(1988) The Golden Room (17 page)

She had followed Edmund out of her doorway and downstairs, where she headed for Minna’s office.

In the office, Karen had found Minna standing beside her desk, staring off.

‘There’s something I’d like you to do for me, Karen,’ Minna had begun without any preliminaries.

‘Anything you wish, Minna.’

‘It has to do with my niece and nephew,’ Minna had said.

Karen had brightened at once. She had enjoyed being with Bruce at the race course yesterday, and she welcomed any opportunity to be with him again.

‘I’d be delighted to do whatever you ask,’ Karen had said.

‘My nephew Bruce has been pressing me to take him and Cathleen on a tour of Chicago. He wants to see something of the city before he goes back to Kentucky. I keep promising to show him the sights, but I’m really afraid to do so. Someone might recognize me and spill the truth about who I really am. I took a chance going to Washington Park yesterday, but I really had to wear a veil to keep from being recognized, and I’ll do so again when the Derby is run. I can’t take more chances. Anyway, Bruce told me he’d bumped into you somewhere and you’d offered to take him on a tour. So I thought of you, even though you’re fairly new here. At least your face

wouldn’t be as familiar as that of one of the other girls. If you would show Bruce and Cathleen the highlights of this city — maybe a few hours - that would get him off my back. Would you consider doing it?’

‘Would I?’ Karen had said ardently. ‘I’d love to do it.’

‘Then set it up for this afternoon, and feel free to use my car. I’d appreciate that.’

And so the tour had come to pass, and Bruce and Cathleen were in Minna’s Ford with Karen as their guide.

Thinking how to best go about the excursion, Karen decided that she would show Bruce and Cathleen the more expensive residential area first, then the leading major boulevards and parks. After that they would plunge into the downtown Loop.

Karen drove the Ford from Dearborn to Michigan Avenue, and slowly through the green, quiet neighbourhoods of stone mansions owned by millionaires.

‘This is the rich residential area of Chicago,’ she explained, recalling what she had seen with the mayor. ‘There are plenty of poor in the city. But there are these wealthy people also. That brownstone you see, the one with towers, minarets, balconies, belongs to Potter Palmer, the hotel magnate. The rooms are all done in the French style, with Corots and Monets on the walls. There’s a ballroom where he once hired the Russian ballet to perform for a party. Palmer’s house has two private elevators, and twenty-seven servants. Look over there. That Gothic on the corner is a $60,000 house that belongs to Charles T. Yerkes, who owns the El trains — the elevateds - and the electric trolley cars. I’m told he sleeps in a bed that the king of Belgium used to own.’

After pointing out the $200,000 mansions belonging to Marshall Field, Philip Armour, and George Pullman, Karen tired of all this splendour and turned on to Drexel Boulevard. Again slowing, she showed Cathleen and Bruce the main feature of this drive. It was a magnificent park, 200 feet wide, that paralleled the boulevard, a park thickly ornamented with

walks that wound through trees, shrubbery, plants, and beds of yellow daffodils.

‘This leads to Washington Park,’ Karen called over her shoulder to Bruce, ‘where we went yesterday to see Frontier. I’m glad you’re going to run him in the American Derby.’

‘Poor man’s roulette,’ murmured Bruce.

‘Maybe,’ said Karen. ‘Now let me show you some of the bigger buildings your aunts would want you to see, modern landmarks Chicagoans are proud of.’

Twisting through the streets, stopping briefly now and then, Karen showed them the Palmer House Hotel, the sixteen-storey Monadnock Building, which filled an entire block, the Home Insurance Building, the Fine Arts Building in spacious Jackson Park, a park 1,500 acres in size with tennis courts and grazing sheep.

‘Now,’ said Karen, ‘let’s see something more interesting — our downtown section known to natives as the Loop. We’ll drive there, leave the car, and wander around on foot.’

When they reached the Loop, it proved to be a beehive of humanity and moving vehicles. Above them, like a steel girdle, the tracks of the elevated trains circled the area, pouring almost three-quarters of a million shoppers into the streets daily. The Loop seethed with people dodging automobiles, horse-drawn trucks, buses, and electric streetcars. The din of people talking and walking and of machines whirring and banging was almost deafening.

Karen inched the Ford along, searching and searching for a vacant parking place; at last she found one and eased the auto into it.

