Chapter 7
VIVIAN JEAN
Grand Boulevard, Bronzeville, Chicago
“Where’s Tully?” Katherine asks as soon as I poke my head into the limo.
“Not coming.” I slide into the back seat beside her.
The driver closes the door just as I settle in and brace for the interrogation. Katherine won’t be satisfied with my brief answer. I need time to collect myself after my collapse at Hartfield House. “You look beautiful. That dress is incredibly flattering on you.”
The limo turns onto Grand Boulevard, heading toward Mr. Abbott’s home, while Katherine straightens the lavender lace sleeve of her white satin gown.
“Oh, this old thing?”
“Quit pretending. You bought it at Marshall Field’s last weekend.”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot we went shopping together.” Katherine shrugs. “But seriously, that was quite a show you and your father put on. We never had a chance to talk.”
I call out to the driver, “Let’s circle the block a few times. We don’t want to arrive exactly on time.” I gesture to Katherine, saying, “Let’s talk now.”
“Of course. As long as we’re not too delayed.”
“I just wanted to thank you. Tully and I are very excited about the expedition, and personally, I truly appreciate your allowing us to join you.”
“You’re welcome, but I don’t need the company. I was ready to make the trip solo, but you’re only coming with me to Accompong. Correct?”
Her abrupt tone isn’t meant to be dismissive, but over the years, I’ve learned some things about Katherine Dunham.
She is outspoken, independent, and sometimes rude, even to her friends.
I believe that when it comes to her work, friendships are almost the last thing on her mind.
It’s her genius that makes her intolerant.
So, I’ve developed a thick skin and learned to take her impatience in stride.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I reply. “My focus is on the Maroon people and Accompong.”
“Just making sure you know I won’t need you or your husband in Haiti, Martinique, or Trinidad.”
These are the islands she plans to explore after Jamaica, and I am not interested in them.
But even if I were, her bluntness would not insult me.
Katherine is accustomed to running her own show.
At least she and I agree on the importance of the Maroon people.
In the 1700s, the Maroons, descendants of enslaved people who escaped, fought for their freedom throughout the Caribbean.
In Jamaica, after winning their war, they negotiated a series of treaties with the British and maintained political autonomy long after the abolition of slavery.
Now, they have their own government, land rights, and justice systems deep in Jamaica’s Cockpit Country.
Katherine looks out the car window. “Accompong wouldn’t be part of my itinerary without Melville Herskovits. He suggested I study the Maroon people. Their culture is as connected to African culture as any in the Caribbean, but their numbers are dwindling.”
“I’ve been reading journals and articles by some of Herskovits’s colleagues,” I say, “including Dr. Jean Price-Mars, the Haitian anthropologist.”
“That’s great to hear.” She furrows her brow. “Honestly, I was surprised when you asked to join my expedition a few weeks ago. You’ve been away from anthropology, dance, and the university for quite a while. Since—”
“I married Clifford in ’32.”
“I remember. I was at the wedding.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I’m sure Maxi had a lot to do with your renewed interest in Accompong.”
We circle the block again. The lights from the Abbott mansion glow in the night sky.
It’s still blasphemously hot. I roll down the window, hoping for a breeze, but I’m also killing time, making up my mind whether to tell Katherine the secret I’m keeping about why my trip to Accompong is about more than the Maroon people.
“Yes,” I say. “Maxi was raised in the Cockpit and calls Accompong a living archive of African culture, religion, and traditions.”
“And she told you about all the myths and folklore, too.”
“From the rolling calves to duppies to the power of the silk cotton tree.”
“You could even be an asset,” Katherine says. “But what about Tully?”
I chuckle, hoping she’s joking, even if it doesn’t seem like it. “Yes, I might well be, but come on, you know, Tully is an excellent camera operator and skilled in using recording devices.”
“You two seemed rather prickly toward each other at the party. And now he’s not coming to this reception—is there something you want to tell me?”
“No. Nothing. His leg was bothering him, and he wanted to rest before tonight’s train ride,” I reply, touching her elbow. “I swear. You can count on us to behave.”
“I trust you understand why I’m asking,” Katherine states.
“I do.”
“I’m not so sure you do. I want to create choreography that does more than regurgitate the history of dance from the viewpoint of Russian ballerinas or choreographers like Ruth Page or Martha Graham.
Their works embody their cultures. But what about the American Negro?
