by Alyssa Cole
She had reminded them of that earlier in the night. “We want the men to vote yes. But the rules still apply; don’t degrade yourself, unless that’s the kind of thing that gets you steamed up.”
The club was bumping as she passed through; cigarette smoke swirled through the air like steam rising from a manhole in the dead of winter. The scent of food and cologne and sweat permeated the air as people danced; she spotted Janie grinding on a flustered looking White man she was fairly certain was a local union big wig. Wah Ming was sitting on the lap of a brother who had connections with the Tammany drive to recruit Negro voters to the Democrats. Her throaty laugh mixed with the dolorous trill of a trumpet as Bertha passed the group. As she was walking, a hand shot out and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her down onto a firm lap.
Her neck stiffened and she jumped up, whirling in the cloud of smoke and bourbon scent.
“Do that again and you’ll lose a hand,” she warned, then her stomach plummeted as she recognition hit her. The man seated with a smug smile on his face was that combination of brown skinned and light eyed that inflated a man’s ego, and between his political victories and his prowess in the sack, Bertha grudgingly had to admit that he wasn’t completely full of hot air.
“Oh ho!” Victor held his hands up. “Still off the market? I thought you might make an exception for an old friend after all this time.”
His eyes roamed over her body, as if mentally comparing her with the younger version of herself from a few years back. He knew her body about as well as any man, so he’d be a fair judge.
“You pay for the company of all your friends?” she shot back, lifting a hand to her hip.
“I’m a politician, baby,” he replied with a shrug and a smile, and Bertha had to laugh at that. She appreciated when a man was honest about his faults.
She’d liked Victor; his fixation on her had been exhilarating at a time. An older, sophisticated man who treated her like a lady instead of a whore—most of the time. Sometimes, after a few drinks, he’d wanted her to do things he’d deny in the light of day, but he’d been good to her. After Arthur had died, Victor had learned very quickly that Bertha had no use for a man’s relative goodness once she had her own power. Politics had pulled Victor to Albany shortly after that, immersing him in the political theater outside of the city, and she hadn’t seen him since.
“What are you doing back in town?” she asked.
“I have a meeting with some of the men running for office,” he said. “Tammany is looking to shore up the Negro vote. There’s hope of getting more of our own into office this year.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know about such things since I’m not allowed a ballot,” she replied blithely. Victor looked around, then stood up, motioning for her to follow him. He maneuvered through the crowd, taking them to a dimly lit alcove where there was a bit less noise.
“I heard about your little challenge to the men,” he said, his straight teeth flashing bright as he grinned. “I’m disappointed I won’t get to see you dance while I’m here. I miss that.”
Bertha’s throat went tight. She felt like she was back in her office, Arthur’s office back then, immediately after his death. Victor was using the same cajoling tone he had then. I can take care of you, baby. You really think you can just step into his shoes?
“Well, you’ll just have to come back to town once we get the vote,” she said. “Nice seeing you, but I’ve got business to attend to.”
His hand went to her wrist, and it was nothing like Amir’s warm touch—the only male touch she was used to now, she realized. Victor’s grasp was urgent, possessive.
“I can help you,” he said. “I’ve got sway with the state’s most prominent Negroes, and many of the Whites too.”
She looked at him, unsure of what was expected of her. “I’m sure your parents are very proud,” she said, then tugged at her wrist. His grip tightened. It wasn’t menacing, but he was making clear that she was going to listen, whether she wanted to or not.
“I know you’re not naive, Bertha. Stubborn, but not naive.” He gave her wrist a quick tug, pulling her against him. She’d once pretended she enjoyed that, but she no longer had to pretend, and the discordance froze her for a moment. His mustache brushed her ear as he spoke, and she shivered.
“You want men to vote yes,” he said. “I can get men to vote yes.”
She should have been pleased, but she knew he wasn’t offering out of the kindness of his heart.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“A private dance, like you used to give before you got too uppity for it,” he said.
Ah. There it was, a hint of anger belying the suaveness of his tone. She was too good an actress, it seemed, or he was too gullible. She’d presented herself as a woman not available at a man’s slightest whim, and that was somehow a personal affront. He didn’t just want a dance—he wanted her on her knees again.
“I don’t do private dances,” she said. “I don’t do private anything.”
“I’m traveling all over right now talking to groups about the upcoming elections. I’ve been asked to write an editorial for the Union League, explaining whether I’m for or against women having the vote,” he said. “They say that men listen to me, that I’m good at changing minds. It will be published in all the papers, be seen by every man of consequence.”
Bertha felt ill. She felt ill like the first time she’d let a man use her mouth and she’d gagged and almost been sick on the floor. She’d learned what to do since then, which Victor knew all too well.
“So you want sex from me in exchange for your word that you’ll convince a significant number of men to vote yes?” She hoped laying it out before him would make him see how insulting his offer was.
“You’ve sold yourself for less.” He wasn’t trying to be cruel, but her hand went to the wall to hold her up. Her back was still straight, though.
