“They can sure dance,” Dolly said.
“There’s more to it than that.” Duveen took his book from her hands. “Even the most cerebral Negro’s soul is fired by passion. They can create art with their bodies, from some deep, primitive instinct for it, without first thinking it to death.” He returned the volume to the shelf, then turned and punched out his words like a roused preacher. “We’ve become all brains and no bodies. We need Negroes to sound a drumbeat in our blood. I’m telling you, we should watch them, learn from them—we should honor and applaud them—we should shine their shoes!”
Julia studied her drink. She didn’t dare meet Austen’s eye. It was hard to know how much of Pablo’s evangelism to take seriously. He did nothing by halves. He spoke to startle and amaze, to keep his name forever fresh in gossip columns and cocktail conversations. This speech would certainly make the rounds in San Francisco soon.
Max Clark flicked ash into a heavy cut-crystal tray. “You’re some booster, Mr. Duveen.”
“Can’t we get a wiggle on?” Dolly hugged her arms.
“Soon, Dolly, soon.” Duveen took a framed photograph from the piano. “But first consider,” he said, thrusting it at the Clarks. “That’s Walter and Gladys.”
He towered over them as they peered. “But Pablo,” Dolly said, “they’re white people.”
Duveen whooped. “A tickle, no?” He showed the photograph to Julia and Austen. “Race is a funny thing. Just like us, Negroes come in all shades. Mulattoes like the Whites—and I swear that really is their name—are called yellow or tan. We call them olive if they’re a tad darker, like Mr. Hurd here.”
An obliging smile dented Austen’s left cheek. Julia looked away quickly to stifle another laugh. Who was more ridiculous at the moment, Duveen flourishing his self-anointed mantle of authority, or she and the others lined up like schoolchildren gaping at his earnest lecture?
“The medium shades,” Pablo went on, spouting his new expertise, “range from copper and cocoa to nut brown and seal, plus chestnut and coffee and even maroon. The poor darkest ones are called blue, charcoal, or ebony. You may think these are just a dozen clever ways to split those nappy hairs, but those shades matter—right up and down their own tough little social scale. It’s quite a caste system, as you’ll see tonight. Virtually everyone working in the clubs will be colored, but many will look utterly white. Chorus girls are strictly tans or yellows. Waiters might be coffee colored or sealskins, and the door boys and hounds in the kitchen might be so dark they’re called eight balls and inks.”
Max Clark rattled the ice in his glass as the ponderous lesson settled over them. Julia pinched her wrist and ignored the jitter of Austen’s shoulders. Duveen beamed to display his prize nuggets of knowledge—a smug grin—yet Julia knew from Eva’s account of these color strictures that the social hierarchy could be oppressive indeed. She had to wonder again at the paradox: so many whites were naturally darker than Eva, including Austen and Philip, who’d turn a good olive or even copper after a few weeks on the Riviera. Something else, more inscrutable and important than skin color, determined race. It made the whole notion suddenly feel specious, a grand and preposterous hoax, and yet the stakes could not be higher.
“So then.” Duveen returned the photograph to the piano. “Our first stop tonight will be Carlotta’s. You’ll feel plenty of steam when Eva Pruitt sings, Dolly. She’s a scorcher. She’s also written her first novel—not for the faint of heart. It’s got a taste of the more scabrous Harlem goings-on, not just the razzle-dazzle. For people who can’t get there in person, Eva’s book will be the next best thing. We’re hoping it really pops some corks, and I don’t just mean sell lots of copies.” He rapped his knuckles for luck on the gleaming wood.
Julia remembered Eva’s anxious precautions about the manuscript. Presumably by now the necessary bank accounts had been set up, the funds transferred, and the manuscript safely delivered to Goldsmith’s offices.
“Before we go, a quick word about Carlotta’s. The owner is a dicey fellow named Leonard Timson. Like most of the bosses in Harlem, he’s up to his eyeballs in shady doings. He did a couple of years in Sing Sing, for God knows what, and is not to be trifled with. Filthy rich too, but one doesn’t ask about that.”
Shady doings? Eva had only called him a stinker. Perhaps the “filthy rich” part was meant to impress the Clarks.
He shot Max a pointed look. “Timson loves to show off his club to bigwigs. When I told him I was bringing you tonight, Max, he invited us to sit at his table—quite the honor. You’ll be expected to spend lavishly, but then you’ll be entertained royally in return.”
Max nodded, and Dolly squeaked. Her third martini was nearly gone. At this rate she would remember little of her excursion.
“Carlotta’s is the swankiest club we’ll see tonight. From there I thought we’d move on to Bamville or the Band Box. We’ll finish up at a shocking little place called the Sugar Bowl to catch their breakfast show. I promise a night you’ll never forget.”
The Clarks looked heartened by the pep talk, as if they were heading into battle.
Duveen clapped his hands on his thighs. “Shall we be off? The sirens of Harlem beckon.”
Dolly sprang up like a college girl after a touchdown. “Oh yes, oh yes,” she chanted as Max draped a silver fox across her shoulders. “Sirens, Maxie!”
The street in front of Carlotta’s was clogged with expensive motorcars arriving from the south. Duveen’s entourage rode in a spacious limousine the Clarks had hired for the evening. Their driver
