A minute or more passed, filled with only the pulsing din of traffic and the light swish as Julia blotted and rubbed Eva’s dress between two layers of toweling. Her mind pulsed as well, recalling her own recent struggle to imagine how she might earn her way in the world. She too was only generally educated, with few marketable skills. It had been dispiriting, yes, but how far more dire Eva’s situation had been. Though bred to similar sensibilities, she’d been barred even from Julia’s humble options, and ironically on both sides of the race barrier.
“The boss put me in front,” Eva abruptly resumed, “and customers liked me. They didn’t care I’m no Florence Mills, as long as there’s something nice to look at, you know. Then, oh, a few years ago, I had a little trouble, and they moved me up to Carlotta’s.” Another cough. “My, now that was prosperity. By then I knew exactly what to do, and I might as well get paid all I could for it. I don’t even think about the nonsense anymore. It’s like I’m not even there. It’s not really me onstage, just what I do for my job. Don’t believe it for one minute.”
“Believe what?”
“You’ll see. It’s just a job, Julia. I’m part of the show, doing what I’m paid to do. That’s all. And it’s so easy.” She raised one leg off the cushion and arched her foot, turning it to admire the curve of calf and ankle. Her glass rested on her stomach. “Leonard once gave me a gold bracelet just to sit on an alderman’s knee for ten minutes, let him drool on my earring.” Champagne swayed at the memory.
“He can be a stinker sometimes, but mostly he leaves me be. I just keep tucking away those little gifts. I always figured someday I’d go home to Louisville, get married, have a few babies, sing in a church choir, join a reading society. Well, until Jerome.”
Her smiling mention of the brusque poet jarred loose a nugget of caution in Julia’s mind. She barely knew the man, but his evident displeasure at Eva’s success struck her as ominous. Julia had seen before the dangers of men who needed to feel superior to women. She asked in an even voice how the couple had met.
Eva thought for several moments. Her reply began with an easy chuckle. “It was at the library, a Sunday symposium about a year ago. Lots of people come, all dressed up, real honest-to-goodness Strivers. They talk about literature and Mr. Du Bois and politics and racial uplift. Sometimes they get going in French. I love to hear them, even if it’s too fast for me.
“So one day, there was Jerome. Logan introduced us, but every time we tried to talk, someone interrupted to declare what a fine family Jerome came from, how his father and his mother are fine teachers, how he’s sure to be a fine teacher himself.
“Well, pretty soon Jerome looked like he was going to punch the next person who said one more word about his prospects. He spouted off something in French—oh, it sounded glorious—and out the door he went, taking me with him. It was rude, but I loved it.”
She beamed. “We walked and walked, all the way to my flat, but Leonard has rules about visitors, so then I walked him home. We drank a little wine, and then we walked back to my place. We never stopped talking.”
Julia smiled. She knew those happy first hours when every word, every glance, was a marvel of discovery. A deep laugh rumbled in Eva’s lungs. “I was in love before the sun went down. We told each other everything we could think of. He has a scholarship to go to the University of Chicago and become a literature professor. And he wants to, but first he wants to be a poet.”
Eva’s smile faded. “It’s hard for him, Julia. He’s too proud to ask his parents or uncle for help with a job. He wants something respectable, but the only work a copper Negro can get is servant work. He tried that, but the other boys hate him because he’s educated. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is. So I made Leonard hire him. He didn’t like to, and Jerome isn’t keen either, but at least he gets time to write.
“His book is beautiful,” she said, watching Julia’s hands move. “It’s much more important than mine, with deep ideas.” She took a deep swallow without, Julia imagined, tasting much of it. The bottle was nearly empty. “Now I’d trade all this, oh, in a—” She snapped her fingers, a click so sharp that Julia’s head jerked up.
“For what?”
“What?”
“You’d trade your success for what?”
Pink splotches spread across Eva’s cheeks and throat. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” Her gaze dived to her lap. “It’s a secret.”
Her finger circled the rim of her glass. In a low, defiant voice, she said, “Maybe I can tell just one person. You won’t tell anyone, will you? I can tell you.”
Julia nodded vaguely, neither encouraging an indiscretion nor resisting a confidence.
“As soon as I get this book money, we’re going to Paris.”
“Paris!”
Eva twisted upright. “Please don’t tell. You can’t tell a soul.”
“I won’t. But why on earth would you rush off to Paris?”
Eva set her glass on the floor and stood. “I’ve said too much already. Please forget I said that. I have
