Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
The glowing marquee of the Marshall Hotel dusted well-dressed Black folks in warm light, their skin glistening, the ladies’ beaded flapper gowns sparkling, and the men’s top hats as shiny as oil slicks, all eagerly awaiting the doors to open and the night to begin.
The night held the promise of jazz music, illegal spirits, and feet gloriously sore from dancing.
I stood with Nathan and Willa, eager butterflies flitting in my stomach as I adjusted and readjusted my new dress and gloves and jewelry.
As the line moved, a tide of bodies flooded the ballroom, gradually settling into a sea of draped tables and elegant chairs.
I realized how long it had been since I’d belonged to something.
The salons of Paris were the last time I’d sat in the presence of live music, listening as orchestras and composers tested their pieces before intimate crowds.
Nathan’s friend, the bandleader, had reserved us front-row seats for the night’s festivities.
The jazz music poured over me, the ingenuity of it electrifying.
Invitations to dance came fast and furious alongside the sidecars and hanky pankies.
The buzz of the prohibited alcohol flowed through my veins, allowing me to lose myself in the sway of the dancing bodies and the feeling of a man guiding me along the rhythm.
“You’re beautiful,” a man whispered in my ear, and I let myself feel that way that night.
The dance ended promptly at ten o’clock, and with it, the sadness of the quiet settling through the space that had once been vibrant with music and revelry.
“That was wonderful! Thanks for the invitation,” I said to Willa as we headed back, arm in arm, along West 135th to our apartment building. Nathan followed a few steps behind. The gas streetlights lit the path.
“I’m just so glad you could come,” Willa gushed. “It was amazing to be out on the town.”
“I haven’t had a night like this in ages.”
“I did notice that you were never short of attention,” Willa said appraisingly. “Green is your color.”
“Well, I guess that shopkeeper was right. The gloves were a worthy investment then.” I stretched my hands up, letting the streetlights bathe them in light.
“I’m surprised, Nella. You fell for a salesman’s patter?” Nathan said, unbuttoning his collared shirt. “You always seem so sure and confident. I didn’t think anyone could get anything over on you.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said, thinking of the winding road of my past. “Anyway, he was right in the end. We only regret the things we end up not doing.”
And I regretted nothing. It had been a lovely evening, and it had been nice to go all out, dressed to the nines.
Alcohol still buzzed through me as I tried to hold on to the magic of the night.
As we turned on 142nd, the streets hummed with a well-dressed crowd leaving another venue.
We greeted each other, passing through the large group until a familiar face made me pause.
I stopped right then and tapped the man on the shoulder.
He turned on his heel. “Ah, my favorite customer.” His skin was golden under the flickering gaslight, his smile steady and sure.
“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”
“I’m no devil,” he said seriously, then reconsidered, “though it depends on who you’ve been talking to. You’ve been speaking of me? I’m flattered.”
“Only to tell my friends of these gloves you goaded me into. What are you doing all the way up here?”
He stopped and tapped his chin, squinting up toward the streetlamp. “Well, see, that’s a very philosophical question. What is ‘here,’ anyway? What’s life’s purpose? One for the ancients, really.”
“Stop it. You know what I mean. Why are you this far north?” Meaning, in the colored section of town.
“If there’s action, I’m there.” He smiled widely, glancing at me, then my friends. “Why are you here on this fine evening?”
“We’ve just left a dance at the Marshall Hotel. Willa, Nathan, this is the shopkeeper I met the other day. His name is . . .”
“Adam, Adam Herriman. Now, I know everyone’s name but yours. How can that be?”
“Tessa Thorpe.”
He tipped his hat in my direction. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Tessa.” He noticed my gloves. “I see you found an occasion.”
I admired my right hand. “They weren’t doing much good in the box.”
Adam grinned. “I told you you’d like them. I decided to use the color combination as inspiration.”
“Inspiration?” I asked. “For what?”
“For my clothing line.”
“Clothing line?” Willa arched her brow with interest. “I thought you were a shopkeeper.”
“In truth”—Adam leaned in conspiratorially, biting his lip until he had all our undivided attention—“I’m a spy.”
“A spy?” Willa’s hands flew to her mouth.
Adam nodded seriously. “Yep. I’m observing the way they do business so my mother and I can start our own shop—for the race.”
“‘For the race’? What are you talking about?” Nathan frowned, eyeing Adam up and down impatiently. But there was no threat.
Adam laughed again. “Don’t tell me I’ve fooled you too.” He pointed to his hair, much curlier without the pomade. “I look white, but I’m as colored as can be.”
Out of his shopkeeper’s uniform, with his wavy hair loose, I could see it. It was remarkable, his ability to shift. Now, standing amid a group of Negroes, he was one of us.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Willa asked, eyes wide.
“I didn’t make the rules.” Adam laughed. “I just play by them. They had an opening. They’re one of the finest shops in the city. I thought I’d apply. The ad didn’t say ‘No colored,’ just implied.” He seemed to brush it off. “It’s their fault, if you ask me.”
“Are you worried they’ll know?”
“Shoot, no. These people only see what they believe. Walk with the confidence of a white man, and you can be one. They don’t pay enough attention.”
“What will they do if they find out?” The fear of violence flashed in my mind.
“Seems like tomorrow’s problem. Besides, I can do what’s needed.
All I told them was that my grandfather was a tailor, and he was.
That part was true, and he was white. What I didn’t mention was that he was with my grandmother, who was Black.
Ma and I made our way here from New Orleans after Dad died, making a name for ourselves. ”
“Nouvelle-Orléans.” The old name of the city slipped out.
It’d been so long since I’d thought of that place, still wondering what it might look like now.
“So, you’re passing?” I’d done my fair share over the lifetimes, allowing people to believe I was whatever sort of exotic bird they fancied—Sicilian, Algerian, Moorish, a traveler, and the like.
I didn’t correct their assumptions, the cloak of ignorance keeping me temporarily safe.
“Don’t laugh. They call me ‘the Greek.’ Can you believe it?” He ran a hand through his short curls. Now that he said it, I could see it, remembering the time I took a boat through the Mediterranean Sea to Mykonos.
“Did you say it first? Pretending to be Greek?”
He flashed us a smug grin. “Nope, my old pal Don did, and Don’s quite dense.
He would rather believe me to be a descendant of Zeus than of the Negro race.
No matter, I’m doing whatever it takes to achieve my goal.
You’re in the presence of one of the finest tailors in New York—and if not overstating things, maybe these United States—who just so happens to be colored. ”
“Are you really that good?” I asked, intrigued.
“The best. I’ll show you sometime.” He tipped his head, a twinkle in his eyes, before blending back into the post-party crowd. “See you soon, Tessa Thorpe!”
“What an odd man!” Willa exclaimed as we continued our way.
“That’s a dangerous business he’s playing at.” Nathan shot me a warning look. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to mingle with the likes of him.”
“Don’t worry, I know,” I replied.
And I did. In that simple conversation, I’d found my next topic, and it felt like coming back to life. I knew what extraordinary thing Death could be interested in.
And Adam, if he was as good as he said, could be the key.