Southern Ruby (26 page)

‘Elliot! Come in,' a sonorous voice called from inside.

I followed Elliot into a wood-panelled front room. A couch and armchair upholstered in orange cotton plaid faced a Rhodes electric piano. I knew those pianos had been built in the 1970s and used hammers like an acoustic piano, but the only one I'd seen until now had been in an exhibition at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music.

The doorway to the kitchen had been converted into an arch. A man sitting at a Formica table with a newspaper in front of him waved to us.

‘Come in, kids,' he said, standing up.

He was over six foot and straightbacked and carried himself with such regal dignity that he could have been welcoming us in a tuxedo rather than the shorts, singlet and massage sandals he was wearing. The combination of his velvety voice, sable-toned skin and intelligent brown eyes mesmerised me.

‘Hey, Terence,' said Elliot, giving him a man hug. He turned back to me. ‘This is Amandine from Australia.'

‘Australia?' said Terence, shaking my hand firmly. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Amandine. You're a long way from home.' He pulled out the vinyl seats around his kitchen table for us to sit on, then opened his kitchen cupboard, which was so methodically organised it could have been a pharmacist's cabinet.

‘Can I get you something to drink?' he asked. ‘Tea, coffee, a root beer?' He took out a box from the cupboard and stared at the label dubiously. ‘Or I've got this funny smelling green tea my neighbour Wanda left the other day. She said it would be good for my liver.'

‘Is there something wrong with your liver?' Elliot asked.

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Then don't drink it.'

Terence laughed heartily. He had a nice laugh: warm and rich, like hot chocolate.

I drank green tea all the time, but I'd never tried root beer so when Elliot accepted Terence's offer I asked for one too. I'd thought it was a soft drink so was surprised when Terence took an unlabelled bottle filled with a coffee-coloured liquid from the refrigerator.

‘Terence brews his own root beer,' Elliot explained, while his friend poured the thick liquid into glasses.

‘That's right,' said Terence, sitting down and raising his glass to toast us. ‘From my grandfather's old recipe. Not that stuff they sell in the stores. Real liquorice, ginger and dandelion roots, along with wild cherry tree bark, juniper berries and a cinnamon stick.'

I took a sip. It was delicious . . . and very alcoholic!

‘I thought root beer was a soft drink,' I said, coughing.

My statement made Terence laugh. ‘In New Orleans, this is a soft drink.'

‘I brought Amandine to meet you because her father was a New Orleans jazz musician and we wondered if you might have known him?' Elliot said to him.

The old man leaned back in his chair and looked at me. ‘Well, if your father was a jazz musician in New Orleans I most certainly would have known him. There are only six degrees of separation at most in this city. What was his name?'

‘Dale Lalande.'

Terence's face froze for a moment. ‘But . . . how? Dale Lalande died so young. Too young.'

‘I was two years old when my parents were killed. I grew up in Australia.'

Terence took a while to digest this information. ‘I didn't know Dale had a child. Well then, that's even more of a tragedy,' he said finally. ‘You see, Dale Lalande was one of the finest musicians I've ever heard. He played New Orleans jazz like
New Orleans jazz should be played: refined but also down to earth. I heard him play piano, saxophone and clarinet. He was a strong musician and a precise one.' He took a sip of his root beer, and thought deeply about something before continuing. ‘He was not only an exceptional musician but a special young man. I treasure the conversations I had with him about music. People like Dale don't come along every day and he was taken away from us way too soon.'

It was uncanny — and a bit eerie — to hear someone talk about my father, especially in such glowing terms. It reminded me of how I'd felt when Aunt Louise and Grandma Ruby spoke about him.

‘I met your mother on a couple of occasions too,' continued Terence, then smiled to himself. ‘She was a wild child. I think Dale's solid temperament calmed her down while she stirred him up. They were quite a pair, but they were obviously deeply in love.' He nodded towards the front room. ‘Come with me a moment.'

We followed him to the front room. He sat down at the piano and turned it on.

‘This was one of your father's,' he said, placing his hands on the keys. ‘I remember it well.'

His left hand produced a powerful swing bass pattern while his right moved nimbly over the keys. The music pulled at something inside of me. The piece was complex yet playful, intense yet cheeky.

Terence stopped playing and turned to me. ‘Do you want to have a go?' He stood up to make way for me. ‘Try it. I'll show you how the left hand goes.'

I sat down and gingerly touched the piano. ‘I don't know if I can. I stopped playing after I left school, and I've only studied classical music.'