How do we represent our African roots? How can I choreograph without honoring our ancestors and our dances?
I want my art to reflect who I am as a Negro woman.
I want families of color to see their heritage on stage.
I don’t wish to be the dark-skinned girl only choreographing the dances that white women teach me. ”
The emotion in her voice reminds me of the thrill of watching her dance on stage.
Katherine continues, “I want to give Negro dancers on the concert stage an authentic vocabulary born of their own heritage. What if my choreography could give Negro audiences a chance to see their ancestors alive again in motion?”
I get what she’s after. “Then you intend to go beyond mere observation.”
“Exactly,” Katherine replies with a smile. “I plan to immerse myself in the Maroon community, not only to document their dances, drum ceremonies, and songs, but also to become a part of the culture.
“I’ve even created my own notation system to detail the footwork and gestures of the dances, enabling me to capture what traditional ballet notation misses.
Our field notes will connect each step and chant, revealing the spiritual heartbeat of Maroon life and linking it back to the silk cotton tree ceremony. ”
“The silk cotton tree.” I can’t hide my excitement at hearing those words. I learned about it from Maxi, who told me about the tree’s power and the duppies, the ghosts of the dead, that inhabit it.
“So you know about the silk cotton tree?” Katherine smirks. “Maxi told you, right?”
I nod.
“That’s good.” Katherine shifts her posture. “But you swear you and Tully are okay? I apologize for pushing the point.”
“It’s okay if you’re still peeved at me about Ballet Négre.”
“Hard to forget. You missed my dance company’s World’s Fair performance.” Her tone is light, but it holds an edge.
“You haven’t forgiven me, have you?” I don’t wait for her answer. “My not performing with Ballet Négre was Clifford’s decision. He didn’t want his bride traipsing on stage half-dressed in front of strangers.”
“Aww. Husbands.”
I can’t protest the implication of just a few words. Instead, I turn the tables. “Speaking of husbands …”
“Don’t you dare—” Katherine giggles.
“I can’t help it,” I respond. “And where’s your husband? Is Jordis joining us tonight or heading off to Jamaica?”
“He’s at the post office,” Katherine replies. “So he won’t be joining us tonight—or in Jamaica for that matter.”
“Remind me again, why did you marry him?”
“As if you’re unaware—he’s one of the most handsome men alive.
I felt compelled to marry him, even if I should have asked more questions.
Marriage is challenging, especially when you’re balancing film and choreography projects while forming Negro dance companies and ensembles.
” She takes a deep breath. “Sometimes, a woman’s ambition clashes with her husband’s idea of marriage. ”
My thoughts race. I don’t have Katherine’s drive.
Ambition has nothing to do with my conflict with Tully.
It’s his fear and my guilt that stand between us.
I look out the window, realizing I hadn’t noticed the car had come to a stop.
We’re already in a line of limos, waiting to be dropped off in front of the entrance.
The limo pulls up in front of the Abbotts’ house.
“What if we agree not to discuss husbands tonight?” Katherine proposes. “We’re here to celebrate.”
“I completely agree.”
The limo driver opens the door and I step out ahead of Katherine.
The moment I do, we’re swarmed by reporters and cameramen, but us feels incorrect.
They are snapping photos of Katherine Dunham, but I’m not bitter.
The limelight belongs to her, so I leave her to it and walk into the Abbotts’ home alone, where the reception is already in full swing.
A grim-faced butler hands me a glass of champagne before I enter the grand ballroom.
One hundred guests are packed into a shimmery, candlelit room where chandeliers add dazzle and sparkle.
A wall-length buffet includes fancy hors d’oeuvres, champagne, and eye-catching decorations.
Tall Egyptian vases and bouquets of colorful fresh flowers adorn the space while a quartet plays George Gershwin’s “Summertime.”
I am drawn to a rectangular alcove where the Abbotts have arranged an exhibition of various works of art.
The first piece I spot is a sculpture of a Negro woman by Augusta Savage, and then a bust named Gamin of a Black boy in a cap, also created by her.
I adore her work and have seen these pieces displayed in several museums I’ve visited, but this exhibit feels more intimate, perhaps because it’s in a home rather than a museum.
There is also the photography of James Van Der Zee and the paintings of Archibald Motley, Palmer Hayden, and Hale Woodruff.
I could spend the rest of the evening in this alcove.