He wasn’t wrong. She was asking her girls to use their wiles; what would that make her if she said no? Just another pimp.
“You know there are men out there already spreading the word. Du Bois and the other race men are willing to do the same—what’s right—without asking for anything in return.”
He shrugged. “I’m a politician, baby.”
She didn’t laugh this time.
Don’t degrade yourself. But hadn’t she told herself she’d do anything? Well.
“If that’s the only way you can get your rocks off, sure thing. Write your little editorial, show me proof that men have responded to it, and I’ll make you forget whether you’re coming or going. Just like old times.”
The words came out sultry, velvety smooth, how she’d reeled in her customers night after night when she worked the floor searching for johns. They’d never known when she was faking it because she was always faking it.
“Is there a problem, Miss Hines?”
She turned, this time tugging her wrist away. Amir stood behind them, brows drawn and scowl lines pulling at that mouth of his.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said. He didn’t move though, just stood there looking at her as if he’d strip his shirt off and pummel Victor if she gave the word. As if he could protect her. Her eyes filled at the foolish earnestness of it all and she blinked away tears that had sprung up out of nowhere. “Thank you for checking.”
Victor harumphed, looking at the dishtowel in Amir’s hand. “You can go back to the kitchen, boy.”
She whirled on him. “And you can go back to your table.” She tilted her head toward his party, who were laughing and carrying on. “Scram.”
“I always loved that temper of yours,” he said as he backed away. “You’ll hear from me soon.”
She stared him down, even after his back was turned. Amir moved to stand next to her, but he didn’t touch her. Had he seen the tears before she caught herself? No one was supposed to, most especially not him.
“Can you come to the kitchen for a moment?” His voice was level, as if he
hadn’t witnessed anything, making her all the more sure that he had. “I want you to try something.”
“I’m working,” she said. Her voice was harsh, but not more so than necessary given what had just passed.
“Brilliant. This is work related.”
His elbow bumped hers playfully as he turned, as if beckoning her to follow him, and she did. She couldn’t go back onto the floor just yet; couldn’t have Victor looking at her as if she were a prize he had already won.
She smelled it as soon as she walked into the kitchen: a rich, tangy spice that made her mouth water.
“Cora?” she asked. Cora knew her way around the kitchen, but if she’d been hiding a recipe that smelled this good from her, they were going to have to have words.
Cora was sitting with her feet propped up on an empty box and a bowl of steaming food in her lap, looking content. She shook her head as she finished chewing. “I was craving fish stew yesterday and Amir said he’d cook me some. I make some good fish stew, so I can say with authority that this is some good fish stew.”
She tucked in again, a radiant smile on her face.
“Try some,” he said, grabbing a bowl.
“Why do you need me to try it?” Bertha asked. She leaned back, eyeing the pot suspiciously.
He laughed. “Because you didn’t eat before practice this afternoon and I don’t think you ate after, and you’re going to be on your feet all night,” he said as he ladled up the stew. “I told you it was work related. Here.”
She took the bowl from him, and a spoon, schooling her face into a mask of annoyance to hide that inside she felt soft as kitten fur. She often worked so hard that she forgot to eat, not realizing it until a drink went to her head too quickly or she collapsed into bed as the sun came up. How had he noticed?
She scooped up a fragrant spoonful and made a sound of pleasure when it touched her tongue. Tangy, hot-sweet, lush—it was delicious. She said nothing, scooping up spoon after spoonful until the bowl was empty. The stew was rich, but she felt lighter somehow having eaten it.
“Thank you.” She handed him the bowl. He took it with a grin and moved to the sink. “You better watch your back, Cora,” she teased.
“I can’t see my toes, let alone my back, but I’ll try,” Cora said.
Bertha laughed and moved to head back out onto the floor. It wouldn’t do to be gone too long, though as she heard Cora and Amir chat she wished she could stay and sit with them. But she was the boss, and that was how she liked it.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Amir called out as she was going through the door. She looked back at him and his grin was gone. There was tenseness in his shoulders and jaw that belied the easiness with which he’d led her into the kitchen. His gaze flicked toward the door and then back to her. “Anything.”
She should have said something cutting to remind him that she was in charge and she’d never need his help. That was how she made it through each day; reminding others of who she was and where they stood in relation to that. But she sheathed the cutting jibe and simply nodded.
Because while she hadn’t needed his help, the taste of his food and the slant of his frown served as a counterbalance as she sauntered onto the floor, helping to pull her shoulders back and her head high, the better to look down her nose as she passed Victor. He winked at her as she walked by. She ignored him.
The election needed to be over, and fast.
Chapter 6
“Practice again today, Pintu?” Fayaz asked as Amir pulled on his coat, a shabby thing left behind by the flatmate he’d replaced. The autumn had been on the warmer side, but cold winds and dropping temperatures had descended to remind him that another interminable New York winter awaited him. His walk to the Cashmere would leave him chilled if he didn’t get a new jacket.
