage of his work from being first in the phonebook— therefore, given the “E. V.,” there probably was no Anthony. Carondelet Street was in the CBD, or Central Business District— therefore maybe Valentino was a pretty respectable guy (which was more than she could say for Allred.)
She grabbed for the Yellow Pages. Aha, an ad. Twenty-five years’ experience. Specializing in criminal defense, undercover, divorce, child custody, missing persons, insurance, prenuptial. In other words, not specializing.
Interesting, though— the ad didn’t mention too much about background checks. Corporate and prenuptial might cover that, but something told Talba Mr. Valentino didn’t care much for doing heavy computer searches.
Well, hell. That was a nerd’s job. She got back on the net and sometime after lunch had a stack of papers half an inch thick. An excellent day’s work. She decided to give her mother a treat.
“Come on, Mama. Let’s take a ride.” Miz Clara was dozing in front of the television set.
“Where ya want to go?”
“Let’s go see Aunt Carrie. I’ve got this nice car— we might as well use it.” She had bought a five-year-old Camry out of her United Oil earnings.
Miz Clara said, “Hmmph. Not nice enough.”
“Oh, yeah, I think so. In this neighborhood, I think it’s quite nice enough.” Her mama lived in a run-down cottage in the Bywater, on a block poetically situated between Desire and Piety.
Miz Clara went off to trade her floppy old blue slippers for a pair of Nikes, and find herself a wig to wear. When she came back, she said, “What you been doin’ in there by ya self?”
“Writing poetry,” said Talba, and Miz Clara shut up.
***
It was eight-forty-five the next morning when Talba tried the door marked E. V. Anthony. It was locked. Good. That probably meant they came in at nine. She found a ladies’ room in which to replenish her lipstick, and returned to stand guard. At approximately nine-oh-five, a young white woman unlocked the door. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“Edward Valentino.”
“Come on in. Do you have an appointment?”
“No. Just taking a chance.”
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Oh, no thanks, I’ll just read a magazine.” It was obvious the woman was dying of curiosity, but Talba figured once was enough to tell her story.
It was another few minutes— twenty maybe— before a stocky man came in, a man who’d be sixty-five in a matter of days, stood five-feet-ten, and limped a little. Not even giving him a chance to greet the help, she rose and extended her hand. “Mr. Valentino, I presume.”
“Good morning. Good morning,” he said, clearly a little flustered.
“I didn’t know about the limp.”
“Say that again?” Now he was irritated.
Talba noticed that he said “dat” for “that.” He had the kind of New Orleans accent that sounded, for all the world, as if he’d grown up in Brooklyn. She held up her file. “Everything else was on the Internet. But I missed the limp.” She nodded at the secretary. “You’re Eileen Fisher, aren’t you?” She turned back to Valentino. “And you’re about to have a birthday. Congratulations.”
Smoke was starting to come out of Valentino’s ears. “What the hell is this?” What da hell is dis?
“This,” she said, “is a young hotshot, able to play the computer like Horowitz tickled the ivories. No visible piercings and well under thirty. Talba Wallis at your service.”
Valentino looked exhausted, but he stuck out his hand manfully. “Eddie Valentino. You gotta be a friend of Angela’s.”
“Angela? I must be missing something.”
“Come on, come on. Angela put ya up to this.”
“Angela. Your wife’s name is Audrey, it can’t be… oh! Daughter. She must be your daughter.”
He was laughing now. “Angie, Angie— don’t you ever give up?”
“Mr. Valentino, I’m as much of a hotshot as you’re gonna get, but your daughter’s name wasn’t in any of the databases. Now if I’d known I was going to need it, I could have had it in two seconds.”
A look of astonishment spread over his features. Talba figured he was starting to catch on. “How’d you know who placed the ad?”
Talba shrugged. “You advertised for an investigator. I investigated.”
Valentino closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, a man clearly at the end of his rope. “Eileen, you got any coffee?”
“Yes sir. Of course.” The girl looked terrified.
“Bring us some, will ya? Ms. Wallis, come on in.” He led the way to one of three other rooms she could see, another of which seemed to be a combination coffee and copy room. Valentino’s office wasn’t a whole lot grander. He turned on a light and slipped behind a desk, gesturing at two facing chairs. Talba took one, and for the first-time really looked at him.
His hair was salt-and-pepper, not yet white, and not soon to be, but his face was deeply lined. Almost as if it had been carved out of a once-handsome, very Mediterranean demeanor that had become, for some reason, very tired. Deeply, deeply tired. The bags under his eyes were duffels. She almost asked if he were getting enough sleep.
“Start at the beginning, Ms. Wallis.”
She passed him most of the file, holding back her ace in the hole. “Here’s the background check I did on you, complete with driving record and newspaper clips. I see you worked on the Houlihan case.”
He nodded impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. Okay, you’re a hotshot. Ya went to Harvard?” Eileen brought in a couple of mugs of coffee, and he had his to his face almost before he’d finished speaking.
“Xavier. Computer skills mostly self-taught, except for five years at TeleSyst. Five years off and on, I mean— some of it was summer stuff while I was in school. But I bow to the applicant who did go to Harvard and brings you a package like this.”
“Pretty pushy broad, aren’t ya?” His eyes crinkled a little. He was starting to loosen up. Talba knew guys like this— the way they showed they liked you was to get insulting.
Best to let it go, she thought. Stow the righteous indignation. She gave him a grin instead. “I try to be.” He had drunk about half his coffee by now, and it was doing him a world of good. His skin was looking less gray, his eyes starting to show some spirit, the purple of the duffels smoothing to puce.
What’s in that stuff? she thought, and took a sip herself. If she hadn’t already been sitting, it would have knocked her on her butt
.
“How much investigative experience ya had?”
“About two months.” She paused. “Not counting the ten minutes I spent on this.” Gesturing grandly at the pile she’d given him.
He didn’t crack a smile, and she made a mental note to lay off the bragging. It wasn’t going over. “I’m just kidding. It really took me about an hour and a half.”
“You tellin’ me the truth?” Da trut.
She made an attempt to look modest, but it was something she hadn’t tried before; she wasn’t sure she succeeded. “Yes sir. Give or take.”
“Tell me about your experience.”
“Well, it was a funny thing. I had a problem I needed a private eye for. So I picked one out of the phonebook, and the guy hired me.”
“Oh, yeah? Who was that?”
“Gene Allred.”
He leaned forward a little, and his eyes threw off sparks like a couple of mini-fires. The guy had something she hadn’t seen at first. “Gene Allred? I knew Gene Allred. Crooked son of a bitch.”
Talba laughed. “Guess you right.” She hardly ever lapsed into dialect, but this guy was such an old-time New Orleanian it was catching. “A little sleazy, but he sure could detect.”
“What was so special about ya he just had to hire ya?”
“He said I had the right demographics.”
Valentino raised an eyebrow.
“Meaning I could go undercover in places he couldn’t. That and my computer skills. Gene was kind of a Luddite.”
“A what?”
“Luddite. You’re one too, aren’t you?”
“I’ll let ya know when ya clue me in what ya talkin’ about.”
The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence Page 19
