Time Dancers

dining room, and kitchen adjoined each other and all rooms opened onto the hallway. There were five spacious bedrooms and two bathrooms. A dozen huge windows lined the north and west sides. Mercy said we were lucky, we could each have our own room. She often had boarders filling up the place for weeks. She said dancing with Josephine Baker paid well, but not that well, and from time to time she needed extra income to afford the apartment. And she had to live in this apartment because of one room at the end of the hallway—the artist’s studio. Dancing paid the majority of her bills, but she was in Paris to live in this apartment and paint in this specific studio.

“Why?” Geaxi asked bluntly.

“Because Rune Balle once lived and painted in this studio. He is my inspiration.”

“Rune Balle!” Geaxi almost shouted.

“Yes.”

“Who is Rune Balle?” I asked.

“Few have ever seen his work,” Geaxi said. “Let alone the man himself. He is more than merely obscure. He and his work are virtually unknown to all but a handful of people. He is also the man I was waiting to meet in Trondheim.” Geaxi paused. “How do you know of Rune Balle, Mercy?”

“My father owns a painting of his, done in 1903 shortly after Balle studied with Edvard Munch. It is called Snowblind. My father first showed it to me when I was twelve. I’ve wanted to be a painter ever since.”

“I see,” Geaxi said. “And how did your father obtain the painting?”

“I’m not sure. I never asked. But did I just hear you correctly? Did you say you were waiting to meet Rune Balle?”

“Yes.”

“Rune Balle has not been seen or heard from since 1906. He is considered dead, even by his own family.”

“True enough,” Geaxi said, “until recently. I believe I now know where he has been and where he may be at the moment.”

“What—where for God’s sake?”

“The Left Bank.”

“But, but, that’s here, that’s where we are!”

“I know,” Geaxi said with a smile. “We could use your assistance, Mercy. You are familiar with the area and you know the people. We will have to ask questions. You could make it much easier for us.”

“I would be more than happy to help,” Mercy said. She shook her head, then broke into another round of boisterous, contagious laughter.

Finally, Geaxi asked, “Mercy, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just that I can’t help thinking about something Arrosa said in her letter. It’s a bit of an understatement.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“She told me to ‘expect the unexpected.’”

Two days passed in a blur of activity. From early morning until late at night we combed the streets, shops, cafes, and bars of the fifth, sixth, and seventh arrondissements. We made countless strolls up and down Saint Germain and Saint Michel, asking questions, searching, hoping to find a connection to Rune Balle. No one seemed to know him, which was not odd since he had been considered dead for twenty years. Lindbergh’s name, however, was everywhere and on everyone’s lips. Mercy accompanied us during the day, but at night she was working at Chez Josephine. We spent both nights in Montmartre, high up on rue Florentine, loitering near two clubs across the street from each other, Bricktop’s and Zelli’s. Geaxi said they were the kind of places Rune Balle had preferred in his youth. We watched the traffic and never saw a sign of him, but Nova became completely absorbed and fascinated with Parisian street life—the personalities, hairstyles, conversation, and especially the fashion. Geaxi seemed unaffected by it, telling me, “Il faut cultiver notre jardin,” or “We must cultivate our own garden.”

By morning of the third day, we still had not heard from Mitch. I worried about it. It was unusual for him not to call or come by. Whatever the reason, if he had fallen down, fallen ill, or fallen in love, it was probably serious. We made our rounds anyway and then headed back to Mercy’s apartment for lunch. The telephone rang. Mercy picked up the receiver, laughed, then held out the receiver so we could hear. The voice came through loud and clear. It was Josephine Baker, laughing and shouting and telling Mercy to get those children from St. Louis over to her apartment now, faster than a pig squirms. She wanted to meet us before we went to the benefit that night. She couldn’t wait to talk about St. Louis. She was sending over her car and her chauffeur within the hour. From her place we would all go to the Theatre des Champs-Elysees together. She went on and on. Mercy finally stopped her and said we would be waiting on the front steps.

Less than an hour later we were picked up and driven to Josephine Baker’s apartment. Her chauffeur opened the door getting in and out, then ushered us inside the apartment. Mercy had warned us that Josephine loved animals, but the reality was bizarre. Between and among a cluttered, exotic, eclectic collection of things and furniture, including a bust of Louis XIV, stacks of letters and magazines, records, clothes, costumes, and furniture, she kept a parakeet, a parrot, three baby rabbits, and a snake. We were led through the apartment into a large kitchen, where half a dozen people were gathered in a small circle, each with a smile on their face and a champagne glass in their hand. In the midst, kneeling and talking rapidly, Josephine Baker was telling a story about Berlin. She was also grooming her pig. The pig’s name was Albert and he smelled of perfume. She caught a glimpse of the chauffeur and looked up, first at him, then to Mercy, then over to us. She was at eye level. She was dressed in a full-length silver gown with sequins sewn in an intricate design, platinum loop earrings, and a string of pearls around her neck. Her short hair was styled similar to Mercy’s, only the wave across her forehead ended in a spit curl. She wore heavy eye makeup and oxblood lipstick. On her head she wore a lacy skullcap covered in sequins. She was a beautiful, stunning, brown-skinned girl of only twenty-one—the rage of Paris—and yet, she looked familiar. I was certain I knew her, I had seen her before, but I couldn’t place it. Then she smiled. It was a great, wide grin, which took me back instantly to the night I met Arrosa at Mitch’s club in St. Louis. I remembered a young girl backstage, trying to sneak in and watch the dancers. Mitch called her “Tumpy,” but he said her real name was Josephine. For a second that night, the girl and I caught each other’s eye and she smiled, just before Mitch pushed her out the door.

Josephine Baker’s smile faded and she stared at me. I saw in her eyes the gradual recognition of our mutual memory, followed by the puzzling paradox that comes with it.

“I remember you,” she said. “It was St. Louis…I was a kid about your size…I remember you, but…”

“How is it possible that I appear the same now as in your memory?”

“Yes.”

“Because the true you chose to remember it that way. If you did not, I would not exist.”

Josephine Baker laughed and whistled. “That sounds almost crazy, honey.”

“You’re not the first girl to say that.”

“But that don’t explain nothin’,” she said.

Nova smiled and said, “Oh, yes it does.”

“It could explain everything,” Geaxi said.

Josephine Baker stood and waved her arms high in the air and shook her hands as if she were in church or singing in a revival. “Tout de meme,” she said. “You must be an angel because Mitch needs some hometown cheerin’ up and I ain’t been able to help him one little bit.”

“Is this where he’s been staying since he got to Paris?” I asked.

“That’s right, and we were havin’ a swell time until this mornin’. Then Mitch came down with the blues real bad. He’s as sour and mean and quiet as a man can be.”

“Where is he?”

“In a church.”

“Church?”

“Yes, and I’m worried about him. He’s been there for hours. Why don’t you talk to him, honey? Cheer him