He grinned at me. ‘Of course you can. You're the daughter of a jazz genius — you've got it inside of you. Your daddy could
play Ravel and Debussy and street music too. He never limited himself, and you shouldn't either.'

He showed me the hand positions and chords, and to my surprise I picked things up faster than I'd expected, even though I was out of practice.

Elliot applauded.

‘Not bad at all,' Terence said. ‘Why don't you come to me for lessons, Amandine? I'd be happy to teach you more of your daddy's stuff.'

He looked at me with such compassion that tears pricked my eyes, but I managed to calm myself. Tamara's partner, Leanne, was into crystals and was always talking about serendipity. I'd often ribbed her about her new age beliefs, but now I found the fortune I'd had in meeting someone who had known my father and his music almost too much to bear. It was enough to make me believe in magic myself.

‘That would be awesome!' I told him.

‘Good,' he said, with genuine enthusiasm. ‘You've got a nice touch. You're not a heavy-handed player, you move gracefully.'

‘You play very well yourself,' I told him. ‘Were you a professional musician too?'

‘Hell, no! I was a carpenter. I left being professional to the guys who were really good. I enjoy playing myself, of course, but I enjoy listening to the best even more.'

We finished our root beers and talked more about jazz in New Orleans. Before I knew it, time had got away and it was almost six o'clock. I looked at Elliot apologetically.

‘Have to go?' he asked, then nodded.

I thanked Terence again for introducing me to my father's music.

‘Why don't you come again tomorrow morning?' he offered. ‘That will give us more time. I know Elliot goes to see his sister and her family on Sundays but you can catch the bus and I'll meet you at the stop.'

As he walked us to the gate, it occurred to me that he might have seen Jewel perform too.

‘I'm interested in the New Orleans burlesque scene as well,' I told him. ‘Have you ever heard of a performer called Jewel?'

Terence stopped in his tracks. ‘Wow! Where did you hear that name? She was a performer like no other, but nobody knows her name these days. When she came on stage the whole world stopped. She was mesmerising. She danced at the Vieux Carré nightclub, a classy place on Bourbon Street. It's gone now, of course. How'd you hear about her all the way from Australia?'

His reaction confirmed that Jewel had actually existed, but I wasn't about to reveal that my grandmother claimed to be her, so I answered that I'd come across her picture in a book about New Orleans entertainers and it said that she'd suddenly disappeared. The story sounded intriguing.

‘Well,' said Terence, ‘I can tell you that she was the best burlesque dancer by far. You could feel the electricity in the air when she performed.'

I wanted to hear more, but didn't want to upset Aunt Louise by being late for dinner. ‘Till tomorrow,' I told him.

He waved to us from his gate as we drove off.

‘Terence has so much charisma,' I said to Elliot.

‘I know. It's that voice. It's like talking to God.'

We laughed, then drove in silence for a while before he said, ‘I didn't realise you'd lost your mother as well in the accident. That's really tough. But how come you grew up in Australia if you still have family in New Orleans?'

‘That's a difficult story. I don't know all the details, but apparently there was a legal dispute. My nan in Australia got custody of me.'

‘But she didn't let you visit New Orleans?'

‘No.'

He bit his lip. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry.'

‘You didn't.' I was surprised at how calm I felt. Usually, talking about my family situation jangled my nerves. But I didn't feel that way with Elliot. It was easy to be with him.

He sighed. ‘Few of us get the
Brady Bunch
ideal happy family. My dad shot through when I was a kid. My sister and I were raised by my mother and aunt. We both turned out all right though. My sister's happily married with three kids in Baton Rouge, and I'm very close to them all. Not having a father made me feel like a freak at school, but in the end we all decide for ourselves what kind of person we want to be.'

What Elliot said was true, but I was struggling with only now coming to terms with the man who had been my father. I was forced to reassess so much of my life as I learned each new thing about him.

When we reached the Garden District, Elliot glanced at me. ‘I'm going to look for your father's recordings on Monday morning so call me anytime after that.'

I was tempted to invite him in to meet the family, but stopped myself. I didn't want to create any diversion to Grandma Ruby finishing her story. ‘Thank you for everything. I enjoyed myself today,' I said.

‘My pleasure,' he replied with a good-natured smile, before driving away. I watched the car disappear down the street and then walked up the path to the front door with a spring in my stride.