Once safely parked, Karen urged Cathleen and Bruce to descend into the bedlam of the street. She told them to follow her. She seemed to have some kind of destination in mind. As they pushed and shoved along, Karen indicated the rumbling elevated that blocked out the sky above them.

‘The third elevated line to be installed in the country,’ Karen explained. ‘New York and Brooklyn had them first.

We followed in time to create mass transportation for the World’s Columbian Exposition. A year before the fair, the elevated consisted of a small steam locomotive hauling four wooden coaches. Each olive-green coach was forty-six feet long. Eventually, the Els were converted to electrically powered trains, essentially what you see up there at a second-storey level today.’

Bruce made a mock gesture of covering his ears. ‘As a country horseman, I don’t know if I could stand all this thunder and confusion on a daily basis.’

‘Well, I’m going to show you that we have other diversions,’ said Karen. She had come to a halt before a theatre. A sign identified it as the American Music Hall. ‘Have either of you ever seen vaudeville?’ Karen asked.

‘Many times in Louisville,’ Cathleen replied.

‘Good,’ said Karen, ‘but today I want you to spend fifteen minutes seeing the best. Have you heard of Joe Cook?’

Neither Cathleen nor Bruce had.

‘I’ve timed our arrival so we can see his performance today.’

‘Who is Joe Cook?’ Bruce wanted to know.

‘A comedian,’ said Karen, as she bought three tickets. ‘He does what they call a nut act. He satirizes vaudeville. He’s marvellous.’

The three of them went into the darkened theatre, which was two-thirds full for the matinee.

As they walked down the aisle and found their seats, a magician on stage was concluding his performance to applause.

Karen whispered to Cathleen and Bruce, ‘Now Joe Cook. He’s going to do his Four Hawaiians number.’

They watched as Joe Cook, carrying a mandolin, ambled out of the wings. A plain wooden chair had been set in the centre of the stage, and Joe Cook sat down, mandolin in his lap. He squinted out at the audience and began to speak.

‘I will give an imitation of four Hawaiians. This is one.’

Cook whistled. ‘This is another.’ He tinkled the mandolin. ‘And this is the third.’ He marked time with his foot. Then he resumed speaking. ‘I could imitate four Hawaiians just as easily but I will tell you the reason why I don’t do it. You see, I bought a horse for fifty dollars and it turned out to be a running horse. I was offered $15,000 for him and I took it. I built a house with the $15,000, and when it was finished a neighbour offered me $100,000 for it. He said my house stood right where he wanted to dig a well. So I took the $100,000 to accommodate him. I invested the $100,000 in peanuts, and that year there was a peanut famine, so I sold the peanuts for $350,000. Now why should a man with $350,000 bother to imitate four Hawaiians?’

Calmly, Cook picked up his chair and left the stage, while the audience burst into laughter, and Cathleen, Bruce, and Karen held their sides and joined in the merriment.

Presently, after another number, the three of them left the theatre and made their way through the jostling crowds towards the parked car.

Bruce shook his head. ‘Joe Cook was wonderful.’

Karen cast him a sidelong glance, pleased. ‘I wanted you to know there was a lot of fun in Chicago too.’

‘What next?’ Bruce wanted to know.

‘The afternoon is almost gone,’ Karen said. ‘I think your aunts will be expecting you.’

They were in the Ford once more and wending their way out of the Loop.

‘I guess you’ve seen just about everything of importance,’ said Karen.

‘Not quite,’ said Bruce.

‘What do you mean?’ said Karen, with surprise. ‘If you mean we missed the Union Stockyards, I skipped that on purpose. I didn’t think a potential vegetarian would want to see that.’

‘I don’t,’ said Bruce. ‘But there’s something else I’d like to see — one more thing.’

‘What?’ Karen wondered.

‘A place called the Levee,’ said Bruce. ‘I understand it’s not far from our aunts’ home.’

‘The Levee?’ said Karen, brow furrowing. ‘Are you sure? It’s miserable. It’s supposed to be the wickedest section of the city.’

‘I know,’ Bruce agreed. ‘I’ve heard about it. But I hoped to see Chicago completely, for better or for worse.’

‘If you insist,’ said Karen, still troubled.

Bruce was adamant. ‘I insist.’

Karen sighed. ‘In that case, we’ll return to your aunts’ home, leave the car in front, and take a short walk through the Levee.’

After they had returned to the Everleigh Club and parked Minna’s car, Karen reluctantly led her charges into the heart of the Levee.