If you’re there for that long. He couldn’t very well work as a dishwasher forever, could he? If that was the case, he’d be better off returning home and tending to his land, like Sabiha Auntie begged him to in her letters. He’d been giving it more and more thought, especially as his savings grew. He would be a peasant back home, but a well-educated, well-traveled one. He could tell stories to his children about the time he lived in a city far away, like Raahil Chacha had with him. Unlike before, Amir wasn’t able to conjure up an image of a doting wife. Instead, he thought of sitting on the couch beside Bertha as they did after each lesson, sipping cha and talking politics.
“They practice every day,” Syed said, drawing an annoyed glance from Amir as he struggled with the buttons on his coat; the previous roommate had been a slimmer man than him.
Syed peeked up from the letter he’d received from his mother, updating him about his wife. “You’d think they were planning to take the stage with all this practice.”
Amir rolled his eyes before slipping into his shoes and heading through the door. “Keep this talk up and you can get someone else to cook for Azim’s wedding. Khoda hafez.”
“Eh, don’t be so sensitive, Pintu!” Fayaz called out as the door closed.
It was hard not to be sensitive. The mere mention of Bertha twisted something in him that should have been straight. She was his boss. That was it. But Syed was right.
Although he learned something new during each of their political talks and her lessons, Bertha had learned enough from him by now. It wasn’t as if he was some grand master of the art form—she was a far better dancer than him. He simply had more technical knowledge by an accident of birth. Her dancing had been more than fine when he’d first seen it. It was better now, but who would really know apart from the two of them? But instead of decreasing the number of practices, they now met every day, even when she wasn’t teaching her citizenship classes. She was surely getting something from the meetings if she kept scheduling them, but he didn’t know what, and that was why any mention of her from his friends was no joking matter for him.
He knew what he was getting from their lessons, and it wasn’t just the finer points of American politics. Amir had gone to the fire rooms that fueled the Kandahar, had felt the heat of the great coal-fed engine, but that was nothing compared to the way he felt as he stood behind her and watched her hips move. His focus should have been the tips of her fingers or the angle of her shoulders as they rose and fell—not that those weren’t distracting, too—but Bertha had made up for a lack of actual knowledge by moving in a way designed to ensure the audience paid no attention to the finer details.
Amir had fancied a woman before. He’d dreamed about his neighbor Nazia for years before an arrangement was made and she had been married to a man from another village. Once he’d made it to Calcutta, there had been Nita, the widow who rented out rooms and occasionally took her tenants as lovers. After her was Piyali, the café owner’s daughter who had smoked cigarettes, worn British-style trousers, and spoken of revolution as they lay sweaty and sated in her bed.
But he fancied Bertha in a different way. Yes, every time he repositioned her arm or ankle during their lessons he imagined what it would be like to touch her everywhere. To kiss and lick her everywhere. But he also fancied her intelligence, and her toughness, and how she was the first person he’d butted heads with who’d butted right back, and with a smile.
Her smile. He thought of the look of pleasure on her face when she’d tasted the stew he’d prepared and his chest clenched. It had felt right, seeing her smile like that and knowing he had been the cause.
The thought warmed him against the cool autumn wind that snuck up under his jacket. The tumult of excitement and joy and apprehension that roiled in him each time he approached the alley leading to the back door of the Cashmere began to build. Those feelings were abruptly cut short when he turned the corner to the alley and saw a White man standing there, smoking a cigarette. Alarm bells went off in his head, louder than the calls to prayer that echoed across Kalinga Bazaar.
He’s just having a smoke, Amir told himself. He’s not here for you. He resisted the urge to turn and run. The
man had already seen him, and running would give him reason to pursue. Amir hated that he had to plot his next move like a criminal, simply because a few sahebs had gotten together and decided they didn’t want his kind around.
He kept walking, against his will, ready to flee if the man reached for him.
The man leaned against the wall, taking another pull of his cigarette but leaving room for Amir to pass. He tried to remain calm, to act as if he was just your average, every day, legal American citizen reporting for work. His apprehension began to decrease as he passed the man and heard no sign of pursuit.
“Hey.”
Amir froze, a preliminary before taking off at a sprint. Then the man continued.
“You know any clubs around here a guy could go to for a good time?”
Amir turned and looked at the man. He had a thin, drawn face, and eyes like he’d spent too long squinting into the sun. He didn’t look very much like a man searching for a good time, but then again, Bertha had explained that many of the Whites came to the club to gawk and stare, to “see the Negro in his natural habitat,” as she’d put it. He’d told her about the sahebs and their wives walking through the slums of Calcutta holding handkerchiefs to their noses as they looked about, like they were at a zoo exhibit.
Oh my, they eat with their hands!
Although the Cashmere catered to a mixed crowd, Amir wasn’t the one who got to decide who was allowed and who wasn’t. He also had the sinking feeling that the man was more interested in him than in the club. “No. Only Negro clubs around here, sir.”
He cringed at how the honorific slipped out. Why should he call some White man lounging in an alley like an urchin “sir”? The only power that the man held over him was the color of his skin, but that was all that was necessary in America, it seemed. Back home, too, now.