When I stepped inside the house, Uncle Jonathan was speaking on his mobile phone while Aunt Louise was cooking in the kitchen. The mouth-watering fragrances of roasting garlic and melting cheese filled the air and reminded me of evenings at home with Nan. It made me both happy and sad. Grandma Ruby was in the laundry, giving Flambeau a bath. I'd never seen
anybody give a rooster a bath before, but then Elliot's squirrel had a litter tray.

Grandma Ruby winked when I greeted her, as if we were co-conspirators.

‘Did you have a good day sightseeing?' Aunt Louise asked, turning from the oven.

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘It was great.'

I wasn't ready to tell anyone about Terence yet. He'd shown me a new aspect of my father that I wanted to keep to myself without anyone else putting a spin on it. Besides, I wasn't sure how pleased Aunt Louise would be that Elliot had taken me to the Lower Ninth Ward. I glanced at Grandma Ruby, now drying Flambeau in the bonnet of a 1970s hairdryer. Maybe I'd get to be as good at keeping secrets as she seemed to be.

Uncle Jonathan cleared the breakfast table of papers. ‘Let's eat in the kitchen,' he said. ‘I feel too stitched up in the dining room.'

Aunt Louise had made eggplant lasagne with a chopped Italian salad. As we ate, Uncle Jonathan told us about a difficult property settlement he and Aunt Louise were negotiating, while Grandma Ruby fed pieces of a banana to Flambeau, who was sitting in the chair next to her. By the time we had enjoyed a dessert of grilled peaches, and cleaned up the kitchen, it was eleven o'clock.

After Aunt Louise and Uncle Jonathan left, I was afraid Grandma Ruby was going to turn in for the night and not continue her story. But to my relief, she lit new candles in the dining room, settled Flambeau on her lap and beckoned for me to join her.

‘I'll tell you about Leroy tonight,' she said, her lips trembling. ‘He is the most important part of the story.'

‘Who was Leroy and where did he sit?' I asked, looking at the place settings.

Grandma Ruby brushed her hand over Flambeau's feathers. ‘No, this is quite a different story,' she said softly. ‘Quite a different story indeed.'

D
eceit is not a desirable thing, but here is the reality of it: sometimes you have to keep secrets. If I was going to strip for a living without humiliating my mother, I was going to have to do it in disguise.

I'd seen enough of the other strippers on stage to know that red or blonde hair was more striking under the lavender stage lights than brunette tones. After spotting a poster of Rita Hayworth in a barber shop on Bourbon Street, I bought a wig to imitate her lustrous copper waves.

‘Changing your appearance isn't enough to avoid being recognised,' Melody advised me when I went to visit her. After the shooting, she'd decided to retire from stripping and move back to Baltimore. She was selling me her costumes for a fraction of the price it would have cost me to have my own made.

The shotgun house she'd been renting in the Seventh Ward, with its porcelain Bambi ornaments and lace doilies, suggested nothing of Golden Delilah, but suited homely Melody to a tee. She was a master of illusion and I'd do well to listen to her.

‘What should I do?' I asked, trying on the headdress of her mermaid outfit — a massive crown of starfish, pearls and sea shells.

‘You've got to develop different gestures, a different style of walking, even a different way of thinking.' She helped me to step into the fishtail skirt, using the arm that wasn't bandaged up. ‘Every time you pass a restaurant, observe how alluring women hold their glasses in their fingertips, reapply their lipstick ever so slowly, and touch their throats when they're flattered, as if they are beckoning to be kissed there.'

I'd been fascinated by Melody's transformation into her stage persona. Now I was learning that it was no accident: deliberate thought had gone into every move. Earl had called her ‘an artist' and he'd been right.

I flicked my hair back and exposed the skin on the inside of my wrist as if I were enticing someone to kiss it. ‘Like this?' I asked, studying my reflection in the mirror.

Melody turned my body to an angle where the sea shell bra of the costume accentuated my curves. My eyes seemed to darken and my jaw set more firmly, making me appear worldlier. Who was that sassy stranger looking back at me? I marvelled at how a single pose and gesture could transform me from a pretty young girl to a seductress.

‘Jewel,' I said, pouting my peaked red lips. ‘Expensive, brilliant, shimmering, radiant, enticing.'

I was in awe of my metamorphosis and scared too. It was as if a different person had slipped inside me.

‘Excellent,' Melody said, zipping me up. ‘I wasn't born attractive; I was a knock-kneed, shy thing. But I decided to be beautiful, and when I was on stage people believed it. Never underestimate the power of belief or a trick of the eye — magicians use them all the time. You must become a magician of sorts, creating an illusion.'