‘There’s not too much to see,’ Karen told Bruce. But then the mayor’s reform statistics came to mind. ‘The Levee itself is roughly four blocks by four blocks, with over 200 brothels, some of them small as a closet, but of these, thirty-seven are major bordellos. There are about 3,000 persons who inhabit the area. Most of these are hoodlums, drunkards, gamblers, opium dealers, criminals of every stripe. In a single day, usually at night, there’s an average of five murders here, seven suicides, ten persons killed by bombings. Raping of women daring to walk through here is routine. Most of the rapes don’t get into the press, but I was told that one time a socialite, Mrs Frank C. Hollister, was found in a garbage heap. She had been raped, strangled with copper wire, and then beaten to a pulp. That made the papers and provoked some police protection, but only briefly.’

Cathleen shuddered. ‘How can our aunts live near such a terrible neighbourhood?’

Karen was uncertain what to say. She said what she could. ‘I imagine they were taken by the idea of dwelling in a mansion, but couldn’t afford one in a more respectable area.’

Together, the three of them strolled past a brothel where painted young women, semi-clad, stood in the windows and beckoned to Bruce.

Karen pointed to another brothel. ‘It’s called The California. There are dozens of prostitutes inside, wearing only flimsy chemises and colourful high-heeled shoes. The two men standing in front are cadets trying to lure customers inside.’

‘Cadets, you call them,’ Bruce laughed. ‘You know they’re pimps.’

‘I try to avoid such language,’ Karen retorted.

As they strolled along, Karen waved her hand to take in the entire block. ‘All you’ll find here are winehouses - some play Scott Joplin ragtime on piano rolls all night long, saloons awash with whisky, pawnshops, gambling joints, and, above all, the mainstay of this district, houses of prostitution. This red-light district is filled with them.’

‘Red-light district,’ said Cathleen. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Women for sale,’ said Karen. ‘Red-light comes from the fact that many of the bordellos have red beacons on the outside.’ Again she pointed. ‘Over there you see the house owned by Julia and Maurice Van Bever, who were found guilty of practising white slavery, inducing innocent young women to become prostitutes.’

‘White slavery?’ Cathleen was appalled. ‘Isn’t that ancient history?’

‘It still goes on here and there,’ said Karen. ‘Off to your left, do you see that hovel with the windows painted over? It’s known as a breaking-in house. A handsome man finds a girl who is looking for a good time, a few drinks, some song, and for some love. The man takes the girl to a breaking-in house like that and fills her with liquor. Then he takes her into a back room where a gang of men are waiting. All the men take turns raping the girl, standing in line to do it. Then they give her cocaine or morphine to make her even more passive. After that, she’s broken in and ready to become a prostitute.’

‘How horrible,’ Cathleen gasped.

‘It’s not the rule,’ Karen assured her. ‘White slavery is uncommon. Such tactics are unnecessary these days. The madams claim the majority of girls come here to become prostitutes out of choice or out of necessity. Once, the British journalist William T. Stead made a study of the Levee and wrote a book about it called If Christ Came to Chicago. I read it. He wrote the Levee had no civilizing influences. He found no concert hall, no resident clergyman, no educator. He found one German church and wrote, “It is an oasis set in the midst of all the vice and squalor and drunkenness of the district.”’

Cathleen looked about her, shocked. ‘Those poor girls, how I pity them.’

Bruce squeezed her hand. ‘As Karen told you, most of the girls are here by choice. It’s the madams of the brothels that trouble me. They’re hiring the girls. I wonder what their excuses are?’

‘There can’t be any excuses,’ Cathleen said firmly.

Karen was feeling extremely uncomfortable. As they reached the end of a block, she announced, ‘I think we’ve had enough of this sorrowful place. Let’s turn around and get back to your aunts’ home before Minna and Aida begin to worry about what I’ve done with you.’

They retraced their steps to the Everleigh Club. After Cathleen and Bruce had gone upstairs to their bedrooms, Karen turned around to see Minna standing outside her study, beckoning her.

She hastened toward Minna, then followed her inside.

‘That was a long tour,’ said Minna. ‘How did it go?’

Karen recounted where they had been, and what they had seen, omitting the visit to the Levee. ‘Bruce and Cathleen enjoyed it all.’

‘Then it went perfectly.’

Karen hesitated, then decided to speak out. ‘Not quite, Minna. Afterwards, as we were coming here, Bruce wanted to see a place he’d heard about called the Levee.’