“But they say you’ve got the goods,” Billie went on. “Pablo says it’s colored fiction we need these days. Hot little souls, prancin’ to paradise. Is that so? Will colored fiction set us free, Miss Pruitt?”
Eva stared at her, puzzled. A tentative smile spread across her face, as if she had decided to regard this strange invective as yet another compliment.
“She’s drunk,” Julia whispered. “Ignore her.”
Eva nodded faintly and began to turn away, but Billie stepped closer and laid the back of her hand beside Eva’s jaw.
“What do you know?” Billie’s coarse voice rose. “Look here, everybody, I’m darker than the darky. So why the hell is Arthur paying good greenbacks for a colored novel from a cow who’s no more colored than I am?”
The room quieted. What was wrong with the woman? Did she think she was amusing?
Duveen squirmed. “Cut it out, Billie. Eva is what they call a high yaller, a light mulatto. It’s top drawer, the very best kind of colored.”
“You don’t say. I find it hard to believe this buttercup can dish out hash black enough for your inky tastes, Pepino.” Her squint sharpened. She brought her index finger to her mouth and sucked on it noisily. “Maybe under all this powder and shit—” She dragged her fingertip down the length of Eva’s left cheek, leaving a slick trail of whiskeyed saliva.
Eva flinched but did not recoil. Julia’s breath congealed in her throat.
“Christ, Billie,” Duveen stammered. To Eva he said, grimacing, “She’s soused. No offense meant, I’m sure.”
She meant nothing but! Julia fumbled for her handkerchief, but before she could wipe the smear from Eva’s cheek, Billie reared back. Bellowing a profanity, she knocked away Duveen’s hand.
“And that’s for the hot little colored ass Pablo wants us to dream about!” she shouted, dashing the remains of her whiskey against the back and side of Eva’s frock.
The moment swelled like an airless bubble in Julia’s ears, squeezing all noise from the room. Goldsmith’s upper lip curled and his nostrils flared. Duveen glowed with vast pink chagrin. Billie snorted when he whispered something, still clutching at her swerving sleeve.
“Fuck manners, you obsequious piglet,” she roared, “and get me a drink. I need a fucking drink.”
CHAPTER 5
Two bar towels draped over her forearm, Julia followed Eva into the ladies’ toilet while Austen held open the door and groped for the light switch. He had acted quickly, grabbing the towels and motioning with his head as he led them through the gauntlet of wide-eyed stares, out of the room and down the hallway.
The lavatory was a large space, lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Against one wall was an old toilet, surrounded by a short wooden stall. Idle hands had picked away large patches of its chipping white paint. A basket rested on the floor beside the toilet, filled with magazines whose torn covers suggested they’d been old before they’d been put there, and that had been some time ago. On the opposite wall hung a large basin, its porcelain stained by years of drips, beneath a mirror and a narrow shelf covered with an untidy array of combs, face powders, hand creams, tooth powders, and mugs. Julia couldn’t imagine conducting one’s daily toilette in such communal circumstances. But apparently the ladies of the publishing firm of Boni & Liveright did just that.
Under a soot-caked window sagged a massive sofa. Its once-scarlet upholstery had faded to a patchwork of brown nap and threadbare weave. Long ago discarded by its owner, it now offered comfort for the faint, squeamish, or sleepy.
Eva peered down at her dress. Its beautiful chiffon was plastered against her waist and hip below her left elbow. She lifted her arm and fumbled at the fasteners that lay beneath a placket in the side seam. “Can you help with these?”
Julia bent to open the tiny hooks and eyes. There was nothing she could say to erase Billie Fischer’s ugly words, but she might be able to fix the damage she’d inflicted. She reached to remove Eva’s cloche before lifting the fine fabric over its sharp beads, but Eva veered away.
“Leave it on, please,” she said. She raised her arms, bent over, and wiggled as Julia drew the dress over her head, fingers spread wide to avoid catching the fabric. Eva sat on the old sofa and daubed one of the towels against the wet silk of her chemise while Julia bore the dress to the basin, its airy panels fluttering like scraps of a burst balloon.
They both jumped at a sharp knock on the door. Julia braced it with her foot and peeked out. Eyes averted, Austen handed her two glasses and a nearly full bottle of champagne. “Thought you could use strengthening.”
“Good man.” Julia thanked him. She filled both glasses and left the bottle on the floor beside Eva.
Bent over the basin, she applied a moistened corner of the remaining towel to the whiskey-soaked frock. In the mirror she watched Eva settle at the far end of the sofa. Wearing only her cloche, pearls, stockings, and a pale-gold film of lingerie, she stretched her legs across the cushions like a modern odalisque.
“I’m hardly a lucky charm tonight,” Julia said.
“You might be,” Eva said, after a pause. “She could have thrown worse.”
“Whiskey was reprehensible enough.”
Something about the remark cheered Eva. She smiled. “Reprehensible. Ella, my sister, liked that word. She did love her syllables.” She clicked her tongue. “Ella was like my smarter, sassier half, the brave one. You remind me some of her. Oh, not to look at, but she talked like you. She loved words like reprehensible.” Eva played with the word, repeating it in staccato and operatic variants. “She was the real writer in the family. My book is