Excitement thrummed through me. I was determined to master my transformation as convincingly as Melody had hers.

As well as the mermaid outfit, I bought a gold chiffon Cleopatra dress that Melody had never had a chance to wear, along with a snake-charm headdress and arm cuffs; and an elegant strapless dress of black satin with a side split, and matching gloves that reached my shoulders.

‘I'll drive you to the club so you can store your costumes there,' Melody offered. ‘They aren't the sort of thing you carry on the bus.'

‘Indeed,' I said, but then realised I had another problem. ‘Now I'm stripping, I can't walk into the club as Ruby and leave as Ruby in case someone recognises me. I'll have to find somewhere between home and the club to switch!'

‘Good idea!' Melody said, holding up her bandaged arm. ‘That was my mistake with Huey. He followed me. You'd best hire a room somewhere near the club. Lola used to have a pied-à-terre in Chartres Street. Why don't you go and see if it's still available for rent?'

The address Melody gave me was for an apartment building down the quiet end of Chartres Street, away from the nightclubs and restaurants. It wasn't decrepit but it was far from pristine. The shutters were crooked and in need of paint, and a side balcony sagged so woefully it looked as though it wouldn't withstand the weight of a child. At the front of the building, a gallery trimmed by a cast-iron railing with an oak leaf motif was the last remaining hint of the mansion's bygone glory. The front entrance was too conspicuous, but I was pleased to see an overgrown walled garden with a gate to the street and a side entrance next to the building. I'd be able to enter and leave discreetly through that.

‘Everybody minds their own business, that's the rule of the house,' said the proprietor, an elderly woman with bandy legs and frizzy hair. ‘We've got two painters here who like things
quiet, and one veteran who keeps to himself.' She led me to a ground-floor apartment at the rear of the building. ‘Pay your rent every Saturday and I won't cause you any trouble.'

Before opening the door, she stopped to appraise me. I tried to look composed, but my lack of complete assurance didn't escape her keen eyes. I was too well-dressed to be looking for a cheap flat for noble purposes and she knew it.

‘The former tenant left the apartment in better condition than she found it so I'm going to have to charge you extra,' she said as she opened the door.

I was pleased to discover that the apartment was indeed in better condition than the rest of the building. While the tan paint on the walls was peeling and the chandelier that hung from the ceiling looked like it hadn't been functional for years, the room was clean and held a wrought-iron bed and mosquito net, two large wardrobes, a dressing table and a red velvet chaise longue. The door to a combined kitchenette and bathroom was hidden behind an oriental screen. A French painting of a young woman in
déshabillé
added to the boudoir style of the room. It was the perfect place to transform into Jewel.

‘Yes, I'll take it,' I told the woman.

‘When do you want to move in?'

‘Right away . . . and I'd like a key to the garden gate.'

A knowing look came into her eyes and I blushed. I could imagine what she was thinking.

‘Come at seven,' she said. ‘I'll have a spare key ready for you then.'

As I prepared for my act that evening, it occurred to me that my desire to transform myself went deeper than to avoid being recognised. I wanted to keep Ruby for my life with Maman, so Jewel would have to be an alter ego. It was the only way I could live with myself and what I was doing.

Rolando and I had agreed on a sum of one hundred and eighty dollars a week, which was good for a beginner. But I
wanted to be more than an average stripper; I wanted people to be wild for me the way they were wild for Tempest Storm, Dixie Evans and Blaze Starr — and to pay big bucks to see me.

I studied attractive women assiduously — not only other strippers but women out on the street — for that special
je ne sais quoi
. My favourite place was the glittering lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel. There, a world of beautiful, exotic women paraded before me: visiting Hollywood stars, and the wives — and mistresses — of business tycoons. I scrutinised their hair, their make-up, their mannerisms and the way they walked. Jewel was becoming a composite of the most beautiful women in America.

But I still had a major challenge: my voice. What if someone recognised me from the way I spoke? The Southern accent was sultry by nature, and even strippers from the West Coast swapped their rising inflections for the more melodious tones of the South. But I needed to differentiate myself.

My answer came one day in the Roosevelt's lobby when I saw a woman walk out of the elevator, as regally as if she were Cleopatra herself. Her navy blue dress was cut on the bias and unadorned, creating the perfect contrast for her silk turban with a diamond-encrusted jaguar brooch at the centre of it. The effect was dazzling. Every eye turned to her. She was aristocratic, extravagant, mysterious. Then when she spoke to the concierge to collect her mail and arrange for a car, I knew I had found my voice.

