“Someone else who remembers conversations,” Duveen marveled as she stepped into his grand apartment. “Clever Pookins. You’ll love him. I have drawings too.”
Carl Sweeney padded on bare feet into the living room. He wished her a good morning. It was nearly four, yet he too wore a dressing gown. She hadn’t seen either man since their frenzied hijinks at the Half-Shell the other night.
Duveen rolled his head toward Sweeney. “Would you mind, sweetums? This won’t take long.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Julia said. “I’ll just look for my book, quiet as a church mouse.”
“Nonsense.” Duveen led Julia back to his library just as Coral Goldsmith had, but without the imperious grip. The room seemed even more disheveled in the gray light of a wet May afternoon. Books lay everywhere, flat and upright, in the familiar jumble of a well-used collection. The cat—not Leopold but his lazy sister Artemis, Duveen said in a babyish coo—watched them from a needlepoint pillow. Julia’s heart soared to see all sorts of typed pages lying about too, covering the sofa, his desk, a chair seat, and the top of his typewriter. If a clandestine Harlem Angel had somehow surfaced in Duveen’s world, it would be here. Some of the stacked pages looked cleanly typed, and others were covered with corrections scrawled in bright-green ink.
“Looks like you’re starting a new book,” she said.
He dropped to his hands and knees to search for his essay manuscript along the bottom shelves of the bookcases. “I’m going to write a Harlem novel myself. If Eva’s kaput, someone has to do it.”
With Duveen distracted, Julia lifted splayed magazines on the sofa, searching for anything—pages, a letter, a note—that might suggest a connection to Harlem Angel.
“There’s material for a whole storm of novels,” Duveen continued, his silver rump swaying like a baby elephant, “but most colored writers don’t even notice the gold mine under their noses. I may be only an honorary Negro—the world’s first!—but I know better what to do with it than all those natural-borns sweating out sonnets while jazz drips away through their fingers.”
As she scanned the papers on Pablo’s desk, Julia thought of gentle, earnest Logan, who aspired to sonnets above all else. So it was just as he’d complained: Pablo was keen to celebrate Negro poets, as long as they not stray from their own neighborhood. The only thing that had changed was his opinion of that neighborhood.
His desk was covered with several piles of pages loosely stacked crossways. They could all be part of his new novel, layers at varying stages of completion. She saw a long letter to “Crispy Violets” and a half-finished review of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. “Is that why you don’t care much for Jerome Crockett’s work?” she asked to keep Pablo talking.
“Perfect example. Crockett’s sitting smack in the middle of the most original material of our time, and all he wants to do is heave his soul onto the page like young Werther. In iambic pentameter, no less. God help us!” Duveen’s backside juddered, but his head stayed down. “No wonder he’s stewing in a funk. Well, Eva will have the last laugh there.”
The only one laughing was Pablo. Eva had never said one unkind word about either Logan’s or Jerome’s work, however much it differed from her own. Julia left her indignation unsaid and sidled toward the chair to peek at the papers jumbled on its seat. It appeared to be the draft of an essay extolling the genius of Negro music.
“It’s here somewhere. Here, Pookie Pookums,” Duveen cooed. “Come to Daddy. Have you read my latest book, Jaunty? It’s selling like hotcakes.”
Julia admitted she hadn’t as she skimmed the papers beside his typewriter. They were notes, some sort of cryptic outline or musings.
“It’s called The Tattooed Dachshund. Silly thing, really.”
Julia was glad he could not see her reaction. “I’ll look for a copy next time I’m in Brentano’s.” She turned over a pile that appeared to be another, more detailed outline. Probably plans for his new novel.
“Oh, I’ll give you one,” came the muffled reply. He moved farther along the base of the wall, his massive rump trailing. “Remind me when I’m upright.”
Julia peeked and scanned as quickly as she could. Pile after pile appeared to be Duveen’s work, more letters and notes and drafts of various works in progress. She was carefully restoring their jumbled order when she noticed a few sheets peeking out from beneath the typewriter. She saw at once they had been produced on a different machine. She pressed her lips together to silence any sound of reaction and nudged the machine aside for a better look.
“Gotcha!”
Julia wheeled. From his knees Duveen waved a manila folder. Gripping a shelf, he groaned to one knee and then to his feet. “Here’s my naughty fellow.”
Julia took it from him. “Oh, good,” she said faintly. “I’ll just sit quietly and read. You go on back to your friend. Forget I’m here.”
“Take the beast home with you,” Duveen said with a shooing motion toward the door. “We’ll lunch next week, yes? I’ll bring your book if I find it.”
Julia stiffened. She couldn’t leave. Not with those intriguing pages within arm’s reach. She needed a closer look. If they did appear to be from Eva’s novel, she’d have to find out what Duveen knew about them. She could ask him outright, but at the Half-Shell he’d balked into coy silence. Sober, he might resist the subject even more firmly. She’d be ushered straight to the door, and all hope of discovering something would vanish.
No, she needed to examine them first on her own, without his knowledge. Mustering a daffy smile, she said, “It’s much better to read in situ, if you don’t mind. Absorb the ambience of the subject, you know.” It was perfect blather, and he fidgeted, unconvinced. “I’m more inclined to publish work I can commune with,” she added. “Privately.” She folded her fingers over the bundle and mimed transported bliss.
She was spared
