along with Jack and me, we ate every morsel of food that Ciela had prepared earlier in the day. The whole meal was waiting for us, some in the oven and some in the icebox. It was delicious.
Then we all retired to our rooms to change into the tuxedos Mitch had sent over that afternoon. Each was tailored and made to fit all of us who were Meq, but since I was the only male among us, I couldn’t figure why he’d sent them.
I knew he was sending his two Packard touring cars to pick us up and he had closed his club to the general public. It was to be a private party and there was no reason not to trust his judgment. We had been posing as refugees and relatives of Nova and Eder, but still, to see a group of twelve-year-old children, dressed in tuxedos, possibly sipping champagne or drinking beer, late at night in the roughest part of town, well, I had to wonder if that was wise.
Geaxi said she wanted to experience the culture and music of Mitch’s world, so she thought it would be worth it. Also, she had no problem with the tuxedo. Nor did Opari, which surprised me until I remembered that they both had donned “boys’” clothing many times in many places for many reasons. Both were anxious to wear the tuxedos and Nova thought it was not only a good idea, but said she might start dressing that way in the future.
Once she was dressed, Opari added red lipstick to her lips, a red silk bow tie, and the white rose from Mitch in her lapel. The effect was stunning. She was a child-woman of uncommon beauty and presence. I understood in an instant why centuries of princes and kings, even the Empress Dowager of China, found her irresistible.
Star left Caine with Ciela and Willie helped her, along with the rest of us, into the touring cars. It was well after dark and once we’d gone a few blocks east, the trip downtown was busy and filled with the sound and lights of automobiles.
Mitch’s nightclub was just off Market, near all the neighborhoods of his youth, yet I also remember never knowing exactly where he lived in those days. The entrance was a simple glass door with “Mitch’s Cafe” painted in an arc across the glass. It was a narrow entrance, squeezed between two other businesses, a pawnshop and a barbershop, both of which Mitch also owned. The cafe was for real—a few tables in the front, then a counter with stools where you could order chili, barbecue sandwiches, and beer. But if you were led, as we were, around the counter and down a long, high-ceilinged hall, you would enter a room the size of a warehouse, which is exactly what it had been. The room was now transformed into a nightclub, complete with a large stage at one end, two full bars along opposite walls, tables with white linen tablecloths, and a spacious semicircular dance floor in front of the stage. Factory lights muted with green filters hung from a forty-foot gabled ceiling, and two dozen waiters in long aprons stood at the ready throughout. The music coming from the stage was the best I’d heard in years, going back to what Ray and I listened to in New Orleans. But this music had something else, a swing and syncopation I’d never heard before. People were dancing new steps and there was a raw and raucous joy everywhere in the room.
Mitch greeted us from behind the bar as soon as we emerged from the long hall. Even in his tuxedo, he leaped easily over the bar while waving to us, then motioned us toward a corner section of the big room where several tables had been pulled together to become one large table-in-the-round, covered with a banquet-sized white tablecloth. Champagne and bottles of beer sat in iced buckets placed around the table. At least six waiters stood in line, ready to act as our personal staff. Mitch made it to the table and escorted Carolina to her chair, making sure she was seated first.
“Why, thank you, Mitchell,” Carolina said, sitting down and pushing up on the long formal gloves she wore on her hands and forearms. The gloves were a dark green, the same color as her dress and shoes. She was beautiful, elegant, and graceful, still commanding stares from strangers. It was hard to imagine the skinny, stringy-haired kid she had been when I first saw her, standing with her sister outside Sportsman’s Park. She was now a woman completely comfortable in her own life and her own skin.
“It’s my pleasure, Miss C.,” Mitch said. “I want you at the head of the table. After all, you’re the reason I’m able to do this.”
“Nonsense,” Carolina said. “And don’t be modest, Mitchell. You have done what you’ve done on your own. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, yes you did. You’re the one who talked to Mr. Joplin in the first place. You know what that meant to me? It meant just about everything, that’s what it meant. Everything in this world started for me right then, Miss C., and I want to say thank you, thank you for everything.” Mitch signaled one of the waiters, who brought a tray of glasses filled with champagne. Each glass was served and everyone but Carolina held a glass in the air. Mitch shouted, “To Miss C. and Mr. J.! May one live on and the other not be forgotten.”
“Here! Here!” Owen Bramley said.
“Second that!” Willie added.
Geaxi and Opari made high-pitched trilling noises and clicked their tongues.
I looked at Mitch. “Do you mean Scott Joplin is…dead?”
“Yeah, Z. Mr. Joplin passed away two years ago, on the first of April.” Mitch took a sip of champagne and looked around, waving his hand toward the stage. “That’s why we’re here tonight, Z, and I plan on doin’ this every year from now on. I owe so much to the man. He taught me more than how to appreciate good music—he taught me how to appreciate
“Indeed he was, Mitchell,” Carolina said. “He will be missed.” She raised her own glass to join in the toast. “And I’ve still got the opera packed away, Mitchell—you know where.”
“Keep it safe, Miss C. Just keep it safe,” Mitch said with a wink. Then he was off again, to the kitchen this time, laughing and saying over his shoulder, “I got some oysters for you. Wait until you taste ’em. They’re straight from the Gulf—Apalachicola. If you need anything, these fellas in the aprons are here to get it for you. We got some other acts comin’—and the chorus line. Wait until you see that, Z,” he said to me and winked again, then pointed to the lapel of his tuxedo, the buttonhole where the white rose was pinned to my tuxedo. He turned and made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and making toasts along the way. I glanced at Opari and she nodded, acknowledging she’d seen the same thing.
To our wonder and delight, both on and off the stage, it was the dancing that most fascinated all of us, especially Geaxi and Opari. Geaxi leaned over the table and asked Opari, “Have you ever seen such freedom and rhythm of movement? When you crossed through Persia, perhaps?”
“No, no,” Opari said. “Never have I seen such passion and grace together. They are…
“Skilled,” Geaxi translated.
“Yes, skilled. They are skilled and still exploring.”
Willie was absorbed by the sheer energy in the music and the dancers. “Bloody damn good, Z,” he blared across the table more than once.
Star surprised everyone by not only listening and watching, but also joining in. Several times she jumped out of her seat and ran to the dance floor, mimicking the moves and dancing alongside the black women, who clapped and shouted and helped Star learn the steps.
During a slow blues song, even Owen Bramley and Carolina made their way to the dance floor. I must say Owen stood out in the crowd like some sort of animated carrot, dancing and enjoying himself, but definitely to his own beat.
Nova was enjoying the music as well, and yet she seemed more distracted than usual, constantly staring in a kind of trance at the stage curtains hanging behind the band. At one point, I happened to catch her unconsciously grabbing for her Stone, which she was wearing under her starched shirt. I’d never seen her do anything like that before.
After two hours of continuous music and dancing, Mitch himself took the stage. He gave a short speech and tribute to Scott Joplin, then announced a break after the next tune, in honor of Mr. J., “Maple Leaf Rag.” He sat down and started playing the best ragtime piano I’d ever heard, leading the band through the whole tune. By the end of the first chorus, a line of eight showgirls, dressed in matching black tuxedos, black top hats, and black masks hiding their eyes, came dancing across the stage twirling canes and kicking up their legs. They each had a rose in their lapel. Seven of the girls wore red roses, but the last one, the girl nearest us, wore a white rose streaked with orange and red. They danced a choreographed routine with the music, all pretending to be gentlemen on the town. Mitch joined them during the last chorus and the crowd went wild with jeers, whistles, and catcalls. As the song ended, the chorus line strutted with their canes back across the stage and into the wings on our side of the room.