‘Thank you, Mr Wiltz,' she said in a tone rich with elegance. ‘That is most kind of you and I am truly, truly grateful.'

She spoke slowly and deliberately in an upper-class accent that was halfway between British and North American. It was hypnotic. I tried to put my finger on the quality that made her voice so different. Then I realised it was elevated. Her voice was not noise, but music.

The blissful look on the concierge's face showed he was under her spell.

In my little room in Chartres Street, I practised the woman's gilded voice and added my own hint of Southern seductiveness to it until it became my own. ‘I am so truly, truly grateful,' I said over and over again to the mirror.

When it came time for Melody and her children to leave for Baltimore, I helped her pack her car. I was losing the first friend I'd had in years. But that was the price I was going to pay for being Jewel: I couldn't associate with anyone too closely or get to know anyone too intimately, in case my secret life should be discovered.
Gracious but guarded; be friendly to everyone but confide in no-one
, I wrote in the notebook I kept in the Chartres Street apartment to record my thoughts on Jewel's personality.

When Melody was ready to leave, she hugged me, then looked me up and down. ‘I can't believe the transformation — I can barely recognise you at all. But remember, the real test will be if you can pull it off with someone who has known you for years.'

Melody dispelled some of my self-doubt, and I knew she was right: the only way to test if my alter ego was convincing was to try her on someone. But I couldn't take the risk with Maman or Mae. I thought about who else I could try, then smiled when the answer came to me.

Doctor Monfort's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw me in the waiting room, and not because he recognised me. His usual patient wasn't a femme fatale decked out in a scarlet pencil dress, nude stilettos and smelling of Femme Rochas perfume.

‘Good morning, Miss Charrette,' he said, inviting me to take a seat in his consulting room.

The place was familiar to me, with its eye chart and scales and smell of Clorox bleach. There was a jar of candies on Doctor Monfort's desk and I remembered fondly how he used
to offer them to me as a child, after I'd let him examine my ears or throat without a fuss.

‘What can I do for you today?' he asked.

I'd entered his rooms with the intention of saying I had a sore throat, but the expression of delight on his face brought out the mischief in me. I lifted the skirt of my dress to expose my right knee. ‘I have a pain here,' I said, running my finger over my kneecap, ‘when I walk.'

Doctor Monfort must have seen a lot of legs in his lifetime but the sight of mine seemed to interest him significantly. He bent down and pushed his glasses further up his nose to take a look.

I wriggled when he felt around my calf and kneecap. ‘That tickles.'

‘Oh,' he said, his face all aglow. ‘Could you . . . perhaps take off your stockings and sit on the bench so I can get a better look?'

Taking off my stockings was something Melody had taught me to do to perfection. I stood up and paused a moment in a three-quarter stance before I stepped out of my shoes. Then I stroked my hands up my leg until they reached my garter belt clips. Doctor Monfort loosened his collar and attempted to look away, but he was smiling as if he were thinking about something pleasant. It was terrible to tease a professional man — and a family friend at that — but my penchant for cheekiness took over. I slowly rolled down my stocking and the temperature in the room seemed to go up a few degrees. Then I leaned forward to keep my balance as I lifted my leg behind me and pulled off my stocking with a flourish.

Doctor Monfort gave a little cry as he followed the movement, then looked flustered. ‘Very good. Now take a seat on the bench, please.'

I kept my eyes on his face, so that every time he looked up from examining my knee with his trembling fingers I was
ready to smile at him. Our faces were in close proximity, and if he hadn't recognised me as Ruby by now I was confident he wouldn't.

‘I can't feel any abnormalities or swelling,' he said. ‘You might have strained the tendon, that's all. Do you wear high heels like that all the time?' He pointed at my stilettos.

I tilted my head and peered deeply into his eyes. ‘I usually do . . . except when I'm naked, although sometimes I do then as well!'

He chuckled, then remembered himself. ‘Well, you get dressed now, Miss Charrette,' he said, moving to his desk as briskly as if he were stepping away from a hungry alligator, ‘and I'll give you a prescription for a liniment. Try not to wear those shoes all the time, and if your knee isn't better in two weeks come back and see me.'

‘Oh, I will,' I said, as he passed me the prescription and showed me to the door.