Eventually, I turn a corner and come face-to-face with Ruth Page, the director of the Chicago Opera Company ballet, and Ludmila Speranzeva, the Russian ballet teacher who taught Dunham and, for a short while, me.
The two dancers are courteous, offering me perfunctory kisses on the cheek and a brief hug.
Ludmila Speranzeva’s greeting feels as if it also includes a measuring tape.
“You are quite slender,” the former prima ballerina remarks. “Are you practicing your barre routine at home? Not eating too much bread or cake, I trust.”
How considerate of her to mention my weaknesses, from when I took daily classes from her before I married Clifford. Her words bring back the same insecurity and self-consciousness I felt then.
“Yes, I hardly eat cake or bread, and I practice every day, Mademoiselle.” I use the French honorific that Ludmila insists upon from her students.
“I haven’t seen you in class for a while,” Miss Page remarks. “What have you been up to?”
“I returned to school and have been working on my thesis.”
“That sounds impressive,” says Mademoiselle Speranzeva.
“It just so happens that I’m traveling to Jamaica with Katherine.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I hadn’t said them.
“Really?” Mademoiselle Speranzeva sounds dubious.
“Are you working for Katherine?” Ruth Page asks straightforwardly.
“Our expeditions are entirely independent. Katherine is studying African dance in Caribbean culture—”
“Yes, we know,” Miss Page interrupts.
“Of course,” I reply. “I will focus on the history of the Maroon people by recorded interviews of their oral storytellers.”
The two women exchange glances, their eyebrows raised.
“How interesting,” Miss Page says in an unconvincing tone. “When did you make this decision? Katherine hadn’t mentioned you’d be joining her.”
“My joining her expedition happened rather suddenly.”
“It would have to be very recently,” the Russian ballet teacher states.
The conversation follows the familiar pattern that always occurs when I’m around them. A rush of inadequacy washes over me, and I hate that I can’t seem to shake this feeling.
I wave at an imaginary friend across the room. “Oh, excuse me. I’m being summoned.” With a smile, I hurry off, hoping to avoid running into either of them again that evening.
The friend I mention seeing is actually Katherine. She is standing at the buffet table, holding a glass of champagne in each hand.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks, handing me a glass.
“How did you manage to escape the photographers so quickly?” I respond, impressed.
“How did you manage to run into Ruth and Mademoiselle?” Katherine shoots back.
“Oh, you saw that? It was no trouble. They were delightful.” I gently pick up a shrimp-filled deviled egg from the tray on the buffet.
“The reporters aren’t here for me,” she adds nonchalantly. “Did you know Mary McLeod Bethune was here?”
“No, she’s not. She’s in New York City.”
“Then it must be someone wealthy, like Edith Rockefeller McCormick.”
“She died three years ago.”
Katherine squints at me. “So, do you know the whereabouts of every famous woman in Chicago?”
“No, just those two. But if you don’t recall, Mr. Abbott and his wife are hosting this reception primarily for the Count and Countess di Abbatino.”
“I thought it was for Josephine Baker?”
“She got married? I didn’t realize she was a countess now.”
“Well, she’s not, and ha-ha. You don’t know everything. I don’t think she’s even married.” Katherine raises her glass of champagne, toasting to several people as they pass. “What a wonderful reception! Don’t you agree? Here’s to our hostess, Mrs. Abbott!”
This behavior is unusual for Katherine—she is bold and attention-grabbing on stage but more reserved, much like me, at social gatherings.
“How many glasses of champagne have you had?” I ask.
“Since your birthday celebration?” Katherine counts on the fingers of her right hand. “More than two.” She smiles.
“Do you need some coffee?”
“No, I’m fine. Just a bit lightheaded, and honestly, it feels fantastic.
This evening will be less stressful if I’m a little tipsy.
” Katherine stops a waiter and sets her flute on the tray.
He offers her another glass, but she declines.
“No, thank you. My friend says I need coffee and something more substantial than rum cake in my stomach.”
“I could use a sandwich. Though the shrimp-filled deviled eggs are delicious.”
Katherine and I spend the next fifteen minutes filling our tummies, grabbing every hors d’oeuvre within reach. We might have stayed at the buffet all night and had a grand time if we hadn’t been rudely interrupted by Katherine’s husband, Jordis, who showed up uninvited and in a foul mood.