Dolly looped her hands around Max’s forearm and gazed up at a marquee lit by thousands of yellow bulbs proclaiming CARLOTTA’s in a florid script. Austen leaned toward Julia. “I was born in Harlem,” he whispered. “Think they’d pay for my autograph?”
Tented sidewalk boards boasted that inside awaited “the cream of Harlem’s creole talent, the finest sepia stars, and a chorus of bronze beauties!” Down the block two more clubs thrust bright canopies over the sidewalk, luring in patrons like bees to lilies. Between the cabarets the pavement receded into shadow, obscuring the hand-lettered signs of daytime commerce: affordable shoe repair, men’s shaves and haircuts for a dime, and the services of a beautician trained in the patented hair-straightening system of Mrs. C. J. Walker. But at midnight the street blazed with brilliance, mirrored in the slow glide of passing windows, the swirl of beads and gems, and the glint of silver flasks consulted one last time before their owners disappeared under the clubs’ awnings.
The crowd jostled them forward. Julia stepped aside to pause before a large poster announcing, CARLOTTA’S OWN HARLEM ANGEL . . . EVANGELINE PRUITT! A soft-focus painting depicted Eva in a provocative profile, her head arched back as she balanced on a floor cushion, arms around one raised knee while her braceleted other leg extended out. She wore a filmy gown that fell open to reveal an unblemished thigh. Her head was wrapped in a gold headdress with tall white feathers, and enormous gold hoops hung from her ears. The artist had painted the phantom shape of large, unnaturally upturned, and cone-like breasts, adding the clear thrust of massive nipples beneath the sheer wash of gold. It was impossible not to stare at the anatomical absurdity. Although skillfully rendered, the painting’s taste was brazen, even vulgar. Julia’s cheeks heated. Eva was beautiful enough. Why graft her gentle face onto this parody of a body? The answer streamed past: customers, wealthy and eager, crowds of them.
Duveen swept past the poster, probably for the hundredth time, a Clark tucked under each arm. Two stony doormen scanned them and stepped aside as Julia and Austen followed, inside and up a flight of carpeted stairs to a second set of doors, opened for them by another imposing pair of uniformed Negroes.
“That was easy,” Austen said. “Good thing you wore all those diamonds.” Julia wore her mother’s engagement ring and her favorite sapphire earrings, but her jewels fell far short of Dolly Clark’s—or those of many patrons, she realized, as they adjusted to the club’s dim light and babble: voices, laughter, and occasional rockets of champagne corks.
The room was much larger than the street front had suggested. A low stage jutted into the center, surrounded by a giant horseshoe space filled with small tables, all draped in white cloths. Two steps up, a mezzanine of upholstered banquettes ringed the club. Several tall replicas of palm trees spiked toward murals of a forest canopy overhead. Suspended fans stirred the palms’ fronds, their shadows, murky with smoke, moving across the painted ceiling like the ceaseless current of a Manhattan Amazon.
In the noisy buzz between shows, the floor teemed with waiters bearing silver trays laden with orders or cleared debris. Austen and Julia were ushered to a round table in the center of the room, directly in front of the stage. Max and Dolly Clark were already seated, a silver ice bucket beside them. Duveen greeted Goldsmith and gestured him into the adjacent seat. Ogling the room, the Clarks paid no attention when Austen and Julia were served champagne from their bottle.
Austen lifted his glass and touched its rim to Julia’s. “To Oregon timber.”
“And Harlem hoopla.” They spoke sotto voce, even though no one was paying them any attention. If the Clarks were tourists, Julia felt like a stowaway on their voyage to the Camelot Pablo called “Ethiop,” watching their fawning delight from the forgotten shadows.
“Here we go,” Austen whispered, eyeing a corpulent man about to join their table. “The dicey fellow himself.”
Duveen scrambled up more quickly than his bulk might suggest. “Mr. Timson. It’s an honor.”
Timson positioned his chair with his back to the stage and welcomed them to Carlotta’s, “the finest entertainment this side of Paris or Berlin.” He was middle aged, with a cowlick pushing sand-colored hair up from his right temple. His eyes were small and wide set. Between his brows ran a strong vertical dent that suggested either perpetual confusion or anger. There was something ominous to the look of Eva’s boss. Julia was no shrinking violet, but she was beginning to understand that Eva, despite her trusting and gentle demeanor, was far more seasoned than she in the rough ways of the world. Eva apparently took men like Timson in her stride.
Timson lifted his hand, and a waiter materialized at his shoulder. “Like our champagne, Mr. Clark? That one’s on the house. Want more? Good. Keep it coming, Leroy. And tell the kitchen to send whatever’s particularly fine tonight.”
They were beset with another ice bucket and two more bottles, each uncorked and poured into shallow glasses all around. An array of dishes followed, including platters piled with deep-fried chicken and pork ribs bathed in a red sauce. Dolly Clark exclaimed at what she called the jungle food and filled plates for herself and Max. Julia chose a small tournedos of beef, wrapped in fatty bacon. On closer inspection it was overcooked.
She was still chewing when the lights dimmed. A tuxedoed orchestra at the rear of the stage awoke with a wailing high note, trumpets over winds. The crowd instantly quieted.
Julia had no sooner wondered why champagne had been poured for the vacant place to her right than a figure eased into the seat. In the fading
