Julia looked down at Eva’s dress, dangling forgotten from the towel between her hands. She lifted it slowly. The peaty aroma was gone, and the large splotch was more or less dry. The water and rubbing had ruined the chiffon’s smooth lie, but that couldn’t be helped now.
She slid it over Eva’s bent arms and head, fastened the tiny hooks, adjusted the fit over Eva’s hips, and stepped back to look. From her lower back to her left hip, a faint island the color of tobacco juice floated in a sea of blue and violet.
Eva peered at her backside in the mirror. “Looks li—”
The door hurtled open, bouncing against the peg in the floor, and Billie Fischer rushed in. She pulled up abruptly, her left heel wobbling. “What are you staring at? Can’t a girl pee?”
She pushed into the stall and noisily relieved herself. Julia and Eva looked away, their eyes meeting in the mirror.
“Thought you’d left ages ago,” Billie complained as she rattled out a length of tissue. “Christ, this place is a bore. Gotta be a better party somewhere. Vincent’s usually good for a laugh; guess I’ll mooch on over there.”
Her hatless head rose above the rickety wall. She yanked the chain and emerged.
Squinting at her reflection, she puckered her lips and reached for one of the lipstick applicators on the shelf below the mirror. Her lips stretched and twisted to receive the swath of scarlet. She smiled at her reflection and tossed the applicator back onto the shelf. “White Negroes,” she said, tucking a strand of black hair into place. “What a load of crap.”
With a wave over her shoulder, Billie swaggered out, her collar and hem awry.
Julia turned to Eva, unable to speak. What could she say? Billie’s banal scorn chilled her most. The critic’s impersonal cruelty.
Eva made a wry face. “I’ve known worse.” Arm raised, she twisted and looked again at her blighted dress. “How low are the lights at the Plaza?”
Julia swore softly under her breath. “I’m a dunderhead. Wait here.”
She slipped out and returned a minute later with her shawl. She fluttered it over Eva’s shoulders, blazing a salvation of purple and yellow and blue embroidery across her back. She tied the shawl into place with a loose knot, and the stain receded from view. It was still there, if one knew where to look, but Eva’s radiant face would distract any gaze. Her dress, at least, would have no trouble withstanding the Plaza’s scrutiny. Eva dipped to swish the fine silk fringe against her calves, but instead she unleashed a loud hiccup.
Two fingers flew to her throat. Then she laughed, mouth open, round as a sunflower. Ha ha ha ha. It flowed from her in low pulses, an old-fashioned, resonant laugh, nothing like the twittering arpeggios practiced in more fashionable circles.
“Thank you, thank you.” She squeezed Julia’s hand and pulled her into a close embrace, the knot of the shawl disappearing into the soft warmth of their waists. “No one will ever know.”
For the second time in as many days, Julia was struck by how unafraid Eva was of touching and being touched. Touch was both the first human bond and often the most fraught. Women could be lovers, of course, but this wasn’t that. This was trust, pure and unembarrassed. It was friendship claimed and clasped, a gesture both innocent and brave.
As she watched Eva leave, fresh admiration swept through Julia, trailed by a vague fear. Innocence and courage could be precarious partners. She looked down. This time the trembling hand was her own.
CHAPTER 6
“I wonder how Eva will fare at the Plaza tonight,” Julia said. She cradled her sidecar.
She and Austen had settled into a booth in one of the several speakeasies on West Forty-Eighth Street—an essential neighborhood amenity, according to Liveright. Austen had greeted the doorman by name, and the familiarity was returned. Now that Julia had been admitted in the company of a regular, the door would be opened for her in the future too. She must remember the fellow’s name. Benny. Benny.
Austen shrugged. “Since Pablo dines there all the time, I doubt she’ll be questioned. Anyone who knows Eva’s colored either doesn’t go there or would get as much satisfaction in the stunt as Pablo will. I bet they’ll fidget more over Arthur. Jews aren’t welcome either.”
Two bowls of onion soup arrived, thick with croutons and bubbling gruyère. With the tip of her spoon, Julia poked the crust. “At least Pablo has the face to defy the rules.”
Austen lifted a spoonful of broth, but it was too hot, and he returned it to the bowl. “I’m not sure what Pablo’s up to half the time. He’s so besotted with Negroes right now that he claims he’d love to be one.”
“What does Pablo do, if he doesn’t actually work for Mr. Goldsmith?”
“Good question, bean.” He tapped her forehead as if she’d said something clever. “I suppose you’d call him a writer. He’s written three or four novels, nothing great, but entertaining enough. He writes articles on art, theater, music, that sort of thing. It wouldn’t pay his bills, but I gather he has a fat bankroll on the side. Arthur publishes his novels, though they say Pablo’s better friends with Coral, Arthur’s wife. She’s the one who really sails that ship, from behind the scenes. And for all his silliness, Pablo is a shrewd reader. Arthur knows his modern Russians and Italians and other Europeans, but he scratches his head over some of the American stuff. So Pablo helps him out, and in return he gets to dispense fame and fortune, or at least fame.”
Julia watched the fragrant steam rise. “How do you know him?”
He tried another spoonful of soup with more success. “From parties, I suppose, mostly Horace’s. Pablo turns up anywhere there’s book talk and liquor. Which means everywhere.”
Book talk and liquor. Parties where writers and editors and publishers mingled almost daily. Artists and printers and
